A/N: Well, this is the first really slashy thing I've ever written… I had 5 uninterrupted hours at work today – more or less – and this had been spinning around in my head for days, so I figured I ought to just do it. I'm also wondering if I should write the same story again from James' perspective? Let me know what you think in the reviews.
Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own PotC, or Jack Sparrow… Ooh, but if I did… Well, I won't go in to details. ;)
THE THING YOU WANT MOST
Looking out over the sea and up at the fading stars, you know it will be morning soon. Your beloved Pearl creaks slightly in the wind, and some crewmember snores very loudly below decks. Probably one of the new men you picked up in Tortuga last night, as no one snored on your ship before they got here.
And speaking of the new men… You're not sure what possessed you to do it. Then again, most of last night is a little fuzzy. Must have been the rum… except you didn't drink any. But how could you, Captain Jack Sparrow, Lord of the Caribbean Sea, hire him, a former officer for the Royal Navy? Only two moments really stand out in your memory of last night: The first instant he arrived at Gibbs' table, his low voice sliding like honey over those first two words, "My story." And then, moments later, when you stared down the barrel of his pistol and he asked, "Should I just kill you now?" and a shiver went up your spine at his voice. It was cold, like the honey had frozen solid. Out of self-preservation, mostly, you'd hired him. That, and you needed his soul to save your own. But he'd merely smirked, his green eyes glittering, and said, "Sorry. Old habits and all that."
Looking back, you're very thankful for those two new recruits who stopped him from shooting you because you didn't have the will to move at the time. Something in James' eyes –
James?! Where had that come from? He is Norrington, or "former Commodore" if anything.
A crash from below makes you jump, and you hear several angry voices yelling at one of the newcomers to get out and let them sleep. You can swear that Pintel and Ragetti are among them. You smile, remembering how many times those two almost got themselves killed for arguing all night when they first joined the crew. You hear footsteps stumbling around, and hurry to put your vest, belts, coat, and hat all on before whoever he is gets out on deck. As Captain, you make it a point to always appear your best before your crew, even if you aren't feeling it.
You place your hat on your head and wrap your fingers around the ship's wheel just as dawn breaks over the ocean. You sigh, strangely annoyed that the long silent lonely night is over. Usually it's all you can do to stay awake when you take the watch. Now you must wake Elizabeth so that she can open your compass (stupid) to make sure you stayed on the correct bearing during the night. You tie off the wheel and head down the stairs.
The sight of James Norrington, shirt, coat, and boots in hand, stops you in your tracks. The golden-pink of the morning sun illuminates every tangled hair on his head, throws into sharp relief the muscles on his bare stomach and chest, and the one long scar on his abdomen. His eyes glitter like emeralds, or maybe jade, as he glares at you. It takes you half an instant to recover, and you glare right back.
"Ah, Norringtom, I was just coming to wake you for your duties," you try to sneer.
"Here I stand," he says sarcastically. "How convenient."
"Worried I'd come push you out of bed?" you say with a failed attempt at your usual bravado.
"No, your crew did enough of that already," he says. Your eyes dart to his shoulder, where a bruise is forming. A strange pang shudders through you, and you blink a few times to clear your head. But it won't be cleared, and the sunlight on James' body isn't helping.
Unable to trust your voice, you cast your eyes around for something for the former Commodore to do. On the deck near him, you spot a bucket and a rag. Striding over, you pick them up and shove them against James' chest. His arms flail around, trying to keep a hold on the bucket and all of his clothes. Three of your fingers brush his left arm as you let go.
"Get dressed and get to work," you hiss, before escaping into the cool darkness of the ship's cabin.
In the first mate's quarters, which Gibbs had graciously offered her, Elizabeth snores lightly. You gaze at her sleeping form longer than you should, troubled that the sight of her does not excite you, as once it did.
The compass rests on the floor, nestled in the pile of cloth that is her vest. Nervously, you pick it up, afraid of what you may see if you open it. Elizabeth stirs.
"Jack? What—" she begins. You put a finger to her lips, feeling the façade slip smoothly into place. Smiling, you dangle the still closed compass before her eyes.
"Come, dearie," you drawl. "Let's make sure we're still on the right bearing to save dear William." Bloody stupid William. Before Elizabeth can say a word, you leave, letting the door swing shut behind you.
Standing once again at the helm, you have one eye on Norrington, where he kneels in the bow, scrubbing at the deck, regrettably fully clothed once again, and the other eye on the compass clenched in your fist. You grit your teeth, glaring at that stupid piece of wood and metal and magnets, and slide your thumb over the catch.
"Captain," Elizabeth says loudly, her once-soothing voice grating your nerves like so many razorblades. She's holding out her hand for the compass. You hand it to her, bowing slightly. She opens it, and it points faithfully towards the bow of the ship. For one heart-stopping moment, you think the arrow points to James, but then you realize that all it means is that the ship is still sailing towards Jones' chest, and James just happens to be standing in the way.
"Good," Elizabeth breathes. She closes the compass and walks off towards the bow of the ship. The rest of the crew have come up now and started on their usual morning duties. Cotton and his parrot stand at your shoulder, so you slide over and let him take the helm.
"Stay this course," you say.
"Aye aye, Cap'n," the parrot squawks.
As though drawn by magnet, you walk over to where James and Elizabeth are talking. Your back tightens with jealousy that she can speak with him so easily. On the other hand, you, Captain Jack Sparrow, completely lose your mind whenever James opens his mouth. You look up to find the both of them staring at you. James has got one eyebrow raised. You lock your eyes onto Elizabeth's face, forcing yourself not to look at him.
"Lizzy, may I speak with you?" you ask. She nods and follows you over to the port railing. "How in the name of the seven seas did you get here? Last I heard, you were in prison, love."
As Lizzy recounts her tale, you pretend to listen while watching James out of the corner of your eye. When she mentions the letters-of-marque, James looks up, and you look away in a hurry. He can never know.
"Will was to get these in exchange for your compass," Elizabeth is saying.
"Only one reason for that," Gibbs adds.
Without missing a beat, you reply "Of course. He wants the chest." When did Gibbs get here? You can feel James' eyes on you, making it nigh impossible to concentrate on the conversation at hand. You close your eyes, allowing your mind to wander into delicious fantasy for a split-second before coming back to reality.
"If the Company controls the chest, they controls the sea," Gibbs is saying.
"A truly discomforting notion, love," you say, trying to stay in the conversation.
"And bad," Gibbs babbles on. "Bad for every mother's son what calls himself pirate. I think there's a bit more speed to be coaxed from these sails."
You watch him wander off, acutely aware of the fact that James is still watching you and Elizabeth. She's looking vacantly off into the distance. A plan forms in your mind as you look at her. A way, perhaps, to arouse James' jealously, make him want you, and to cool your own arousal for the time being. You take a step towards Elizabeth.
"Might I inquire as to how you came by these?" You smirk when Elizabeth jumps at your closeness.
"Persuasion," she replies.
This could get interesting, you think. "Friendly?"
"Decidedly not," she says snobbishly. Almost as if she's offended, which is amusing.
"Will strikes a deal for these and upholds it with honor, yet you are the one standing here with the prize. 'Full pardon. Commissioned as a privateer on behalf of England and the East India Trading Company.' As if I could be bought for such a low price." You turn away, tucking the letters inside your coat, and Lizzy scoots up against your back.
"Jack, the letters, give them back," she whines, her breath on your neck. It is almost too easy now, to imagine…
"No." You smirk. "Persuade me." Elizabeth scoots impossibly closer.
"You do know Will taught me how to handle a sword," she breathes in your ear.
Your eyes roll back and it's all you can do not to moan at the innuendo. You turn to face her, trying to hide the evidence of your arousal from James' still-watching emerald eyes.
"Like I said, persuade me." Your eyes bore into hers, the muscles in your neck screaming from the effort of keeping it from turning, forcing yourself not to look at him. You find yourself silently begging Elizabeth to concede, to end your torment, to bring you release, if only temporarily. But she merely nods and walks away, leaving you aching and alone. You scurry back to your quarters, slamming the door behind you and throwing the bolt home.
Collapsing against the wood of the door, you let out an animalistic growl. The day has grown unbearably hot, and you tear off your hat and coat, hurling them across the room. A drop of sweat slips down your spine and hides beneath one of your belts. As you struggle to unbuckle them, you realize your hands are trembling. The belts hit the floor with a thunk and are quickly joined by your shirt and vest. In the heat of the day, the wood of the door does little to cool your fevered skin.
A nagging urge surfaces in the back of your mind, but you try to force it away. Never, even in your most dire of circumstances, have you stooped to that. "Ah," says a little voice in your mind, remarkably like your own, "but there's a first time for everything, aye?" And you have to agree. You have never been in such a state so far from port. Usually it's the thought of port, of all the beautiful wenches waiting to please you, that arouses you. Never has it been this bad out at sea. You used to think that, out at sea, you were as happy as you could ever be, never wanting anything more. But you know that is not the case anymore. And there is a first time for everything.
You kick off your boots and stumble over to the bed, half blinded by the heat and your lust. James' half-naked, sun-soaked body from this morning swims before your eyes as your trembling fingers fumble over the ties and buttons on your trousers. God damn you, James Norrington, to the deepest circle of hell.
You lie on your back, completely naked in the darkness of your cabin. Your hands, for once free of jewelry, rest lightly on your stomach. You take a deep breath, feeling as though there is never enough oxygen in the air, and close your eyes. You imagine James touching you as your own hands roam over your body. He's touching you softly, slowly, at first. Then harder and faster and faster until –
*****
A few minutes later, you open your eyes through a leftover haze of white-hot oblivion. In the silence, you listen to your heartbeat and breathing as they return to normal. Now exhausted, you begin to shiver as your body finally cools. You pull a blanket around your shoulders and slide off into darkness.
*****
When you come to at last, it is dark. Out your window, you can see silver moonlight sparkling on the sea. You stand up slowly, looking down at your naked body. As your eyes adjust to the blackness, you see the evidence of your actions spattered across your stomach. You grab a fistful of blanket and try to scrub it off. Some of it comes off, but most remains obstinately stuck. You shrug and peer around for your trousers and shirt. No sense getting all dressed up in the middle of the night. You make your way barefoot out onto the deck and gaze up at the moon.
"Couldn't sleep, captain?" says an all-too-familiar honeyed voice. You freeze, and then slowly turn on the spot. James stands at the helm, illuminated by the full moon, wearing only his shirt and breeches. His coat is slung over the railing nearby. You shake your head.
"Too much sleep, actually." You're suddenly self-conscious of the thinness of your linen shirt, and pray that James can't see through it. You turn away and meander across the deck to the bow of the ship. A sound reaches your ears. It sounds remotely like boots being dropped to the floor. Who is dropping their boots? you think, your mind still hazy from sleep. After a few moments, you hear quiet footsteps behind you, and the haze evaporates. In the instant before you speak, the night becomes crystal-sharp, and your blood turns to fire in your veins.
"How may I help you, James?" you ask without turning. He leans on the rail, facing you. You notice that he is barefoot, which at least explains the noise you heard.
"Why did you need Elizabeth's help finding the chest? If you want it, why can't your magic compass lead you there?" he asks.
You don't reply. Instead, you glare out at the ocean, feeling your face burn. You know now where the compass would point if you were to open it. He is standing right in front of you.
James guesses the truth. "The compass won't point to the chest, because the chest isn't what you 'want most in this world,' is it, Jack?" Hearing your name on his lips almost undoes you. You look at him. Has he moved closer? A small smile plays around his lips. He holds up your compass. "So what is?"
You look away again, unable to bear the sight of his eyes, pupils dilated fully in the darkness. A breeze blows across the sea, washing James' scent across your face. You breathe it in slowly, savoring every moment. You feel your arousal growing, faster and stronger than this morning. Until now, you wouldn't have believed it possible. For a full minute, neither of you move. Then you turn to face him again.
"What is, Jack?" he whispers again.
To hell with it.
In the instant before your lips meet his, you see surprise flicker across his face. But then your mouth is on his, your body against his. The hard muscles of his chest mold perfectly to your own. The stubble on his face is surprisingly soft under your fingertips. His lips are chapped from the sun and the heat, and you run your tongue across them. But he is unresponsive. Hurt, staggeringly so, you pull back and stare into his emerald eyes. His face is still frozen in that same mask of surprise.
"James," you whisper, past all pretense and decorum, "Please."
He gazes back at you. And then, so very slowly, the surprise on his face gives way to something else. He drops the compass with a thud. With deliberately devastating slowness, he leans toward you. A million times, you expect to feel his lips against your own, but they still have not met. And then at last, at sweet last, his lips meet yours willingly. He kisses you softly, his fingers roaming over your face, memorizing every inch. You pull the leather string from his hair and it tumbles down onto his shoulders. Your fingers tangle in the soft locks. When he pulls back for air, your lips find their way to that tender spot where his neck meets his shoulder. You kiss him gently, graze his skin with your teeth, then run your tongue up his neck, kissing the underside of his chin. His head is thrown back as he gulps in air. You catch his lower lip between your teeth.
With a wild gasp, he brings his mouth back to yours. You slide your tongue along his lower lip and into his mouth. His hands caress your body, grasping at the hem of your shirt. He pushes it up and over your head, then pulls back to look at you.
He raises an eyebrow at the mess on your stomach, but the smirk vanishes at the sight of the old bullet wounds in your chest, and the scars along your left arm. He doesn't ask where they came from, and doesn't seem to care. But he kisses each wound twice. In the cool night air, his warm mouth sends goose bumps over your skin. With his tongue, he traces the pattern of scars inside your elbow. A haggard moan escapes your lips.
When he comes back up to kiss you, you stop him. "My turn," you whisper. You gather his shirt in your hands and pull it over his head. His chest is nearly flawless, save for that one long, thin scar crossing diagonally from right to left, wrapping around the left side of his waist, and the bruise left from this morning. He arches back against the railing and you gently kiss the entire length of the scar, ending near the middle of his chest. You kiss a delicate trail up his chest and neck. Looking him in the eye, you take his hands and lead him back towards the stern of the ship, to your quarters.
For the second time that night, you close and lock the door. James presses you up against it, kissing you eagerly, his hands cool against your burning flesh. Unable to wait any longer, you start to undo the fastenings on his trousers. His hand on your wrist stops you. You give him a questioning look. His green eyes are infuriatingly innocent.
"How?" he asks.
"You've been a sea captain just as long as I have, mate. You tell me," you reply with a smirk.
"I've never—"
"Never ever?" You can't help asking. He glares at you.
"With women, of course. Never with a man."
"Nor I, love. But my men have, and it's not hard to figure." You wink.
James doesn't answer, but he does kiss you again and you take this as consent. You finish unfastening his pants and he steps away.
"Please let me," he says quietly. So you watch hungrily as his pants slide down over his hips and thighs to land in a soft pile on the floor. Your gaze travels slowly up his body to meet his eyes, only pausing in a few select places. He truly is a fine specimen of a man, in every way. But he looks nervous and self-conscious.
"You are beautiful," you say. Your eyes never leave his as you undo your own trousers and slide them down your body. You see James' fear melt away as he looks you over. You kiss him once. "Turn around," you command. He does so. You place your hands on his shoulders and steer him over to the bed. "Kneel." You kiss the bruise on his shoulder before nipping it sharply with your teeth. James gives a small cry and falls forward onto his hands and knees.
"Now, relax," you whisper slowly into his ear. He groans at the feel of your fingers on his hips. Your eyes roll back in pleasure as you step forward into white-hot oblivion.
THE END