Norrington slopped his tattered wig in the suds and slapped it back on the deck. He'd never holystoned a deck a day in his life, but he went at it with a will. He'd watched it being done, of course, midshipman to commodore, from his rarified place on the quarterdeck. Seen it done so many times he'd stopped taking note of it years before. Now he was on his knees, scrubbing like a common sailor. Now he paid attention.

His wig squished in his fingers, strands of hair coming loose to lie like the threads of his life in dirty water. He used to be so proud of the wig, symbol of his status and his rank. Every morning it had waited for him, curled and powered to perfection. His manservant had taken care of that and Norrington had taken for granted the wig always would be flawless and ready. He hadn't even really thought of it. Now the wig was ragged and spoiled, symbol of his fall and his shame. Now he paid attention.

Captain Sparrow and Elizabeth strode by him, deep in conversation. The two of them, like peas in a piratical pod. Christ, he'd never even entertained the notion. Elizabeth had been, it seemed, perfect wife material—well-bred and well-to-do. As commodore, he had been the only logical choice for her in the relatively isolated Caribbean colonies. He'd just assumed she would become his wife and had never particularly worried about it. Now he watched her flirting with the pirate, just as he'd watched her stand with the blacksmith. Now he paid attention.

Sparrow stood before him, looking down imperiously from his less than impressive height. Norrington started to rise and put his greater stature to good use, but reconsidered and remained on his knees. What good intimidation now? Command had been second nature to him; he'd known his orders would be followed without question. He'd never doubted that his skills and his authority would prevail. Now, kneeling like a supplicant, he took orders from another. Now he paid attention.

His gaze strayed from the worn boots up the lithe body to stop at Sparrow's black eyes. Eyes that regarded him with something other than the wariness and respect he'd come to expect from pirates. He knew Sparrow was up to something, was running scared toward a desperate solution to his folly. He'd never thought about what motivated pirates, just presumed that as outlaws they deserved what they got. He met Sparrow's look with an appraising stare of his own. Now he paid attention.

Norrington pulled Sparrow's breeches down past his hips. He'd never sucked a cock a day in his life but he went at it with a will. He'd watched it being done, of course, midshipman to commodore, a variety of heads ranging from fair to red to dark bent over his cock. He'd never considered doing it himself; it was demeaning, beneath his station. But if Sparrow was so convinced the contents of this chest could help him, well, perhaps he could put it to better use. Now he was on his knees again, the pirate's ringed fingers tangled in his long hair, pulling and pushing. Now he paid attention.