Rating: NC-17 PWP m/m slash. Except, we really can't call it a PWP anymore, now can we? Bloody plot sharklings!
Pairing: Jj (J/N)
Archive: Ask, please.
Inspired by: The Theban Band's Sparrington1.jpg and 'A F***ing Desk'. Not to mention a Calcutta Whorehouse ;-)
Disclaimer: Are you kidding?! These aren't ours! Just commandeering without permission. Original LJ Post: Here.
Summary: Norrington cross-examines Jack Sparrow with an alternative method of...persuasion.
By Monkeypuzzle and Webcrowmancer
It really was quite the last thing he had expected. Threats of hanging, definitely. Snide remarks, in abundance. Perhaps a little flogging even, so that Norrington could show how very serious he was. However, being hauled on to the Commodore's very large table, forced flat on his back, with one Lieutenant holding his wrists, and another his ankles... That he was not expecting. Nor the rather wicked, feral, grin on the Commodores face.
"Now Mr. Sparrow, about that cavity search..."
Cavity search? Jack felt both a simultaneous sinking feeling and a shiver of interest crawl over him at the words. Somehow, he rather suspected that Norrington wasn't speaking in jest or referring to anything other than his actual intentions...
He tried to catch Norrington's eye. "Now, love, is all this really necessary? If you wanted me, ah, 'bent' over your desk, all you had to do was say so, 'ey?" He licked dry lips once and tried to suppress the dart of anticipation that ran through him, surprised that such a unusually fine display of stiff, Naval, British upright rigidity should reveal such a remarkably twisted but somehow undeniably interesting man beneath the wig and uniform.
But the Commodore appeared disturbingly nonchalant about this rather sordid little scene currently unfolding in his office.
"Nice try, Sparrow, but it won't do you any good this time. We were informed by another party, who shall remain nameless, that you have been smuggling intelligence concerning our fleet between a Spanish agent here in Port Royal and their headquarters stationed at San Juan, in exchange for gold. Hence your being detained here, as opposed to being strung up on the nearest yardarm. Frankly, I'm surprised you thought you'd just waltz merrily in and out of here without expecting to get caught. If you imagine even for an instant that aiding the Spanish against us will be rewarded with anything other than immediate punishment for treachery and espionage, you're gravely mistaken." With a tight and rather pleased smile at Jack, he turned to his officers. "Hold him fast."
It was with some odd pride that James watched his two lieutenants tighten their grips, and even stretch that damn pirate out more, without the slightest whisper of question. Almost as gratifying as the look on Sparrow's face. There were all these little twitches that likely corresponded to schemes thought and then discarded -- quick fleeting expressions, none settling for more than a quarter of a heartbeat. It was work to keep his expression from turning into an out-and-out grin. This was truly amusing. Yet, he reminded himself, also quite serious. He took a small breath, and headed towards the sideboard. He really must get started.
"One question, mate." Sparrow's voice sounded far too calm.
James didn't look back as he answered, "What now?"
He opened the box in front of him, and examined its contents with a careful, practiced eye. He heard the rasp of cloth, and a the slight jangle of buckles. Obviously the pirate was trying to gain some small bit of room. James quickly suppressed another smile at the sound of a harshly expelled breath. Neither Gillette nor Groves were weaklings by any standards.
"Right," the voice wasn't quite as calm now. James ran the tips of his fingers over the cool metal nested in the velvet interior, and thought careful on which path to take. "No escaping," the pirate mumbled, "however, these two gentlemen of yours'll have to let go. Got to be naked to do a proper cavity search... Or so I've heard."
Well, that decided it. His instrument in hand, James turned his back on the box, and walked with measured steps to the table. "Really Sparrow, while I realize that certain implements of polite society are quite beyond your ken," James reached out and sharply tugged his prisoner's matted locks, "I simply cannot comprehend your unfamiliarity with one of these." He raised his other hand, and allowed the cool metal to rest softly against the pirates' throat, "Especially in your line of work."
It was with some joy he watched Sparrow's eyes grow very, very wide as they took in the gracefully curved, wickedly sharp, gleaming Eastern blade resting against his neck. This time James didn't bother trying to hide his grin.
For his part, Jack was beginning to wish he hadn't ventured near Port Royal again. In fact, he promised himself to never, ever repeat the mistake again, in future. With a swallow, he stared up into Norrington's smug face and managed, "'M not the one you're looking for. An' you won't need that."
Unfortunately, Norrington was not of a mind to relent. "I'm afraid that's where you're wrong, Mr. Sparrow. It's imminently necessary," he replied, still smiling.
"Turn him over," the Commodore ordered, glad that his voice didn't give way any hint of uncertainty at this rather distasteful chore, although truth be told, he was unable to help feeling a large degree of satisfaction at having the irritating and elusive pirate in such a compromised position. It probably went beyond all decorum or protocol, but there was far too much contentment to be had in finally having the man…over a barrel, so to speak.
To the Jack's credit, he only uttered a squeak of protest as he was bodily turned over by Gillette and Groves, although he did struggle harder this time. It was to no avail. Gillette was steadfast. As was Groves. Norrington frowned slightly, noticing Groves's expression. The Lieutenant had hold of the pirate's wrists, and seemed to be deriving an inordinate amount of pleasure from it, himself.
As he leaned over the now struggling, twitching form of Sparrow, and grasped hold of the top of the pirate's breeches, he slipped the sharp edge of the blade against them and pulled it downwards, sundering the worn cloth easily.
Jack was enlightened as to the Commodore's intentions and cursed, hearing the abrasively loud noise of the cloth parting, with a tearing sound that was almost indecent. He bit back an angry, mournful retort, knowing now that Norrington hadn't really been playing him at all. He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if the Commodore realized how much this tacitly revealed, that he'd do such a job himself instead of leaving it to his underlings.
Despite the cool air he abruptly felt against his exposed buttocks, Jack mildly commented, "I'll thank you for the use of needle and thread after you're done, mate. And a seamstress."
Norrington had paused, and now he blinked, abruptly wondering at the sight of Sparrow's parted breeches and that…lovely, bare arse. He hadn't expected this task to be quite as rewarding as it had suddenly turned out to be. It had all been about having caught him, and caught him off-guard, no less. But this was an unexpected pleasure. And he wondered at the illicit dart of anticipation and desire that coursed through him as he considered what was required next.
It was a desire he had all but forgotten; a feeling he had forced down for so very long, that he had foolishly believe that it had ceased to exist. Yet here it came -- pushing its way to the surface, and sliding to life beneath his skin. He clenched his hand tight around the knife handle. Bloody Hell.
"Sir?" James cut his eyes quickly over to Gillette. So he had said that out loud had he? His brain was in a knot; how did he proceed, for this was no ordinary "investigation". The distance and reserve he cultivated so finely had deserted him, and all that was left was this dark, dangerous thing. He saw Gillette was about to speak again, when out of the corner of his eye he saw his razor, so to speak.
"It seems that the Swiftsure has come into port early, with good reason I would hope." He walked over to the open window, giving Gillette a companionable pat on the shoulder as he passed, and even without the aid of a 'scope, he could see her reason was indeed valid. Or reasons. All her top-masts had gone by the board, and every yard of canvas was holed somewhere. Her spanker was completely destroyed, and her bow was smashed to hell. The way she listed to starboard, bespoke of a terrible gash at or below the waterline. It was a miracle she had made it in at all.
He set the knife down on the sill, and turned towards his men, hands behind his back. "It appears she was badly damaged in some action..."
"Well, guess that means we'll have to postpone our little search, eh? Too bad." The glee in the pirate's voice set James's teeth on edge.
"Not by a moment, Sparrow. Mr. Gillette my apologies, and regrets, to Captain Darcy, if he survived or to the senior officer if he did not, but matters of great importance prevent my personal involvement at this moment. I would like a complete report on her damage, as well as likely cost of repair, by 4 bells of the forenoon watch on the morrow." There was a look of great relief on Gillette's face, and in his assent. "Mr. Groves, I wish a complete list of her casualties, as well as first interviews of all her surviving officers," James watched him try to hide the disappointment behind a formal expression, "again, by 4 bells of the forenoon tomorrow. And before you make any noise, Mr. Sparrow, regarding the lack of restraining hands, allow me to remind you that this is why rope was invented."
Sparrow raised his head, and looked at James from over his arm. "To tie pirates up nicely for a little torture session?"
James let his face go cold and impassive, "Yes."
Sparrow dropped his head to the table with an audible thunk.
It was a matter of moments for them to bind the Commodore's prisoner tightly to the table. A matter of very short minutes before Gillette and Groves left for their respective duties. In just tiny handful of heartbeats they were alone, prisoner and captor.
There was, James decided, too much light, too much exposure, through the open windows. He walked across the room and began to close the shutters. As he reached the last one, the one whose shaft of light made that damnable, golden, lovely arse glow, Sparrow spoke softly, and with dripping sarcasm, "This is all quite romantic, Commodore, truly I am touched at the trouble you've gone too. But..."
Before James knew what he was doing, he had grabbed the knife from it's resting spot, and smacked that fine arse with the flat of the blade - hard. Sparrow's yelp of surprise was near as lovely as his now rosy cheeks. James found himself walking forward dragging the knife tip softly up Sparrow's back, raising the shirt slowly, speaking in a low, dark voice, "I fear I must make myself clear," the knife moved up over a shoulder, whispered over braided, matted hair, as he moved to stand at the head of the table, "this is no bedroom drama to amuse a bored housewife." The tip slid along a strong jawline.
Sparrow, in show of fortitude, ignored the blade, raised his eyes to James's, and asked in a quite voice, "What is this then?"
James gave him a distracted, cold smile, his concentration on the shining edge as it moved past that ridiculous beard, to press against the thin skin of the throat. Only then did he raise his eyes to look in Sparrow's. "Life and death."
He watched Sparrow become very still as he stepped back, sliding the blade from beneath that sharp chin. James heard fast, shallow breaths as he walked towards the last window. He set the blade back on the sill, and closed the shutters. He felt Sparrow's heavy, wary gaze as he moved through the slanted half-light removing jacket, hat, and wig, Felt the tension grow higher and higher. The only noise, as he rolled up his sleeves, was the muted hum of the town below, the soft whisper of the sea beyond, and Sparrow's quiet, quiet breaths. He picked up the bottle of ointment, and as he began to smooth a good bit over his hand, he found he was unsurprised that those quiet breaths matched perfectly the soft susurration of the waves.
He walked back over to his prisoner, placed his oiled hand on the still warm arse, and leaned over so that he needn't raise his voice over a whisper. "One last thing before we begin: I will find out the information I wish. Whether by pain," his finger slid lightly into the top of that lovely, tempting cleft, and slowly down, "or by pleasure," to rub small, delicate circles around the tight, inviting hole, "I will know all your secrets, Captain."
In an attempt to keep his dignity despite the abruptly intimate and frankly unsettling turn of events, Jack cleared his throat, replying, "Must admit, Commodore, I didn't think you had it in you." He paused, the unfortunate choice of words suddenly resounding in his head. Quickly moving along, he added, "But there's really nothing to tell. So 'm afraid we'll be here for some time. You could've asked, you know. Before goin' to all this trouble." And he sucked in a breath, involuntarily gasping as the Commodore's damnably slick finger slid into him, and began questing about, looking for…Lord knew what.
The slight burn and the sensation he remembered from years past began to race through him and he was filled with a renewed admiration for the Commodore's rather unorthodox methods.
Hell and damnation - that finger, entirely too gentle now. Undoing his composure. And then that long, lovely digit pressed - down. Rubbing over that magic spot that was sure to have any man jerk in surprise. He was expecting it in fact, but was unprepared for his own response. In the next heartbeat, Jack was mortified to realize that any semblance of control was quite gone in the wake of the starry pleasure that shot through him, rendering him weak in the ropes that restrained him over the table, as a groan was torn from him. He wondered if Norrington had any intention of…following through. Or was this to be torture after all, regardless of the sweetness of it?
Norrington leaned down, his voice low as he murmured in Jack's ear, "Really, Mr. Sparrow, I would have accredited you with more resilience than this. You're practically begging for it, like one of your no-doubt frequently-visited regulars you call upon in the Tortugan brothels."
Unable to help himself, Jack shot back swiftly, "Oh, I do apologize, Commodore, for distressing you. I'll be sure to make a point of calling upon you instead, next time I need to avail meself of some expert attention. And where did you learn to do this, by the way? Hardly standard practice for Naval officers, 'ey?"
But Jack found his breathing was growing ragged, betraying his excitement and trepidation, and his hard cock was trapped against the hard, smooth wooden surface of the desk, and his own weight.
"Extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary methods," Norrington answered, indulgently. The addictive sensation of that tight, hot, silky channel surrounding his finger was causing him no little distress now. What would it be like to sheath himself within it? To run the pirate through…With flesh instead of blade…The thought was a heated one, and he wondered at how easy it would be to simply - take. "You might be surprised what practices exist for the interrogation of spies and traitors."
"An' you're well-versed in all of 'em, I'm sure," Jack answered quickly. "Only this time you're mistaken. Spying and treachery are all very well," he yelped, the last word pulled from him as Norrington's finger was abruptly joined with a second, sliding into him. He winced. "Where was I? Aye, treachery…" His own body was the betrayer now. Jack wondered at the rather interesting turn the afternoon had taken.
Norrington felt a curiously affectionate smile go over him at the pirate's obvious lapse of any semblance of endurance. With his other hand, he ran his palm over the smooth flesh of Sparrow's buttocks, enjoying the caress as much as the tiny tremble it sent through the man beneath him. For the moment this wild creature was his.
He slid his hand up under the shirt - touching, sensing, waiting for the muscles, tense then lax then tense again, to tell him how to proceed. Fingers ghosted over old scars, so many different marks, yet the skin between was as soft and smooth as the rounded flesh his other hand played between.
There was a familiar pressure building behind his eyes, and the air was gaining in weight, pressing him down, and thickening, swelling, making it hard to breath. The light had become a dim, dirty yellow, that crept instead of shone. The room had grown close and very, very still. It was heavy with the scents of sweat and musk - a heady atmosphere that threatened to overwhelm him. And he knew if he opened the shutters and looked out, the sky would be dark and menacing -- a low, leaden ceiling over a softly glowing, unearthly green sea. A storm was rolling in off the Caribbean, and it would be no small blow.
He shifted, proud to note that he never broke his rhythm, so that he was kneeling on the table astride one of Sparrow's legs. The shirt simply had to go; he needed to see the texture of the skin he felt - needed to taste it on his tongue. He grasped the hem and began to push it slowly up, letting the soft, worn cloth stroke against the skin below; Sparrow arched his body the best he could, apparently quite keen to assist. Soon it was over his head, and dangling off the end of the table, the cuffs caught by bound wrists. The back exposed was a map of a hard life; rivers of lash marks, valleys caused by the passing of knives and bullets, a jagged striation left by a flying splinter. But the flesh between gleamed in the dirty half-light, glistened, covered in small beads of sweat. The muscles shifted beneath the skin like a whore beneath silken sheets, calling to be joined. How could he refuse?
Jack wasn't certain if he was in heaven or hell, but, really, he wasn't complaining. Torture it might be -- the fingers that moved inside him were relentless, bringing him pleasure, though far too gentle to grant him release - but it was the sweetest torture he had ever known. It frightened him a bit, (not that he'd say anything, oh no) but the mind he relied on to scheme and plot, was now so much porridge sloshing thickly about his skull. The muscles, with which he'd either flee or fight, were now as useful to him as wet seaweed. And his voice, which yes perhaps got him into more than his share of trouble, but then it did get him out of said trouble and more again, was reduced to moans; moans that really were more breath than sound. He had to face a simple fact: he was quite becalmed here on this table. The Commodore's fine fingers had snatched the wind from his sails, and smoothed the water to glass.
Without his shirt in the way (thankyouthankyou) he could sense the heat of Norrington's body, and feel the small puffs of his breath grow stronger, closer. Still, he jumped a bit when a light, little kiss was placed on the small of his back. The second kiss found him waiting, and the third found him arching to meet it. The soft, soft kisses were soon interspersed by a gentle tongue that traced his scars, moving slowly, dear God so slowly, up his back. It was only when he felt an intense, hard heat at his hip that Jack realized the other man had shifted. He had moved to rest on his forearm, stretched out, half on top, his sweet weight pressing Jack down onto the unyielding table below. And that hard heat stroked Jack maddeningly, as Norrington's hips rocked in perfect compliment to the fingers still inside.
That mouth, that bloody luscious mouth, had moved up to his shoulder, lavishing it with attention. Jack turned his head to the side, and felt his hair somehow... nuzzled out of the way, and that glorious liquid heat was on his neck, then up to trace the curve of his ear.
A sound, soft and deep, more felt than heard, danced across the sensitive flesh causing him to shiver. "Huh, wha? Didn't...oh God... quite catch tha-...mmm." Nope, coherent he was not. And Norrington's dark little laugh did nothing to help.
"I said," the Commodore breathed against his skin, "'I believe we were talking about treachery...'"
Treachery? Jack shook his head, trying to get the porridge to all glomp back together in some semblance of a brain, but seeing how the good Commodore would just not stop his kisses, and pettings, and fingers! Jack tried to take a deep breath, failed, and let it out as a moan. Another attempt at gaining any breath, this time a bit more successful. "You expect me to bloody think right now??"
That brought a second dark little laugh to Jack's ear. "I could stop..."
"No!" he breathed out harshly, "No please, just... "
He felt Norrington shift again, felt him push himself up a bit more, to loom over Jack. That hard heat, as unfaltering as that tireless hand, now rested heavy against Jack's arse.
"Why?" that dark voice asked.
Jack nodded his head the best he could.
"Because if you put a man who's afraid of spiders in a room with even the smallest, most harmless of the breed, it'll still break him faster than fists will." Norrington leaned his head back down, placing his mouth again at Jack's ear, "My men are dying without being given a chance to fight, Captain," Jack shivered at the sound of the last word, so respectfully spoken, "and I need to know why so that I may put an end to it." The tongue came out, and began to caress his ear once more.
Jack opened his mouth, not certain what he was going to say, but felt the need to speak anyways. "M'not afraid of spiders." Bloody porridge brains!
There was no laugh this time, just a quiet hum of assent, and a brush of lips on his shoulder.
"I know, not much scares you, does it? But tell me, when was the last time someone touched you like this? With care, and patience? When was the last time someone touched you like a lover, Jack?"
He could not stop the jolt that raced though him at the sound of that name, falling from those lips. He could not stop the moan that left his own mouth, or stop his hips from pressing hard onto the table beneath. "Too long, oh God, far too long."
And for his answer he was rewarded: the fingers sped up, driving harder in and out of him, the kisses became nips, and Norrington's hips pressed into him with intention. And between the breaths and the moans, he heard his name once more.
"Please, Jack... I..."
"Oh God... what? What?"
"Where were you born?"
Where was I...?"St. Augustine, don't see what that..." It was only when he realized that Norrington had not only stopped, but pulled away, that he understood. He pressed his forehead hard against the table beneath him, and wrapped his fists white-knuckle tight around the restraining ropes.
The Commodore's voice came this time, not from close by his ear, but from a good distance to larboard, and was as cold as ice. "St. Augustine. That's in East Florida, isn't it? Spanish East Florida?"
Jack didn't bother trying to deny it. He didn't even bother to shake his head -- just tried to gather his poor, muddled wits about him.
"You're Spanish then?"
"Half! Only... half." He took a deep breath and tried so hard to relax, tried and failed. He took another breath, preparing to lay down the only card he had now, the truth. Or at least as close to the truth as Norrington would ever get from him. "And I hold no love for it. M'mum was a Costa Indian, though she always called her ancestors the Ais. She was a servant in the Governor's house. And by servant I mean slave." He heard a rustling of cloth; no doubt the Commodore was putting his regalia back on, now that the pirate was broken. Jack shook his head trying, trying, to pull himself together. But he had no luck. There was no sound from the other man. No sound and no sense of movement. The weight of the incoming storm had smothered the everyday noises coming from outside, and the silence was oppressive.
Finally, Jack cleared his throat and continued, "The day she died, I got myself out to one of those fine British pirate, excuse me," the next word he could not help but say with a sneer, "privateer ships that were always lurking about off the coast. I was 10."
Still Jack heard nothing, felt nothing. He could very well have been alone.
"Well, is that it, then?" he called out, "You find out what you wanted? You all finished with me?"
He flinched hard when he felt hands on his ankle, hands that were in fact undoing his bonds, hands that then moved up to massage cramped, tired muscles. The whisper of the storm-heralding breeze slipping though the shutter-slats could not hide the creak of the desk bearing more weight. Nor could its coolness hide the heat of another body, another quite naked body, sliding up his own. Those hands reached out and undid his wrist restraints. Then they intertwined themselves in his own. He felt the sweet weight of another body press him down. Then with a talented twist of the hips, the hot hard heaviness of James's cock was right where Jack had wanted it for so long. And that dark, honeyed voice was back at his ear; a single word like a fresh breeze, calling up the waves.
Jack closed his eyes and moaned, then he spread his legs more, opening himself as much as he knew how. James took the hint.
Jack was glad the storm chose that moment to break because...it was hard and fast and loud. The table creaked and groaned in time to the slapping of their bodies straining together. There was a slick skittering of flesh on flesh. Jamie's harsh breath and sharp teeth on his shoulder. THAT hand making a nice, slippery, tight space for Jack's dick. So much, so much. Pulling in, condensing, tightening. Jerking. Sliding. Pushing. On and on and on and...
He lay there shivering, and shaking, unable to come down while Jamie fought for his own release. Jack never wanted him to come -- just wanted to stay like this always. But nature is a bitch, and all things end, and Jack didn't really mind much when Jamie did come, because he gripped Jack's hips so tight, like he didn't want to let go himself. Then he slid those hands of his up along Jack's body: one went out to grip Jack's hand again, the other wove itself gently through Jack's hair. Oh, that was a nice sensation. Almost as nice as the feel of Jamie leaning down, and placing a kiss on his cheek.
Jack smiled when he heard an indrawn breath, then...
James quickly untangled his hand from Jack's hair, and fumbled about for a pulse. His body relaxed when he found it, strong and steady, and he rested his head against Jack's back. What now? Perhaps he was a fool, but he felt in his bones that Jack was not the Judas. But who then? And how could he draw them out, get them to show themselves? He ran his thumb absently along Jack's jaw.
"And how do I protect you in the mean time?" He couldn't help but smile down at the unconscious, sleeping man, "I am quite certain you will have a thousand ideas, but for now..." He heaved a great sigh... Then paused. He sniffed the air again... And laughed weakly, "Good God; this room smells like a Calcutta whorehouse."
Norrington knew what the Marines would see when they entered to retrieve the accused spy. He, the Commodore, was groomed to perfection, and if there was a bit more color to his cheeks than normal... Well, he was dealing with that damnable pirate; no one would blame him for getting a bit worked up. Said annoying pirate was lying at his feet, an insensate heap, hands bound behind his back, a thin blanket thrown over his legs. All the windows and shutters were open letting in not just as much light as there was to be had, but also the wonderfully cooling breeze the storm had brought.
"Sergeant Whiting," he said, addressing himself to the most senior Marine of the three, "Mr. Sparrow is to be placed in solitary confinement. He is to be well-fed, well-watered, and given a fresh set of clothing. No one is to speak to, nor see him, save for myself. Is that clear?"
The Marine snapped off a fine salute, "Aye, sir, it is."
"Very well." Norrington stepped back to let the two other officers gather Sparrow up off the floor. "One more thing, Sergeant. My compliments to Mr. Martin, and I wish to speak to him at his earliest convenience."
He watched them carry Sparrow out, then shut the door. It was only then that he allowed himself to relax.
Jack shifted, frowned and then opened his eyes with a grimace. Ah. Back in the cell. He sighed, and tried to remember… what was the last thing that…
His eyes widened as it all flooded back, and he sat up, nursing a stiff neck and wincing at his sore backside.
Bloody Norrington. Now that really was an interesting little revelation. Jack grinned. He never would have guessed the staid, uptight officer had it in him.
As his gaze dropped to the floor by the cell door, he caught sight of the tray of food and the pitcher. Well, well. The pitcher probably contained fresh water, he mused, wishing it were rum instead.
There was an undeniable part of him that felt indignant at the way Norrington had tricked him. He scowled to himself. Played him like a fine violin, was more to the point. Yet, there was also a measure of admiration at the lengths the Commodore had gone to acquire so much information from him. Wryly, Jack recalled virtually singing at just the threat of being denied any further touches from Norrington. Why, he'd practically burbled his life story to the man, and all for lust.
Thoughtfully, he gathered the tray of food and the pitcher (it was water, unfortunately), and sat back against the wall to eat while considering his options.
He'd never expected for them to be specifically lying in wait for him here in this port town. Beyond the usual, that is. With him being an infamous, notorious pirate and all. But in particular, suspecting him of espionage, of all things.
At first, he'd thought it a jest, some hastily cobbled excuse on the Commodore's part to get into his breeches or something. But the moment he'd mentioned Spanish ancestry, Norrington had jumped all over it.
Jack chuckled to himself. As if a word of it were true, no less. He couldn't believe Norrington had fallen for it.
Giving his father's story in lieu of his own was easier to remember than making up an entirely false tale, and easier to keep straight, if he were questioned further.
For an amateur, Norrington showed wonderful potential for conducting a proper interrogation. And it was interesting that he was flexible enough to lean towards using a man's responses to pleasurable stimulation as well as more painful methods. Enlightening in the extreme.
Really, he'd be doing Jamie Norrington an act of kindness if he returned the favor, and showed him how to really accomplish a first-rate grilling of a suspect. Teaching by example.
The thought of subjecting the Commodore to a similar procedure in the future, bound and stripped (now that was a lovely thought), was almost enough to counter the resignation he felt at having broken earlier. He couldn't even really find himself very angry, after the very sweet interlude Jamie'd treated him to on that desk of his. Well, not that much, anyway.
So, Norrington was worried about the Spanish, was he? Jack settled back, considering all possible ways in which he might offer to help the Commodore with his little problem. There was always the obvious solution: as a pirate, he had access to all the scuttlebutt between all the settlements, from French to Dutch to Spanish to British…and if there really were some agents working out of Port Royal, they had to be contacting someone for their gold.
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