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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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."

Sparrow's stare is cold and hard, but James does not flinch. He had expected as much: Sparrow was forced into it, then, he did not choose piracy of his own volition, or if he did, he was motivated by forces outside his control. There is pain in his gaze, and James cannot help but wonder what it was happened to make a young Jack Sparrow turn brigand- for he was a man who could have had a place in the world, James is sure, perhaps he once did. Perhaps his pain is regret that he lost that, or perhaps it is simple anger, a desire for revenge still with him. He looks at him for a moment, his gaze steady.

'I think, perhaps, that I have about the same chance of understanding your reasoning as you do of understanding mine, Captain. But then, since you are so sure that I will confess to you my reason for hating pirates, mayhap when I do so- if I do so- you will be able to answer me in turn, mmm?'

It's a neutral statement, though Sparrow may not take it as such, and James retracts his hand, joining its fellow clasped on the table in front of him.

'Surely,' he says absently, 'you have work to be going about, do you not? As Captain of this ship. I'll not be your first mate until I know why I ought to be, so I'll make myself comfortable in here until you decide to tell me, shall I?'

Jack laughs at that, when Norrington says that he can understand Jack's reasoning. I bloody well doubt it, he thinks to say but keeps it to himself, smirking as he looks back at his map. He tugs another one towards him, one of the Lesser Antilles this time, not far from their current course and where merchant vessles run trade between the mainland of Europe and the colonies. He absently flicks his eyes over it, disregarding Norrington.

"That not be part of our accord," he reminds him. "You'll get the answer to the question you asked and no other 'til a new accord is made. But suit yourself with how you fill your hours until then."

He studies the map a moment longer, before the desire to say something more takes over. "And you're to be forgetting, mate." He returns his gaze back to Norrington, flashing the brand and the sparrow tattoo as he rolls his wrist on the table. "I've lived both sides, in your world and in mine. Seen more coast and water than I fancy you have in all your days as Commodore. And I still chose which side it is I'd be wanting. You've never made such choice."

That tone of self-righteousness in Sparrow's voice is almost more than James can stand- no matter whether he's right or not (and he most likely is, says that damned irritating corner of James's brain)- and he can feel his proverbial hackles rising.

'I don't recall that mattering much to you before,' he mutters, fairly sure he's referring to the comment about keeping to their accord, though not entirely, which is unnerving. He tries not to think about Sparrow's comment about choosing sides. He had made his choice, sure enough, as a young man, though the choice between the clergy, a trade, or the military was not a difficult one, and certainly not the sort of choice Sparrow is referring to. Watching Sparrow, he cannot help but wonder what the other choice had been for him- he's lived on both sides, he said; who was he on the other side? Well, it's clear that Sparrow is in no mood to talk now, and neither is James, when it comes down to it, so instead he watches the other man steadily, settling back in his chair, even going so far as to prop his boots up on the table before him. Finally, he speaks.

'Am I to understand that you're to be sitting here all day, supervising me, Sparrow? Surely you're needed in some capacity out on deck.'

"And deprive myself of your such pleasurable company?" Jack returns, downplaying the sarcasm behind the words with a tilted smile to the maps in front of him. "They're only hoisting sail out there. No need for me yet."

Unfortunately, the maps are not providing a suitable distraction from Norrington. Or more so, Norrington is providing a suitable distraction from the maps. With his boots on the table -- which Jack smirked at before returning to his navigation -- and him staring so, Jack can't find it in himself to give the Lesser Antilles their due consideration. His orders to Gibbs earlier that morning when he went to fetch food were simply to head out into open water. Get away from the cove and disappear before the Dauntless decided to give chase. But at some point soon he'll need to give a more specific heading. And for once in all the years he's defended his obsession with gaining back the Pearl and the open horizon from her decks, Jack has no clue where it is he wants to go.

He doesn't trust Norrington and his strict honour code to allow for any decent pirating, and with a storm coming, to head too far away from the safe refuge of land is a poor plan. Which leaves him only with a scant few places to go if they are to stay in the Caribbean.

But why stay here then? What they need is neutral territory where the Navy isn't likely to go and where a speck of gold could still be made. As well getting fresh supplies.

"Shove off," Jack commands and pushes at Norrington's boots, freeing an edge of map from beneath them. He studies it for a moment, before finally looking up at Norrington with a grin.

"Tell me. In all your sailing as Commodore, have you happened to have chance to go here?" Jack stabs a finger onto the coast line of the new map.

A cool eyebrow raises when Sparrow pushes at his boots (though propping them on the table as he did was certainly an impudent move, so he can't really be blamed). However, he lifts his legs off the table and leans forward with curiosity when Sparrow presents him with a map. Curiously, he leans forward and inspects it: a ragged coastline, edged in green and yellow dyes, along a blue ocean labelled Oceanus Æthiopicus. Various names of places are inked in along the map, and a small drawing of a barque being pulled down by a Kraken graces the water. James looks up with incredulity, and then looks back down at the chart, surveying the location in quesiton.

'The Côte d'Ivoire?' He speaks absently, half to Sparrow, half to himself. 'I have passed it before, on journeys, but the Navy never makes port there- it's under French rule, though they hardly protect it at all. It's said to be full of savage, cannibal Negroes; not fit for human habitation.'

He looks up at Sparrow, his brow furrowed. 'What could you want there?'

What indeed? James cannot fathom Sparrow's purpose in this; if he wants to escape the Navy (as well he should), the Côte d'Ivoire would be ideal, but it's hardly the sort of place a pirate would want to go: there are no fat-bellied merchant ships to raid, no real settlements either. So there must be some other purpose he has in mind, and that unsettles James greatly. So, tearing his gaze away from Sparrow's, he transfers it back to the map and continues his study, seeing if he can glean any clue of the pirate's intent from it.

Jack catches the doubtful look Norrington sends his way as he puruses the map but doesn't know what it is in response to, so he says nothing. Only continues to watch Norrington read the map with an enigmatic look on his face.

"Nothing by your interpretation, it would seem."

He almost wants to laugh at the description Norrington gives of the inhabitants, a chuckle mixed between being bitter and amused at how little the Commodore really does know of all the places and people to be found on this earth, but for once Jack keeps it to himself. He is less prone to openly share his thoughts since the question as to why he turned pirate -- the answer being something he is certain Norrington would not understand. James might understand, if Jack can ever find the way to seperate him from the Commodore, but now is not the time.

"It plays a might strange to the ear that a place not fit for human habitation would have so many living and breathing on its soil." There is some mockery in his tone, a small note of distaste that he can't quite hide. So he turns it into a joke. "As for the cannibals, I don't know about you, but I were never one to turn down a free meal when it were offered to me." He flashes one of his gold teeth to imprint the suggestion further into Norrington's mind.

Turning his attention back to the map, Jack places the rum bottle on a corner to keep it from rolling up on him when he moves his hand. He plants a finger into the middle of the map where wavy lines depict the currents. "There. Only way to travel East." He traces the line of the current from the south-east end of the islands straight across the ocean to align exactly with a port just north of the Côte d'Ivoire.

A thought strikes him, a way to keep their game of 'fair trade' running. Jack is aware that he avoided Norrington's last few questions with curved answers instead of straight. But he did answer. He figures the Commodore owes him one now.

His finger dances up and around the coast of Africa, following the currents he knows run there by memory straight up to where the tip of England just about fall off the top of the map.

"That's home for you, in'it. How long's it been?"

James bristles at the tone of Sparrow's voice as he answers- there is contempt there, and distaste, and perhaps something like pity, and he likes it not at all. He follows the finger as Sparrow traces a route East, but does not really pay attention to it; it's easy enough to see, at least on a map.

'If,' he says, his tone icy, 'I am mistaken about the inhabitants of the Côte d'Ivoire, then I shall surely learn better if we go there. As I say, I have never made port there, and rely solely on what I have been told by others.'

I should thank you to consider that before passing judgement on me, he wants to say, but bites back the words. It will not do, after all, to let Sparrow think that James cares what he says of him, though it rankles that the pirate should think of him as a bigot.

When Sparrow's finger lands on the small green blot that is England, he wrinkles his nose. Thoughts of home have no place here in the middle of the Caribbean, in the stifling heat and palm trees and bright blue waters, and he twists his mouth in a grimace. It's something of a sore point, England, for he misses her deeply. Serving King and Country is one thing, but living there is infinitely better; he is made for the wet, green hills and the dank, busy city streets of England, and the tempestuous black seas that surround the island. So he shakes his head.

'Eight years,' he says, gazing absently at the map, 'But that was only a brief stop, to bring to Port Royal the man who was to be governor. And his daughter.' A brief smile. 'Before that... too long.'

But he will say no more on the subject, and turns his eyes on Sparrow. 'But you have not answered my question; what is it you want there?' His finger passes over the map, past Sparrow's hand and down, and lands once again on the coastline of the Côte d'Ivoire.

'I must admit, I am... most curious.'

"Ah, and curiosity is a most curious thing." Jack flickers a little smile, more meaning behind his words than only the subject at hand.

He is still being evasive, he knows, but he is tired of answering only the Commodore's questions and not getting much in the way of return answers. Norrington replied to his question about England but Jack isn't going to inform him too much of his plans for cause of their trip. To do some trade, and mainly to get out of the Caribbean with the Commodore on board -- that is what Jack wants at the moment. And the Côte d'Ivoire would provide a nice resting spot in case the urge to travel farther north suddenly took over.

And where better to avoid the British Navy but take up in their own backyard?

"Eight years be a long time. No inclination to ever up and go back? See the ol' homestead as it were? Fancy thing about having your very own ship, you know. Can go anywhere."

Jack tilts his head imploringly, curious to know Norrington's response. He tugs the map towards him in preparation to roll it up. Removes Norrington's hand by daintily clasping it around the wrist and placing it to the side. His fingers linger there, subconscious tapping a random staccato.

"Given freedom, a man can go wherever he wants to go. Do whatever he wants to do." He leans with his free hand, the one not touching Norrington, to reach for the rum bottle across the table, bringing his face in front of Norrington's. His words still carry a double meaning. "What would that be for you, hm?"

Well, if Sparrow doesn't want to answer his question, he supposes he'll find out in time; patience has paid off for him more than once in the past, and he is well used to waiting. The suggestion of returning to England, though... oh, how he would leap at it, given the chance, but he doesn't trust Sparrow, and it feels more like a bribe than anything else, so he merely smiles wanly.

'Many times have I wished I could return,' he says, 'but my duty forbids it, as I'm sure you know. I'd make a poor Commodore of the Caribbean Fleet indeed were I in England.'

His fingers twitch when Sparrow takes hold of his wrist, and he forces the muscles there to relax as the pirate begins to beat a lazy tattoo on the skin there. And then... freedom, again, and Sparrow leans in- not close enough to invade his space, yes, but enough so that their faces are on a level. Why must the vexatious bastard keep bringing up the subject of freedom? Is he trying to glean some sort of confession from James, trying to make him turn pirate, or does he merely enjoy niggling at what he imagines to be (and what is, truth be told) a sore spot? Or perhaps, like James himself, is he desperately curious to find out what drives him, to try and understand him.

Though of course the words carry a flirtation with them that James cannot ignore as well, and he lifts an eyebrow at Sparrow. 'Many things, Mister Sparrow,' he murmurs lowly, 'As all men have myriad desires.'

It's not coy or teasing, and he does not return the heat of the gaze Sparrow is currently directing at him, but it's ambiguous enough that the other man may read it as he will. And, James is sure, he will read it many ways indeed. Now, though, he'd like to study the chart of their apparent location, if he can get away with it, and see if he can glean any more information from it. If he cannot work up on deck, then he will do work below. He cocks his head at the half-rolled map, gesturing lazily with one hand.

'May I?'

His first response to Norrington asking to see the map is "no". Giving out bearings, headings, the direction to which they're headed and where they are -- that information is dangerous when placed in the hands of anyone but hisself Jack has learned. Besides, they're his maps. He aqcuired them through his own mannered contribuatory tribulations. Not for sharing, by any means.

Unless Norrington feels fit to share something with him in return. Though Jack isn't sure what equates access to maps. Nothing Norrington can provide him at this moment, he's sure.

"That would be entirely unfitting for a man of your placement on board my ship," Jack answers, keeping his tone as consoling as possible. "What with you being Commodore of the Caribbean Fleet and all."

The maps get slid further away from Norrington on the table, threatening to teeter off the edge. Jack slaps a quick hand over the top pile to keep it stationary.

"Though I must say, you're rather lacking in much Commodorial equivilencies stuck here on the Pearl. Almost make a trip to England bearable, eh? 'Less you just like to keep your fine self away from that what you claim to make you happy."

Jack doesn't mean that as an insult or really even anything more than a passing comment. His attention is more focused on keeping Norrington's thoughts away from looking at his maps and somehow persuading him to suggest they be bound for England. Jack suddenly finds himself infatuated with the idea of bopping around ol' London town with Norrington in tow, away from the clutches of the Navy. He's sure he could show Norrington more sides to that city than he ever dreamed.

He is unsurprised when Sparrow refuses to show him the map in question. Indeed, judging from the look the pirate is currently shooting him, he may as well have asked him to lend James his firstborn son. It's merely common sense, however, that a ship's captain doesn't go bandying headings and intents to all and sundry, least of all to an enemy said ship's captain is keeping in his cabin, and Sparrow, he is sure, is more cautious than most in that regard, if what he's heard about the decade-old mutiny is true. So, instead of protesting further, he merely shrugs laconically, a raising and lowering of the shoulders which suggests a fair defeat by a good man.

He'll get a look at those maps eventually anyway, James is sure, whether Sparrow shows them to him of his own volition (and seeing as he's already allowed James a look once, that's likely enough) or not. Not, of course, that he would steal them or anything of that nature, but a quick look while Sparrow was out of the cabin seemed not at all out of order.

However, and James can not deny this, what he was most curious about was Sparrow's insistant bringing up of England. James does not trust him, not in the slightest; Sparrow knows he missed England, and seeks to manipulate that, yes, but why? What in God's name could a pirate such as Sparrow want in England? Oh, there was more there than in the Côte d'Ivoire, certainly, but unlike the remote Africk country, it was swarming with Royal Navy.

Therefore, James summons all his Commodorial poise and draws himself up in his chair, directing at Sparrow a gaze which would chill the hearts of lesser men. Sparrow, he is sure, will not be affected by it in the slightest, but a bit of performance cannot hurt.

'If that is your bearing, Sparrow, I cannot see how my opinion should effect you in the slightest. Surely you would not allow the whim of a prisoner- or a guest, if you like- aboard your ship to dictate the Pearl's heading?'

He pauses and raises an eyebrow then, allowing a touch of humour into his expression. 'And I must say, I've no idea how you've got it into your head that I shy away from those things which might make me happy. I am a military man, yes, but that does not mean I have no concept of self-gratification.'

Rp for captjacksparrow

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