Disclaimer: I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue.
A/N: This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out and never posted here. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read. It is also complete, and I will post all the chapters as I finish going over them in the next couple of days.
(Sorry about 'Seven Thunders,' it's on hiatus.)
Prologue
The file of marines that jogged through the door, rifles at the ready, changed the atmosphere of the tavern as quickly as a squall breaking across the sea. Pirates and smugglers who had been trading blows sat down meekly side by side, eyeing the common enemy with suspicion. The sudden silence was broken only the sound of a bottle rolling across a table, sending a merry stream of alcohol across the wood before it fell to the floor with a tinkling crash. A few of the cannier scoundrels and whores edged furtively toward the back door, only to be turned back by a second incoming tide of bright red coats and shiny bayonets.
Captain Jack Sparrow, cannier by far, merely leaned back in his chair and took another swig of rum. His eyes were, as always, dark-rimmed and shadowed, his exotic face crowned with dread-locks, beaded and tangled braids. Those black eyes narrowed with speculation as he recognized many of the soldiers from his unfortunate time on the Dauntless. When Commodore Norrington himself stepped briskly into the Old Sea Dog, Gibbs gaped and started up instinctively, but he settled back down with a cough when Jack shot him a look. His captain's mind was already brimming with calculations and escape plans. First things first, Jack thought cheerfully. What the devil is the good commodore up to?
It was a surprise to see him here. After Jack's brilliant and daring escape from Port Royal – more amazing every time Jack retold it, and truth to tell he could hardly sort out the embellishments from his memories by now – Norrington hadn't pushed the chase. The Black Pearl had sailed from the Jamaican harbor without a shot fired from the cannons, and Jack hadn't caught a whiff of British determination since. Of course, he'd been busy elsewhere, chasing the silver in the hold of a Spanish treasure ship before retreating to British waters so as his crew could spend it all in time-honored piratical pursuits. No harm meant. But here was old stiff-upper-lip, walking into a pirate den as if he owned it – with all them pretty red coats at his back, mebbe he had a point – Jack conceded privately, striding up to his table like the thunder of God out to get a sinner.
"Commodore, what a pleasant surprise," he began but the naval officer cut him short.
"On your feet, Sparrow."
"Ah, so I'm talking to the king?" Jack smirked, but he rolled to his feet with a flourish and a yawn, managing to fling his arms out and stumble, as though he were three sheets to the wind.
Norrington watched Sparrow's antics with barely repressed impatience, noting the dagger in his boot as well as the pistol thrust through his sash and the sword on its wide leather belt. Once the swaying pirate was facing him again, more or less, he grasped the smaller man's chin with his left hand and stepped close. Sparrow heaved back, apprehension spreading across his face, hands fluttering wildly at Norrington's arms, his entire body hauling and pitching and communicating lewd and ludicrous astonishment. Ignoring this vigorous non-verbal protest, Norrington held Sparrow's face motionless and leaned close, close enough to feel warm, rum-soaked breath, his right hand coming up and his thumb rubbing against the corner of Sparrow's eye.
At this, the pirate went still, so still that Norrington wasn't sure he was breathing. Sparrow stood like a rock except to close his eyes when Norrington swept a thumb across the curve of his eyelid. His thumb came away clean of paint or powder, and Norrington looked back at the unsmudged dark lining of the eye with a grim sense of triumph. If he needed any more confirmation it was standing in front of him – the pirate, still uncharacteristically motionless, staring back at him without a word. The vaguely familiar grizzled sailor who'd been sitting at Jack's side was looking from one to another, confused, and his marines' determined silence spoke volumes about their conviction that he'd lost his mind, but it was clear that Sparrow had understood the significance of Norrington's gesture immediately.
"I believe we need to talk, Captain Sparrow," he said, and was proud of his level, unemotional tone. Not a trace of fear. Sparrow shied his chin free of Norrington's grip, backing smoothly, that dark look still fixed on him. Norrington wondered how that stare had become so very unnerving, until he realized that the pirate who had chuckled during his own execution was oddly, entirely, empty of amusement. Putting his hands behind his back, Norrington clasped them tightly to keep them from shaking, hoping his own face showed nothing but the confident discipline of the Royal Navy.
"Aye, mate," Sparrow finally replied. "A parley it is."