Moves & Motion, Part 5

What You're Looking For

by

Rispa Cooper

It was just that the man only ever unpleasantly surprised Jack. And when it came down to it, it were almost as though he were doing it on purpose, trying to drive Jack mad, or more mad, by revealing the long and lovely wicked streak that ran straight through his otherwise honourable soul. The man not only knew what was right, but also knew what a pirate might be thinking, and likely thought it fun to taunt that same pirate with his absolute refusal to go along with his plans. Instead he made plans of his own—being used to command, Jack supposed—and his absolute rightness in doing so just compelled Jack all the more to continue his own scheming.

And if only he weren't so fine while doing it. Standing naked with the soapy bathwater sheeting down from his body like he'd just risen from the foaming seas of Cyprus and asking Jack if that was what he was after. It was a torture that the Commodore would never have put Jack through if he'd had to see his Elizabeth that way.

An idea that most certainly called for more rum. With a frown, Jack turned and saw yet another wench make her way past him as if she didn't even see him, stopping by a busier and louder table. After a moment of laughing and bending to afford them all a nice view of her wonderfully large charms and wonderfully small bodice, she even sat down with them, plunking a fat, full bottle down on the table between them.

Jack sniffed and twisted his mouth, lowering his eyes to contemplate his nearly empty bottle. It had been nearly empty when he'd sat here a few hours ago but even a desperate man wouldn't take someone else's leavings. Besides, it left a funny taste in his mouth when he'd tried to drink it. He would have said this tavern served cheap, undrinkable rotgut, excepting of course that all the taverns on Tortuga served cheap, undrinkable rotgut, and it had all been sweet on his tongue before.

It were the Commodore's doing. The mood that man was in, he would poison all the rum in the Main just on the off chance it would cause Jack Sparrow discomfort. And for what, for what, Jack again asked himself, for a bloody wig?

Leaning forward, Jack rested his elbow on the table and sat with his cheek on his hand, idly toying with his beard. He had to choose a man with no sense of humour. It were enough to make Jack wonder if maybe he were madder than previously thought.

Never would anyone on the Caribbean had ever imagined that Jack Sparrow would find himself alone and sober in a tavern in Tortuga unable to even touch a drop on account of a Commodore's wig. He licked his lips, considering the bottle once more, then sighed when his stomach's churning reminded him unpleasantly of a bilge pump.

Perhaps it was the lack of company. Jack lifted his head and flashed a grin to any in the room who might see it, then ducked his head back down with a scowl when this only got him a smile from a toothless sailor who looked old enough to have been around when Bart and Morgan had set down those guidelines that his crew seemed so fond of, of late. Constantly reminding him they were, that it were only every man for himself when it came to survival, and if he went on as he had been there was no telling what sort of action the crew might take to protect its interests.

"We haven't had a moment's peace in weeks on account of you and your daft plans!" The memory of Anamaria's remonstration—harsher than deserved, he felt—had Jack flinching and casting a careful look to the entrance, just in case. A foolish thing to do, since his crew had been avoiding him from the moment they had all disembarked on Tortuga's fair shores, as though the Commodore might seek Jack out even here and they didn't wish to be seen with him.

But how was Jack to know that Governor Swann's protection did not extend to his crew? He couldn't be Captain Jack Sparrow without a ship and a crew, and the bloody protection had been offered to Captain Jack Sparrow. It was unfair and downright... weasely of the Commodore not to have told him that in the first place.

And there it was again. Norrington was being crafty and clever in response to something Jack had done, and then the man would go and deny that he had any interest in the game at all. Just as he had stood there, straight and tall and distant and making demands of Jack as though he weren't naked and wet and wearing only a bit of a shirt that Jack had tossed to him in order to keep himself from tackling the Commodore to the ground for the second time that day. As though Jack were unable to see the exact state of the Commodore's interest in him, fresh from the bathwater and Jack's caresses.

Norrington had been so close to him only a moment before then, his skin hot and flushed from the bath, tendrils of brown hair sticking to his neck and forehead as he had leaned in, for once giving the appearance of truly listening to Jack while he spoke. So serious he'd been, the ever-present frown at his brow, but not anger at Jack, not then, and even later, looking down at Jack so fiercely, his body made him a liar, filling Jack with hope and other, much friendlier feelings.

The bench was hard on his backside, and Jack shifted, rocking both his small table and the chair next to it with enough noise to draw the serving wench's eyes to him. She smiled widely, but Jack barely noticed, glaring down at the rum before him since he had no way of getting close enough to glare at the Commodore at the moment.

Jack had finally been close to bloody woo the man in earnest, and Norrington had pushed him away, so icy cold that the man had to have been right furious.

And what if Jack had appropriated the Commodore's wig for his own purposes; it was no call to be chasing after his crew, scaring them out of any decent port in the Caribbean.

He didn't even have the manners to accuse them of piracy. No, the man and his whole bloody navy were scooping up pirates left and right and having them arrested on ridiculous charges. And if the Commodore thought Anamaria was ever going to forgive him for her two days spent in the San Cristóbal gaol for public drunkenness then he was mistaken. She would rather have been hanged for a scalawag. Though it might be worth another visit to Port Royal to see if the Commodore disliked getting slapped as much as Jack did—if that was all Anamaria would do to him. Anamaria might not appreciate the Commodore's goodwill, and Norrington might find himself with a knife at his throat, and that wouldn't do at all.

Only Jack were allowed to put a blade to that pretty throat.

Jack felt his mouth turn up in a smile that Elizabeth and William, and especially Norrington, would not have trusted at all. But there weren't many who could claim to have laid hands on the bare flesh of Commodore Norrington while the man lay naked in the bath. Or rather, there weren't as far as Jack knew, and the knowledge was sweet and pleasurable. And even though Jack had held a razor to him during a portion of their interview, Jack also knew that the Commodore wouldn't have let a razor stop him if he had truly wanted to move—weren't as though someone were holding one to Elizabeth's throat after all. He had allowed it in the same way that Jack had let Norrington keep that blade under his chin on the beach of St. Kitts.

It were only a matter of time now. A long time, perhaps, but they were men used to waiting, and Jack was ready to show the man he had the patience of the Devil. And to be honest, considering the slight quake in Jack's belly, it might be for the best that he give the Commodore a wide berth for the time being.

His Commodore was angry enough, wind in his sails and his long nines hot and smoking. And perhaps, if Jack weren't so sober, he might admit to himself that this weren't really about a wig at all, which he and the Commodore both knew even if his crew did not. Norrington had spelled it out clear enough, so far inescapably, that he thought Jack was trifling with him and that he hadn't appreciated hearing the name of young William. Taken Jack a while to figure that one out, his mind free of gin but his pride bruised, but figure it out he had.

Reminiscent of bilge or not, Jack picked up the bottle and let the last droplets pour down his throat. He had known some convincing was in order, but obviously he had chosen the wrong tactic and now had to steer a new course to reach his Commodore. Unfortunately, his Commodore was choosing to make this as difficult as possible at the moment, and it had been close to a month now since Jack had last laid eyes on him.

A chase wasn't much of a chase without a few glimpses of the prize, and the prize had no doubt given orders to shoot Jack Sparrow on sight. No doubt to shoot Jack Sparrow right in the arse, since he couldn't kill him. Clever wanker. But not clever enough, since the man likely had forgotten how long Jack was willing to wait for what he wanted.

There wasn't enough of the devil in his belly to account for the heat Jack felt upon thinking of Norrington's devious stratagems, and worse, he knew he was smiling again. It was a form of madness new to him, and had been going on for some time now. But Jack Sparrow was not one to sit and question his own thinking. Well, not anymore. And it meant a plan forming, and so he tapped his fingers on the bottle, humming a bit.

A whole month without even one smoothly-voiced insult or glimpse of impossibly white linen. One whole month without the chance to turn the calm derision into a furious shout or dirty up a clean uniform with hands left filthy for just that purpose. Apparently, the Commodore could wait longer than Jack had guessed. He had thought, or hoped, as it were, that the Commodore would have personally caught him after a fortnight.

Jack pushed the bottle from him and closed his eyes, only too able to imagine Norrington's reaction to the story the moment that skinny fellow with the pointy nose told it to him. An officer on one of the Commodore's boats, Jack was sure of it. And the man would tell Norrington, there was no doubt of that. The man likely so worshipped the Commodore that he laid in bed at night and dreamed of ways to ease Norrington's loneliness.

Jack opened his eyes and scowled at the first figure he happened across. The same man who'd been eyeing him before looked away so quickly Jack couldn't help but wink at a passing wench. She giggled appreciatively and Jack tilted his head back in order to watch her, pushing his hat brim back the slightest bit. At least some people seemed to appreciate that he was an infamous pirate. The kind of brilliant, daring buccaneer who wouldn't take no for an answer and who, most definitively, would not have been so distracted by the lack of a Commodore's attention that he had needed his piss-drunk first mate to save him from one smirking lieutenant.

But unpleasant though the case may be, the fact was, the Commodore hadn't come for Jack himself. In fact, if Jack reasoned out the man's actions of the past month, it looked like nothing so much as if Norrington was harrying Jack and the Pearl from these waters. Odds were the man was still furious, and their next meeting, whenever it occurred, would not go well for old Jack. At least, not at first.

Unfortunately for the Commodore and his plans, Jack had some plans of his own, delayed a bit but still ready for action. Anything that would get him within boarding distance of the Commodore and still be obvious enough for the man to get it—all without getting himself shot. There was the rub. If any man was likely in the mood to shoot first and perhaps talk later, it were Commodore Norrington. Jack wanted him riled, not murderous. Though, if it were Jack's turn to get arrested on petty charges, he wouldn't mind a bit of incarceration if it were the Commodore slapping on his wrist restraints once more. Fond of seeing Jack in heavy shackles, the man was, and Jack shivered, just as he had the first time he had let the Commodore bind him up.

Ought to return the favor, maybe on some place less crowded than the Port Royal docks. Jack smacked his lips, forgetting the lass and leaning back against the wall, dropping his head and leaving his hands in his lap, next to the pocket containing his compass. Gibbs, Anamaria, even Will would have said Jack's hopes were in vain. But Jack knew better. Because his Commodore was still chasing him after vowing he wouldn't. And if there wasn't that, there was always the fact that he was Captain Jack Sparrow. And even Commodore Norrington had to be aware of what such a pirate might do for what he wanted.

Jack splayed out his fingers, rubbing his palm down the inside of his thigh and closing his eyes. He knew he was humming, probably that other song of Elizabeth's again, and grinned to recall Norrington's irritation with Jack's tendency toward melody. Sung it himself, he had, just as Jack had stepped into the man's bedchamber to maybe sneak himself a farewell embrace and had found himself looking at a bathing, singing Commodore Norrington instead. The man couldn't possibly hold Jack responsible for his actions after that, now could he?

Perhaps a month was too long. Jack frowned, curving his fingers around the sudden throbbing in his lap. If the Commodore wasn't going to seek him out, and then it was time to visit the Turners in Port Royal and observe any hurricanes from a friendly harbor.

Jack sat up and lifted his head and then went still, blinking carefully once or twice before falling back to where he had been against the wall. His feet came up under the table to rest on the empty chair opposite him, but he left his hands in his lap. Then he nodded, giving the strange vision permission to speak.

"Even Tortuga has a governor."

Jack had never hallucinated before, unless he counted his third day marooned on that island, impossibly thirsty despite the generous drinks of rum, when he had dreamt that Bootstrap was drinking with him. But even then, Bootstrap had never spoken, had never ever made his stomach flop about like a fish on dry land, and had had the very irritating habit of flickering in and out of Jack's view. The vision of Norrington before him now was so very straight and proper and stiff, clean naval uniform all in place and sending more than one hardened sea-dog running for the door. The ones that weren't running were glaring with their hands at their belts, and Jack twisted his mouth thoughtfully, glancing at the two Marines at Norrington's back.

At least that bloody lieutenant wasn't there.

"Sometimes missives must be sent from one governor to another, and those must of course be well protected." The Commodore was still talking, and Jack looked back to him, dragging his gaze from the ridiculous hat and new wig to the shiny, buckled shoes and then back up, lingering over the parts that he had last seen bare and rosy and just a touch swollen.

He licked his lips, but nodded carefully, looking hard for any sign of temper.

"Hadn't thought of that." He answered at last, and grinned widely at the smirk this received, surprising though it might have been to see the man smiling. No hurricanes in sight, which was puzzling, and Jack scratched his chin; quite certain something was in the air, even if they weren't storm clouds.

Or at least, it weren't the Commodore's storm clouds. The fellows in the tavern around him might have a thing or two to say about bad weather if given the chance.

None of the man's fine bit of maneuvering would make him popular on Tortuga, and Jack wondered if he ought to mention that some of those leaving were going to get others. Judging from the twitching fingers of the two Marines—not the two Jack had befriended previously—they were obviously aware of just where they stood. Norrington, Jack realized, would have known before even setting sail for Tortuga. Odd that a man that fearless would be worried about what Jack Sparrow might do. Odd, and beautiful.

"Must've wanted me badly, Commodore, to be comin' here." The smirk at the Commodore's mouth vanished quicker than the Pearl with the wind at her back. "Come to arrest me?" For that, Jack lifted both hands and held them out, wrists together. The Commodore studied them for a moment and then looked back up, his expression saying clearly he was not amused. Jack sighed noisily and put his hands down.

"Your crew appears to have had some recent bad luck, Sparrow." Norrington's gaze left Jack to glance over the empty rum bottle and then to either side of the unsteady table. His hand brushed against his coat, a seeming accident that left his sword hilt exposed, as well as the pistol the Commodore had thoughtfully tucked into his belt. Rather like a pirate, Jack thought, pretending not to know the reason for the gesture. He left his own pistol where it was, since the whole room so busy not watching them would have seen it already as it was.

It would be wisest to let the Commodore steer him somewhere safer for their little talk, if a Commodore would take a pirate away for a par... par... whatever the word was... under the flag of truce in front of other pirates. But there was no telling where Norrington might take him, and Jack had plans yet.

"Is it my turn to ask why is it ye came here, Commodore?" There was a slight hitch in the Commodore's shoulders at Jack's low question, and Jack narrowed his eyes. He would not have said Norrington blushed, not as Will blushed, but there did seem to be a definite colour in the man's cheeks. He shifted, rubbing his palm down his breeches and saw the slight widening of Norrington's green eyes before the man's gaze went determinedly back to Jack's face.

He coughed, and Jack sighed.

"But not alone today, I see." No use hiding his disappointment with that, practical though the decision to bring soldiers might have been. Said a lot about Norrington's regard for Captain Jack Sparrow in any case.

"To come here alone would have been foolish." Norrington's voice held another warning, and Jack wondered if the man thought him sloshed on grog now, that he would think Commodore Norrington a fool.

"To come here at all, love." Through his lashes, he could watch the brows draw together at his quick answer, the clenching jaw, and he smiled. His words were low, but there were always a chance on being overheard, especially with a room full of his fellow buccaneers doing their best to listen in. He watched one white hand find the hilt of Will's sword and stop there, and his smile widened.

"Another bottle, if you will, darlin'!" Jack shouted happily at the wench trying to skirt past Norrington. It might have been fear that made her answering smile at him so warm, but Jack lifted a brow at her, pleased when she ducked her head and giggled. There were some that would be more than happy to share a drink with Jack Sparrow this evening.

Norrington was frowning heavily at him when he turned back, his face looking so fierce that Jack knew he flinched. His shoulders seemed to want to bend in around his body and there his stomach went, doing that irritating flopping thing it had no business doing, old sailor as he was.

"Without want a man is nothing, I see." Norrington's teeth snapped shut at the words, hard, and it was only that and the way Norrington glanced quickly to the side that let Jack know he hadn't meant to say it at all. And no amount of glaring and churning bellies could have kept Jack from grinning. But... Jack Sparrow's words in the mouth of a Commodore...that was something wondrous indeed, even if Jack could have thought of a few other things that could have been in that tight mouth and been just as pleasing.

"Thank you, love." Jack slapped a coin down as the wench returned with his bottle, but she hurried away without taking it, looking over her shoulder the whole time as though the honourable Commodore Norrington might grab her and run her through.

Looking at the man's face now, Jack supposed he just might. His hands came up on their own, and he watched curiously as they flew out to beg the Commodore's attention. That meant a distraction was in order. He nodded, stalling as he thought over their conversation, and then stopped and went still; leaning back to watch the Commodore carefully through nearly closed eyes.

"I just arrived here a few days ago..." he remarked and shivered at the force of Norrington's gaze as it swung back to him, no doubt confused and waiting for Jack to finish speaking. "You've been keepin' watch on me, love." Illustrating, Jack held out his fingers and slowly bent each one down, pretending to count the days and observing how the Commodore's already rigid posture straightened a bit more with every crook of a finger. "...Since before Bermuda."

White cheeks seemed to grow even paler, and his brow was quite low, but still the man held his gaze, inhaling sharply as he did so. There was no denying the beauty of that, and Jack kept his grin as he lowered his head, leaning forward very, very slowly. He reached out and twined his fingers around the bottle's neck, noting it had been opened before he lifted it to his lips.

Rum burned even those used to the taste, but the burn was sweet, and he hummed around the buzz in his lips, watching the Commodore as the Commodore watched him.

"This calls for a drink, Commodore." He pushed the bottle forward before uncurling his fingers and letting it go, gesturing to the coin still on the table. He sighed as he did. "On me, mate."

"The Caribbean is a safer place for me knowing your whereabouts, Sparrow." Norrington told him through closed lips, but dropped his eyes to the coin, as Jack had thought they might, and was not disappointed when they narrowed thoughtfully. Unfortunately, there were others in the room besides the two of them, and even those who were no friend of Jack Sparrow weren't exactly understanding on hearing of the Commodore's desire to keep a full watch on him, even if Jack himself just wondered if it were wise to tell Norrington that he had only needed to ask.

"But that doesn't explain how you managed to lose sight of your wig, Commodore," Jack reminded him, singing a little under his breath at the temper this was certain to raise.

"Indeed, I think the swinging bones of Captain Roberts looked better in the silly thing than I do." The man had his smirk at the ready when Jack gaped at him, and it only worsened when Jack's mouth turned down in a sad pout to think of him addressing some other pirate as Captain and not Jack Sparrow—even if the man were already roasting in the depths.

Any fellow listening in on this talk of theirs was going to be scratching his head in confusion before long. Daunted only for a moment, Jack stretched out, keeping his feet up on the chair, just under the table. Norrington said nothing to that, so Jack sighed.

"That's hardly fair, Commodore." Jack slid a hand easily to his waist, just below his pistol, and tapped out song lyrics on the leather of his belt. "You know all about the infamous Jack Sparrow, and I don't even know your Christian name..." He let his words trail off and saw the Commodore's brows go up. When there looked to be no answer forthcoming, he sighed once more. "Man can't always get what he wants."

"Indeed."

The sharp word had Jack scowling, sick to death of hearing the man pine for Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. He opened his mouth, but the Commodore wasn't through, it seemed.

"...I cannot seem to get a moments peace with you, Sparrow. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in over a month." His mouth twisted at the admission, but Jack hardly cared, sitting up so suddenly the Commodore took a step back and put a hand to his sword. The Marines twitched as well, far behind him, and a ripple seemed to run through the tavern. Jack didn't care for that either, at the moment. Seemed the Commodore could pleasantly surprise him after all.

"Am I keeping you up, Commodore?" He asked, as rough as though he had been drinking all night. Not even delicate Commodore blushes could stop him, though he did drop his voice. "Hard to sleep with a pirate in bed with you, is it?"

Jack Sparrow was, despite the stories, a man still very capable of feeling shame and both Will and Elizabeth had learned quickly that enough, but he admitted easily that his question now was as shameless as his smile, as the leering, open invitation in his gaze. One step away from begging on his knees he was, and still the Commodore frowned at him, always reading something into Jack's words other than the actual meaning.

"That is... There is no pirate in my bed, Jack... Sparrow." Norrington whispered through gritted teeth. But his smoothly-shaven cheeks were flushed, and when Jack only continued to grin at that, the man glanced away, looking as though he wanted to bite his tongue. There weren't too many women pirates, and it boded well for old Jack that the Commodore hadn't pointed that fact out; perhaps he really had been a lonely midshipman.

Jack suddenly, really, really wanted to know about those late night shared berths and rocking hammocks that the Royal Navy didn't like to speak of. Surprising how easy it was to imagine a younger Norrington, not yet with his wigs, sweaty and exhausted from a day's work, face turned away to keep from making a sound, stretched out underneath some dark-haired disreputable officer.

Jack coughed and looked up, wondering if anyone would care if the mad Captain Jack Sparrow stuck his hand down his trousers with all of Tortuga as witness. If it were just the Commodore with him now, he might have, and sighed, recalling the warmth of the man's body against his thighs as he had straddled him at the inn. If the Commodore was in need of some below deck rubbing, than Jack Sparrow was just the pirate for the job. He was a bloody sight better choice than the pointy-nosed lieutenant.

"Have only to ask, love." Jack said at last, studying Norrington's profile before the green eyes accusingly fixed on him, watching for the tense hitch of shoulders that indicated his meaning had been understood but then denied. Not refused, or Norrington would have spoken. Called him 'Sparrow' or 'pirate' in his most sneering tone and ordered the irons. Interesting, that. That such a rather smart man like the Commodore couldn't understand that Jack Sparrow would speak the truth, even if he knew others might find it misleading. No wonder his Marines had been so gullible. Jack had almost no doubt that he could tell the man directly why he had flown his colours in Bermuda, and still the man would think him lying.

Jack paused to wonder which was the more interesting, that Norrington hadn't outright refused him, or that Jack had understood him without a word between them, before shoving the thought away for later consideration and turning his mind back to the talk at hand.

It was another reminder of how out of place Norrington was in Tortuga. But then, if he were being honest—which it were safe to do, he supposed, since it were only in his own mind—Jack wasn't exactly as fearsome as most pirates here either. He was better he was, even if others didn't know it. Was still alive after all these years, wasn't he? And Jack had never thought Norrington would be here at all. Which only spoke once more to man's secret, piratey nature, didn't it? Jack nodded, and saw the confusion clouding Norrington's green eyes at the gesture. But Norrington's presence was a statement to all the pirates and thieves steering so frightfully clear of him now, just as his standing and talking to Jack Sparrow, that sent a whole different message, didn't it now? If only Jack knew what that message was.

Jack opened his mouth, then immediately closed it again, since he could not quite decide upon what to say. The usual tactic—talking rapidly about many subjects until something provoked a reaction—might not be the best here. In fact, Jack hid a frown as he looked behind the Marines at the front and back doors. Should he raise the man's ire—in lieu of anything else as per Jack's original plan—this was not the place for a fight, as it seemed that the crowd in the tavern had managed to grow much longer while he had sat here and let the Commodore flirt with him.

Jack turned away with a soft hmph under his breath, not missing the decidedly cool feel to the Commodore's smile as Norrington leaned over to pick up the gold coin.

"What are you doing for money, Sparrow?" His smug composure had returned, Jack noticed as well, and made a face. "Not marauding and terrorizing innocent vessels... you've had no chance to." Oh yes, Anamaria would do more than slap him for that satisfied smirk. "Should my men plan an expedition to the Isle de Muerta?"

Norrington would remember how to get there, wouldn't he? Jack made a show of sighing regretfully, his prick throbbing at the knowledge of just how smart his Commodore was. Of course, a man could claim him a fool as well, and have plenty of proof for his case. There was Elizabeth Turner, for one. Refusing Jack Sparrow for another. And then... there was his presence in a tavern full of pirates. Special kind of madness that was.

"Will you give chase until I stop runnin', Commodore?" Jack asked, eyeing the Commodore—and Will's fine blade—sideways.

"Until and after, Sparrow." A warning and a promise, and Jack sat up just as the Commodore seemed to realize it, carefully putting both feet on the floor and staring into green eyes that were growing wider with every moment.

"That why you're here, mate?" Jack asked as Norrington started to sputter. "Because, Commodore, logic and sense would suggest a departure from the one place where you are certain to encounter trouble," Jack remarked with smug smile of his own. Norrington's mouth pressed into a white line as Jack finished, his brow furrowing, and then he was shouting, all signs pointing to a storm on the horizon as he jerked his chin up.

"Get up, Sparrow!" he ordered, and Jack never seen anyone as startled as Norrington when Jack did just that. But then he did get up faster than the man had no doubt been expecting, pushing aside the small table and sending the rum bottle hurtling toward the Marines at a speed that would put a good-size dent in a man's forehead if he didn't happen to catch it first.

He had his pistol out from his belt and aimed right at Norrington's heart before Norrington had time to fully draw his sword and Jack panted through his smile for the tensely observing audience.

Norrington froze with his hand on his hilt, and Jack considered that, not quite willing to look up yet, even if Norrington had guessed his purpose. "I wouldn't..." Jack addressed the Marines, who—well trained fellows—had avoided all objects hurled in their direction but were not looking at ease, surrounded by pirates as they were.

"Hold." Norrington told them as well, and for that Jack looked up, giving a shaky shrug when the Commodore's gaze fairly burned a whole right through him.

"And I'll just have this for now, Commodore." Jack declared loudly, grinning to the crowd as he pulled the pistol from Norrington's belt and tucked it into his own. All of which made the others in the room laugh, even if they were still clutching their weapons and waiting.

Norrington's jaw clenched. Jack swallowed, but kept his smile. And he had thought the man angry when Jack had had his irons wrapped around the slim neck of Miss Elizabeth Swann. "Now you and I are going for a walk, Commodore, a little parley, if you will, love." If the Commodore understood the significance of the word, the only sign was the slight lift of one eyebrow. But those watching seemed to, and Jack let out a slow breath when no one moved to stop him as he took a step toward the door.

"After you..." Jack jerked his head toward the exit and waved the flintlock meaningfully at Norrington, daring to exhale when the Commodore actually moved. His flat stare promised vengeance, and Jack couldn't help but smile, not even sad for the rum he had wasted a moment ago. "Wait!" he called out abruptly, startling both the Commodore and the Marines. They stopped and turned and that was all Jack needed.

Carefully, Jack reached up, sinking his fingers into the soft white knot of Norrington's neck cloth, dragging his fingers across the clean fabric, leaving smudges and small tears in their wake. Beautiful it was, and Jack looked up through his lashes, saw Norrington's lips part, saw the quickening of the pulse at his temple. Would be the same at his throat too, no doubt.

With that thought, Jack gave one pull and the fresh-scented linen cascaded down into his hand. Those watching seemed to find the sight amusing. Norrington said not a word, and Jack found himself oddly unwilling to speak as well, a clear view of Commodore Norrington's skin before him.

Clearing his throat, Jack shoved the cloth at one of the Marines and forced a grin, lifting his chin for his audience and, incidentally, as it were, meeting the Commodore's gaze.

"Bind the Commodore's hands, if you please." Jack put both hands to the pistol, keeping it steady, and blinked, as his eyes at least were quite dry. The Commodore hadn't blinked at all, he was certain of it, and showed no sign of needing to. But when the Marines made as though to protest, Norrington held out his hands, wrists together just as Jack had.

Jack curved his lips appreciatively, then couldn't help but sing quietly to himself as the length of Norrington own neck cloth was wound tightly around his pale wrists. "You won't admit it, but you know it's true..." he mumbled, and Norrington flinched, staring at him with something like amazement. Jack winked back. "...it's not a secret how I feel when I stand next to you..."

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