Title:Dreams
Rating:PG
Pairing: Norrington/??
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, nor do I make any profit.

 

One night his dreams stop being full of lace, rosewater and hyacinth, and a mischievous smile barely contained behind a demure fan. He is relieved and melancholy in equal measures, but too pragmatic to mourn the passing of impropriety.

Now he dreams of the sea instead, of sails stretched taut over his head, of the wind carrying him along, of the might and power beneath his bare feet.

The first time he dreams of the chase, of matching speed against speed and laughter carrying over water, he wakes up feeling restless, and catches himself trying to stretch his shoulders within the confines of his uniform for hours afterwards.

He cannot tell when the chase becomes focused and the goal all the vaguer. Sometimes he can almost see his quarry, and other nights there is just laughter, free, careless, and sweet.

The Dauntless is en route to the Bahamas, just off Cuba and treading carefully in Spanish waters, when sails are sighted against the setting sun, and for a moment the call of the chase is loud in his ears, for the sails are dark, darker even than the crimson glow behind them would allow.

The confusion lasts barely a moment, and orders to head west are already on his lips when reason prevails and he can only watch the far away ship flicker and disappear into the sun.

For weeks afterwards he does not remember his dreams and is fiercely glad of the fact, shying away from the turmoil in his head. Gillette takes to watching him with concern, Groves with polite amusement, and he feels uncomfortably on display, the irritation at times making his orders brusquer than the Lieutenants are accustomed to.

When he dreams again there is no sound save the lapping of the waves against wood and whistling of the wind. A hand touches his chest, comes to rest against his heart, and the moment stretches taut, and then bursts into the breathless excitement of the hunt once more.

The next morning there are dispatches on his desk, and he is disturbingly unsurprised to see a name reappear again and again.

His squadron spread out around Jamaica he cannot spare any ships to chase after rumours, and eventually even the dispatches grow silent, their authors less frantic.

When the dream comes, it startles him with an alien white radiance. After several long imaginary moments he recognises snow outside a window, covering a European town landscape, all stone and angles. A bird chirps on the windowsill, and when he contemplates the tiny shape and recognises it for what it is, he bursts out laughing uproariously, starting himself into wakefulness.

A movement near the window catches his attention, and he is dismayed at not being shocked, only vaguely apprehensive. Mostly excited.

In more ways than one, in fact, and he shifts uncomfortably under the blanket.

The shadow freezes, then blends into the curtains.

He sighs and sits up, shaking his head. "Sparrow."

Dark feathers against the snow. Dark braids and a once white shirt. He thinks there is surprise in the bronzed face, but in the near darkness he cannot be sure.

"Why?" he asks quietly, seriously, and for a moment the hunt is calling to him from a forgotten dream.

Then the rustle of cloth and the quiet tinkle of adornments come closer, closer still, and the kiss is as frightening and fast as the spray of salt and broken sunlight at the prow.

The chase is on again, but this time he knows whose laughter carries sweetly through the dark.

 

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