I've been in Cape Cod for a week (a bit of trivia--Provincetown, Cape Cod is the slash capital of the eastern USA, which is rather saying something) with no computer and a TV that only seemed to have PBS and NBC, and so when I wasn't occupying my time watching Law and Order, I was writing slash. While in smoggy, humid, dirty Philadelphia, I seem to have constant writer's block, but the air up there, or maybe the fact that I really had nothing better to do, inspired me to write this little number, to satisfy my craving and yours for Jack/Norrington slash while I figure out what the hell I'm going to do with "Boundaries." Standard disclaimers apply.
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"You can rattle the bars all you want, but the only thing that'll come of it is that someone might come down and beat you senseless to shut you up." Jack pulls his hat over his eyes and regards the irate commodore from under its battered brim. "Never been in prison before, have you, mate?"
"I have a perfectly clean record," snarls Norrington, turning to face him. "British naval officers worth their salt don't frequent prisons."
"'Course not. You're always the ones doing the imprisoning. I've got news for ye, mate--pirates don't give a damn about your clean record. It's just fuel on the fire. They're probably up there celebrating your capture right now--bet it isn't often that they catch a commodore alive." Jack raises the brim of his hat enough to stare at Norrington through one bird-bright dark eye. "You probably won't be alive for long, though. You're a pirate's worst enemy. They'll torture you, or ransom you, maybe both, but I doubt that. I know these particular pirates...cruel, demented, vicious pirates, to be certain...and they don't care for money so much as all the carnage they can possibly wreak and all the blood they can possibly spill. I imagine they'll torture you until you're just on the edge of death and then they'll slaughter you, cut you up into various bits of meat and throw what's left of you overboard as chum. But they'll probably want to starve you first, so you've got a bit of time in which to practice pleading for your worthless life."
Jack can't resist a wicked grin to punctuate this, as Norrington has gone white as a sheet and is trembling fit to fall over. "You're not serious!" he cries. Jack laughs.
"'Course not. They'll ransom you. Never met a pirate who didn't want treasure, and of course, the British Navy is going to pay whatever's asked of them to have their distinguished admiral back. It's me they'll slay, if anyone." Jack is utterly unconcerned by his certain fate, and pulls his hat lazily back over his eyes.
He studies the commodore for a while. It amuses him more than anything to see him now; the pirates have taken his jacket, wig, for some reason his shoes, naturally his sword and gun, and have not left him his tricornered hat as they have Jack. The fight he put up as they dragged him down to the brig has left his clothing torn and bloodstained in places, his dark hair is wildly disheveled, and the overall effect is that of a bedraggled urchin rather than a wealthy and noble admiral. Jack relishes the expression on his face, hopeless anger and relief and what Jack would have taken as a hint of amusement had it been anyone else, as he struggles to find words. "You don't seem to be too concerned about being captured by pirates who want to kill you," he says finally.
"Well, I must admit that I'm relying on your innate kindness and sense of pity and goodwill towards your fellow man...I rather expect you to pull a few strings and take me with you when you go."
Norrington laughs incredulously. "Take you with me? Only because I'd sooner see you hanging from the bridge in Port Royal than marooned alive on an island again."
Jack pouts, in what the commodore must admit is a most fetching manner. "You don't mean that."
It is Norrington's turn to regard the pirate who jokes about death and bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, who tells him happily of torture one moment, compliments him the next and makes outrageous demands with a such a straight face that Norrington finds himself wondering if the man isn't actually serious. "You are," he murmurs, "without a doubt--"
"The worst pirate you've ever heard of?" Jack tilts his head cheekily to one side and grins.
"I was going to say the strangest."
"I'm that too, love." Jack stretches out lazily along one wall of the tiny cell, using his hat as a pillow, amused by Norrington's abashment at being addressed as "love." "You're going to want to get some shuteye, too."
"Why?" Norrington is in no mood to lie down and try to sleep on the cold, filthy wooden floor.
"Because they're going to starve you, and you're going to want to have as much energy as you possibly can. Oh, they'll make sure you don't die, because ransom is their first priority, but if you're expecting luxury, you'll be miserably disappointed. They want payback, mate. I don't doubt you've hung one of their men before, or attacked their allies. They won't kill you and they likely won't want to risk torturing you, but you'll be starved and possibly beaten. Get some sleep, keep up your energy, because you'll need it."
Norrington slides to the floor, paling slightly. Jack watches him with stirrings of pity now; the commodore stares blankly straight ahead, draws his knees to his chest; his expression isn't sure whether to be nobly determined or tearfully terrified, and he trembles slightly with a fierce effort not to betray any fear.
"You know," says Jack conversationally, "I never saw the like of you Navy men for keeping a straight face when other men would be pissing themselves. If you weren't shaking, I wouldn't know you were scared."
He's meant it as a compliment, of course, but Norrington turns on him, snarling like a wounded animal. "Can't you be silent for more than a minute at a time? Leave me be, pirate."
"Suit yourself." Jack reclines on the floor and closes his eyes.
It is difficult for him to sleep; he is not quite accustomed to the cold, hard boards beneath him, but he imagines he has it better than the commodore, who has never had to deal with anything of the like before. He concentrates his energy on relaxing and trying to sleep.
After perhaps fifteen minutes of this, he is startled by Norrington's voice out of the darkness. "Sparrow?" he whispers. "Sparrow, are you asleep?"
Jack does not bother to answer this. "Sparrow," indeed. Norrington's sigh of relief is audible across the room, and gradually it becomes a half-strangled sob, and another, as the stiff-necked commodore leans his head against the wall and allows himself to cry for the first time in god only knows how long.
Jack wonders if he should be listening to this, and decides that he doesn't care whether he should or not. He is not so callous as to ignore another human being in pain. He understands the commodore's misery; he has been there himself, and he reaches out a hand to him in the darkness. "There, there, mate," he says. "It's not so bad as all that."
Norrington jerks his head up with a sharp, furious intake of breath. "You're supposed to be asleep!" he hisses. His embarrassment at being caught crying is so acute that Jack averts his eyes.
"Well," he says, "you should have known what I answer to and what I don't. I'll answer to Jack, but only from me closest mates, or Captain Jack, or Captain Sparrow, or Captain Jack Sparrow, or just Captain, but never just Sparrow, savvy?"
Norrington makes a sound which could be interpreted as despair, or disgust, or perhaps both, and huddles miserably in his corner.
Jack edges closer. "Look," he says. "I know how you feel, all right? Think of how many times I've been captured before. And I don't have anyone to ransom me. Short of a miracle, I haven't got a way out of here. You think I'm not bloody terrified? You think I'll think any less of you for being scared?"
Rather to his surprise, Norrington is listening to him, facing him in the darkness with a slightly less guarded expression than he usually wears. Jack instinctively drapes an arm around the commodore's shoulders, feels him stiffen, but does not remove the arm. "Come on, love. It's no shame to accept comfort when it's offered. Go on."
Norrington shakes the arm off with a growl. "I have some pride left, Sparrow."
"Pride is a stupid thing to hang onto," says Jack sagely. "Especially if it drives you to refuse comfort in a situation like this."
Norrington is weakening, Jack can see. "I don't need your pity," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.
"It's not pity I'm offering," says Jack, his arm finding its way around Norrington's shoulders again. "Just sympathy. Empathy. Telepathy. Whatever. We're in the same boat, love, is what I'm trying to say."
He waits. Slowly, with a trembling exhalation, the commodore nods, and Jack slips his other arm around him and holds him tight. It pains him slightly to realize just how desperate the man is for human contact as Norrington rests his head on Jack's shoulder and edges tentatively closer.
From there, it seems strangely natural for their lips to meet, and neither is particularly surprised when it happens. They kiss softly at first, chaste and gentle, but this does not seem to be an occasion for gentleness; both are desperate, and their kisses reflect their emotion, growing wilder, more passionate, until they are clinging to each other, hands tangled in each others' hair. It is almost by chance that they manage to separate, panting through kiss-bruised lips, and Norrington is clearly at a loss for what to do. He has never snogged a pirate in a jail cell before, and is unsure of what procedure to follow. Awkwardly, he holds out a hand.
Jack takes it and kisses it in a most gentlemanly manner. "I told you it wouldn't be so bad, love," he says, and Norrington believes him.
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Awww. I hope this is sufficient to royally piss off homophobic slash-flamers. *waves to the slash-flamers* You lot do amuse me so. Is it that you can't read slash warnings, or are you just too ignorant to care about them? Either way, here's a nice juicy piece of bait for you. As for the rest of you, I imagine I'll be getting Chapter 4 of "Boundaries" up sometime before my 25th birthday. Inasmuch as I'm 15, that's a rather sad guarantee, but I have writers' block.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse
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"You can rattle the bars all you want, but the only thing that'll come of it is that someone might come down and beat you senseless to shut you up." Jack pulls his hat over his eyes and regards the irate commodore from under its battered brim. "Never been in prison before, have you, mate?"
"I have a perfectly clean record," snarls Norrington, turning to face him. "British naval officers worth their salt don't frequent prisons."
"'Course not. You're always the ones doing the imprisoning. I've got news for ye, mate--pirates don't give a damn about your clean record. It's just fuel on the fire. They're probably up there celebrating your capture right now--bet it isn't often that they catch a commodore alive." Jack raises the brim of his hat enough to stare at Norrington through one bird-bright dark eye. "You probably won't be alive for long, though. You're a pirate's worst enemy. They'll torture you, or ransom you, maybe both, but I doubt that. I know these particular pirates...cruel, demented, vicious pirates, to be certain...and they don't care for money so much as all the carnage they can possibly wreak and all the blood they can possibly spill. I imagine they'll torture you until you're just on the edge of death and then they'll slaughter you, cut you up into various bits of meat and throw what's left of you overboard as chum. But they'll probably want to starve you first, so you've got a bit of time in which to practice pleading for your worthless life."
Jack can't resist a wicked grin to punctuate this, as Norrington has gone white as a sheet and is trembling fit to fall over. "You're not serious!" he cries. Jack laughs.
"'Course not. They'll ransom you. Never met a pirate who didn't want treasure, and of course, the British Navy is going to pay whatever's asked of them to have their distinguished admiral back. It's me they'll slay, if anyone." Jack is utterly unconcerned by his certain fate, and pulls his hat lazily back over his eyes.
He studies the commodore for a while. It amuses him more than anything to see him now; the pirates have taken his jacket, wig, for some reason his shoes, naturally his sword and gun, and have not left him his tricornered hat as they have Jack. The fight he put up as they dragged him down to the brig has left his clothing torn and bloodstained in places, his dark hair is wildly disheveled, and the overall effect is that of a bedraggled urchin rather than a wealthy and noble admiral. Jack relishes the expression on his face, hopeless anger and relief and what Jack would have taken as a hint of amusement had it been anyone else, as he struggles to find words. "You don't seem to be too concerned about being captured by pirates who want to kill you," he says finally.
"Well, I must admit that I'm relying on your innate kindness and sense of pity and goodwill towards your fellow man...I rather expect you to pull a few strings and take me with you when you go."
Norrington laughs incredulously. "Take you with me? Only because I'd sooner see you hanging from the bridge in Port Royal than marooned alive on an island again."
Jack pouts, in what the commodore must admit is a most fetching manner. "You don't mean that."
It is Norrington's turn to regard the pirate who jokes about death and bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, who tells him happily of torture one moment, compliments him the next and makes outrageous demands with a such a straight face that Norrington finds himself wondering if the man isn't actually serious. "You are," he murmurs, "without a doubt--"
"The worst pirate you've ever heard of?" Jack tilts his head cheekily to one side and grins.
"I was going to say the strangest."
"I'm that too, love." Jack stretches out lazily along one wall of the tiny cell, using his hat as a pillow, amused by Norrington's abashment at being addressed as "love." "You're going to want to get some shuteye, too."
"Why?" Norrington is in no mood to lie down and try to sleep on the cold, filthy wooden floor.
"Because they're going to starve you, and you're going to want to have as much energy as you possibly can. Oh, they'll make sure you don't die, because ransom is their first priority, but if you're expecting luxury, you'll be miserably disappointed. They want payback, mate. I don't doubt you've hung one of their men before, or attacked their allies. They won't kill you and they likely won't want to risk torturing you, but you'll be starved and possibly beaten. Get some sleep, keep up your energy, because you'll need it."
Norrington slides to the floor, paling slightly. Jack watches him with stirrings of pity now; the commodore stares blankly straight ahead, draws his knees to his chest; his expression isn't sure whether to be nobly determined or tearfully terrified, and he trembles slightly with a fierce effort not to betray any fear.
"You know," says Jack conversationally, "I never saw the like of you Navy men for keeping a straight face when other men would be pissing themselves. If you weren't shaking, I wouldn't know you were scared."
He's meant it as a compliment, of course, but Norrington turns on him, snarling like a wounded animal. "Can't you be silent for more than a minute at a time? Leave me be, pirate."
"Suit yourself." Jack reclines on the floor and closes his eyes.
It is difficult for him to sleep; he is not quite accustomed to the cold, hard boards beneath him, but he imagines he has it better than the commodore, who has never had to deal with anything of the like before. He concentrates his energy on relaxing and trying to sleep.
After perhaps fifteen minutes of this, he is startled by Norrington's voice out of the darkness. "Sparrow?" he whispers. "Sparrow, are you asleep?"
Jack does not bother to answer this. "Sparrow," indeed. Norrington's sigh of relief is audible across the room, and gradually it becomes a half-strangled sob, and another, as the stiff-necked commodore leans his head against the wall and allows himself to cry for the first time in god only knows how long.
Jack wonders if he should be listening to this, and decides that he doesn't care whether he should or not. He is not so callous as to ignore another human being in pain. He understands the commodore's misery; he has been there himself, and he reaches out a hand to him in the darkness. "There, there, mate," he says. "It's not so bad as all that."
Norrington jerks his head up with a sharp, furious intake of breath. "You're supposed to be asleep!" he hisses. His embarrassment at being caught crying is so acute that Jack averts his eyes.
"Well," he says, "you should have known what I answer to and what I don't. I'll answer to Jack, but only from me closest mates, or Captain Jack, or Captain Sparrow, or Captain Jack Sparrow, or just Captain, but never just Sparrow, savvy?"
Norrington makes a sound which could be interpreted as despair, or disgust, or perhaps both, and huddles miserably in his corner.
Jack edges closer. "Look," he says. "I know how you feel, all right? Think of how many times I've been captured before. And I don't have anyone to ransom me. Short of a miracle, I haven't got a way out of here. You think I'm not bloody terrified? You think I'll think any less of you for being scared?"
Rather to his surprise, Norrington is listening to him, facing him in the darkness with a slightly less guarded expression than he usually wears. Jack instinctively drapes an arm around the commodore's shoulders, feels him stiffen, but does not remove the arm. "Come on, love. It's no shame to accept comfort when it's offered. Go on."
Norrington shakes the arm off with a growl. "I have some pride left, Sparrow."
"Pride is a stupid thing to hang onto," says Jack sagely. "Especially if it drives you to refuse comfort in a situation like this."
Norrington is weakening, Jack can see. "I don't need your pity," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.
"It's not pity I'm offering," says Jack, his arm finding its way around Norrington's shoulders again. "Just sympathy. Empathy. Telepathy. Whatever. We're in the same boat, love, is what I'm trying to say."
He waits. Slowly, with a trembling exhalation, the commodore nods, and Jack slips his other arm around him and holds him tight. It pains him slightly to realize just how desperate the man is for human contact as Norrington rests his head on Jack's shoulder and edges tentatively closer.
From there, it seems strangely natural for their lips to meet, and neither is particularly surprised when it happens. They kiss softly at first, chaste and gentle, but this does not seem to be an occasion for gentleness; both are desperate, and their kisses reflect their emotion, growing wilder, more passionate, until they are clinging to each other, hands tangled in each others' hair. It is almost by chance that they manage to separate, panting through kiss-bruised lips, and Norrington is clearly at a loss for what to do. He has never snogged a pirate in a jail cell before, and is unsure of what procedure to follow. Awkwardly, he holds out a hand.
Jack takes it and kisses it in a most gentlemanly manner. "I told you it wouldn't be so bad, love," he says, and Norrington believes him.
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Awww. I hope this is sufficient to royally piss off homophobic slash-flamers. *waves to the slash-flamers* You lot do amuse me so. Is it that you can't read slash warnings, or are you just too ignorant to care about them? Either way, here's a nice juicy piece of bait for you. As for the rest of you, I imagine I'll be getting Chapter 4 of "Boundaries" up sometime before my 25th birthday. Inasmuch as I'm 15, that's a rather sad guarantee, but I have writers' block.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse