FIC -- CHs 6-7

Jane’s angry departure created a sobering mood on deck. The game table was cleared away quickly; most of the crew, after a few knowing glances and pointed nods at James, departed to their own quarters, night duties, or corners of the ship. Elizabeth excused herself with a sheepish whisper, having clearly taken some of Jane’s words to heart. Jack and Gibbs both shot vicious looks at James before walking away, leaving him alone to consider the game’s untimely end.

James was not unused to the oftimes erratic behavior of women. For most of his life, they had been an endless source of confusion, starting with his mother and her strange turns of mood throughout his childhood—not half the reason he left home for the Navy—and more recently Elizabeth and her poor-blacksmith-cum-pirate fiancé. He’d reasoned long ago that women were illogical creatures, given to fickleness and emotion. But it still vexed him when he found himself to be the cause of one of their turns, especially when he had no idea how he’d done it in the first place.

She was the one who’d suggested the game; she was the one who’d asked the most biting questions, some of which—he felt sure—had no purpose other than to try and get a reaction from him. At least he’d tried to gather actual information with his questions—he could easily, he reasoned, have asked her inappropriate, even cruel questions. He could have delved more deeply into her relationship with her Captain, for one thing. Or her past criminal activities. Or any number of other subjects that he felt confident would have forced her to express some emotion other than sarcasm. A little voice was prickling in his head, trying to remind him that questioning an admitted orphan about her dead parents was perhaps not the nicest thing he could have done, but he silenced the thought and replaced it with more annoyed reasoning. “Her game, her rules, her bloody attitude,” he muttered to himself, “And somehow it’s my fault she’s upset, and everyone on the blasted ship despises me anew.”

He sat alone, stewing for several long moments. “Oh bugger this,” he said aloud. James strode across the deck to Sparrow. “Let’s be clear, you and I,” he stated. “I played the game by the rules as you and she explained them to me. I won the majority of the roles, and yet somehow I still end up the loser. So to whom do I owe the first apology in order to make my life on board this ship as tolerable as can reasonably be expected, you or her?”

Jack, who had been looking at the sea, barely flicked his eyes at James. “You don’t owe me nothing, mate.”

“So it’s to be her, then.” James felt the directionless anger he’d been struggling with these many months bubbling up again. “I expect I’ll find her in your cabin, awaiting comfort and succor?”

“You’ll not want to be talking that way to me.” Now Jack turned fully and leaned in close, so James would not mistake him. “Mind your manners, James. And if you speak of her like that again, ‘tis I who’ll cut your throat for you, or worse. Savvy?”

James did not back down. “Just tell me where she is, Captain.”

“You’d do best to leave her alone.”

“That’s as may be,” James admitted, anger still evident in his tone. “But we’re all quite aware of my recent inability to leave well enough alone. So where is she?”

Jack stared James full in the eye for a time before shrugging his shoulders. “ ‘S your funeral, whether at her hands or mine if I find you’ve upset her further. If she wants to be found, she’s like to be in the rum locker, where none but me is allowed. Which would mean she’s expecting me to be the one who finds her, and woe unto he who is not me.”

“Woe and I are already familiar,” James said. “Should you require me, Captain, I’ll be below. If I don’t return, feel free to throw what’s left to the sharks.” He left the deck.

The rum locker was below, not far from Sparrow’s cabin. A hefty lock was on the door, but now it hung lose and the door swung open easily when James pushed on it. The room was musty and smelled of old liquor and damp wood. He listened for a sound, any sound to indicate where she was, and he was shortly rewarded by the soft clink of glass against wood. He strode swiftly toward the noise, speaking as he moved. “Sparrow told me where I might find you. I thought it best to apologize immediately for whatever the hell it was that I said or did wrong, not that I fool myself for a moment that it would matter to…” His voice trailed off when he turned a corner and she came into view.

It was a matter of seconds between the time he saw her and her realization that she was seen; as soon as the realization hit, her face took on its customary scowl. But in those quick seconds, James saw a very different Jane and genuine remorse flooded through him. Her hair hung loose, the rag that had held it back now crumpled in her hand. The locks fell in a dark curtain across part of her face, but the fact that she had been crying was clear. The kohl around her eyes was smeared, what little of it hadn’t been wiped away, and the eyes themselves were bright with tears. Her face was flushed, and her lips were swollen and red, as if she’s been biting them. Her face was beautiful, and James felt a flash of shame—this was hardly the time for such a realization, he scolded himself.

She’d exchanged her rum-soaked breeches for tattered skirts, and one of the tears gaped wide as she quickly stood up, allowing James a glimpse of well-muscled thigh. Not surprisingly, Jane wore no bloomers. He felt another flash of shame, at least until she narrowed her eyes at him and scowled, “Leave.”

His aggravation returned immediately. “I won’t,” he said stubbornly. “I came to apologize for whatever imaginary wrong I did you, and I mean to do it.”

“Bollocks to your apology!” She was a touch unsteady on her feet. “I don’t require it or your pity, and so bollocks to you as well. Now get out. I’m waiting for someone and it’s not you.”

“Who do you think told me where you were?” James shot back. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, not moving. “And it’s not pity that brought me. Conveniently, I lack the energy to pity anyone but myself at this point in time, but you will hear my apology, even if it means more blood for your blades.”

“Will I?” She threw the bottle against the wall, shattering the glass and splattering them both with rum. She didn’t bother to wipe it from her face as she strode toward him. Her anger was almost palpable, and James, bound though he was in his own fury, had to struggle not to move away from her. “Who do you think you are?” she demanded. “How many times do you have to be reminded that you are not the one who gives orders here, who gives orders anywhere? You have no power, no authority over anything anymore. You have nothing.”

She was livid, hissing and spitting her words. James was reminded again of that feral jungle cat from years before, but far from inspiring fear in him, she instead gave rise to his own heated response. “It would seem,” he said through clenched teeth, “That I have enough to affect you. And as to who I am, I am someone who will not continue to endure your reasonless tirades, especially not when I have tried to be as much of a gentleman as my present circumstances will allow me to be.”

“I don’t recall asking or requiring you to be a gentleman,” she responded with an angry toss of her head. The stubborn set of her jaw was apparent. “In fact, I don’t recall asking anything at all of you, save that you stay away from me. Which you have so far managed to never do.”

She was right, of course, and he could not deny it. She had asked him to stay away from her from the first few moments he had been on the ship. So he was in the wrong, but surely that was not reason enough for her treatment of him. And he’d be damned if he’d lose ground again to another bloody pirate, no matter the sex. “Whatever I have done to injure you so severely, I cannot imagine. You made every decision about my person before you spoke a word to me, and your every action since then has been designed to humiliate or impugn me, punishing me for crimes I have no idea how or when I committed, or indeed if I committed them at all. You’ve tried and convicted me, without a word spoken in my defense.”

She moved in close. He could see the drops of rum on her cheeks, the traces of tears on her long, wet lashes. “How does it feel, Commodore?” she hissed. “Now that the shoe is on the other foot, how does it feel? The difference here is only that I lack the means to hang you and Jack won’t let me kill you, like you’ve killed so many others, you and your bloody, Royal fucking Navy.”

“How dare you?” he railed. “How dare you compare me to your compatriots, your murderous, thieving compatriots? I did my job, what I was trained to do, ridding the world of pirate scum in any way I could, and my reward for it was to have my life taken from me!”

She smiled. Unpleasantly. “Good.” She turned to leave.

James grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. “Not quite. I believe I still owe you an apology.” His tone was anything but repentant.

She wrenched her arm from his grasp but did not move away. “Last time we found ourselves in this position, ‘twas me with my back to the wall.” Her whisper was a razor cutting through cloth. “And you with a reason to let me go. What reason do I have, James? What reason to let you go uncut, unscathed, intact?”

“Is it to be the knives again, Jane? And then your man Jack to make you tend me, to see to my well-being.” His voice was as soft as hers, his edge as sharp. “He’ll have you nurse me, just as before. So I suggest you kill me and save yourself the trouble.”

Still that steely smile on her face as she pressed herself closer, close enough that James couldn’t help but breathe her in, a heady mix of salt and musk and sweet sugary rum. “Jack’s distracted,” she said in a sibilant whisper. “By your pretty Elizabeth, who it would seem has grown up enough to know how to get what she wants from a man. Tell me, James, those many months ago, had she grown up enough to get what she wanted from you or were all those bad decisions the fault of your own noble, gentlemanly, foolish heart?”

“Conveniently, my heart no longer makes my decisions for me.” As to what was making his decisions, he had no idea, and he was nearly as shocked as she when he grabbed her by the shoulders, threw her against the empty run shelves, and kissed her vicious, smiling mouth.
*************

My instinct was to fight, to throw him off me and put my knives to use, like I had done every other time some overzealous shipmate was fool enough to lay unwanted hands on me. But when I opened my mouth to threaten him, I found myself wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him back so hard I swear tasted blood. It was a strange dichotomy of mind and body, one wanting to hurt him and the other simply wanting. The marriage of the two was even stranger. With one hand I scratched at him, tearing both shirt and skin, even as the other was reaching for the tie on his breeches. He, it seemed, was in a similar state; he gripped my hair and savagely wrenched my head back, his mouth biting at my neck, while his other hand slid gently—and to my surprise skillfully—between my thighs. My body, deceitful rebel flesh, responded immediately, and I gasped in pleasure.

“Quiet,” he hissed in my ear. “You wouldn’t want your Captain to find you in such a compromising position, would you?”

“Bloody Commodore, still trying to give orders.” I opened his breeches and reached inside, rewarded by a groan from James. I placed one booted foot into an empty shelf and hoisted myself onto his hips. I pushed his jacket and shirt off his shoulders, my fingers dancing across the bared flesh. “I wonder if you ever knew when to keep your mouth shut, even when someone is trying to give you sound advice on keeping yourself alive.” I ran my tongue along his clavicle, then bit into his shoulder, harder than I needed to.

He inhaled with a growl, then pulled my head up for another bruising kiss. “Vicious bitch,” he said against my mouth. He pushed my skirts up and his breeches down, positioning himself between my legs. “Your kind of advice is best lived without.”

I hooked my other leg around his waist and pushed my hips forward, taking him inside, another gasp echoing from my mouth. One of my arms was wrapped tight around his shoulders, the other hand braced against the wooden shelving. His mouth moved back to my neck, his hands inside my shirt. I arched my back, pressing my breast against his palm, all the while muttering, “Officious bastard. You’ve got gall, you do.”

“More than you know,” he growled, holding me against him with one arm as I twisted my hips in a slow grind. “Ah, Christ, Jane!” Delicious feeling, this melding of distaste and desire.

“Shut it,” I gasped. He thrust faster, and I met his every motion, sweat pouring down my back. His face was hot against my neck, his hands fire on my skin. I could feel my nails scraping the wood of the shelves, my other hand beat his back as my body succumbed and lost control. I was wrapped tight around him, my thighs locked on his waist. He gave a strangled cry and I felt him shudder, and we were both left panting, sweating, leaning against each other and the shelves for support.

When I felt my breathing returning to normal, I disentangled myself from him, both feet back on the floor. He moved as if to kiss me again, but I turned away, busying myself with arranging my now-askew clothing and searching for another bottle of rum. I was sober again, and I could still feel his hands on my body, could still taste him on my lips. That needed remedying. Quickly.

He hadn’t moved, not that I could hear, and I knew he was watching me. “Jane…” he began, his voice soft and unsure.

I closed my eyes and didn’t turn to face him. “Not another word,” I said. “Dress yourself, compose yourself, and get out.” Ah, a bottle.

There were rustling noises behind me—James getting dressed. He spoke again, the stupid bastard. “I came down here to apologize…”

“And a marvelous apology it was.” I turned, a smirk on my lips. “Who knew you had such an apology in you, James Norrington?”

He looked sheepish, embarrassed. Not half confused. He ran a hand through his hair, moving the sweaty strands off his face. “It was never my intention…”

I smiled and echoed Jack’s words to me, earlier that evening. “And I don’t care.” Christ, a full day had not yet passed—how was that possible? Scenes flashed in my mind – James walking on deck, then bleeding from my blades. Glaring across the game table at me. Pressed hard against me, inside me. I shook my head, more for my own benefit than his. “Your intentions mean bugger all to me, but if it means that much to you, apology accepted. Feel free to apologize again, now you know how well I can accept it.” I leered at him.

And got just the reaction I wanted. His face grew cross again, the hard anger back in his eyes. “Doubtful. You can have the apology, whatever it’s worth to you, but the method is a mistake I won’t make again. Good night to you, Jane. Until tomorrow, by which time you will no doubt have contrived more ways to ensure my continued suffering.” He brushed past me and left. I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall and brought the bottle slowly to my lips.