stem_the_tide | Rp for captjacksparrow

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Rp for captjacksparrow

As is his wont, James wakens just after sunrise. This is normal for him, as is the sight of the half-hearted sunlight streaming in through the windows, the smell of the sea in the morning. What is not normal, however, is the bed he's lying in- deep and soft- the plush blankets covering him. As his sleep-grimed eyes blink further, he notes that nothing in this room is at all normal, and for a moment he cannot recall where he is nor how he's got here. But then his eyes alight upon the chair he had sat in the night before and there, sprawled in drunken sleep is Captain Jack Sparrow, and with a rush, James remembers all the tumultuous events of the previous day, down to his unaccountable worry about Sparrow before he fell asleep the night before.

Somewhat comforted by this memory (but not much), he slides out of the bed, stretching and yawning cavernously. He can hear his spine crack loudly and winces slightly. It is still fairly quiet aboard the ship, and as James begins to get dressed, he regards the sleeping pirate across from him. The chair is closer to the bed than it was before, as though Sparrow had been watching him before he fell asleep (a notion which could be either disturbing or endearing- he cannot decide which), and Sparrow seems to have melted into it like a liquid; he's clad only in shirt and breeches, and James's eyes rest for a moment on the gaping V of golden skin exposed by the shirt before he looks away. The pirate's head rests on his shoulder, and a nearly-empty bottle of rum dangles loosely from his fingers, cradled in the crook of his elbow; his mouth moves slightly in nonsense syllables. He's as sloppy as ever sleeping, but the light of the rising sun on those high cheekbones and the black-painted eyes now closed give him a strangely feminine air. James shakes his head; he's not usually prone to such poetic rubbish- it must be prolonged exposure to Sparrow, he decides.

Once fully dressed, he ties his hair back in a queue (no reason to wear the wig now, and privately he rejoices that he needn't wear the itchy, hot thing) and seats himself on the bed once again, his legs crossed under him. He keeps his voice soft as he calls out.

'Sparrow...' it's almost sing-song, the way he says it, and he wrinkles his nose. 'Sparrow! Wake up, man. A captain should rise before his crew, should he not?'

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What started out as a kiss meant to be sly, teasing has suddenly become passionate. A groan escapes Jack as Norrington pushes into him, entirely without his command. His hand tightens in Norrington's hair as he is forced to take a few steps backwards, humming around the fierce contact the entire time. He wants more of it, more of Norrington's mouth beneath his, and immediately deepens the kiss, stroking his tongue along the other's, kneeding their lips together as he pushes back with the same amount of energy.

Good, good, so good. The words rattle through Jack's brain. Just the hot, wet heat of Norrington's mouth and the softness of his lips and the silkiness of his hair between Jack's fingers as he pets down the slope of Norrington's skull, squeezing the back of his neck and brushing his thumb behind his ear. Suddenly he feels his back hit the wall and he doesn't know how they managed to cross the room but it's good. This passion residing his his Commodore. Jack tilts his head and sweeps his tongue along the edge of Norrington's and hums deep in his throat again. Thinks James.

But no. No. Wait. What? James? Norrington was meant to break, not Jack. Not Jack at all. He isn't meant to be beat at his own game, not when he just proverbially won it.

With a start, Jack pulls away, gasping for breath. His wrist is still clutched in Norrington's hand and he looks down at it, mystified. Caught me after all, Jack thinks, and suddenly the urge to run away is greater than the urge to keep taunting. He doesn't look up at Norrington as he gulps down all the air he can.

God, but he hasn't had this in so long. Well really, he's never had this, for kissing Jack Sparrow (being kissed by Jack Sparrow) is like nothing else he's ever experienced. It's good. Oh, it's good, good, good, despite the scratch of Sparrow's ridiculous goatee and the strange, metallic taste of his gold teeth. It's wet heat and tongues and pressure and Sparrow humming into his mouth and hands in his hair urging more, more.

And so he gives more, his body (of its own volition, apparently) pushing up against Sparrow's, seeking friction and more of this incredible heat. And Sparrow's pushing back, writhing up against him, wanting him. Oh, that's an intoxicating thought, and he licks his tongue along Sparrow's, wanting to hear that throaty groan again-- and then Sparrow breaks away, his face no longer playful or teasing, but shocked, almost, disbelieving.

He's looking down at his wrist, clutched still in James's hand (he hadn't realised he'd kept his grip on it this entire time), and suddenly self-conscious, James releases his hold, flexing his fingers stiffly. He backs away slightly; partly to give Sparrow his space, partly to gather his own wits.

He had kissed Jack Sparrow. He had kissed Jack Sparrow

Kissed a man. Moreover, kissed a pirate. The pirate was more of an issue for James, honestly- attraction to men, well, that was something a seaman had to deal with, and something James had squared himself with long ago. But Jack Sparrow!

He had seduced the man. Or been seduced. Or something. He wasn't even sure now, he knew only that not moments before he had been locked in an entirely inappropriate embrace with the man and had enjoyed it thoroughly. What had happened to Sparrow being his enemy? Well, that had ceased to be, really, the moment he had sheathed his sword and agreed to stay aboard the Black Pearl, but there was a great difference between being on cordial terms and... that.

He shook his head, his mind still rattling with the frantic desire of moments before and cleared his throat stiffly.

'My apologies, Sparrow. I don't know what came over me.' He paused. What to say? Apologise? No, he wasn't sorry. At least, not in the way he could apologise for. Instead, he squared himself, proper Commodore once again (desperately squelching the heat that remained).

'So, Captain Sparrow; if I am to reside aboard your ship, I must have duties. I will not suffer myself to languish in this cabin like a prisoner, as you have made abundantly clear that I am not one. What shall I do?'

Norrington releasing him relieves Jack's wish for flight somewhat. Curbs it into something he can manage. Hide behind a brash exterior of swinging limbs and maddening smiles. For a moment though he stares at it, the abused skin circling his wrist. The beginnings of a bruise starting to tinge the corners of the finger-bands blue. Jack rotates his wrist, feeling intently for the crack and snap of the joint resettling into place. Letting his mind wander for a second in an attempt to square with hisself that momentary slip.

What was that? Almost like... a possessiveness. Treasure. Intoxication. But more than that even. He doesn't understand it. Doesn't want there to be something to understand. All he wanted was Norrington, because for some reason Norrignton wants him -- oh, he wants him, certainly, Jack is convinced at this point, thinking of the force the Commodore kissed him with -- and he wants to know just why there is that wanting. Finds Norrington's behavior intriguing. And why now the man still decides to kiss him rather than engage him in a battle when it is apparent that he and Norrington both still have their swords nearby. But his own response is something else curious. Not just playful but demanding. Just as forceful as Norrington's reaction to him.

Maybe he wants to be caught in this circumstance.

That thought needs more time to settle and Jack mentally shakes off his wonderment. Drops his wrist to his side and looks at Norrington when he clears his throat. The man looks not at all effected, straight back and stiffed shoulders. Only the disarranged hair and redden lips give away what they were just at.

And oh, to taste those lips again...

No. The Commodore is speaking. Best pay attention or he might miss something important. Like an apology.

Jack chuckles at that, that Norrington should apologise when Jack suckered him into a kiss. Always the proper one, he is. The inner jibe buoys Jack's mood from the unsure place where it went.

"Prisoner you are definitely not," he says, twisting a hand around to gesture. "Things maybe different in your Navy but I don't go around kissing prisoners." He tries a leer but it falls flat and so Jack continues around it, as if it were never there. "But a place for you in me crew, eh?" He pauses to think, sauntering past Norrington to pace around the room. "And what would the likes of a Commodore prefer to be doing aboard a pirate ship? Wouldn't think you'd be partial to swabbing decks as it were," Jack muses aloud.

Suddenly he turns, and levels a stare at Norrington. "Decided to turn pirate after all? In the end?"

James is unspeakably relieved when Sparrow seems to collect himself- it's comforting, allows James to gather his own frazzled wits somewhat further. However, the other man is still clearly rattled, his usual casual innuendo forced and flat, and that blinding smile distinctly dulled. But James cannot dwell on that, especially when Sparrow begins pacing about the room, drawing lazy patterns in the air with one hand as he muses on James's query.

But then there's the jibe he knew would come- decided to turn pirate after all?- and James's face twists into a grimace of its own accord as he fights down the ire that Sparrow's words produce. But really, he has not the force or the will to be angry right now, and instead settles on a chilly calmness as he answers.

'I am not a pirate, Sparrow, nor shall I ever be. I believe you know my views on the subject well enough to know that such an eventuality is utterly impossible. However,' he looks Sparrow in the eye, sees that strange openness there, 'I am a man of action, and it would not sit well with me to sit useless in a cabin when there is a deck under my feet and wind to be caught.' He's waxing a bit poetic there, which is odd- he shakes himself out of it.

'Futhermore,' and this is difficult to say, but somehow James feels that it must be articulated, 'I am a sailor before I am a Commodore- I will work where I can, and do my piece. If that place is a pirate ship... then so be it.'

If Jack was the type of man to write little reminder notes to hisself, he would indelibly write one that read something along the lines of: Do not make piracy as a possible future employment option references to the Commodore. Make no comments, no jibes of the nature, because more than anything it seems to be the largest area on Norrington's map that is labelled Not A Laughing Matter.

In fact, it might be a good idea to have it inked somewhere onto his skin so that he mightn't ever forget it again, like his forehead. Except that he could never be able to see his own forehead without some sort of aide. Like looking over the side of the ship into the water to study his reflection each morning. And that would put a crimp in his otherwise easy morning rituals. Maybe he could tattoo it on Norrington's forehead instead...

Jack turns his attention back out to listen to Norrington for a second but the Commodore is still prattling on about something. He doesn't have much a mind to pay attention to what it is at this moment, as the icy tone of voice clearly communicates that Norrington is most likely chastising him for his chosen walk of life. And listening to the side of a debate that can never be completely squared -- at least not yet; Jack has hopes that an extended stay on day on board the Pearl with her charms and at night in his cabin with his charms might cause the Commodore to re-think his staunch stance on the nature of vagabonds -- is not something that will ever appeal. His eyes drift off to the side halfway through Norrington's words to blandly study the woodwork on the walls of his cabin.

It is not until the "Furthermore" that Jack's attention is regained. The pained undercurrent to the words, as if it physically hurts him to admit such a thing, catches Jack's curiosity again. He drifts his eyes back to Norrington's face and watches him with a dawning expression of surprise. Never in all his assumptions of the Commodore did Jack once consider that he would place his position as a sailor before his position as a leader. To be someone who regards decent hours' work over a name and prestigious title. Jack's eyebrows are near his hairline and a baffled smile struggles to spread its way on his face.

It takes him a few minutes to find the right reaction in order to respond to that comment. And even then he can do little more than stare perplexed at Norrington, wrist swivling limping where he's held it out this entire time.

Almost disbelievingly, Jack muses, "I confess I'm finding it a bit hard to be believing you were ever a sailor, mate. More'n likely you were born with that wig on your head and all that..." He gestures to Norrington's dress. "... brocade straight out of your mummy's womb."

Jack tilts his head and this time a wide smile does break loose as he considers. "Just to think on that... a young Norrington, not more than a kiddie, running about wig and uniform clad..." The image is one that Jack finds considerably endearing.

It is with great interest that James sees the surprise manifest on Sparrow's face- it's intriguing, really, because it's something he's never even considered. Do his men think of him like that as well? Nothing but the Commodore, the brocade and wig and the fine sword? Would they find it absurd to think of James as a lad, cabin boy aboard his first vessel, scrambling to do things correct, as the captain wished, so that in time he might be a captain himself? They would, in all probability, and James is not sure how he feels about that notion.

Sparrow for his part seems utterly perplexed by his comment, and he waits patiently for the pirate to formulate a response. However, he very nearly laughs when he does hear it, and favours Sparrow with a just slightly superior raise of an eyebrow.

'Are you comparing me to Athena, Sparrow? Sprung fully clothed from her father's forehead?' He scoffs, both mocking and self-deprecating, 'Hardly. I assure you I was born in quite the usual way, much to the relief of my mother.'

He cocks his head at Sparrow, then, thinking suddenly. While Sparrow's idea of an eight year old Commodore is amusing, it makes him wonder about the pirate himself. Surely he was not always the rogue he is now, with his dreadlocks and his kohl and tatoos on his obscenely golden skin. No, that idea is as absurd as the notion that James was born in full dress uniform. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

'And what of you- the wee lad Jack Sparrow? I was not born Commodore anymore than you were born a pirate, a little boy with beads in his hair and a bottle of rum in his hands.'

He bites back a smile at that image, his nose crinkling, for he has to admit, it is rather... adorable. Not that he should be finding any aspect of Sparrow adorable, even if it is only an imagined version of him thirty-five years ago. Regardless, however, it is, and eventually the smile breaks free, small, yes, but amused and entirely genuine.

'However, you've not answered my question,' he brings himself back to business (though the smile still lingers for some reason), 'What is a sailor to do aboard the Black Pearl?'

Jack laughs when Norrington speaks of his mother's relief.

It can be a dangerous thing to bring up a man's mother and Jack was not sure if Norrington would play along or scold him for ever daring to even breathe her name. He wonders what her name actually was, if she still lives somewhere (By the look of him, Norrington doesn't seem an older man, so his mother might still be amongst the living. In fact, he probably is younger than Jack, though truth be told Jack doesn't know either of their ages.) and thinks on her Commodore son. If she thinks he is a good man for his efforts under the Crown.

He does not know where is own mother is. Hasn't stopped a day to think of her in many, many years. Doesn't care much for it, family. With a father whose name is known better than his face and a mother much the opposite, lost somewhere in a boyhood memory, Jack doesn't feel the need to have much of family. The Pearl is his family. Wife, mother, daughter, lover. She is all he needs. And where he came from, what he was like as a boy -- well that was Jack Teague, wasn't it? Jack Sparrow rose from the watery depths with his ship, fully formed the pirate he is now.

So he looks at Norrington with darkling eyes and whispers in his best impersonation of encryption and mystery, "And maybe I was. Who said I ever had a mother at all?" He slinks towards Norrington, starting to circle him. "Maybe I rose from the sea, just as I am now," he murmurs lightly into his ear.

And then pulls back with a wide grin. "If you're to be believing the tales, of course," Jack amends, cheeky and cocky once again, relishing in his own near-mythical stories.

He stares at Norrington for a few moments, waiting to see if the Commodore will buy such an answer. Knows full well that he is avoiding his other question.

"And sailors do here what they are to be doing aboard any ol' ship," Jack hums, steering away from the question as soon as he answered it.

He still isn't sure where exatly to offer to place Norrington in the ranks. Doesn't quite believe the man knows how to work the riggings or mend the sails to his liking. A man forgets, after all, what is work when he does nothing all day but stand aboard deck, surveying. Jack isn't keen to the idea of ordering the Commodore around like a simple deckhand, though maybe serving under a pirate would re-order his priorities. He fishes for time to think it over by turning the question back on Norrington.

"Need to see some credentials before I know right what to be placing you."

Sparrow chuckles when James mentions his mother's relief, but the humour soon fades into a curious, closed look. It's pensive, and more than a little unsettling. Perhaps he had misstepped, bringing up his own mother, not thinking about Sparrow's. After all, it was eminently plausible that Sparrow had never known his- more like than not he was the son of a whore and a pirate, or perhaps even a Marine on shoreleave who had spent an unlucky night with the future mother.

Whatever the case, it is clear Sparrow doesn't want to speak of it, as he leans close with that dangerous glitter in his eyes and murmurs some nonsense about him being sprung from the sea. That was Aphrodite, James half-thinks, not Athena, but he refrains from mentioning it. If Sparrow wants to resort to the ridiculously mythic rumours about himself which one seems to find in every port, James will let him. He will not forget, however, that he has done so. Just another part of the pirate he doesn't understand- more Italian to be translated, as it were. So he smiles wanly, as he is sure Sparrow wants him to do, and allows him to continue.

He seems strangely hesitant, however, about giving James a place on the ship- not that this is surprising, really. After all, he is a Commodore of the King's Navy, and he imagines any pirate would be loath to put such a man to work aboard his ship. Or perhaps it is not that- the look Sparrow is giving him is a measuring one, and it strikes James that perhaps he doubts his use aboard a ship, a notion which is confirmed when Sparrow asks coyly to see his credentials.

He bristles slightly. 'Credentials, Sparrow?' His voice is wryly amused- perfect, 'I am a Commodore, surely; what other credentials do you need? But if you must know- I crewed my first ship when I was twelve years old, as a cabin boy aboard the Empire Gull. I spent several years with her until I eventually became a Midshipman. From there, I went to serve aboard the Diligence as a Lieutenent. And the rest... I'm sure you can imagine.'

While he takes pride in his achievements, certainly- he is, after all, the youngest Commodore possibly ever in the Royal Navy- it seems dull to be listing them all off, and he coughs awkwardly.

'But I'm sure that's not what you meant- you want to know if I still can hoist sails and climb the rigging and all that- do the work of an ordinary sailor.' He looks Sparrow in the eyes- he wants him to know this, wants somehow to prove himself. 'Yes, Sparrow, I can. Like I said- I am a sailor. There's no way I would remain Commodore if I couldn't do the work of the lowliest Marine as well as the command required of my position.'

Jack only nods when Norrington asks if he wants reassurance that he can do the work of an average sailor. It isn't that he has much reason to doubt the validity of his claims, for the way the man lists them, with pride, strikes Jack as the way he himself would bristle at being asked to prove his worth. Still. It is the Navy. Never can be too sure with their lot.

And he can't ask for anything more from Norrington. Names of ships, positions held -- the Commodore is a man of his word and has no cause to lie. The Pearl is always in need a more hands. Jack isn't the type to turn away a willing body, for work or for other things.

But to order around the man still isn't something Jack looks forward to. Can't imagine hisself calling out to a Commodore to trim the sails or swab the deck. Wouldn't look good to the rest of the crew, a Captain issuing directives to "Commodore." (James, his reminds himself, and yes that too.) And even then the crew might take problem working along side the Scourge of Piracy.

There must be a way to twist this for his own benefit, while not putting Norrington in unnecessary danger, and still keeping his crew in check. Still showing the Commodore the real life of freedom. There must be a way...

Jack feels an idea settling in.

A mischievous expression on his face, Jack regards Norrington curiously. "A man of your 'position' wouldn't take too well to filling the work of the lowliest Marine, I imagine. Must be another way to work around that. Say... as part of a higher up? First mate?"

James stares. First mate? Surely, the pirate cannot be serious. No... he may not be a prisoner aboard the Pearl, but he's a Navy man, he's been attempting to capture and hang Sparrow for months- all in all, he is not a man to be trusted. And he knows Sparrow does not trust him- the blindfolds on his way to the Pearl, the locked door, the seduction; Sparrow treats him cordially enough, teases him, plays games with him, but he does not trust him.

And James does not trust Sparrow. Such an offer would not be prompted by the mere wish to cater to "a man of his position," as Sparrow put it. No, there would have to be a reason behind it, some ulterior motive, a trap. He narrows his eyes.

'First mate?' He repeats incredulously, 'Surely, Sparrow, you're not fool enough to offer the second-highest rank aboard this ship to a Navy man. What are you after?'

It's almost funny how quick Norrington is to suspect him of something. Jack smiles his best placating smile. "It's almost as if you don't trust me, mate," he answers, feigning hurt. He places his hand over his heart and looks at Norrington with a sad expression.

But that is the rub, isn't it? Norringtin doesn't trust him. Though Jack cannot fathom why he should have any reason not to. Excluding, of course, the dealings behind why Norrington is here, now, requesting to join his crew. The very thought of it thrills through Jack and he tries to keep his excitement at his plan from bubbling over the edges. He really is just too, too brilliant sometimes.

"Who better?" Jack continues, tossing his hands into the air and swivling on his hips. "You know how to command and I don't have to worry about any... nrmnrmnrm... damage done to my ship."

He studies Norrington's face, trying to see if he's going to buy such a simple explanation. Leans in close. Switches tatics at the end. "Do you really want to be going around, taking orders from pirates? A lowly deck hand aboard a pirate ship, being bossed about by scallyways and blaggards with no respect for the Navy as I m'self have shown you?"

Sparrow is lying. He knows he's lying, knows it intimately, positively, but he cannot for the life of him imagine what the truth might be. He certainly seems to bear James no particular ill-will, and even if he did, he cannot think how him being first mate might play into whatever trap or plan Sparrow has in store for him.

His explanations are far too simple, and then- attempting to play on James's sense of pride, musing aloud about whether he could stand taking orders from pirates- it's all too obvious. Apparent, however, that he isn't going to tell the truth. Not that that surprises James; Sparrow seems to be the sort who's an innate liar; a trickster who knows how to twist words and skew bargains to his own ends. How then, to get him to tell the truth, for James certainly will not agree to being Captain Jack Sparrow's first mate without knowing why.

Well, he knows he has at least one advantage over the pirate, and if he can exploit that, he certainly will. So, eyeing him curiously, he paces forward, his eyes trained on Sparrow's, turns him around until the pirate is back up against the wall, leans in close.

'Come now, Jack,' he breathes, 'I'm not an idiot. Neither of those are reasons, as you know perfectly well.' A finger, then, tracing lazily over Sparrow's collarbone, and he leans even closer, his breath whispering against Sparrow's ear as he murmurs 'Wouldn't it be easier to simply tell me why you... want me,' a deliberate pause, 'as your first mate? I'm not a man to sign without reading the contract.'

That... is not what Jack is expecting. His back against the wall and Norrington attempting to seduce him for an answer. Jack tries to fight the slight shudder running through his body at the finger skating along his collarbone. The warm breath in his ear. It's all so tantalising.

He should have gone into politics years ago if this was the type of bargaining to be had.

Jack hums in the back of his throat at the deliberate pause, hands at his sides flexing under the urge to wrap them around Norrington. Keep him there. Make him back up this teasing. But of course he won't, Jack realises. This isn't an offer; this is just a bribe. Well, he does like bribes. Giving into the want, Jack slides an arm around Norrington's waist, fingers pattering a broken rhythm in the small of his back.

"Just looking out for you," he replies sotto voice, pressing his cheek against Norrington's and nuzzling with his beard. "Have other places for you than down on your knees on deck. Other more private places, least." And then, yes, because he's wanted to do this all the more. "James."

Clearly, Sparrow has recognised this for what it is, and James curses mentally even as the pirate's hand snakes around his waist, drumming a broken tattoo on the small of his back. It tickles a bit, and his back arches of its own accord, away from the touch.

But then- and he had not expected this- Sparrow leaning close, nuzzling against him like a damned cat, then his voice in his ear, murmuring James, and that's near enough to drive him to distraction. So few people call him by his Christian name, and though he knows it's merely a return of his own calculated use of Sparrow's name, hearing his name spoken rough in that voice... no. He's doing this for a reason, and Sparrow is attempting to sway him from that again.

'What,' he murmurs, keeping his voice low as Sparrow's, 'on my knees here, in front of you?' He's never said anything like this, and he feels almost whorish doing so, but it's teasing, mocking- not an offer, no-matter how Sparrow might take it. 'That's why you want me for first mate? Doesn't seem a very good reason to me- if that's your motive, you'd be better off with a wench from Tortuga, or some other filthy pirate port.'

He pulls back, looks at Sparrow for a moment, gauging his reaction, before leaning in again, breathing hot and wet against his ear and neck, his body pressed flush against the pirate's. 'It's certainly an offer I'd consider,' he says conversationally, 'A mutually beneficial eventuality, to be sure. But I must know why.' His voice is still quiet, but intense, forceful, as he knows he can make it. Sparrow may be a born trickster, but James Norrington is a born commander, a leader of men, and his voice reflects it.

'And surely,' he says, almost an afterthought, 'If the idea is to get me to trust you... this would be a good place to start, would it not?'

All sorts of delicious images and thoughts fill Jack's mind at such words. Norrington on his knees before him is... Jack swallows back the sudden dryness in his mouth. Such a very, very good image. And while it is true that a whore in Tortuga would do the same thing for him, more easily than it would be to have Norrington in that position, he doesn't want easy. He wants this. He wants to know why Norrington wants this.

Having a Commodore as a bedmate would prove such fine leverage against escaping the noose in the future.

Jack tightens his arm around Norrington when he leans back in. He likes him this way, strong and direct, and presses his hips up, seeking full body contact, in case it might be lost on Norrington just how very much he likes it. If this is what the Commodore wants to hold over his head in the way of barter, Jack will give him all the amunition he needs. Loosing, then, is sure to be a wonderful affair if Jack's logic should ever fail to prove insurmountable.

"A good place," he echoes. "Aye, that it is." He curls his hand up to stroke down the line of Norrington's spine. "But you'd be forgetting something. How can I trust you to be trusting of me if even I told you, considering in case I haven't told you already?"

When Sparrow presses his hips up against James's, a deep rumble of appreciation makes its way up out of his throat. There's that warmth again, that heaviness, and he fights the urge to press back. Instead, he looks at Sparrow curiously as the pirate strokes a line up and down his backbone. It sounded almost as if... he was asking for something. Reassurance. Trust. But that was ridiculous, that Sparrow should want his trust. Or perhaps not. Given the offer he had made him, the events that had transpired- indeed, what was currently transpiring- it made sense.

And that was what was frightening. He narrows his eyes, wishing only to understand, hating that he can't. 'What do you want, Jack?' He murmurs absently, catching himself too late, after the name 'Jack' has already escaped. He tenses for a moment, his body reacting automatically, before he forces himself to relax.

Then a thought hits him, sudden and alien: perhaps that's what Sparrow wants. Not merely the use of his first name, but what is implied therein, the trust that comes with being on first-name terms with someone. He pulls back slightly, not enough to sever the contact between their two bodies, but enough to be able to study Sparrow's face. Jack's face, he thinks, though it feels strange to do so.

He repeats himself. 'What do you want?'

The softness in Norrinton's voice, the consideration on his face, the use of his proper name -- Jack doesn't understand it. It's a strange move to make, to suddenly offer gentleness instead of taunting or teasing or seduction. It doesn't follow with what he originally expected of Norrington, which was either dismissal or more wariness. And instead it is Norrington asking him what he wants.

What does he want? Well, he wants freedom. He wants his ship. He wants the man in front of him. And he wants to know why the man in front of him wants him, other than the obvious, numerous reasons. Who could not want Captain Jack Sparrow? But what leverage does it give Norrington? Would good could come of seducing a pirate for a Navy man? It isn't Jack hunting him.

But that isn't an answer he can form in words. Doesn't think that's the answer Norrington wants from him. Really has no idea what Norrington wants from him. So the only thing to do is take what he can while he can and hopes this gentleness thing can work both ways.

"Fair trade," Jack answers, and then leans forward to kiss Norrington softly, tenderly for a moment before pulling back.

A kiss, after all, is part of fair trade as far as Jack is concerned.

Oh, now this is strange. This is far, far too strange. Sparrow as an object of desire, of temptation- that he's (sort of) come to terms with, but Sparrow being... affectionate? The kiss the pirate presses to his lips is gentle, tender, the sort of kiss one might give a lover while falling asleep beside him. It's the sort of kiss James would have given Elizabeth, were he given the chance. That... he doens't know what to think of that, and he looks at Sparrow with troubled eyes.

The mention of fair trade makes him smile, though, and gives him an idea. It reminds him first and foremost of the letters they had exchanged while he was hunting Sparrow, and they had agreed (grudgingly, at least on his part) on a truth for a truth- one answer for another. If Sparrow wants fair trade here, that's something he can work with. He pulls away slightly, still discomfited by the pirate's sudden gentleness.

'Fair trade? Very well. Shall we adhere to the rules established in our previous correspondance? An answer for an answer? You tell me- truthfully- why you want me as your first mate, and I'll tell you...'

He trails off, allowing Sparrow to fill in the blank at the end of that sentence.

"The honest answer to whatever it is I'd be wanting to know," Jack finishes for him with a slight bow of his head in leiu of being able to make one with his body, still standing close to Norrington as he is. "Agreed."

Now remains the question of what he actually does want to know. A great many things entice and interest him about the Commodore. The obsession he seems to have with Jack hisself is one of the many. As is now this troubled look at the way Jack kissed him. This want to pull away from anything resembling kind affection. Jack's arm goes slack about Norrington's waist, letting him walk away (for now) if he so chooses. It seems to him that Norrington reacts like the kiss was meant to mean something instead of just another play in their games. And what if it does begin to mean something? What does that mean for the Commodore then?

In all his thinking, glorious as it is, Jack thought that bedding Norrington might be all he could hope for, but now... To get the man to have true affection for him, all them tender and stirring feelings of love that could be seen in young William's eyes when he looked at Elizabeth -- well now that is something quite different. And quite more powerful. And if Jack could accomplish that, whose to say what he could put to good use?

His plan keeps morphing on him, becoming grander and more bold with every step the Commodore takes. Thank the stars Jack knows his footwork.

He lets his eyes linger over the lines and shape of Norrington's face, not paying attention to his eyes but the small, pocket thumbprint at the corner of his mouth as he smiles. Thinks how one day he is going to place a kiss right there and feel it form beneath his lips.

"What I want to be knowing is..." he muses, pausing for no other purpose than it sounds the place for a good pause. "Why pirates"? Contemplative and calm, Jack finally drags his eyes back up to meet Norrington's. "What'd we do to make you so set on hanging us?"

It's fitting, Jack thinks, to have a question about Norrington's deliberate assassination of pirates when Jack is offering him the chance to become one. A chance he's willing to bet Norrington will take, if for no other reason that the Commodore seems to trust him enough to stay true to his word and to answer his question honestly. Trusts Jack enough for that. Should be able to trust Jack enough to sail as his second in command. To take a chance and know the real life of piracy. Jack's brand of piracy.

He'd expected Sparrow to agree to his proposition, but nonetheless there is a distinct feeling of relief when the pirate nods at him, accepting the terms. Then, however, there's a silence, wherein Sparrow (presumably) considers what exactly he wants to ask James, staring (rather disconcertingly) at the corner of his mouth. James's eyes flick down as if they could see what he is looking at, but of course that's ridiculous, and he gazes over the top of Sparrow's head at the far wall, finding nothing terribly interesting there, but it's much preferable to actually looking at the pirate while he thinks.

When he finally does, James's sense of relief melts like an ice cube in the sun, sending his stomach spiralling down somewhere near his toes. His whole body stiffens. That is a question he is not prepared to answer, not at all. Not because he doesn't know the answer, oh no- he knows it well- but that is not something he's going to share with Sparrow. It's not something he has ever shared with anybody.

There are, of course, any number of lies he could make up- his mother was killed by pirates, his mother was a pirate, or the simple fact that that's what civilised people did- hate pirates. That the pirate life stood against the order he tried so hard to enforce day by day. That part is true, of course, but it isn't the answer to Sparrow's question, and he is sure that Sparrow knows that.

'No,' he says, making his voice cold and stiff, 'There are some truths better left unsaid, Mister Sparrow, and that is one of them. Anything else, I will tell you true, but not that.'

But Sparrow won't buy it, he knows. Or he shouldn't. Indeed, he feels curiously that he might almost be disappointed if the other man left it at that. Not that he wants to tell him, not at all, but simply because he knows that Sparrow is like himself in that respect- he's not a man to leave something lie, an anomaly, a mystery. He hates the knowledge, but knows it to be true. And so still he stares at that spot on the wall, waiting for Sparrow to call him out.

The arm around Norrington's waist reluctantly slips from his back, slides to his hip near his scabbard where just the tips of Jack's fingers remain. One last point of contact. His gaze stays on Norrington's face, trying to read his eyes, even though he won't look at him.

Not the answer he'd been expecting at all. Maybe something about honour and morality. Something about good, honest people and the duty of upholding the law. Something Jack can stretch and twist, and insert his own logic into. Something to use as a way to make Norrington see the world as Jack sees it.

An icy tone and a flat out refusal are not profittable to either of those goals.

Briefly Jack puzzles it in his mind, running through deductions lightning quick. Must've been something painful obviously. Shaming, maybe, either to Norrington's personal self or his career or his so-called position in society. Unresolved still, too, by the sound of things. Possibly now guided by a want for vengence, or a want to pay a debt to a purported mistake made long ago.

And all those qualities strike a cord in Jack as qualities of betrayal. Oh yes, very piratical, he thinks to himself with still long ago dregs of bitterness. Whatever happened -- it is something Jack wants to know but he can respect a man's right to privacy. Particularly when it is something as big as to change the course of one's entire look on life.

"As you wish," Jack grants in one of the few serious tones he has, still trying to catch Norrington's eye with his. "Not one for asking a man to bear his soul with wounds not yet scarred over. But one day, mate" -- the finger at Norrington's hip rises to tap him knowingly on his chest -- "You'll give me that answer one day. Not one to leave an accord go unfullfilled either."

Jack pauses for a moment, stills for the briefest of times, hand lightly resting over Norrington's heart and looking at him with something akin to understanding.

Well, that was... not what he'd expected. Not at all. A knowing grin, perhaps, a waggle of the eyebrows, some mocking comment about the Commodore's less-than-pristine past, perhaps even an insistence that he keep to his accord, honour his word. But a serious, understanding acceptance? Never would he have expected that from the pirate, not in a score of years.

But Sparrow's eyes on him are dark and thoughtful, and James thinks suddenly of the mutiny- he had made the mistake the night before of bringing it up flippantly, looking to provoke a reaction- and the reaction that he got was enough to decide for him that it was not something he would mention again, at least not in such a manner. Sparrow, perhaps, recognises a similar thing here, and it is, in a manner of speaking. Feeling Sparrow's hand over his heart he finally drags his gaze away from the spot on the wall and meets his gaze, bringing a hand up lightly to touch on Sparrow's before letting it drop and turning away entirely.

He paces a few steps about the cabin, drawing in breaths, and then looks back at Sparrow, who stands still where he left him. 'Thank you,' he says, meaning it. 'I must confess, I had not expected such a, well, considerate response.’

Sparrow’s words, though… he has an uncomfortable feeling that he will tell, before this journey- whatever it is- is up. For it’s not something he’s ever discussed with anybody, and now that the subject has been raised, he feels a bizarre urge to let go, to say what he’s dwelt on for so long. Not now, though. Perhaps later, but not now. Instead, he cocks his head to one side, looking inquiringly at Sparrow.

‘I suppose, then, that I shan’t be getting an answer to my question either? Unless you have another query to put forward in the last one’s stead?’

He really does want to know- he will not accept the offer without knowing the reasoning behind it, and he has a feeling that Sparrow would not take kindly to him scrubbing decks- why he could not say, but that was the way of it. The pirate seems to have a knack for disconcertingly discerning questions, but at the moment, James cannot see any other way to find out.

Jack begins to wobble when Norrington leaves him. His own personal equilibrium instinctually requires more fluidity to counter-balance the self-inflicted stability and rigidness of Norrington's posture, hips swaying to the Pearl as she glides over the water even as he watches Norrington pace around the room.

He doesn't say anything to the thanks at his response. It were the only reasonable way to reply to such a refusal and he does have no interest in plying anyone for personal information if it not be what they want to confess. He's near positive Norrington will confess it to him one day, if only when the boredom of long, pointless hours (because Jack will not offer him other position if not first mate) and the curiousity for Jack's own motivations grabs too much of a hold for him to shake off. The only thing Jack offers is a twist of his mouth in recognition of having heard the graditude.

"You would be supposing correctly," Jack says, growing tired of just standing around and sauntering to the table. He settles into a chair and pulls the top-most map to him. Slides the clouded rum bottle near the edge of the table for if Norrington decides he wants a drink to collect himself more.

"One question for one question, that was our deal. But if you'd have another yourself, I suppose it wouldn't be too much trouble to think one up."

He looks over to Norrington and smiles sharply. "And I assume to be supposing correctly as well that you won't be accepting my offer of first, then."

James sighs resignedly as Sparrow makes his way over to the table- naught but a twitch of the lips in response to his thanks (and it's far from his nature to thank a pirate) and then the absentminded studying of a map (and it's a map of the Indies, at that- nowhere near where they are). It smacks of a calculated snub, and James wrinkles his nose.

'Very well; I had expected no less.'

His eyes on Sparrow, he pulls out a chair and sits opposite him, his ramrod-straight posture an almost ridiculous counterpoint to Sparrow's relaxed slump. He traces a finger over the table top.

'As for another question myself... there is one I should like answered, though I'd imagine you're as loath to give up that information as I was to answer your question.'

His hand roams further, until it reaches Sparrow's, and carefully he turns the hand over, exposing the shiny white scar tissue of the 'P' brand on his wrist. He makes eye contact.

'What made you turn pirate, Sparrow? You're an educated man, or so it seems to me, a fine sailor and strategist. So why this life?'

He busies himself with the lines of the map for the voyage he plans out there as soon as his newly acquired guest gets settled away again. Or maybe he'll go and bring Norrington with them. Get out of the Caribbean for a while. Away from the stretches of these tiny islands and really out into open water. It's been too long since he let the Pearl fly. To feel the wind skirting about his feet on deck. And Norrington seems like he could use with a nice, relaxing trip to other sides of the earth.

Jack raises his eyes to watch Norrington's finger twirl over the table top before returning to the map, half listening to what he assumes is simply Norrington thinking outloud. With trade winds as they are, he could --

But then he hears the question. Feels his hand being turned over. Jack straightens a hard stare at Norrington -- the Commodore -- and then glances down at the brand. He still remembers getting it. The smell of canvas burning in the water as she drowned. But he isn't about to ever answer such a question honestly, not one the stories are better, not when they've agreed to no deal that Jack should be forced to answer.

"You make it sound as though s'bad thing to be pirate." He fixes the stare once again on Norrington. "What makes you think you'd would even understand my reasoning? Commodore."

Rp for captjacksparrow

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