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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Pairing: Grégoire de Fronsac/James Norrington, Norrington/Sparrow, Grégoire/Jean-François.
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: PotC/Brotherhood of the Wolf crossover; post-movie for both. Am following the general history of 1766 in New Orléans, when the city was turned over to the Spanish amid protests by its mostly French citizenry, but am not sticking strictly to the timeline, so slight AU in respect to that. Supernatural aspects.
Summary: Love is neither simple nor straightforward.
***
“I thought you might have a way in.” The figure in the doorway was appallingly thin, though the cut of his clothes disguised it well. Only when Norrington’s coat hung open, as it did now because he had put his hand up against the lintel, was the toll of the fever’s passing visible.
He ducked inside and nodded to Will, who’d frozen by the anvil, but mainly faced Jack. In his other hand was what looked very much like a bottle of expensive rum wrapped in brown paper, and in his eyes was a request.
Jack fingered the hilt of his sword for a moment longer, then grinned. Why not? His curiosity had been eating him something fierce ever since he’d watched Anamaria sail off a proud ship of the Navy. And it hadn’t been as if she’d sweetened up enough to talk about more than the weather and the minor sailing details of that journey. “Be back in a bit, Will. You think it’ll be done by then?”
“What?” The other man startled to attention, eyes shooting rapidly back and forth between Norrington and Jack. He opened his mouth as if to object, and then insisted on glaring questioningly at Jack’s quieting look. But marriage must’ve been knocking some sense into him, for he pressed his fist against his mouth and nodded. “The blade will. The hilt will take till tomorrow.”
“Ah, well, I expect I’ve time. Nothing stirring round here.” Jack clapped a hand to Will’s shoulder before stepping outside.
The governor had a lovely back lawn, as carefully manicured and sculpted as the wig that was missing from Norrington’s head. His hair, now long enough to flop a few bangs from beneath his hat, was a rich chestnut color that contrasted starkly with his chalky complexion. The skin over his cheekbones was pulled tight so the fine worry-lines around his eyes and mouth were not gentle wrinkles, but sharp incisions. But for a recovering victim of yellow fever, he looked remarkably well.
“That French acquaintance of yours isn’t bad with a blade,” Jack said. He looked from the grim face done to the more potentially cheerful bundle in Norrington’s hand. “Chipped a good notch out of mine, and—”
“—of course it’d be from Will’s forge.” Norrington glanced over his shoulder at the new attachment to the mansion, then turned away down a gravel path. He half-lifted his hand and gestured for Jack to come along. “I still have a few doubts about the wisdom of what he and Elizabeth are doing, but it seems that they’ve managed most of the hurdles.”
As they went along, Norrington reached into his coat and pulled out a thick packet of paper, which was sealed with red wax and stamped with the governor’s ring. When Jack tilted it into the light, he could faintly see something of another seal inside; he carefully slid his nail beneath the first one, lifted it and peeked. Well, that was very interesting.
“In Versailles it’s possible to earn a title merely by having the ability to craft a becoming wig, or by scientifically cataloguing all the native birds of the country. I suppose Britain is trying to catch up with the rest of the world.” The half-smile on Norrington’s face was not entirely sarcastic. He sighed, dreaming of something, and then shook himself back to his usual practical demeanor. “It’s to find out things and make discoveries, not to start a war. Please try to remember that, if only for the sake of my possible successor’s sanity.”
“They’d not be fool enough to replace you. It takes forever to learn a little of the Caribbean’s ways, let alone know it like you do.” The amount of pessimism in Norrington’s voice was enough to distract Jack from the promise of rum and bend a sharp look on the other man.
But Norrington merely shrugged it off and continued walking. “I’ve been ill for a considerable time, and previous to that, I put my ship in danger of being taken by Ulloa. They’re reviewing my case, and I personally am grateful that they’ve been that lenient.”
They ended at the edge of a cliff, backs sheltered by a thick stand of foliage and fronts exposed not to any straggling pieces of town, but to the brisk air and great stretch of shimmering blue. Norrington spent a second longing for the wave-ride before he laughed to himself, took off his hat, and sat down. He unwrapped the bottle, which was indeed rum, and passed it to Jack.
It was fine stuff, burning not in a wide clumsy swath but in delicate tendrils that weaved through Jack’s mouth and nose and hooked into his mind. He squatted on the ground besides James and simply appreciated. The other man remained quiet, though James was by no means bored; his fingers twitched and played restlessly in the lace trailing from his cuffs.
“You did tell them, whoever this “they” might be, that there were extenuating circumstances that did interfere in wholly unpredictable and unrefusable ways?” Jack lowered the bottle to admire the amber color of it, then swiped a thumb over the rim. He recorked it and nestled it firmly in a tuft of grass. Much as he wanted to make further acquaintance with such fine stock, he had other matters to attend to first.
“If you’re referring to the werewolves, no. I did try to explain the commandeering of my ship, but curiously, my officers insisted that we sailed back to Port Royal without needing to…hire…any extra hands,” James snorted. He looked as he had amusement, humiliation and gratitude all lined up in a row before him, and him with only one bullet in his pistol. “I finally had to acquiesce to the opinion that I was hallucinating.”
It was funny how he didn’t seem to have a problem tossing the wolves out of the story—doubtful that he’d kept in the Frenchmen, either--but insisted on keeping Jack in it. Or maybe it was flattering, if Jack looked slantwise at it. Which was usually his preferred line of sight, but occasionally he acknowledged the need to stare straight on.
A stray lock of hair fell into James’ face. He lifted a hand to sweep it back, then turned to catch Jack staring. James shrugged and dropped his hand to the ground between them. “I find that many things I used to think necessary aren’t. At least, not out here.” He was still looking at Jack, face very calm and composed. “I believe you promised to tell me a story. I don’t think I hallucinated that.”
No, he hadn’t, and nowadays Jack generally tried to reduce the number of things he broke. So he sat back and let the story just roll off his tongue. Halfway through his voice went a bit dry and he opened up the rum again, let its liquid burn scratch out the pictures in the air. He paused a few times, trying to decide whether Will and Elizabeth might have a bit of upset if he revealed that bit, and sometimes he chose to be loyal. Sometimes he chose to be truthful—it all depended on the occasion, after all. In a handful of places he threw in a touch of confession, since he figured James could understand it.
James listened very carefully and closely; if he didn’t quite follow something, he interrupted and asked for clarification. Occasionally he lost his temper a bit with what he perceived as Jack’s idiosyncratic method of narration, but as the story unfolded, he started to see the reason behind it. And when Jack was done, James nodded once and thanked Jack in a voice that would probably trade for its weight in gold. “I appreciate it. I’ve never managed to discuss it with Will or Elizabeth.”
“Well, it’s likely the first bout they’ve had with the nasties that walk after dark. Can’t blame them, really.” Jack offered the last mouthful of rum to James, was refused, and swallowed it himself. He hefted it and eyed a small rock far below the cliff, but before he’d even finished estimating, James pointedly took the bottle from him. “Most like to think it’s just a one-time run of bad luck. And usually it is, so no point in thinking more on nature’s unnatural children.”
The other man set the bottle on his other side, probably meaning to take it back with him and properly dispose of it. Then he turned around and stared hard at Jack. “Why did you help me?”
“Well, that’s a question.” There really should’ve been a little more rum—just enough to haze the sky into a pleasant dusk-tinged memory, and possibly some sherry if James couldn’t be induced to try the best thing man had ever invented. Too sober meant too many questions, because Jack had his little nagging gaps as well. He’d spoken with Grégoire, of course, but that man could put on a smoothness that a windless sea couldn’t match. And Jean-François wasn’t much more than a boy whose style Jack had happened to take enough of a liking to that he felt like doing him a favor, so no point in asking him.
“Sentences with the word ‘why’ usually are,” James muttered, twisting his fingers into the ground. Then he flattened his hand so it spread across the space and just grazed Jack’s hand. His eyes looked into Jack’s head and looked past it at the same time, as if Jack were seeing two men.
But it was only one that rose to meet him when Jack straightened, dipped to his knees and leaned over James. His mouth brushed along James’ cheek and circled into his collar, which was not quite as stiff as it looked. He slid his fingers beneath it and eased James’ coat to the ground; when fingers slipped into the folds of his own, he shrugged it off and laid it down. James finally laughed, half-offended as he should be, and he began to say something about not being made of china. Which was all very well and true, and he’d probably been getting his fill of it, but Jack couldn’t help what he saw.
The deep pallor of James’ skin pervaded his whole body, which was all hipbones jagging into Jack’s palms and rib-lines an upturned hull straining through thin skin. James’ breath went ragged a beat before the rise of his prick against Jack’s thigh and the urgency of his hands on Jack’s back said it should, and there was still a deep harsh note marring the moans that parted his lips. But the tang of the ocean air had washed color back into his eyes, and when Jack laid his cheek against James’ chest, passed his hands over thighs and sides and arms, pressed his mouth hard, there was also color rising from deep within the man to stain health back into his skin.
He clutched at Jack, gave over his mouth and his body, and in return Jack found himself giving up parts of himself he hadn’t even remembered having. Baubles and glistening bubbles, gold-edged sights and blood-rusted voices rose from the deeps and danced before Jack’s eyes. And if James were looking properly, he could have seen them as well. He could have seen the answer to his question as it floated up from its broken-locked chest.
When James finally surrendered to their joining, he suddenly pressed his mouth hard to the point of Jack’s shoulder. And he kept his lips there, muffling low groaning sounds while the rest of him slowly relaxed, while Jack chased his lost pieces and grappled his way to break surface.
At last James let his head fall back, but he rested only for a second before he was sitting up, pulling at his clothes. “I only said I’d be gone for two hours; I’m late by at least that much.”
Jack didn’t exactly have a strict schedule to keep, though doubtless Anamaria was edging onto nervous by now, and he tried to keep her as calm as possible. He really should get her a boat. Ship. Later he’d think on it, but for the moment he’d watch James dress and possibly touch that soft-looking skin on the inside of the man’s wrist.
James finished straightening his coat and bent to pick up the bottle, which was when Jack’s hand finally couldn’t resist any longer. The other man’s breath caught a bit and he stared at the fingers wrapped around his wrist. Then he smiled, though it looked as if he’d rather sigh. “I’ll bring another one.”
“Will you. Then bring a bit for yourself, too. It might help. ” Not that Jack doubted James’ word, mind. He didn’t quite understand what was going through the other man’s head, but he wasn’t about to refuse anything offered. It wasn’t in his nature.
Though once in a great while he disliked always having to take what he could.
“I can’t fathom you,” James abruptly said. He pulled his hand and the bottle out of Jack’s grip, but then he stayed to rest his fingers on Jack’s shoulder. His head leaned in, but at the last moment it dropped. Then it lifted, and James was looking at Jack, asking and pleading and almost but not entirely there. “I’d like to. I’d like to have more than one conversation with you where I don’t mistake you for a hallucination.”
What he was really saying was what he could give, and whether Jack was going to ask for something beyond that. But they probably both already knew the answer to that. “Always willing to chat, commodore. Just as long as we’re not doing it with cannons.”
It wasn’t precisely what Jack had been wanting, really, but it was something he could work with. And he could be patient. A few days and a few loup-garoux couldn’t be much compared to nine years and an Aztec curse.
But still, once James had finally taken his leave, Jack lingered a little while longer by the cliff’s edge. He wondered whether it would be worth reaching for that bit more.
He’d better return; he’d probably be needing his sword.
***