PoTC: Birds of a Feather
Jul. 24th, 2004 03:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleChipping away at a backlog of late entries, because they *will* all get done, honestly...
Title: Birds of a Feather
Author: Doyle (doyle@exitseraphim.net)
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of them are mine.
Notes: My Sparrington ficathon entry for Melody. Huge apologies for the extreme lateness.
Ramrod-straight on the beach, Norrington set his jaw against the impulse to strip himself of his uniform jacket and scanned the vast, empty horizon one more time, hoping for a glimpse of sails.
Nothing.
He spun on his heel, boots sinking a little into the soft sand, and stalked back to where his only companion - dear Lord, what a terrible thought - was flat on his back, arms pillowed behind his head and that ludicrous hat tipped over his face.
"Sparrow," Norrington snapped, and when no reply was forthcoming he plucked the hat away, throwing it onto the sand.
Sparrow opened his eyes, stretching like a parlour cat waking from a long nap in the sunshine. "Commodore," he said pleasantly. "You've not been rescued as of yet, then."
"So it would appear." His tone was one that would have sent the rawest ensign under his command scurrying to find something inconspicuous to do, but Sparrow merely climbed to his feet in that oddly graceful manner of his. He swayed gently on the spot, perhaps still unaccustomed to dry land, even after these last few days on this blasted island. That, or he was drunk. Norrington was sure they were far from any rumrunners' route, but he wouldn't put it past the man to find some way of squeezing alcohol from the coconuts that littered the woods.
"Seems to me," Sparrow said, "that p'rhaps you'd be best saving your energies. The Pearl'll get here in her own sweet time."
Norrington bristled. "This island," he said, "is not on any nautical chart I've ever seen. That storm must have thrown us leagues off-course. But if anyone is going to find us, I assure you, it will be my ship and my crew, and you will be in my brig, where you so richly belong."
If he didn't know better - and he wasn't quite certain he did - he'd suspect Sparrow of being behind the whole thing. For that strange wind to arise just as he was returning to the Dauntless with his newly-captured prisoner seemed unlucky chance of the most unlikely degree.
Interest was gleaming in the pirate's dark eyes. "Your crew against mine, eh? Sounds a fine wager. What say ten…" he cast a glance around the beach, "*twenty* coconuts?"
Not dignifying that with a reply, James turned on his heel and strode away. Some peace, that was all he needed, peace, quiet, and a high vantage point for a better view of the sea; the hilltop on the other side of the island would do nicely. If it was also free from insufferable pirates, then it would indeed be a paradise.
**
The hill was as peaceful as anticipated. Seated on the sparse grass, finally divest of that coat and his boats, there was almost a tranquillity about the place.
Odd, then, that his attention should turn away from the horizon and toward the beach, where Sparrow was adding palm leaves to the fire. It was just surprise at this rare feat of industry, James told himself, but that was scarcely fair - Sparrow had pulled his weight in gathering food, finding shelter, keeping the signal-fire burning.
He did seem unperturbed at finding them marooned. Norrington suspected he was amused at having once again evaded capture. The island had fresh water, and plenty of food. Norrington would be happy if he never saw a coconut again, but there were trees laden with fruits, and they'd caught glimpses of boar in the forest. "This would be the island of Circe, then!" Sparrow had exclaimed. "That biggest one, he did strike me as looking a bit like your first mate, mate." The manic look of a born storyteller barely faded when James pointed out that the generally accepted location of Aeaea was at least six hundred miles away. And anyway, that was a peninsula.
He was somewhat relieved, though, when the boar which they snared didn't look a thing like any of his men.
It did make him wonder what stories would come of this latest adventure of Sparrow's. No doubt in the retelling the account would have sea-serpents and the island would be populated with wanton nymphs of some form. What part would he take, then? A buffoon of an officer, playing the comedic role?
The thought made him glare down at the tiny figure weaving between the trees and the sand. But, he thought, that didn't sit quite right. Perhaps in Sparrow's tall tales he would be a worthy adversary, aggrandized into a villain to terrify pirate children.
The sun was almost below the horizon, and he roused himself with a start; he'd been so involved with watching Sparrow that he hadn't realized it was getting dark.
**
"Commodore," Sparrow greeted him. "Still not…"
"Not rescued, no." Previous nights, he'd kept his distance. He was ready to walk past Sparrow, find a place further down the sand, but he hesitated; it was getting rather chilly, and a spot by the fire did seem inviting. He sat down on the sand, a few feet from Sparrow, who made no comment except to hold out a palm leaf that was serving as a makeshift plate.
James took one of the pieces of pork, his upbringing compelling him to say "thank you."
The pirate gave him a magnanimous nod. Something gleamed in the firelight; it took Norrington a moment to realize it was a bauble in his hair.
"Kept an eye out myself," Sparrow said, prodding the fire with a stick. "No hide nor hair of sails. Of any colour."
"You may win your wager yet." It was supposed to be an attempt at levity, but it fell flat in the saying. A storm that was ferocious, that rose out of nowhere - he knew how swiftly ships could under, even a ship as fine as the Dauntless.
The dim light made it hard to read Sparrow's expression, but he was tilting his head in what seemed to be surprise. "You're a mystery, Commodore. I like mysteries. 'Cept the ones where it was the cabin boy what did it. Hate those. Far too predictable."
"I imagine predictability is a bane of your existence, Mr. Sparrow."
"*Captain* Sparrow."
Was it a trick of the light, or had the other man shifted closer to him? No, it wasn't his imagination - they were shoulder to shoulder now. Norrington thought about moving, but there was a more pressing matter at hand. "Why am I a mystery, Captain Sparrow?" he asked.
He beamed at the appellation. "You're a military man, Commodore. As your rank implies. Very few pirate commodores. And I've never known a military man to have such a feel for the sea." He swept his hand out to where the dark waves were murmuring against the sand. "It's in your blood, same as it is mine. Shame you're so upstanding, really. You'd have made a hell of a pirate."
James awarded him a thin smile. "I'm astonished there's any room left in your blood. I would have imagined it was filled with rum."
"Ah, then you would have imagined wrong," Sparrow said genially. "Me 'n you're of a kind, Commodore. Birds of a feather, eh?" Somehow his hand had gone to James' arm, and his voice gained a speculative air. "And you know what they say about them."
Very deliberately, James detached the hand from his person and returned it to its owner's lap. "I assure you, *Captain* Sparrow," he said, "there will be no flocking of any description."
But he turned his head for a moment, pretending he was looking out at the sea that was in their mutual blood. And he might, almost, have smiled.
Title: Birds of a Feather
Author: Doyle (doyle@exitseraphim.net)
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of them are mine.
Notes: My Sparrington ficathon entry for Melody. Huge apologies for the extreme lateness.
Ramrod-straight on the beach, Norrington set his jaw against the impulse to strip himself of his uniform jacket and scanned the vast, empty horizon one more time, hoping for a glimpse of sails.
Nothing.
He spun on his heel, boots sinking a little into the soft sand, and stalked back to where his only companion - dear Lord, what a terrible thought - was flat on his back, arms pillowed behind his head and that ludicrous hat tipped over his face.
"Sparrow," Norrington snapped, and when no reply was forthcoming he plucked the hat away, throwing it onto the sand.
Sparrow opened his eyes, stretching like a parlour cat waking from a long nap in the sunshine. "Commodore," he said pleasantly. "You've not been rescued as of yet, then."
"So it would appear." His tone was one that would have sent the rawest ensign under his command scurrying to find something inconspicuous to do, but Sparrow merely climbed to his feet in that oddly graceful manner of his. He swayed gently on the spot, perhaps still unaccustomed to dry land, even after these last few days on this blasted island. That, or he was drunk. Norrington was sure they were far from any rumrunners' route, but he wouldn't put it past the man to find some way of squeezing alcohol from the coconuts that littered the woods.
"Seems to me," Sparrow said, "that p'rhaps you'd be best saving your energies. The Pearl'll get here in her own sweet time."
Norrington bristled. "This island," he said, "is not on any nautical chart I've ever seen. That storm must have thrown us leagues off-course. But if anyone is going to find us, I assure you, it will be my ship and my crew, and you will be in my brig, where you so richly belong."
If he didn't know better - and he wasn't quite certain he did - he'd suspect Sparrow of being behind the whole thing. For that strange wind to arise just as he was returning to the Dauntless with his newly-captured prisoner seemed unlucky chance of the most unlikely degree.
Interest was gleaming in the pirate's dark eyes. "Your crew against mine, eh? Sounds a fine wager. What say ten…" he cast a glance around the beach, "*twenty* coconuts?"
Not dignifying that with a reply, James turned on his heel and strode away. Some peace, that was all he needed, peace, quiet, and a high vantage point for a better view of the sea; the hilltop on the other side of the island would do nicely. If it was also free from insufferable pirates, then it would indeed be a paradise.
**
The hill was as peaceful as anticipated. Seated on the sparse grass, finally divest of that coat and his boats, there was almost a tranquillity about the place.
Odd, then, that his attention should turn away from the horizon and toward the beach, where Sparrow was adding palm leaves to the fire. It was just surprise at this rare feat of industry, James told himself, but that was scarcely fair - Sparrow had pulled his weight in gathering food, finding shelter, keeping the signal-fire burning.
He did seem unperturbed at finding them marooned. Norrington suspected he was amused at having once again evaded capture. The island had fresh water, and plenty of food. Norrington would be happy if he never saw a coconut again, but there were trees laden with fruits, and they'd caught glimpses of boar in the forest. "This would be the island of Circe, then!" Sparrow had exclaimed. "That biggest one, he did strike me as looking a bit like your first mate, mate." The manic look of a born storyteller barely faded when James pointed out that the generally accepted location of Aeaea was at least six hundred miles away. And anyway, that was a peninsula.
He was somewhat relieved, though, when the boar which they snared didn't look a thing like any of his men.
It did make him wonder what stories would come of this latest adventure of Sparrow's. No doubt in the retelling the account would have sea-serpents and the island would be populated with wanton nymphs of some form. What part would he take, then? A buffoon of an officer, playing the comedic role?
The thought made him glare down at the tiny figure weaving between the trees and the sand. But, he thought, that didn't sit quite right. Perhaps in Sparrow's tall tales he would be a worthy adversary, aggrandized into a villain to terrify pirate children.
The sun was almost below the horizon, and he roused himself with a start; he'd been so involved with watching Sparrow that he hadn't realized it was getting dark.
**
"Commodore," Sparrow greeted him. "Still not…"
"Not rescued, no." Previous nights, he'd kept his distance. He was ready to walk past Sparrow, find a place further down the sand, but he hesitated; it was getting rather chilly, and a spot by the fire did seem inviting. He sat down on the sand, a few feet from Sparrow, who made no comment except to hold out a palm leaf that was serving as a makeshift plate.
James took one of the pieces of pork, his upbringing compelling him to say "thank you."
The pirate gave him a magnanimous nod. Something gleamed in the firelight; it took Norrington a moment to realize it was a bauble in his hair.
"Kept an eye out myself," Sparrow said, prodding the fire with a stick. "No hide nor hair of sails. Of any colour."
"You may win your wager yet." It was supposed to be an attempt at levity, but it fell flat in the saying. A storm that was ferocious, that rose out of nowhere - he knew how swiftly ships could under, even a ship as fine as the Dauntless.
The dim light made it hard to read Sparrow's expression, but he was tilting his head in what seemed to be surprise. "You're a mystery, Commodore. I like mysteries. 'Cept the ones where it was the cabin boy what did it. Hate those. Far too predictable."
"I imagine predictability is a bane of your existence, Mr. Sparrow."
"*Captain* Sparrow."
Was it a trick of the light, or had the other man shifted closer to him? No, it wasn't his imagination - they were shoulder to shoulder now. Norrington thought about moving, but there was a more pressing matter at hand. "Why am I a mystery, Captain Sparrow?" he asked.
He beamed at the appellation. "You're a military man, Commodore. As your rank implies. Very few pirate commodores. And I've never known a military man to have such a feel for the sea." He swept his hand out to where the dark waves were murmuring against the sand. "It's in your blood, same as it is mine. Shame you're so upstanding, really. You'd have made a hell of a pirate."
James awarded him a thin smile. "I'm astonished there's any room left in your blood. I would have imagined it was filled with rum."
"Ah, then you would have imagined wrong," Sparrow said genially. "Me 'n you're of a kind, Commodore. Birds of a feather, eh?" Somehow his hand had gone to James' arm, and his voice gained a speculative air. "And you know what they say about them."
Very deliberately, James detached the hand from his person and returned it to its owner's lap. "I assure you, *Captain* Sparrow," he said, "there will be no flocking of any description."
But he turned his head for a moment, pretending he was looking out at the sea that was in their mutual blood. And he might, almost, have smiled.