Rating: R
Category: Dark, comedy
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Commodore Norrington, implied Commodore Norrington/Elizabeth Swann
Summary: "You gave the King your liberty at too young an age."
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Disney, Jerry Bruckheimer Productions, and their respective actors, Mr. Depp and Mr. Davenport. No profit is made from this story.
Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached
Notes: My first Sparrington fic. Oy...
Feedback: Desired.
Dedication: To circe_tigana. Happy birthday, chica!


By Ignited

As far as rankings go, James knows that they mean nothing in this desolate setting.


He's not the captain of this ship, but he is a Commodore that has boarded it. Declared it taken by order of the Governor. It's been a while - perhaps months or years, depending on who's said it. If it was that ragtag sort of miscreant in the doorway, then it's been terrible torture, honestly. He's doing what he sees fit, and 'borrowin'' from ships is safe and fit enough. Of course, there was the chance of being caught, but that was a technicality.

To Commodore Norrington, it has been three months, at the very least.

It would end in another few weeks, when Jack's lifeless body would be cast down from the hangman's noose.

But that has not happened yet-or will happen, given the activities ready to be described - and so Norrington pauses in his walk.

He's been looking about Jack's quarters for a while now, eyeing at the various forms of debauchery and so-called freedom. There are the maps on the table, the empty rum bottles. Freedom and debauchery as it were. Sin, more like it, as both groups of items had been stolen. No doubt from honest men who went home with tales of a mad pirate. One that waved about erratically, a snake drawing its prey.

Norrington doesn't find anything particularly impressive about Sparrow.

He finds him rather repulsive, actually.

Sparrow's still standing there, irons on his wrists, a pout on his face. He's been let inside of his quarters, alone with the Commodore. There was much protesting on Gillette's part, as per usual, but Norrington waved him off. He had instructed the crew to let the pirate in with no fuss.

"Y'think you'll be done anytime soon?" Sparrow asks, lifting his hands and waving a finger. "'Cause I'm feeling a bit parched."

"I see," Norrington says, disdainfully pushing a rum bottle with his foot. The interior of the captain's quarters is dark and oppressive, having not much changed since Barbossa took hold of the ship, he imagines. Dirty and streaked windows give way to the deep blue of beyond, faint firelight illuminating the water below. Night in all its glory.

He clasps his hands behind his back, walking quietly about the quarters. Taking it in, it seems, the last shred of piracy he's come across. Soon it will be gone, and he'll be at the fort, bored and dreary.

Well, not quite, but having given this Sparrow a good chase for six months, it would seem boring afterwards.

"Nothin' much, perhaps, t'your eyes. But it's me home, random as it were." Jack seems to pride himself on the fact that the place is very close to being in shambles. And yet, Norrington knows why - he's on the deck, that Sparrow, steering the ship, shouting orders. He returns every so often to this confined place. Does a few things. Charts, planning, for one thing. Rum, of course. Nights spent with whomever tickled his fancy.

Norrington wouldn't be surprised if he included blokes in that lot.

Miscreant and all. S'what Jack was.


He's standing before Jack Sparrow now, who's shorter by an inch or two, who's in irons. Sparrow's got his hands in front, while Norrington's hands are clasped behind. Sparrow smiles, shows those gold teeth. His head bobs up and down, neck and shoulders relaxing as he weaves a tale. Perhaps an excuse. Or maybe even a flirtatious invitation. Norrington can never know.

He orders Sparrow to be quiet.

"As the grave," Sparrow responds, a flick of fingers towards his mouth. It's a subtle movement, a quick breath of air that smells foul and faintly of alcohol.

"Clearly there's nothing of importance here. Now. Where is the shipment?" Norrington asks, and he's referring to the shipment of various items recently stolen. The Pearl swept her cloak over an innocent ship, robbed it of its insides, then sailed off. But she's captured now, and her captain's not doing well. Given the British fleet, the irons and so on, and so forth.

"Shipment?" Sparrow peers about the room, as if it's hidden under the random baubles littering the shelves and floor. "Aye?"

"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Sparrow. I could have you hanged for good, as you know," Norrington responds bluntly. "And this time, you won't have your blacksmith friend to help you."

"Nor your wife, if I were to be so lucky," Sparrow responds, somewhat leering. He's reprimanded by a stern look from Norrington, but doesn't back down. "How is the miss?"

"None of your concern," Norrington responds, and tries to not let Sparrow delve into his mind. Elizabeth is there with a smile and a pout, flawless. She won't be tainted by Sparrow, not if Norrington can help it.

He moves on.



Gillette's been outside listening the entire time, making Norrington wonder if he should feel embarrassed or not. Instead, he waits until the man pokes his head in, giving a glance of contempt to Sparrow. Norrington still has his hands clasped behind him.

"I want you and your men off the ship."

"But sir-the crew?"

"Take them ashore. I'll return within the hour."

Gillette hesitates for a while, and then he leaves. The sea quiets; the crew has shuffled off, the clickety clack of boots and other harsh things leaves.

Norrington closes the door. Locks it.

"Commodore. I'm rather surprised, meself..." Sparrow starts to tick off random things on his fingers. "Don't suppose it's the chase - no. Or perhaps you've gone and caught yourself a bit of scurvy."

Norrington turns to Sparrow. Stares at him, blank, and let's Sparrow's breath hang in the air. The cabin is closed and repressive, and Jack smells strangely. He doesn't smell of those nice, exotic things - no, this man is a pirate, born to taste the sea and apparently not to bathe in it.

"I find you've become a bit slow, Sparrow." Norrington raises an eyebrow, walking up close to Jack. "Three months. I thought it'd take longer."

"Suppose to be six, really, but we were bogged down by a sick spell," Sparrow responds naturally, offering a shrug. "I don't s'pose you've got a set of keys on you?"

He raises his wrists, eyebrows shooting up in hope.

"Gillette left with them."

They go down, and Jack pouts.

Norrington shows Sparrow his hands now, and a little silver ring dangles off a loop.

"I lied."

"Thought as much." Another wave of his wrists. "Open up, darling."

In more ways than one, but that would be decided later.


Gillette's been waitin' too long. As well as the wife. They'll be snippy and cross.

James doesn't care for Gillette at the moment, or for his duties and the like.

Since he's got this pirate leanin' on him just so, leg wrapped around loose trousers. And he's whisperin' thoughts and words into his ear, teaching him, tellin' him. He's puttin' thoughts in the Commodore's mind this whole time, to the point of utter saturation. This pirate's hot and bothered, and he smells of random bits and pieces that James would know nothin' about.

"Right, love?"

He doesn't really love Sparrow. Nor does Sparrow love this Commodore.

They're in a quandary, but they let those nagging feelings pass. James doesn't like this situation much, yet he finds himself doing the same routine every so often: he'll drop a line, and it'll snake out, through mouths and words. Sparrow finds out by a letter perhaps, or some snip of conversation. Never real names, only a message of a search.

Somehow, Sparrow would find himself in a dirty little room. Then he'd have his wrists bound, or he'd have his mouth gagged. He'd let the Commodore do things that he wouldn't dare dream of.

But of course, Sparrow had his turn first.

"The whip'll sting across your flesh, boy, and I'm t'rid you of that stiffness in your blood."

He made a broken man out of the Commodore that night, and for that, Sparrow was glad.

"They tell you you're not ready. They tell you that you're innocent. Y'can't do nothin' wrong. I'll show you that you can. And you always have, dear James. You've put this off too long. Repressed it."

Another whisper, a bite of an earlobe.

"You gave the King your liberty at too young an age."

Tanned fingers slip into trousers, spin the body around and plaster pale marble against hot flesh.

"An' whether you like it or not, Commodore, I shall reclaim it."


James groans because Sparrow's on top of him, and they're doing it, now, rough, damning the world and its distractions. It's lick, kiss, bite and sex now, and sometimes that order changes. Sometimes it's all blended until limbs and torsos are at odd angles. Then there are fire hazards - candle kicked - bodily wounds and lengthy argument, until it fades away, and someone's being brought under control.

He says Sparrow's name (Jack--! God - stop!) in breaths, commands him to stop.

But here, his rank is only Slave, and Jack's is far higher on the cosmic and oceanographic scale.


The bed is neatly done. A coin-gold, no, too many memories-could be dropped and it'd bounce back up. It's muted tan colors that match the walls: swirls of grays and browns, four rough, stonewalls. There may or may not be a small table in the corner, and a matching chair. Three or four legs, it isn't sure.

The pitcher's full of dirty water, and so is the mug nearby.

But now, Commodore Norrington cannot deal with the trivial matters of unsanitary food and drink.

He's perfect in his uniform: not a hair out of place in his wig, or a button lost. A quick once over, some flicking of dust, and he's spotless. Elizabeth shall be waiting for him.

So he gets ready to leave this room where Jack Sparrow's sprawled, still naked on the bed, legs spread far apart, God knows what crawling about him. Jack lets the sheet drape over a thigh, stares at the ceiling. It's dirty and plain, having once been spotless, but now it's tainted.

"When's the next one?" Jack asks, barely a glance underneath dark lashes.

Norrington looks at him, and the sprawled position.

Jack is not so repulsive now.

Then he says, "In two weeks."

It's the shortest time between meetings.

But that's because Norrington won't be able to put it off any longer.

And because of that, Norrington is afraid.


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