Diving for Pearls

Chapter 7

by

Kitty Fisher

About midday he took a few turns of the deck, walking back and forth, around and about, testing his body. He even tried a few exercises, simple ones that stretched his limbs and joints, finally realising that he did trust his body to mend. The fear that had nagged him, that he would be partially crippled, never able to use his shoulders and wrists easily again, had gone. That morning he'd even left the bandages off and rolled his sleeves back, to let the air heal his lacerated skin.

But he still felt tired. And after a while he returned to his bed and slept, waking to Jack's presence and a tray laden with goat stew, bread, cheese and fruit. When the remains were gone, Jack leaving the tray outside the door as was his habit, Norrington stood up, purposefully naked. He was still tired, yet it was as if every part of his body was at war with itself; exhaustion and desire battling it out, with desire the victor. When Jack returned, Norrington simply stared at the pirate, and watched as Jack closed the door, locking it, before turning to lean against the wood. Watching him, James hesitated, then walked slowly to him and brought up a hand to touch his shirt, just where the cotton opened and the inky mark of a tattoo peeked out.

Taking the hand, Jack brought it up to his mouth, kissing the knuckles, the fingers, and laying his mouth on the curve of the palm, pressing it close to his flesh. James lifted his head, his blood running hot and fast. Lazily, he was pulled forward, and brought close. Kissed again, lips to palm, then lips to wrist, the touch tender against his scars. Sparrow was so warm, his skin like honey left in the sun.

He felt no shame, no hypocrisy. This was what he wanted. That thought alone—that acceptance—was as liberating as chains cut from his soul. And he wanted Jack Sparrow naked as well. To see the skin he had touched. To have it all.

His fingers picked awkwardly at the small mother of pearl buttons that fastened Jack's shirt. One at a time he worked them free, pulling the shirt up, tugging until it was loose and open, skin golden and smooth before him. He bent then, and brushing cotton aside kissed a dark nipple, aware just before he lowered his head that Jack's eyes were closed, his face caught somewhere between delight and wonder. Well, James had his own skills. Unpractised as they were.

He licked, and felt the nipple tighten. Again, and Jack arched back into the door, a soft gasp spilling from his lips. It was very sweet to induce such a response, sure as he was that the pirate was well versed in the all bedroom skills. Probably in some his own education had failed to mention, let alone supply.

"Jamie."

"Mmm?" He raised his head, straightening as Jack shifted, slipping out of the shirt. Hands dropping to his breeches, he unfastened them and began to push them down, his cock pressing against them, darting up as it was freed. Norrington's own flexed responsively at the sight.

"Bed."

"Oh, yes... "

Pushed back, kissed on shoulder and neck, handled with care and sureness, he fell back into the soft mattress. Jack followed him down, easing him back. Something sharp poked him, and with an impatient sound, Jack lifted a hand and pulled off his scarf, the sea-urchin spine coming away with it, and tossed it all onto the floor. His hair spilled around his shoulders.

As Jack leant over him, Norrington cupped his face, smoothing his thumb over a cheekbone, rubbing the paint that darkened the skin under the intensely focussed eyes. "You paint yourself like a savage. Why?"

Amusement was there. "Truth or legend?"

"Both."

"It helps me see when the sun strikes blindingly off the sea. That's truth. The legend is just in how it makes me look—exotic."

"Oh, yes. Piratical."

"Unique."

"I like it."

"You do?"

"Mmm, you'd look good painted and wigged for a London season."

"Not wigged, please."

"Painted then. Your hair combed and loose, the envy of every woman." He ran his fingers through the dark mass, careful of the snags. "Your body dressed in silk and satin."

"And you too?"

"Aye, My Lord Pirate. I could wear green and you could wear black. With silver."

"Emeralds in my cravat and in my unpowdered hair."

"Sapphires for me."

"We could flirt outrageously and fuck behind a curtain while society danced demurely on the other side."

"I'd kneel and suck your cock."

"I'd hold your head, press you down, spill my seed in your mouth... " Jack gasped then, as if the images were too strong. Almost moaning in need, Norrington pulled him down.

"Jack, kiss me again."

The pirate obeyed, his tongue opening James' mouth, his breath hot. Pressing up, James licked past the open lips and delved into warmth. Not soft, the kiss was demanding. Beard rough against his skin, James rubbed into it like a cat craving attention, his own face unbearably sensitive after the shaving. Jack sucked his lower lip, teeth sharp and hard, biting deep enough to make James groan, his hips jerking upwards. Another bite, and intoxicated, he moaned again, the echo spinning back into his own mouth. Oh, the man was skilled; the kiss took him apart, explored him, scoured him clean of everything but the immediacy of desire, until he was whimpering, hands scraping at Jack's skin, begging, pleading... until pity let the kiss end, and Jack was leaning over him again, his own eyes wide, needy, his mouth wet, reddened.

There was no possibility of subtlety. His breath uneven, edged with desperation, James almost cried out as Jack pulled him between his thighs, both of them on their sides, strong hands cupping James' buttocks as his own hips pressed eagerly forward. James needed... no, he couldn't reason it. Couldn't think or voice what it was—he just needed. There was a shoulder by his mouth and he bit down, shuddering as his cock was pressed tight to hot and straining flesh, as Jack was sobbing into his ear, as the whole of the world span down into the weight of his balls and the feel of skin against skin. It was there, no. Not there. Here. And he arched, screaming into the muffle of shoulder muscle, his seed burning as it spilled from him, again and again, as Jack's body shuddered under his hands, and he knew that it was Jack's seed as well as his own that spattered hot and slick between their bellies.

He trembled sporadically with the aftershocks. Unlocking his mouth, he kissed the bruise he'd left on the warm skin.

Never, never... Not like that. Not in his dreams. From a distant place he found the energy to lift his hand and stroke the long hair that curled over his chest. Tendrils of it lay on his face, and he turned into them, pressing his face to Jack's head. Slowly the head turned, and Jack eased away. Just far enough to focus, not so far they were not entwined at leg and arm.

"Jamie... "

James could only lie there, bemused, blissful. His eyelids felt heavy. It was rude to sleep now. Unconscionable. But...

The mattress shifted, and Jack was rearranging him, settling him. It wasn't unpleasant. He smiled as an arm curled protectively about his shoulders. No, it wasn't unpleasant at all. The last thing he was aware of was Jack's voice, humming tunelessly to him as he fell headlong into sleep.

Jack knew he was dreaming for his name was wrong. Not Sparrow. Not yet. It was something else, something the darkness hid from him. Pressed into a corner, his eyes blind, he sat and sang to the night. Though it could have been day, for all he knew, he preferred to think of it as night. Dark and shadowy, hiding his secrets. Hiding him.

Hands pulled over his scalp, his shaved head alive with lice, he tucked down, knees to nose, feet one upon the other in the ordure that lay thick upon the floor, he watched the darkness shift with shapes. Ghosts, he thought, ghosts of those who had lain in this place before him. All mad, of course. What else would they be. And mad ghosts were strange things. Sometimes they just drifted past, tearing at their silvered hair and rending at their garments. At others they stayed and laughed at him. Maybe those who laughed where not ghosts at all, though they frightened him just as fully and he couldn't help but scream at them to leave him alone.

The dream, which had to be a dream, for his name was not Sparrow, made him sweat and groan in the darkness. The room was small, too shallow to stand in, and too narrow to lie, so he crouched, weighted down by a metal hoop welded around his middle. It clanked when he moved, the thick, heavy chain struck fast to a ring cemented into the wall. Though where they thought he would go, he wasn't sure. Unchained, what could he do? Fly though the shutter in the metal door, when they opened it? Crawl like a worm though the earthen floor? Maybe they thought he was a magician and the metal was all that kept him from vanishing in a puff of dust and excrement.

That thought amused him for a whole day. Or week. Or month. He had laughed so long his throat had ceased to make sound, and he had cackled soundlessly. More ghosts came and laughed at him then. Which made him scream until his throat bled.

Solid darkness was the sweetest.

The shutter clanging back and his enemy leering at him was the opposite. Sometimes the broad, bristled face would stand there and eat his dinner, drooling mouthful by mouthful, smacking its lips and licking its thick fingers. Sometimes though the food was given to him, and Jack ate it slowly, wonderingly, scarcely remembering why he did so.

Jack knew it was a dream. A dream that lied. A dream where he slept to the sounds of other inmates screaming. To pain and humiliation. Where the dreams within the dream were all of flight and freedom. Even the small freedom given a sparrow, its tiny wings spread wide, fluttering in the air as it swooped from branch to branch, or its beak busy with seeds as it hopped from stalk to stalk of an endless field of barley.

When he'd been chained he dreamt of freedom. Now he was free, he dreamt of being caged. At least he knew this freedom to be real. Mostly. He only scared himself when reality became hazy, and he wasn't sure which dream was true.

But his name was the anchor. And the rolling swell of a ship. His name was Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow. He had no idea who Jack Dawkins was. The name, with the young man it belonged to, had been left behind, long ago, to rot. He was Sparrow now. Flying free. Free—but the darkness mocked his determination, and the shadows laughed, on and on.

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