This episode: sexual tension, and James's mental ramblings. Next up: A batty old housekeeper, frightening undead pirates, angst. And monkeys!
Thank you so much to girlgunslinger, LadyBush, HieiTheDarkGem, dshael, and Savvy-Rum-Drinker for your great reviews! :::HUGS AND COOKIES:::: I wasn't so sure about this one, but if you all like it, I'll write till I'm blue in the face :)
Here Comes A Candle (A Ghost Story, Bit 2)
Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head. -Apples and Oranges
The Commodore's home was stately and elegant dwelling, as was befitting an officer of his station. It sat perched on a gentle swell of land overlooking the fort. Near enough to Port Royal's main street to catch the scent of bread from the nearby bakery if the wind was right, and to give passers-by the chance to observe on many a night the lights burning in his bedchamber window until the early morning hours.
But there was no one on the street this night to witness the glow of lamplight through the casement, to watch for the flicker of animated shadow against the glass and idly wonder and gossip about the good Commodore's sleeping habits...or possibly his company. No, the streets this night were as empty as they had been, night and nearly day, since this infernal heat wave had settled itself over the Caribbean like a damp blanket. (An extremely old and soppy blanket. One that smelled slightly of dead fish at low tide).
The inhabitants of Port Royal were all, if not snugly asleep, then at least too hot and exhausted to do much more than lie limply atop the sheets, pray for rain, and hope that they could manage to unstick themselves from their bedding come morning. So there was no one to witness the dark shape that slid around the corner of the Commodore's house in the complicated pre-dawn shadows. It paused for a moment below the lit window, almost invisible in the gloom, before nimbly clambering up the heavy climbing fig that covered the stone wall.
It moved quickly and silently, making no more sound than a garden lizard might make in the bushes, practically oozing through the branches, only to freeze just shy of the window's glow.
Where James Norrington stood, brooding distractedly out into the night with a gun tucked into his trousers and a scowl on his face dark enough to drop a man in his tracks...almost.
The figure pressed close to vine and stone and grinned an insane grin. Slowly, slowly, it reached out one hand on one long spindly arm. Up and up, towards the open window.
Ragged dirty fingernails cleared the windowsill, tapping silently against the woodwork, stretched out towards the pistol that was just...about...in...reach...
And jerked back again as the window came swinging shut, almost severing knobby fingers from their grimy hand.
The figure muttered to itself and sucked one pinched finger sullenly for awhile in the darkness.
Farther along the wall, there was a creak as the shutter covering the parlor window swung open with a squeak and a soft chittering. The dark shape in the leaves twitched towards the sound, and began climbing. In the dark, something screeched and scampered away.
With a much put-upon sigh, James Norrington shot home the bolt on his bedchamber window, effectively shutting out any hope of a breeze. And trouble, he hoped.
...Not that he gave any heed to the insane ramblings of a mad drunken pirate, of course. But where this particular mad pirate was concerned, one could never be too careful. And where curses were concerned, Jack did have the advantage of experience. So the windows and doors were staying locked, even if it meant that they both suffocated in the meantime.
Scraping sweatdamp dark hair off his face, James sat heavily in the armchair he'd dragged to the bedside and collapsed back against the faded green velvet with a jaw-cracking yawn. What he wanted was a lie-down...he wanted one desperately. But the bed was out of the question. Roomy as it was, no amount of desperation was enough to drive him into any horizontal position beside Jack Sparrow. He just knew better. Especially when the man was so ...well...naked.
All right, half-naked. But that was more than naked enough for James Norrington.
The thought wandered across his dazed brain and managed to wake him out of his half-doze for a moment. He lifted his head to regard the still figure languishing against his pillows. He blinked. Yes, there was still a pirate asleep in his bed. Not looking as though he was going anywhere anytime soon. And dawn was approaching. And James needed a plan.
A plan a plan. He was the Commodore of the Royal Fleet. He had duties. He did not have time to deprive himself of MORE sleep playing nursemaid to a pirate. James rubbed a hand over his face, through his loose hair, and glared a truly black glare. iYou infuriating rogue, wake up and help me think of a plan./i Jack didn't stir. He was very still, breathing shallowly, clean strips of linen wrapped around his newly-acquired gunshot wound. He lay tucked beneath the sheets with a care that would have surprised anyone who knew Norrington. Anyone who knew James, on the other hand, wouldn't have given it a second thought.
Nor would they have been surprised to see him reach out and gently rest the backs of his fingers against the pirate's sweat-damp forehead, frowning in concentration. It was so hot already in the room close and stagnant with humidity. Near impossible to tell if the skin under his hand should be that warm or not.
Jack gave a quiet sigh, shifting restlessly on the pillow, turning his face out of James's reach. James let his hand drop back into his lap and leaned into the chair's battered cushions, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. He wanted a nap. He needed a plan. Nap plan nap plan. Oh, bother.
It had been a hellish night. Tending wounds was not something he was unfamiliar with. He was a career Navy man, and had seen many, many battles since going to sea as not-much-more than a boy all those years ago. But always there had been a surgeon nearby. Never had he had to patch up a friend alone in the dark, fearing all the time that he would not be good enough a hand at the job, knowing that there was no one else to go to for help because, technically, this was a life he should be trying to snuff out, not save.
He had also never blushed so /i much in one night. He was sure that there was going to be permanent damage from the violent and sustained rush of blood to his head.
Blood. James glanced down at the pile of tattered clothing at his feet. It had been frightening, once he'd really got a good look at Jack , to see how much blood was actually caked on his clothing. Most of it couldn't have been from him. It just couldn't have. As bad as his wound was, it was not capable of bleeding this much. But that left the question ...where did it all come from?
He's havin tea and scones with Davey, I made sure of that...
James swallowed.
Jack Sparrow was a pirate. A thief. There were those that would say he was soulless, damned. A menace. And though it was true that Jack could make a menace of himself in a thousand and one ways, James had come to know the truth of things beginning with their one infamous misadventure together. Few in Port Royal would venture to add 'good man' to his list of descriptions, but James would. With one bare foot, he pushed the heap of bloodstained cloth out of sight beneath the bed, pushing aside the dark thoughts with it. It wasn't important right now. He had other things to think about.
A year, two years, and he was no closer now to knowing where this curious mutual esteem was leading them than he was the day Jack blundered off the fort wall. He'd spent a year chasing the man, thinking he meant to hang him. And another being chased by him, (annoyed and scandalized by him), and at the end of it all he realized that hanging him was the last thing he wanted to do. What he DID want to do was still a mystery to his mind, but his body seemed to think that the removal of clothing was a good start. That concerned James. Worry, fear, dark speculation, none of it was enough to dampen his mad girlish blushing as he'd shuffled the other man out of his clothes. And then...
James could feel the flush working its way up to his ears at the thought.
Good God, if he didn't get this under control, his legs would atrophy from blood loss and he'd never walk again.
In the dark kitchen, something small and quick flitted across the old oak table, leapt atop the cupboard, onto the window sill, and wedged in between bottles and odds and ends. It froze for a moment as a jar of crystallized violets teetered on the edge, but didn't fall.
Sniffing disdainfully, as though it EXPECTED something as fussy as crystallized violets in a place like this, it gripped the kitchen window's well-oiled lock in wizened paws and tugged it open with a snap.
Then it began an earnest search for the pantry. Always hungry...its small, twisted mind knew this much for sure. Always hungry. For everything.
A bag of flour fell on its head.
He'd been fine until he got to the pants. The pants had almost been the undoing of his already frayed nerves. Of course, Jack would have to choose that particular moment to swim up out of his stupor, blinking up at James in a groggy haze as the other man tried clumsily to undo the laces of the unfamiliar trousers while looking at the ceiling, the floor, the wall, anywhere but at what he what doing. At Jack's whispered, "What'er you up to, Jamie?" he sprang back as though...as though...no decent analogy came to mind that didn't sound truly dirty. The long and short of it was, he practically fell off the bed.
Jack blinked at James, perching himself there at the end of the mattress with his hands in his lap as if he expected to get bitten. It was adorable. Even though his drunken haze, Jack knew adorable when he saw it. Speaking rasped his dry throat, but he still couldn't resist a bit of a ramble. "You are absolutely darling, luv...remind me later to laugh over how bloody darling you are...now, what the blazes are you doing...?"
"I'm...er....ah...taking...off your clothes." Dear Lord In Heaven, if someone had told him a year ago that he'd someday be speaking those words to Jack Sparrow in his own bedchamber, he'd have laughed himself sick (or at least smiled ominously), and then had the poor sod thrown in the brig. If someone had told him the same thing two years ago, he probably would have threatened to hang them. Now all he could do was stammer like an idiot.
All Jack said, however, was, "After all the trouble I've gone through, he picks tonight to get frisky..."
"FRISKY?" James blurted. "Now see here, I don't think you're in any position to be engaging in that kind of talk."
Jack murmured, "So says the man taking off my pants..." And with a sigh, he let his eyes drift shut.
James felt the corner of his mouth attempt to curl into a smile. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried by the relative lack of teasing. Had Jack been in his...what passed for his right mind, he knew the man would have been busy reducing him to a puddle of embarrassed jelly on the floor by now. He was, James knew, very, very good at it. The reprieve warranted some sort of concession on his part, James decided.
"I see your point, Captain," he replied wryly. But it seemed as though Jack was too far gone to appreciate the use of his oft-debated title.
"Jack?" James leaned in closer, studying the sleeping man, trying to determine if it was safe to continue with the trousers, or if Jack was lying in wait with some snotty remark ready the moment he made a move in the direction of his pants. (...bloody pirate...) He reached out one finger, carefully. And poked him. Just a little.
Nothing.
With a sigh that hovered somewhere on the edge between concern and relief, James let the tension out of his spine, slumping for a moment before letting his eyes wander back up the length of Jack's prone form for the first time since he'd started this whole awkward process. They took their time, doing the wandering. Oh.
A small voice in James's mind said, You are a complete idiot, aren't you? What are you thinking? Stop right this minute. But he literally could not pull his gaze away.
He'd been too worried and aghast at the other man's condition to really think about what he was doing, at first. He'd noticed things as he went, of course, as each new patch of skin was exposed. Small doses of Jack. A tattoo. A piercing. A scar. Many scars, to be exact, but one at a time. The twisted dragon of angry, badly-healed flesh on his forearm was distressing and fascinating. The marks striping the tanned skin of his back, on the other hand, were all too familiar. Inadequate details, but all he could handle. The greyhound dip of tanned skin over bone and muscle was not something he'd ever thought he'd feel under his own hands, and then he could hardly bring himself to look. The full picture was just too much. Too alien. And very...beautiful. That was really the only word.
But now it seemed he couldn't get enough.
It was not something he often had the chance to do. Just look. So often, when he tried to remember afterward, to picture Jack in his mind, all he could conjure up was a blur, dark with shadow or bright with lamplight. The man was never still. Always a flitting swaying thing, like his namesake, and cloaked in a thousand distracting bits and ephemera. Now, even the old red scarf was off, letting loose strands of tangled dark hair fall into the pirate's face and stick against sweaty skin. He breathed weakly, high in his chest, through parted lips. His lashes were outrageously long for a man's, clumped with humidity against those damnably interesting cheekbones. He looked so young at that moment that it was a shock to see it, and James realized that he never had been able to determine his actual age. Jack had a way about him that made such questions irrelevant. He'd be as likely to tell you that he'd never known his own birthday on account of having been birthed at sea by a trout if you even bothered to ask him.
Of course James knew that all men were children once, but even so he had a feeling that this version of the legendary Jack Sparrow was one that few ever had the chance to see. Unaccountably, this sudden knowledge made him want to touch him.
A drop of sweat had trickled down from the pirate's brow, across one closed eyelid, and forged a path black with kohl down his cheek. Unthinking, James reached out and wiped away the damp trail with one thumb, and was completely unprepared for Jack to turn his face into the light touch and gently kiss his hand.
The effect was instantaneous. Something about the sight of Jack so disheveled and...undone....had started a coiling heat in James that he'd been trying so terribly hard to ignore, but coupled with the sensation of hot breath on his palm, it struck him like a blow. Low in the belly, and high in the heart. He snatched his hand back and this time scrambled completely off the bed, retreating to the safety of his chair. The most undignified retreat of his career.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!
It had taken him forever to even think about approaching the bed again, let alone the pants.
Shaking off the memory, James gave the most dramatic, put-upon sigh he could muster. It felt good. Punching something would feel even better, but he was too tired to bother.
Dawn was fast approaching and there were things that needed his attention. Word needed to be sent to the Turners, whom he was positive knew how to contact the /i, no matter how well they pretended to be blissfully ignorant. Some excuse needed to be made for his absence at the fort. And, most daunting of all the perils the day might hold, was the thought of convincing Mrs.Wembly to take a day off. Anyone else, he was sure, would take one look at his undoubtedly-awful appearance, accept any excuse he chose to throw at them, and leave him to his own devices. But this housekeeper did not live by the rules of mere mortals. He would need a good story. Luckily, familiarity with Jack Sparrow tended to provide one with a wealth of stories.
Then again...there was always the truth...'I'm sorry my good woman, but I'm feeling rather under the weather this morning. You see I spent the entire night sitting up with a sick pirate, and the most embarrassing erection that I have ever experienced in my life.' It said something for the magnitude of Jack's influence over James that he actually considered this for a moment, before clapping a hand to his forehead and swearing. The blush was creeping up his neck again, he could feel it. As though it wasn't hot enough in the room.
All right. Enough was enough.
He was always first and foremost an honest man, with others and with himself. And so there was no hiding from the feeling when it came, and no hiding from the truth of the matter. He had to face up to it. He knew that. He would not deny what he felt, for denial would not make it any less of a sin. It needed to be faced now, here. He was not a coward. He was a responsible and mature individual, and the master of his own emotions. He took a breath, and whispered it to himself.
"I...want...Jack Sparrow. This man. As...a man wants a lass."
There. It was said. In a whisper thick and slow with sleepy disuse, but at least it was said.
With a curse, James stood, walked across the room, and thwacked his head against the wall.
The Commodore's home is approached by a short, palm-lined carriage drive that leads from the main road. Every morning, just as the sun was paling out the eastern sky, an old and very respectable-looking woman makes her sturdy way up the drive, the way she has every morning except Sunday for the past fifteen years. She lets herself in the kitchen door with a tarnished pewter key. She has been the housekeeper of this fine home through three owners, and every day has walked the same drive, taken the same key from her pocket, and unlocked the same door.
This morning, for the first time in fifteen years, the door is unlocked already.
It was at that very moment that Jack decided to moan, the first sound he'd issued since their disconcerting little interlude hours before. James immediately forgot his fluctuating blood pressure, his housekeeper, his uncomfortable breeches, everything. He hastened to the bed and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Leaned in to study his guest in the wavering dimness. "Jack? ...Are you awake?"
Jack twitched violently, eyes tightly closed. His breath hissed out between clenched teeth in a long sigh as he subsided against the pillows. This close, James could see the fine tremor running through the pirate's body. A vibration of unrelieved tension. Brow furrowing, he reached out to rest a hand against Jack's forehead and winced. Ah, blast. Another dilemma added to his list.
James rasped into the suddenly heavy silence, "This is the worst trick you have ever played on me, Sparrow. Yes, even worse than vomiting on my parlor rug. I am never letting you in my home again drunk and that's final. You are a bloody nuisance." Absently, he took up a corner of the sheet and mopped at damp, hot skin. "A bloody nuisance..."
Swallowing, Jack shifted into the touch and sighed.
Norrington froze, watching the fine-boned face, waiting for a spark of black eyes, a smirk. But Jack just slept on, pressed into the touch of his palm. The same palm that he'd... James pulled away before he could loose his composure yet again. Now was not the time.
Most definitely not the time. James scowled. The urge to punch something was returning in full force. For the second time that evening, he was violently ashamed of himself. Jack was his friend. His friend. And he was in need of help. And, obviously to James if not to Jack's addled mind, he'd come here in search of it. And what did he receive instead? Threats at gunpoint and a man who was supposed to be honorable lusting...yes, dammit, lusting over him like some horrid useless imbecile.
How Jack would laugh.
Gazing down at the floorboards, James smiled.
There was that, after all, wasn't there? The fact that Jack would heartily approve of the whole fiasco, had he been in the mood to pay attention. James knew it. And the knowledge made him hate himself just a little less.
He leaned close to his guest and said, "It wouldn't be too much trouble for you to just stay here and not do anything stupid, would it, Jack?"
The man on the bed was silent.
Not sure if that should be taken as a yes, no, or maybe, James decided to accept all three and stood, swaying a bit with woozy exhaustion. "Good. I'll be right back."
I could have done any of ye, y'know. Any time.
So why didn't you?
Well, it just never seemed like...what you always wanna be callin it captain? 'The opportune moment'?
That would be it....An what, pray tell, constitutes the opportune moment in your mind, sir?
Why, you an me, Captain. Out here, alone. With no one to interfere. Just like this.
That, sir, is a very good idea. I have to say, I never suspected you for a moment.
Didn't you, now?
Actually. On second thought. Wait.
Aye?
I did.
Jack snapped back to wakefulness so hard and fast, it was a wonder he didn't break it clean off.The first fact his mind latched onto before the room began to spin was: he was in a bed. It didn't get much more coherent than that.
What the hell was he doing in bed!? Who's anyway? And where were his clothes? And his sword? And his pistols? And who's pants were these? And it was bloody hot! And why the hell did he have a hangover?
Jack considered that last question for a split second. Then he was clamping one hand over his mouth as his insides attempted to heave themselves all over the sheets.
Oh...BUGGER! Forgot about that, didn't you?
Wrestling the nausea down behind clamped teeth, Jack panted and clutched his head. Wonderful. It was time to assess the situation. He'd woken up in much more distasteful circumstances in the past. This was nothing. Yes, well, the hangover was SOMETHING, but he would not be vanquished by a little pukishness. Are ye a pirate, lad, or not?
Dammit, man, now's not the time to be pestering me wi' complicated questions!
All right, all RIGHT, don't get your knickers in a snit.
Groaning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dragged himself upright by way of the bedpost. The room did one long, slow spin around him, then another, and another. He waited until the swaying finally stopped before getting a fix on where the door was and setting off across an expanse of floor that seemed much wider than Jack remembered it being.
James had to be nearby. The house wasn't that bloody big. Jack just wondered how long he'd have to wander about looking for the man before James found him instead and tried to put him back to bed. He wondered how hard it would be to threaten him into giving his clothes back. He wondered if he'd let him walk out the front door or if it would be the window again...
Jack had only made it halfway to the bedroom door when the gunshot shattered the silence like a fist through a window.
TBC....
Muse: There! Another chapter! Happy?
Authoress: HHhhmmmm...It'll do.
Muse: It'll DO? Authoress: :::yawn::: "It'll do" is the best your gonna get at three in the morning.
Muse: You're still pissed that I let the monkey loose in your room, aren't you?
Authoress: Better believe it, sister.