Fathoms 15

Family

by

Manic Intent

The pirate grinned at him cheekily. "Pleased t'make yer acquaintance again, Commodore." A bath and new clothes did wonders, especially when one explained the nature of the sport to a reluctant First Mate to get some help. Unfortunately, he had to endure more unwelcome comments as to his sanity in exchange for said help, but it'd been worth it, just for the pretty look of wide-eyed astonishment on his Jamie's face, right now. He'd left Anamaria at the Pearl muttering something disparaging about 'men, and their stupid little games'.

Dreadlocks had been (painfully) undone and tidied, hair bound behind his skull with a dark blue ribbon, beads, sea urchin spine and scarf carefully removed and stored back in his cabin. The beard and moustache had been trimmed, and the kohl wiped away. A maroon hat with amazingly fluffy white feathers (or whatever they were, but Jack liked them. Fluffy.) at the crown, cravat, crisp white shirt and a dark red, almost black coat with tasteful pale gold trim at the edges, gold buttons at the thick cuffs, light brown, hugging breeches and (shiny) oxblood boots completed the picture of a young Lord blown in from a casual stroll. The Turner sword was polished bright at his hip, though the pistol was not in occupation. Rings had all been removed, though he wore the one Jamie had given him on a chain under his shirt, callused hands instead enclosed in supple white leather gloves.

A soft groan of exasperation, and a murmured growl—edged, however, with just the faintest hint of suppressed hunger. Evidently, his Jamie very much appreciated the change. "Jack, are you playing games again?"

Jack was about to smirk and talk about bedroom games, but held his tongue when he saw Lord Norrington approach them from down the curving marble stairs, simply exuding friendliness in waves. The stairs swept around a large sculpture of two white horses, rising from the waves, oddly out of place under the elegant crystal chandelier and the boring still-life paintings (Jack would never be able to understand why people would buy and sell in pictures of fruit in bowls on cloth. It wasn't that hard to put some fruit in a bowl and arrange it on some cloth, after all). Heavy mahogany doors were set at the top of the stairs and on the ground floor—at the mezzanine as the stairs met and curled again upwards was a large portrait of a much younger Henry Norrington, standing proudly behind a beautiful woman, who was seated demurely on a stone bench, with James' green eyes and chocolate-brown hair. Two impish looking boys stood at either side of her, the taller with blue eyes, and the shorter with green, both of whom somehow managed to fidget even in oil on canvas.

A butler wordlessly took care of his hat, coat and sword as he removed a glove and shook Lord Norrington's hand. "Thanks fer th'invitation."

"It was no problem, Captain Sparrow," Lord Norrington said silkily. "Please, this way. Dinner is almost ready."

The dining room was even more opulent than the foyer. Another chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, throwing light on gorgeous paintings of harbors around the world—Jack recognized Bombay, Madras, Canton, England (vaguely), New Amsterdam and Port Royal, amongst others. Large French windows were heavily curtained with red velvet, shutting out the view of the sprawling English garden. An oblong mahogany table on plush Persian carpet, with high-backed, cushioned chairs. There was a beautiful model of a warship on a pedestal, sleek and menacing, between two of the curtained windows, which looked vaguely familiar—it took Jack a moment to recall that he'd seen it at the docks. Its name was picked out in gold at the hull—Poseidon's Wrath.

"My ship," Norrington Sr. said mildly, and Jack realized that he had been caught admiring the little craft. "Perhaps you saw her in the harbor."

"Don't look like somethin' a man o' yer position would captain, Lord Norrington," Jack drawled the title, and watched the older man smirk briefly in a disturbing replica of James.

"I don't spend all my time stagnating in Bombay," Lord Norrington said, as the butler pulled out chairs for them from the table. "Sometimes it's refreshing to take a cruise around the Indies."

"On a man o' war," Jack noted. Lord Norrington sat at the head of the long table, with Jack on the left and James opposite him. The mahogany table had been covered in a pristine white cloth, on which gold-edged bone china had been layered on heavy silver plates. There was a lot of antique silverware—a confusing amount of forks, spoons and knives—and two crystal glasses of differing sizes. A smoky crystal vase of white roses was wilting a little in the heat, but filled the room with a pleasant scent.

"Of course. The waters can be so dangerous around these parts," Lord Norrington said blandly. "Especially if one accidentally moves close to the Seychelles."

James was silent, his gaze moving between his father and his lover, watching the verbal fencing match with an unreadable expression. He too had been dressed for the occasion, as it were—clean, and in expensive clothes—a blue vest, cravat, starched white shirt with heavy sleeves. Very Naval.

"Dancin' wi' any pirates unlucky enough t'get in th'way of yer admiration o' th'otherwise empty sea?"

"Pirates, among others," Lord Norrington agreed with a benign smile. "Hunting runs in the family, doesn't it, James?"

James blinked, slowly, then his lip curled a little. "Patrolling the sea in the Navy does not even come close to cruising out to pick fights with pirates or the ships of rival countries, Father."

Lord Norrington grinned slyly. "Perhaps so. I beg your pardon."

Dinner proved to be a two-way conversation, as Jack and Lord Norrington competed in finding the most outlandish topics to talk about, ranging from the habits of cannibal tribes in the New World to the sport of Kings in England and Bombay, card games, dolphins and the native fauna on the convict continent of Australia. Jack was enjoying himself, up till the next course after the appetizer and soup—broiled squid, and relatively large ones, almost whole. Little tentacles.

He met Lord Norrington's too-carefully-bland smile with a sharp grin of his own, and speared one with a silver fork. "Me favorite."

"Glad to hear it," Lord Norrington said mildly. "I've heard that the large ones are difficult to find, especially when out of season. Rumor has it, however, that Jamaica has some especially large specimens."

"Right ye are, there," Jack said carefully as he tucked in, "But ye'd find that they be hard t'find, and harder t'catch." James passed on the squid, his expression slightly worried as he looked over the table at Jack, understanding the subtext but puzzled as to why it was there in the first place.

"I'm sure you've seen many stranger sights in your career," Lord Norrington commented, sipping his wine. "And I'd be interested to see how you will add to it, hopefully legally, with your acceptance of the Letter of Marque." A light chuckle. "After I heard that Lord Beckett had acquired one from England, for a Captain Jack Sparrow, I've been wondering exactly what he has been about."

"This an' that," Jack said evasively, as he took a larger helping of the next dish—roast pheasant, cleaned feathers a stylish arc on the silver plate. "Conversion o' Port Royal into another East India Company territory, fer instance."

"Bright chap, Lord Beckett, if a little serious," Lord Norrington noted, then smiled, with a hint of mischief, "He used to get absolutely infuriated at the smallest pranks. And at jokes about his height."

Jack blinked. Pranks? His Jamie was frowning. Ah. "'e does 'ave yet t'develop a better sense o' humor. Though m'wonderin' what ye mean in the way o' pranks."

Pure mischief now, and a hint of an ego to rival Jack's. "Minor things, like misappropriating a shoe or removing important parts of quill nibs. Rearranging documents. Changing black ink in the inkbottle to berry juice." Quickly sobering again. "The wound in his shoulder soured what was left of his humor for the worse, I'm afraid."

Jack was so curious now he was certain it was visible, even though he knew that he shouldn't be letting Lord Norrington lead the conversation. Unwisely, he ignored the warning bells in his mind over the fact that since he was the one who had caused said wound, he should start watching what he said. "Sounds like yer well-acquainted wi' th'notorious Lord Beckett."

James' eyes were fixed on his food, almost as if he were trying to shut out the world, and Jack wondered, idly, if there had been some avoidance of truth going on around when they were at Jamestown. The way he cut slices of fowl into pieces was almost vicious.

"He was stationed in Bombay once," Lord Norrington supplied almost absently, in between mouthfuls of pheasant. "After Barbados, I believe. And before that, we'd met in England, at some soirees. At that time he was merely serious, not bitter. Strict, but not cruel."

Blue eyes that had only previously been playful were now glacial as they looked over at the pirate Captain. Jack smiled, baring his teeth, allowing his sleeve to fall back when he reached for another slice of pheasant, the branded 'P' showing. He all but felt Lord Norrington's eyes on the scar, and then heard the clink of glasses—another sip of wine.

Major avoidance of truth. The game had just changed, and Jack found himself beginning to struggle to keep up.

"Interestin' person, keepin' a pet assassin," Jack noted mildly, ignoring James' warning glance and the kick under the table. Absolutely uncalled for, that. "Though that's a new addition, last I 'eard."

"Mr. Mercer has an accomplished record in the service of King and Country in what is rather crassly referred to as the Great Game," Norrington Sr. was playful again, his moods so abrupt and confusing that Jack found himself actually having to concentrate. "But the pay was not as high as what the East India Company could offer. We're not afraid, unfortunately, to poach from the hand that feeds us, as it were, and his skills in espionage have been very useful."

"Useful attack dog, too," Jack noted offhandedly, "Good fer getting rid o' inconvenient merchant cap'ns."

"And for guarding... valuables," A sidelong glance at James, who didn't catch it, concentrating on his plate. "Useful skill, in the employ of the Company."

That gave Jack an answer to the question he had been thinking about for a long time. Precisely how had one very drunk James Norrington, his judgment clouded by grief and fury, survived his stay in Tortuga, surrounded by his natural enemy? Some of who could recognize him on sight, even under all the filth? Easily, when guarded by someone so deadly, and who, apparently, did not only answer to one Lord Cutler Beckett, but to the East India Company. Jack thought of hidden daggers in brawls, and shadows in alleys, and knew he had been very lucky indeed to leave Port Royal alive.

"Not very good at changin' or misappropriatin' warrants, though," Jack said, in the same bland tone. "Fer th'arrest o' resigned Commodores."

James' head came up sharply. Lord Norrington, however, only chuckled softly, his eyes cold again as he held Jack's gaze evenly. "That is so. But things do tend to work out." Mischievous again, "As you would know very well. I have heard some terribly dramatic stories of how you navigate around the sea on your magic ship with a compass that doesn't point north."

Jack wasn't fooled in the least at Lord Norrington's sudden good nature, and was greatly relieved that he had entrusted his compass to Anamaria before leaving the Pearl. He felt he could guess, now, at the other man's game. Likely, even if he had not brought James to Madras, he would still have been accosted, and invited for dinner. The older man however obviously welcomed a wild card on the table, even if said factor was currently eyeing the both of them worriedly again, uncharacteristically clueless. Jack knew, instantly and unequivocally, that Madras was now far too dangerous for them, and wished he'd insisted on Colombo. They had to leave, and soon.

"That be so," Jack smiled however, not revealing any of his sudden apprehension, sipping the fine wine. "The stars be compass enough fer a good sailor. Me First Mate insisted that a real compass be used fer crossin' th'Atlantic, though, an' women just have t'have their way."

Lord Norrington confirmed Jack's suspicion in the nature of the game by not asking about Anamaria—a woman as a first mate would have been a far bigger curiosity than the issue of a malfunctioning compass, had he not been interested in that. "Did you truly acquire it from a voodoo queen?" The mischief was still there, as though he were a boy asking about adventure stories. "We hear so many stories here about the 'Scourge of the Caribbean'."

"M'don't think I deserve that sort o' title," Jack said self-deprecatingly, choosing to ignore the question, the side of one lip quirking to show that he knew what Lord Norrington was at. Blue eyes narrowed slightly as the older man understood that he had slipped, but unfortunately plates were cleared and coffee served, at that point, allowing him time to regain his composure. James' expression, too, was now tightly controlled—he had caught on then, his Jamie.

What did Lord Norrington want the compass for? Jack was very tired of all this sudden interest from Lords of the East India Company, chasing him around for the damned thing. For some odd agenda of his own? For Beckett? Jack supposed he didn't much care, but he hoped fervently, with a sudden cold chill up his spine, that there were no other Mr. Mercers around Madras, or if there were, that Anamaria still slept with her knives under her pillow. He took his coffee black, needing to clear his mind.

More trivial topics of conversation—trade routes, Jamaican culture, sea birds. No mention of what they were here for, nor did he even ask about Miss Swann, despite her previous engagement to James, or any talk of the Navy.

It was late outside, and Jack was getting annoyed, wondering how to extricate himself from the too-polite atmosphere and return to the Black Pearl, preferably with all body parts still attached. The cigars were good, but he was beginning to miss even the stench of the harbor with its refuse.

Thankfully, James was the one to provide his cue, with an almost exaggerated glance out of the window. "Father, it's getting late, and I am sure Captain Sparrow wishes to return to his ship."

"Oh. You must forgive me," Lord Norrington said earnestly. "I'm afraid I lost track of time. The offer of hospitality still stands, of course, if you feel it is too late to return to the harbor. I can send a man to inform your crew."

"M'sure I'd be fine," Jack said, rising. It was an old trick that had been pulled—delay, distraction—and he knew Lord Norrington would expect him to evade it easily. But for what purpose? "Thanks fer th'thought, though."

His Jamie was frowning, evidently having connected the question of Mr. Mercer and the possibility that he was not the only assassin in the employ of the East India Company. "It's late. I'd accompany you back, Captain. Besides, I left some of my personal effects in the ship when leaving so hastily this morning. No doubt we can briefly borrow a carriage." Meeting his father's eyes steadily. "I'd return in the morning, for breakfast."

A pause, then a bright smile. "Of course, I'd ring for Roberts to make the arrangements. Captain Sparrow is also invited for breakfast tomorrow."

Jack shrugged, and smiled without agreeing or disagreeing. The butler appeared at the bell, and nodded at the quiet instructions, before leaving. Lord Norrington led them to the foyer. Another pleasant smile. "Thank you for coming, Captain Sparrow. James."

"No problems," Jack said, wondering what was next.

Lord Norrington studied a painting of rolling English hills, set at the start of the marble balustrade. "Poseidon's Wrath is a fine ship, and she'd measure well to your Pearl."

A playful quirk to the lips, when Jack didn't even blink at this apparent non sequitur. "Good night, the both of you."

Anamaria approached, and handed him his compass. "Trouble, Jack? Dat big old ship, she look mighty suspicious t'me."

"Aye. Bad trouble." He gave her a brief overview of dinner.

She frowned. "Jack, ye always 'ave the knack o' attractin' problems when we least expect it, or need it. How're we going t'get out o' dis one?"

He didn't as yet have an answer to that. "Get someone t'watch that ship at all times. An' t'make sure nobody comes too near th'Pearl. Loadin' 'as t'be done wi' our own crew. Oh, an' watch those men we picked up from Seychelles closely. Make sure they never alone."

"Already done, Cap'n, when the ships 'tween us moved off down th'harbor, just like dat, when ye were gone. Suspected somethin' was up. M'not First Mate fer nothin'." Pursed, full lips. "Those cannons be awful close. We canna weigh anchor in time."

"I knows that," Jack patted the rail, as if to assure his ship. "Lemme think. We still need t'resupply, an' do some refitting. Few days yet."

"Think fast," Anamaria advised him, fingering her knives as she looked over at the warship.

Jack was chuckling breathlessly when they broke for air, the panting weight on him not shifting off. "T'aint even a day o' bein' away, an' ye miss me already?"

Green eyes drifted to the porthole, where the lights from Poseidon's Wrath were visible, then looked down to Jack's collarbone. A sigh. "Jack. Be serious. How are we going to get out of this?"

"Mebbe there be some shops 'round here that sell a compass wot looks like mine," Jack suggested playfully, experimentally moving his hips.

"Don't put my father on the same level as Beckett, Jack," Norrington warned, unmoved by the wriggling. "He only seems less dangerous because he likes to encourage others to underestimate him. He likes to play with other people—push their buttons, manipulate them, just out of sheer mischief."

"Seems like there's a lot that ye didn't tell old Jack, 'bout yer family," Jack said gently. "An' yer 'eavy, mate."

Norrington shifted his weight, but kept the wrists pinned down. "It wasn't necessary to. Besides, you refused to tell me much about your own past."

"Didn't expect yer da' t'do this though, did ye? We could'a so easily gone t'Bombay 'stead o' here, if ye had yer way."

"No. I didn't. I thought that... that whatever he had... was... might have had with Lord Beckett was over when the man transferred out of Bombay. Especially with the... the business of the warrant for my arrest. Lord Beckett didn't even mention Father at all when I went back to Port Royal. The letters from India, they also stopped mentioning him altogether." Pretty lips were trembling, but were also annoyingly out of reach. "Jack. I'm sorry."

"What fer?"

"For... for causing us to come here. Instead of Colombo."

Jack let out a deep sigh. "T'aint yer fault, mate. If I recall, Anamaria was th'one who caused us t'come here. 'Sides, 'ow were ye t'know that 'e'd be in Madras?"

"I should have guessed. Him having agents in Liberté, watching the harbor—it would only be natural, in his line of work. Especially given his favorite... sport." Distaste. Of course. His Jamie hunted pirates to hang, for their crimes, a quick death—short drop, sudden stop. Norrington Sr. hunted them to blow them out of the water, like shooting foxes. "Even if we somehow escaped, we may be hunted. The Pearl may be faster than Poseidon's Wrath, but we'd have to dock sooner or later."

"Doubt 'e'd turn th'cannons on a ship wi' you on it, Jamie-luv," Jack pointed out.

"I don't know. He's changed, Jack. Even more so than when my mother passed away. I didn't even realize it from the letters. It's only a wonder that he didn't intercept you when you used this route, the last time."

"Only stopped in Madras fer a day, mate. Resupply we did at Colombo," Jack recalled absently. "An' on the return trip, didn't stop at Madras at all."

A tremor, then a soft kiss on his forehead. "I don't like the odds."

"Mm. Need rum." Jack said, with another glance out of the porthole. He had the inkling of a Plan, but it wasn't shaping up properly. Besides, the warm weight on top of him was distracting.

A wry smile. "If you're coming up with another insane idea, let me vet it first, at least. I don't enjoy surprises."

"Don't want to. But I could be persuaded t'tell," Jack grinned suggestively. "Since ye smell so nicely o' soap at th'moment, makes a man fair want t'bite."

A soft laugh, then the Commodore's voice turned into a deep purr. Smoldering green eyes raked his face and the expensive, half-open shirt. "I like the new look."

"Enjoy it while ye can, it's back t'the old one soon as we're out o' Madras." Jack smirked, when Norrington immediately pouted.

"Non-negotiable?" A lazy roll of the hips that quickened Jack's breathing.

"Sorry mate, but yer welcome t'try."

Norrington moved, pulling both wrists above Jack's head and holding them there. "Can you keep your hands there, Jack?"

"Or what?"

"Or you retain this look until we're a day away from Canton." A kiss on the tip of his nose. "However, if you win, and manage to keep your hands up while we play, I may be amenable to that idea you had previously about the brig." Green eyes gleamed in open challenge.

"Sure, mate," Jack smiled, wickedly, then frowned when Norrington got off him and moved to the dresser where the headscarf was folded. "Don't need that, love. M'already said."

"It's not for your wrists, Jack," Norrington said, his expression predatory.

Jack's eyes widened.

Blindfolded, he already had to keep his hands from twitching down. He gripped one wrist tightly and reminded his brain to pay attention, even as his shirt was slowly unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. Warm hands ran slowly up his chest, and he had no warning at all as a warm tongue flicked abruptly at a nipple. He hissed. "James... that's cheatin', that is."

"What is?" Norrington asked innocently, in between nips and suckles. Jack was panting, blindfolded head pushed into the pillows, arms trembling.

"The blindfold, mate," Jack managed to gasp, arching his body into the warm mouth. A chuckle in answer, as lips moved to the other nipple, kissing a wet path. Jack felt the emerald ring that hung around his neck being pressed into his flesh, at one point—a kiss over it. One hand slid down his back, to cup and squeeze his rump, then push hips up sharply to meet an already impressive swell in Norrington's breeches.

Hot puffs over his ribs, the head moving down as his Jamie spoke, dryly, "Not as bad as what happened at the helm, in my opinion."

"T'aint nothin' at stake then," Jack growled, trying to concentrate on keeping his hands put as the breath moved down to his navel. "Just play."

"You like games far too much, Jack," Norrington replied, working slowly, frustratingly so, on his breeches. "That's why you get into so much trouble."

Jack bucked insistently, pouting. "Yer not going t'win if ye talk so much, love."

Norrington laughed, the air hot now over his shaft as it was freed slowly. A teasing lick made Jack arch, and curse. "Patience, Jack."

Breeches were removed and, by the sounds of it, dumped next to the bed. Jack gasped, and then whined, at the slow licks that explored his arousal, the base, the balls. Flicks of the tongue along inner thighs, hands massaging his legs, an exhalation of air over the curls at the base. Lips back on the shaft, such that Jack didn't notice the absence of hands until oiled fingers traced his opening. "Jamie..." Pleading, already. Jack bit his lip, reminding himself of the Brig Idea and why he definitely wanted to win this round. However, images of Norrington dressed in Naval finery and chained up to be debauched (legs open, hat askew, lips parted) were certainly not lessening his arousal or aiding his concentration in any way—the opposite, in fact.

Fingers twisted, a hot tongue wrapping and swirling upwards, and Jack wailed as he was swept off the edge, arching again, then slumping back on the bed, choking and panting, boneless. The blindfold slipped, allowing him some partial vision.

Between his legs, Norrington smirked up at him, licking his lips. "I won."

Jack registered belatedly that his own fingers were twisted in chocolate-brown hair, having tugged much of it out of the ribbon. He pushed his head into the pillow and groaned, yanking the sash off his eyes.

"Now, about that idea you were talking about..."

"Don't remember anythin' now, mate, an' t'aint my fault fer that," Jack said sullenly, attempting to catch his breath. Norrington chuckled, moving up to kiss him tenderly, soft flicks of a tongue against his lips, the other man's still-clothed arousal hot against Jack's thigh.

"When you come up with one, then." A sexy smile. Jack swallowed. "You did suggest you were amenable to persuasion."

"S'true," Jack muttered, even as he bared his neck to allow Norrington to nip him, his arms stroking up the other man's back. "We'd be th'death o' each other."

"Mm," His Jamie pinched his rump, provoking a yelp. "Terms. Or I may be tempted to negotiate for this 'look' to become permanent."

"Don't ye dare," Jack growled, pushing at the heavier body, which didn't budge. Norrington nuzzled his shoulder, chuckling.

"But you look adorable." A brief glance upwards, a wink. "Especially with those gloves."

"Mate, I suspect yer kinkier than all th'denizens o' Tortuga," Jack poked him on one still-clothed arm. "Must be that wig. Didn'a know ye had a thing fer debauchin' toffs."

Norrington smirked, even as a hand, snaking between them, elicited a gasp from the pirate. "Only you, Jack."

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