Feed a Fever
Fandom: PoTC Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Jack/Anamaria/James Full Header
Jack had a standing appointment with his Navy man; every full moon he took himself off for a few days, and came back full of good cheer. There were other times too -- not as regular -- when he came back grinning to himself and, as often as not, sporting the sort of bruises you get in a bed and not in a fight.
In between, Jack and Anamaria shared Jack's bed after battles, and sometimes found a cozy spot on the beach, away from the rest of the crew. He was pretty to look at -- all catlike grace and tawny skin -- and his tongue was clever for more than talk. At any rate, there was no one else she could bed down with on the Pearl without stirring up trouble, and a woman gets lonely, just the same as a man. It was just a matter of convenience really, and when they were in port, they went their own ways and devil take the hindmost.
Anamaria wasn't jealous - that was a fool's game, where Jack was concerned. But she did wonder what sort of man would put his career and his life at risk for Jack Sparrow.
Half the crew had already had the fever when it struck Jack -- as near as they could tell, Gibbs had picked it up in San Juan, probably from that crooked customs inspector. It didn't seem to be serious, although they all broke out in spots and burned devilish hot for a few days. Gibbs and Anamaria were already on the mend when the red spots started up all over Jack's face. The next morning, he was delirious with fever. Anamaria bathed his face with cool water and dosed him with willow bark tea, but nothing seemed to help. To make matters worse, Jack kept insisting that he had to take a boat to Tortuga.
"He'll be expectin' me. . ." he muttered hoarsely. "Full moon tonight. . ."
Finally, as much to keep him quiet as anything, Anamaria agreed to take him to Tortuga. And if she incidentally made the acquaintance of Jack's mysterious Navy man, where was the harm in that?
At the Goat and Compasses there was a room ready for Jack. Unfortunately, it was on the third floor, and he could barely walk. The stout innkeeper made no move to help, so Anamaria half dragged and half pushed Jack up the stairs and into the bed. He seemed worse for the trip and fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning and muttering in his dreams. She strained to hear his words, but they were too garbled to make out anything useful.
Anamaria kept watch out the window, but no military man, in uniform or not, approached the inn. Presently, the innkeeper's wife brought up some stale bread and a lukewarm bowl of vegetable soup for Anamaria, as well as a tankard of ale to wash it down. When Jack stirred, Anamaria gave him few sips of the broth, and more willow bark tea. He made a face at the bitter tea, but slurped it down obediently, which was an indication of how ill he was. In a short time, his eyes grew heavy, and he slumped back into the bed. Just as he was falling asleep, he said faintly, "James. . ."
Was that the man's name? Or was Jack referring to someone else in his delirium? It signified nothing to Anamaria -- James was nearly as common a name as Jack, and besides Gibbs was the closest thing to a Navy man in her acquaintance.
It grew dark and she lit a lantern, wondering if Jack's lover would make the rendezvous. Just her luck that he'd be detained this time, and she'd be none the wiser for her trouble. But no sooner had she thought this than there was a hurried tread upon the stair. The door opened and in came an imposing gentleman in a plain, dark suit of clothes, carrying a net bag of oranges.
He threw aside his hat carelessly and the lantern light fell up on his face, illuminating his distinctive green eyes. Even so, it took her a moment to place him, without his white wig. A Navy man indeed! James Norrington, Commodore of the Jamaica squadron. Only Jack would dare.
Norrington looked her over calmly and said, "You must be Anamaria," as if he knew exactly who she was.
That stung and there was no denying it. She jerked her head in assent.
"How is Jack? Mrs. Ribright said he's been ill."
Anamaria gestured to the bed. "See for yourself."
Norrington was there before the words left her mouth, pressing his hand to Jack's cheek. His hands were long and slender and pale against Jack's flushed skin. "He's burning up with fever!" Why haven't you sent for a doctor?"
"He hates doctors, you fool! Haven't you ever seen those scars on his arm?"
Norrington wrinkled his brow impatiently.
"Bloodlettin' gone wrong," she explained. "After that, he won't let a doctor within ten feet of him."
"It's not as if he can protest in his current state."
"Anyways, it's gone all through the crew and no one's died of it yet. This is the worst of it, I'll wager. The rash is already fading, and the fever will start to drop now. No sense getting him all riled up over nothin'."
Norrington straightened and gave her a cold glare. "Very well then. You can return to the Pearl and leave his recovery to me."
"What do you take me for? You'd have the doctor in here as soon as I was out the door."
Norrington clenched his jaw, Anamaria jutted her chin out defiantly, and they stared one another down, neither willing to give an inch. They might have gone on like that forever, had Jack not sat up in the bed and said, "James?"
Norrington's head whipped around. "I'm here."
The fever must have been dropping; Jack still sounded weak, but he'd regained some of his senses. He clasped Norrington's hand and said, "It's good to see you, mate."
The smile transformed Norrington's face. He brushed his thumb across Jack's wrist and murmured something too low for Anamaria to hear.
With a derisive harrumph, she turned and looked out the window. Giselle and Piet must have made up from their latest quarrel; they were walking arm and arm, laughing uproariously at something. A right pair of ninnies they looked too. Anamaria slammed the window shut with a bang and drew the faded curtains.
Behind her, Norrington said, "You're still quite ill--"
Before he could get any further, Jack cut him off. "Don't get any fool notions to call in a doctor. I won't have it, d'you understand? A little sleep and some rum and I'll be right as rain."
Anamaria allowed herself a triumphant smirk.
Norrington shot her a look of pure malice, then sighed and sat down heavily in the chair by the bed. "Whatever you say, Jack."
Jack took a bit more soup and some rum, but he adamantly refused any more of the willow bark tea. An awkward silence followed this pronouncement, which Norrington broke with news of Will and Elizabeth Turner. Apparently, Elizabeth had just been brought to childbed and delivered of a daughter, who was to be named Sophia.
Anamaria, who couldn't have cared less about the Turners or their squalling brats, rolled her eyes at Norrington's story and Jack chuckled. "Our Anamaria's not much interested in news from the nursery, James. Now if you'd brought her one of Will's swords, perhaps she'd find that more to her liking. . ."
Norrington grinned. "But how is she to lift it in that bloody great sheath?" he asked, in a ridiculously broad Irish brogue.
Both men roared with laughter. Jack turned to explain the joke, but began wheezing and choking before he could relay the story. Norrington offered him a mug of rum, and after a few sips, Jack's breathing became easier. He declared himself much improved and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
Anamaria and Norrington sat at the small table, which was still cluttered with the remnants of Anamaria's supper, as well as the oranges (which Norrington had stacked into an orderly pyramid) and the rum. Behind them, Jack slept, snoring softly. From her chair, Anamaria could see him reflected in the washstand mirror; he'd kicked off the sheet, and she could see no sign of the rash on his bare chest. His color had returned to normal, and he breathed easily. By morning, he'd be his old self again.
Norrington offered Anamaria an orange; when she shook her head, he began to peel it for himself, making a series of shallow cuts in the rind, and then methodically peeling back each strip of skin. "I had no idea Jack was so averse to doctors." He chuckled. "I thought horses were as bad as it got for him. Of course, taking a fall like that would make anyone skittish around horses. It's a wonder he can walk."
So that's how it's to be, Anamaria thought. "He's none the worse for it," she said genially, reaching for the bottle, "I've seen him balanced on the yardarm in a hard gale, as easy as walking down the street."
Norrington acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. "And it's never yet stopped him from climbing the lattice up to my window. Although a shot from Lieutenant Gillette's pistol very nearly did. Gillette is a crack shot - I can't think how the ball only grazed Jack's ear. As it was, he bled like a stuck pig."
"That ain't nothin' -- the Governor of Aruba nearly killed him." She touched her own chest to indicate the scars on Jack's. "He didn't take kindly to Jack dallyin' with his daughter."
Norrington's eyes widened in surprise. Point, Anamaria thought smugly -- that was a new one on Commodore Stick-Up-His-Arse.
"Jack and governor's daughters! It's a good thing he didn't try that with Elizabeth -- he'd have caught cold at it."
"What makes you so sure he didn't?"
Horror and amusement warred in Norrington's face. "Jack and Elizabeth? Surely not."
"What, you thought you were the only one she was willing to sell her virtue to? That girl would've laid down with a monkey to save Turner."
He drew himself up indignantly and sputtered, then shrugged and ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. "I suppose you're right. And it shouldn't surprise me that Jack took advantage of the 'opportune moment.' It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Nor the last, I expect." The chagrined expression and his hair standing on end made him look almost like a real man instead of a tin soldier. He laughed ruefully, and suddenly Anamaria could see what Jack saw in him, like a knot coming untangled in her hands.
After a time, the noises from downstairs quieted to an occasionally drunken shout, and they both dozed in their chairs. Anamaria woke with a start; there was a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up. She blinked at the late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains and rolled her head to loosen the muscles. A movement in the mirror caught her eyes and she stiffened.
Jack was back to his old self, and he and Norrington had wasted no time grasping the opportune moment. The wavering reflection in the looking glass made them seem further away than they were, and their movements were as measured and slow as if they were under water. They were entirely absorbed in one another, exchanging languid, open-mouthed kisses and exploring one another's bodies with leisurely touches. It was almost like a game, the way they were holding back, skimming their hands over one another's skin, darting their tongues out and grazing their mouths together, when it was plain that they wanted to grab and bite and take.
Norrington had stripped to his breeches, revealing creamy, unmarked skin and a lean muscular body. There was a predatory deliberation to his movements that set Anamaria's pulse racing. He was nearly as pretty as Jack, and the two of them together were a treat for the eyes.
Both men were quiet as a dumb show until Norrington extricated Jack's cock from his breeches and gave it a slow, steady pull. Jack groaned then, deep in his throat, and it sounded like surrender. He dropped back onto the bed and spread his knees, but Norrington moved his hand away, instead tracing the scant pattern of hair that trailed up Jack's belly. He pinched Jack's nipple, and Anamaria felt it as clearly as if it had been her body he'd touched. She hissed under her breath, and Norrington craned his head around and froze. He met Anamaria's eyes in the mirror and smirked. One eyebrow went up in unmistakable challenge.
She stood and turned before she could change her mind. Damned if she'd be shown up by that smug bastard.
Jack looked her up and down and grinned. "Good girl," was all he said, as she shucked off her breeches and shirt.
Norrington's hands were sticky and tasted of bitter orange peel. He'd left traces of it all over Jack' skin, a map of where he'd been, and Anamaria followed it with her tongue, finally taking Jack's prick in her mouth. He groaned for her then and pleaded, until Norrington swallowed up his noises with a kiss.
She would have taken him all the way, but Norrington pulled her back with a tiny shake of his head. "Not yet."
He kissed her, hard and insistent, and she was glad to see that he didn't mistake her for a dainty doll. She gave as good as she got, nipping at his lips and thrusting her tongue into his mouth, and when he pulled back, he was a little breathless. Jack was behind her, kissing her neck and running his hands over her body. He knew how she liked it, rough and forceful, and Norrington took his cue from Jack. Norrington had sailor's hands, for all that they were long and white like a gentleman's, and the calluses felt familiar and right.
Norrington took her nipple in his mouth and teased it with his tongue, suckling and licking. Jack's hand was on the other one, pinching and squeezing in the same rhythm, and she was already close before Norrington reached between her legs. His fingers flitted and circled and Jack's wet finger slid into her arse and she came, keening and rocking between them.
When she returned to her senses, Jack and Norrington were kissing over her shoulder, and Jack was fumbling behind him for his cast-off coat. He gave a triumphant cry and flourished a tiny flask of oil. He raised his eyebrows in a show of courtesy. "If you've no objections, darlin'?"
It wasn't hard to piece together what he had in mind, and Anamaria had to admit she found the idea intriguing. Norrington drew in his breath sharply and his cock gave a twitch against her thigh, and that drove any doubts from her mind. She seized the oil from Jack and poured a generous portion onto his cock, slicking him up nicely.
He gasped and reclaimed the bottle. "Your turn."
More gently than before, he turned her back to her side, and rubbed the oil between her buttocks. It had been a while since she'd been fucked there, and two fingers were a stretch, but Norrington obligingly distracted her, and when Jack finally sheathed himself in her, there was naught but a slight burn that faded quickly.
Norrington's gaze was hot and his breath ragged. "Ready?"
In answer, she pulled him to her, and he slid in, until she was full to bursting and the pressure was so delicious she didn't know if she could bear it. The smallest movement from any of them sent thrills of pleasure and almost-pain coursing through her. Norrington had a hold of Jack's hand, and they were pushing and pulling her between them, their eyes locked on one another. Jack mouthed her neck, almost absently and Norrington cupped her breast with his free hand, flicking his thumb along the nipple. Her nerves jangled with every touch until it was like a wave cresting. She shivered and shuddered and screamed, unable to contain it any longer, and behind her, Jack bucked hard and bit down on her shoulder. Norrington's release seemed to take him by surprise: his eyes flew open and he cried out incoherently, clutching at Jack's hand.
Afterwards, they slept, all sticky and tangled together. When Anamaria woke, Jack was sitting up, his bare feet propped on the table, eating an orange and surveying the bed with some satisfaction. Beside her, Norrington slept on, his body suspiciously warm.
Jack tossed her an orange. She caught it easily and said, "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you'd planned that!"
"The trick is turning any situation to your advantage. Keeps things interestin'. . ."
She rolled her eyes at this, and turned to examine Norrington. Sure enough, red spots were coming up all over his pale skin. "He ain't goin' nowhere for a few days."
Jack pulled a mournful face. "Pity that, innit?"
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