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The air in the brig is thick with the scent of salt and stale wood, none of which seem to affect Captain Jack Sparrow. He is more than used to this smell. He has cultivated a certain fondness for it, like one might for an old troublesome friend who never quite leave’s one company. He welcomes it, in fact, and makes sure to display how little he cares for it by draping himself against the iron bars of his cell like a particularly expensive bolt of silk.
Commodore James Norrington stands, as always, a respectable distance away. His posture is a study of controlled fury, his uniform immaculately starched in defiance of the tropical humidity. Jack often wonders if the man changed a thousand times a day, or if he goes to ridiculous lengths to keep it as clean as he does. It’s almost impressive, really, how a man can look so pristine while radiating the distinct aura of someone moments away from throttling the nearest available pirate.
“I find myself once again admiring the efficiency of the Royal Navy, Commodore,” Jack drawls, already bored of glaring at each other in silence. “Always eager to secure the guest list for my grand exit. Though, a hanging on the morrow? Terribly short notice, and my fancy garments are still aboard the Pearl, you see. This just won’t do.”
“You will wear the clothes you were captured in, Sparrow,” the good Commodore snaps, his voice tight. “You are a criminal and a pirate. You will be delivered to Port Royal and suffer the just consequences that you’ve been evading for far too long. Do not mistake my presence for negotiation.”
“Negotiation? Goodness, no. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack says, pushing off the bars and sauntering towards the back wall. “Though, one might consider it a rather…poor application of resources to have me swinging before extracting some valuable intelligence.”
Norrington narrows his eyes, as if fighting the burning urge to draw his sword. Jack can practically see the internal debate flickering in the man’s expression, protocol warring with the sweet temptation of silencing him one and for all.
“Intelligence? What absolute rubbish are you spinning now?”
“Ah, but this is rather choice rubbish, Commodore. I heard a whisper of the Hummingbird’s missing goods,” Jack murmurs, letting his voice drop to a theatrical whisper. “That hefty cargo of French silk, bound for your dear Port Royal, that went missing a fortnight ago? The Navy’s losing its touch. It was stolen, you see, and I know who did the lifting and precisely where they’ve squirreled the goods away.”
This is all pure conjecture, but that is exactly what Jack is good at.
As predicted, a nerve is struck, which is easy to see when he spots Norrington’s rigid facade crack, even if just a little. Jack is perfectly aware how the loss of that cargo has been a source of serious professional embarrassment and political pressure. Any intelligence to be acquired has immense value, and Jack is ready to use this to barter his way out of this mess.
And if he can secure a little something extra so he can become untouchable, well, all in a day’s work, really.
“You expect me to believe you?” Norrington questions.
“Believe what you like, but the information is solid and, more importantly, it’s yours for the taking. Provided that we discuss this transaction in a setting appropriate for gentlemen of our…shared history.” Jack winks, and he just knows that the gesture is like a pinprick in the Commodore’s control. He relishes the way Norrington’s jaw tenses, a twitch so slight most men would miss it. Jack, of course, never does. With a terrible grin, he eases himself back down onto the floor, crossing his legs with exaggerated elegance. “I find that the air down here is dreadfully poor for the memory. And a delicate matter of this importance demands an equally delicate approach. You wouldn’t want an opportunity like this slipping through your fingers.”
“And should I decide to entertain this nonsense,” Norrington says with a scowl, “what would be your terms?”
“Oh, Commodore,” Jack purrs, “I think you’ll find my terms to be surprisingly reasonable for a man with a rope scheduled for his morning.”
“Get on with it.”
Jack pauses, letting the silence stretch, before delivering his demand. “A bottle of that fine French brandy I know you keep. In your private cabin. And a proper seat. Once the cork is drawn, the truth shall flow.”
Norrington stands motionless, likely weighing the certain shame of the missing cargo against the utter humiliation of conceding to Jack, the oh-so-wretched pirate. Poor dear. He is far too pretty when he’s thinking this hard. Jack’s gaze is drawn to the man’s jaw again and to the faint muscle ticking beneath a perfectly shaven skin.
Finally, there’s a defeated nod, glare still sharp.
“Very well. But understand this, Sparrow. If you step one foot out of line, the hanging will happen right here, tonight, without ceremony.”
A short time later, Jack finds himself not just seated, but practically lounging on the velvet sofa in Norrington’s well-appointed cabin. It’s a far cry from the brig, as expected. All polished brass, precisely arranged charts and the faint fragrance of citrus oil that clings to expensive wood. The room is a shrine to order, discipline and carefully maintained appearances, and Jack is more than ready to completely undo it all. The brandy will certainly be worth the theatrics, as is the current expression on the Commodore’s face. He looks stiff enough to snap, even as he pours them each a generous amount.
“The information,” Norrington demands, setting his glass down with an audible clink before handing the other to his guest. His eyes are sharp, and yet bright at the same time, betraying more desperation than he would ever willingly show.
Wonderful.
Jack takes an appreciative sip of the brandy, letting the exquisite burn spread down his throat. Just enough to loosen the joints, sharpen his focus and dim the scruples, or else he won’t find the courage to do this. His nerves are not for the event he has planned tonight, no, but for the possible consequences instead. Consequences he is knowingly chasing.
His eyes flicker across the Commodore’s face, taking in the high colour in his cheeks, the tension around his mouth. James Norrington is stressed, furious and, ultimately, deeply lonely.
Lonely enough, perhaps, to accept company he would normally consider beneath him.
Lonely enough to listen to a pirate with far more on his mind than stolen silks.
A perfect storm that he can master.
After all, the law is quite specific on a certain matter: a convicted felon cannot be hanged while carrying a child. It’s considered rightfully barbaric, to execute the innocent along with the guilty. And Jack has all the right equipment to use this to his advantage. All he needs is a bit of luck, a handful of weeks and this beautifully upright fool.
“Patience, Commodore, patience,” Jack says softly, leaning towards him conspiratorially. “This is about trust, isn’t it? An exchange of confidence.”
He reaches out, tracing a slow feather-light path across the back of Norrington’s sun-kissed hand, delighting in the alarmed look the gesture earns him. Norrington startles just slightly, just enough for Jack to feel the jolt of it beneath his fingertips.
His lips curl with a predatory smile that has nothing to do with the stolen silk.
“And here I thought you had changed, Sparrow. I’ll have you know–”
“Tell you what, James,” he continues, daringly making use of the man’s name. “Let’s forget about the cargo for a moment and focus on the much more pressing business of why you look at me like a storm you’d rather not weather.”
Norrington stiffens, and yet surprisingly does not pull his hand away. His breathing shifts, as if a finger has been pressed to the very hinge of his restraint.
“You are out of line, Sparrow.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Jack says, unrepentant. He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright and glinting in the lamplight. “And you’ve always liked your lines tidy, haven’t you? Perfect little rows and perfect little rules, yet here you are, alone in a room with the likes of me. I think, perhaps, you don’t hate the chaos half as much as you pretend.”
That earns a sharp exhale, though Jack has some trouble being able to tell if it’s a laugh or a warning. It trembles in the small space between them.
“You mistake my discipline for interest.”
“Interest is a form of discipline, darling. You’ve kept your eyes front this whole time, and you haven’t looked away for a single moment.” Jack tilts his head, savouring the moment like another sip of brandy. “Makes a man wonder, is all.”
The Commodore does look away then, sharply, but the pink that dusts his cheeks and the very top of his ears give away all that Jack needs to know. He leans back, watching the proud Englishman with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knows the wind is turning in his favour.
There is now a crack in the wall that James Norrington surrounds himself in, and Jack fully intends to slip through.
“I could almost admire your restraint,” he says softly. “Almost. But there’s something about a man trying too hard not to be tempted, isn’t there?”
Norrington finally turns back to him, anger blooming in his eyes, but there’s no hiding the nature of that fire. It burns too warmly and too hungrily to be mere indignation.
“You play…dangerous games.”
Jack hums, reaching out to trail a finger over the rim of his glass. “That’s the only kind I play, love.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Love?” Jack cocks his head, feigning innocence. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Would you prefer Commodore when I’m whispering compliments? Bit formal for pillow talk, I’d say.”
“Enough!” The word cracks through the room like a whip. Norrington stands, breath sharp, colour high in his cheeks. “You forget your position.”
Jack rises too, slow and deliberate, stepping closer until they’re near enough for Norrington to smell the brandy on his breath. “On the contrary, I never forget my position. I just prefer to improve it.”
For a long dangerous moment, neither man moves. The lantern flame gutters, painting gold along Norrington’s collarbone where his throat bobs with restrained breath. Jack’s gaze follows it, unashamed, then lifts to meet the seafoam blue eyes again.
The charged stillness between them is thick enough to drag a blade through and Jack did not expect he would be enjoying this so much.
“You’re trembling, James.”
“...That’s rage.”
“Of course it is.”
And perhaps it is, but it’s certainly not the kind that sends a man running. It’s the kind that pushes him forward.
James Norrington confirms this fact by smashing their mouths together.
Several hours later, the Commodore’s cabin is dark, save for the weak moonlight filtering through the windows. The brandy bottles now lies empty and forgotten on the writing desk, a silent witness to night’s unexpected reckless abandon.
And James Norrington is deeply asleep.
He lies sprawled across the bed, his immaculately tailored coat and stiff collar long discarded, crumpled on the Persian rug. His chest is perfectly bare, revealing smooth pale skin that rises and falls with slow steady breaths. He looks younger, softened, his usual tension completely melted away by exhaustion and alcohol. It’s as if, for once, the weight of the Royal Navy and his own crushing sense of duty have been temporarily lifted.
The stern lines of his brow have eased, and the perpetual pinch between his eyebrows has smoothed into something almost peaceful. In sleep, he looks nothing like the man who barks orders across a deck. Here, he is simply James, flushed and pliant and utterly spent.
It’s a vision that makes something stir in Jack’s stomach. Victory, and something uncomfortably close to tenderness.
But, as beautiful as he looks and no matter how much Jack wants to kiss every inch of him, an opportunity has presented itself that cannot be ignored.
Escape.
Beside the slumbering Commodore, Jack carefully disentangles himself from beneath James’ arm, wincing slightly as a few of his dreadlocks are pulled. James’ hold is surprisingly heavy, as though even in sleep he is reluctant to let Jack slip away. Some foolish part of Jack lingers an extra breath, savouring the weight and the heat and the fleeting illusion of belonging.
Illusions are, however, something he can’t afford to dabble in when his neck is on the line.
Jack moves with the practised grace of a thief, every muscle protesting the exertion of the past few hours but utterly focused on the task at hand.
He rolls onto his stomach, then pushes himself silently to his hands and knees as he starts to depart from the bed. The rug under his feet muffles his steps, but Jack remains hyper-vigilant, eye fixed on the sleeping form of the Commodore. James mutters something indistinct and shifts at the sudden lack of warmth beside him, but does not wake.
Jack freezes mid-step.
A breath.
Another.
Then James settles again, one arm flung carelessly over the empty half of the bed. Only then does Jack allow himself to move.
He gathers his effects, each item lifted with careful fingers and an ear tuned to every single sound James might make. The ship creaks as he dresses himself, which helps disguise the jangle of beads and trinkets that’s produced from sharp movements.
At the door, he pauses, glancing back once more. It’s not in guilt, for Jack Sparrow prides himself in never indulging in such a thing. It is, perhaps, a tiny flicker of fondness.
“Sleep well, darling,” he whispers. “You’ve done me a great favour tonight.”
With that, he slips into the corridor and disappears into the belly of the ship, on his way to sneak on to a dinghy and be free of the noose.
They do not run into each other again until months later, and by then Jack is already proudly displaying what will secure his safety for a long while yet.
The look on Norrington’s face when, after managing to detain the Black Pearl once again, he spots the swollen stomach is one Jack thinks should have been immortalised in a portrait for all to see. Shock, horror, indignation, and something that can only be interpreted as vulnerable flicker across the man’s features in rapid succession.
Jack strokes a hand over the curve of his belly and offers a lazy but wicked grin.
Check mate.