Gone Come Dawn (2/3): Red Sky in Morning

by Curiouslyfic

Pairing: J/N
Rating: Overall NC-17
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 10/18/07
Summary: One morning, Jack wakes naked on a beach and remembers.

Continued from Part 1

One morning, Jack wakes naked on a beach and remembers. Not all of it, none of them are that lucky, but some. Enough.

When he sees the N on the note by his effects, he knows who that is. Who's used his headscarf, what's come of the rum.

He storms his deck, mood black as his hair, and fists Norrington's by way of hello. Snarls, "Why?" and turns feral when Norrington looks to Anamaria for guidance.

"If you expect a reply, Captain, you'll find we've a need for more information," Norrington says. Cold. Distant. But not short-drop-sudden-stop so, which cements what Jack remembers.

He leans in, mouth perilously close to Norrington's. "Y'spent on m'headscarf," Jack says slow. Deep and, he thinks, dangerous. The flare in Norrington's eyes isn't guilt.

Jack doesn't know what to make of that, so he chooses to make nothing, just focuses on what he knows. And what he knows is this: his arse ain't sore but he's a captain's share of plunder what says Norrington's is.

What says if he's sweet about it, winsome smile and fluttered eyes and such, Norrington'll answer to "Jamie" for him, purring like a well-fed cat.

He's half-tempted to try.

* * *

Anamaria's no help. James isn't expecting much, not really, he knows these pirates well and truly by now, it's been a year. But he's held out hope that when their situation changes, he'll have someone at his back.

Apparently not.

James wants to pull Jack's mouth in for a daylight kiss, all lips and stubble and teeth and sweat under sunlight, but nothing about Sparrow suggests it's Jack he'll be kissing and James really doesn't want to incur the pirate's wrath for simple misunderstanding.

All the same, Sparrow remembers the night. Which... well, James knows that curse backwards by now, he knows that's not right.

"What are you doing here, Norrington?" Jack asks with Sparrow's suspicion and James thinks this halfness is more frustrating that what he's known.

Foolishly, James opts for truth. "You called me to you," he says. Remembers the draw of salt and sea, the need that pulled him from Port Royal's shores to some half-rock bit of beach and Anamaria's dark eyes gleaming onyx by fire.

* * *

"There's been... " she'd said. Trailed off and looked at Sparrow, slung low over a rock and drunk beyond comprehension. "The Captain needs you."

"For Sparrow? Are you trying to see him hang?" Wouldn't that be easier shipboard than through Naval justice? He'd always imagined Sparrow delightfully tempting to shove overboard.

She'd stared him into foolish regret. "The Captain needs you," she'd said again, and when James tried to ask more, she'd shoved him in Jack's direction.

Into Jack's arms.

Some things, James has learned, override accepted duty. He's sworn new allegiance, tossed off the wig and all it meant. Gone pirate, as Jack likes to say in sweet dark. Frankly, he blames Anamaria and that shove.

Mostly because he can't bear to taint the kiss that followed with anything grim as regret.

* * *

Sparrow glares. It's weak, pales because he's memories too fresh of gleaming grin, Jack curling hair behind his ear murmuring, "S'good you stopped by, then, Commodore, waste of a beach this pretty being on m'onesy tonight." Like it's strange good fortune that's brought James close.

Like it's temporary. Which, well, it is, but not as Jack means. Some nights James explains, finds himself stumbling over meanings and cause and solutions that haven't worked worth ballast. Mostly he avoids it, plays along because it still stings to see Jack learn of all he's lost.

Not like Jack's ever remembered come morning.

"I called you?" Sparrow laughs, brittle. "Pull the other one. S'got bells on."

And because Sparrow laughs behind James's memory Jack, James reaches up to tug an elflock.

"Strange," he says, twitching a smile. "And here I've taken that for a Piece of Eight."

Sparrow stares like James has gone wild. Anamaria huffs, Lord knows at who. Gibbs mutters something about bad luck bein' familiar w'the Captain on deck in day.

When Jack—Sparrow, no matter what he's remembered—storms off to his quarters, James eyes the crow's nest and heads hand-over-head through the rigging. Needs salt wind in his hair, sun in his face and work at hand to distract him from all the things he wants to do and can't.

Some mornings, he thinks, he's no choice but to curse Sparrow. This is just one more.

* * *

Anamaria Jack trusts for answers because, well, not to be over-particular but most of his crew's just shy of witless, so he's left Gibbs and Cotton—all right, Cotton's parrot—and Anamaria as plausible sources of information. Gibbs won't stop blessing himself and muttering about luck, like Jack needs any more of that in any measure, and Cotton's parrot seems disarmingly philosophical.

Which, generally speaking, Jack doesn't mind in a crewman, but he's in no mood for puzzles from the bird.

"No, no, you're meant to give me answers," Jack says as Cotton's parrot swoops low, talons stretching for the plunder of Jack's hair. As usual—and how does Jack know this is usual? He's not sure—As usual, Jack bats his hands wildly to chase the wretched thing off. "Answers, not more questions."

Clearly, the bird is deficient. He'd bring it up wi' Mr. Cotton next watch but he suspects the parrot would hear and he's got enough on his hands wi' James angry at him. No need to make things worse.

He tries with Gibbs, because Anamaria's got that frighteningly hard slap to her when she's a mind, but Gibbs ends every sentence with things Jack knows, begins every other sentence with the phrase, "Bad luck," things Jack knows. So really, it's a wash.

Which leaves Anamaria.

* * *

"It's a curse," Anamaria says, and before Jack's even settled in at his own table, he's frustrated enough to pace.

"Well of course it's a curse, when's it not a curse? I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, I've curses like blackflies." He waves a hand dismissively because really, he's the Devil's own luck, him. "But why don't I remember?"

Last time Anamaria looked at him like that, she slapped him solid and stole his ship. He might've earned that, but he's almost certain he hasn't earned another. Unless it's a thing he can't remember and if it is, well, Jack sees no reason he should take blame now, s'no justice in punishing a man for what he can't remember.

He tells her so. Watches bemused as her face screws in bloody-mindedness.

He's almost certain he doesn't deserve the slap that follows, but at least he keeps his ship.

* * *

"You know what the witch said?" Norrington glares. S'only Norrington who glares, James is as taciturn as he is capable and he's giving up his general disdain for all things Jack Sparrow, but there's a shadow of Commodore left that Jack doesn't like.

Not when he's spent the day flashing back to brown seaman and white spunk on Jack's bed.

Jack nods. "Every wish and all that, yeah." Wiggles his fingers over his shoulder like it's written there, the rules or whatnot of this ridiculous curse. Gone come dawn, he sniffs, and thinks how that one dawn, he'd kept it. Whatever "it" was...

Norrington makes a noise in his throat that may be agreement. "I'm your every wish."

Jack's chest freezes. Uncanny, that. Bad enough when it was his hands, needs them to make his point, but now it's breath and pulse and gut all cold and hanging on some reaction, some realization. He's not a fan.

"Always wanted a commodore of me very own," he says with forced levity. Norrington laughs. Curls it malicious. "Start a collection of His Majesty's liberated Service, savvy? Already have them two turncoats hidin' in me crew."

"Mullroy and Murtogg," Norrington says, then frowns independent of his scowl. "You remember them? You never remember them."

Jack shrugs. "Do tonight, mate."

He pretends not to notice Norrington's world falling.

* * *

That night James is Jack-less, first time all year. Anamaria's said nothing, just watched him at work with something he hates to call pity. Pintel sends Ragetti up to help him, which involves less blunder than normal, and for a short while, James thinks he might just fall asleep once he's done.

Be the first time all year he's slept through the night if he does, he thinks, and he tells himself he should appreciate that for its own merits. He doesn't, of course, Jack-less beats sleepless on the scale of misfortune and always will, but he knows he should.

"It'll be all right," Pintel says as he shepherds the one-eyed wonder of inefficacy down to the bunks. "Cap'n'll set to rights soon. Always does, Jack Sparrow."

James is certain that's wrong, he's not so fortunate. Says, "Captain Jack Sparrow," quietly because he's got nothing else to say.

* * *

Jack by moonlight's a godless thing. James stands at the rail, arms bent to brace himself, and thinks about how often he's seen what he hasn't tonight. Gleaming skin and onyx eyes, a winsome smile tipped in golden sparkle. That ever-present energy Jack can't hide, lithe body writhing and lurching with elegant grace that has no place in a drunkard heathen coaxing him to sin.

Jack by moonlight's made James just as godless, because if there's no way to slake lust without marriage and there's no way to marry Jack, what sort of god makes someone like Jack, temptation hair to heel, then allows him to meet James, who's had to give up every good thing he's ever had? The useless sort, James thinks. The sort not worth following. He's reveled in the heathen as he's reveled in the freedom and because he's philosophical tonight, he thinks it's no mistake those words sound so close.

He has no clue what breed of magic called that curse or why it's now failing, but he's bitterly sure a god was involved.

* * *

"Obvious, then, innit?" Jack can't believe they haven't done this already. Clearly, his crew's nothing without Captain Jack Sparrow showing them the way.

Norrington won't look at him. Anamaria won't stop. Gibbs is still blessing himself and even Pintel's in on it now, though they pause to hear Jack's latest spectacular plan.

"What's obvious?" Ragetti asks, eager as Will on a hunt for his wench.

"We'll have to take the treasure back." Honestly, it's straight off the Pearl's first true adventure, innit? Anamaria scowls. Gibbs takes up his crossing once more. Norrington looks at him.

James is looking at him. The room feels too warm for the Caribbean, almost the brutal, motionless heat of the equator. All because James is watching... Jack has no answer for that.

"You think we haven't tried, Sparrow?" Oh, but that cool loathing's Norrington. Jack's confused. "You think us so ill-guided we could none of us recall Isla de Muerta and make that rather direct connection? God, you really are the worst captain. No faith at all in your crew."

Which stings. "Maybe you've missed one, savvy? Happened last time."

"We haven't missed one." Anamaria's insulted. She's also staring at Norrington like his anger's a shock when really, isn't this what's always been hiding under that pretty Commodore shine?

* * *

It's not the gold the witch wants on Isla des Deseos, it's what that gold represents. Not wealth or glory or plunder or loot, but heart's desire. Fitting, James supposes, though he can't help wish they'd landed on Ile de Rêves.

This, James thinks, is a bloody nightmare anyway.

She won't barter with them, won't trade for answers to whatever ails Jack, something James wishes they'd known before they'd tracked every last galleon down and trekked back for repayment. Jack remembers nothing, so he's been right horrid about this trip, but James sits down with the crew one cold day two months in and explains.

What follows is perilously close to mutiny. They load Jack up on rum, keep him happy with trinkets in his quarters and the pretense they're on-course. Anamaria takes over when Gibbs has an inconvenient attack of morals—can't be mutinying the cap'n twice, it's bad luck—and James thinks they'll fail, memories of the Pearl's adventure with undead pirates is still too fresh in most minds for this, they'll look at him and see Barbossa.

Then Pintel says, "Well, the cap'n cursed you, too," and the collective quiets.

That's all it takes. One sentence—from Pintel of all people—and they'll overlook Jack's charm for James's plan.

He's not sure that's victory. And when they arrive at the island, chests in hand, and the witch turns them out, James thinks, "I knew it, nothing's ever this easy, it's Sparrow."

She won't barter with them directly. She stares at James as she says this. Points that finger at him and he wants to throw his arms wide and dare her to do her worst.

Their best hope is Calypso, who acts as intermediary when she pleases and sweeps through James's days like a harbinger of doom. She's yet to bring him anything good, though it's all been useful.

The problem, as always, is cost.

* * *

"There always be a cost to magic such as this," Calypso says like that's not obvious. "The question is, Sly James, can ye pay it?" James holds his tongue. "Godless boy," she says, malevolent affection. "Don't be too quick to judge the workings of them's more powerful than you. Difficult it is, harder work than you've done, bearing weight such as this."

James stares her down. "Madam, I don't believe you begin to imagine what I bear."

* * *

A year later, Jack's woken remembering bits and pieces and James, James feels his courage flee. Aren't his days of distasteful duty long behind him? He's rather sure they went with his wig.

Jack has one ridiculous plan after another to break his curse. James knows. Says nothing because he knows himself by Jack's measure now, he's spent his time on the ratlines thinking these long months and he's reached a few conclusions.

There's what a man can do and what he can't. Jack's all can-do.

James sees nothing but "can't."

* * *

The Pearl rolls. James strokes her wood rail, swapping comfort for comfort. Hears the creak of footsteps behind him and wonders if night watch will mind if he sleeps out here. He's no quarters officially, just his spot in Jack's bed, and as that's off tonight, he's no intention of wandering through with the crew.

"Why?" he hears, Sparrow-bitter and Jack-baffled. When he turns, the man himself waits at his shoulder, closer than James expects tonight. As hard as it was not kissing him in sunlight, it's tenfold worse not touching him by night. "Why's it you?"

James tightens his grip on the rail. The Pearl rolls again to shake him off. Jack stumbles forward, unusual for a man with such sea legs, then cocks his head like he's hearing private laughter.

"Let me guess, Commodore," and Jack spits his old title with Sparrow venom. Keeping them separate's taken James ages to sort but now that he has, he resents this bastard combining. "You've no answers for me, either."

* * *

As always, Anamaria resents the blindness of her crewmates, who appear cheerfully deluded about what James Norrington is trying to say. She thinks it's perfectly clear, but they all work under Jack's purposeful obliviousness and she resents, too, what they don't seem to need to forget.

Any of them what can't see James ain't James, he's Norrington, they'd daft beyond help, she thinks. Only, and this is the part that scares her most, he's no Pirate Hunter for his king. In fact, she'd swear he's sworn fealty to no one.

Which, she thinks, makes them all prey, lawless or no. They've a Letter of Marque now, only way James would join a buccaneer crew, and she'd like to say he couldn't swing them after all this time, but she's not certain.

"Once I leave this ship, Mr. Gibbs, you may consider our temporary truce ended. Take that as you may."

"Going back to the Navy are you?" Marty snorts. "Going to hunt us dead now?"

James smiles, wan. Bloodless. A shiver runs up Anamaria's spine. "I doubt they'd have me."

* * *

Every time Jack asks now, Anamaria kills him with her eyes and says, "Ask your James."

No bloody help at all, that. He's better off w' the parrot.

* * *

"Why should you get answers, Sparrow?" Norrington says, fists white-knuckled on his Pearl's rail. "The rest of us haven't. What makes you special?"

Jack flinches from the depths of Norrington's bitterness. Worse than Tortuga. Worse than bowing out for Elizabeth's hand. Worse than…no, Jack's never seen Norrington this bad, and that makes less sense than anything Anamaria's said all week. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he says, tries an "Ooh shiny, mate" grin to break the tension.

Falters when Norrington turns on him, eyes fair burning with things Jack doesn’t want to consider as applies to himself and the good Commodore.

"You're a reckless, irresponsible excuse of captaincy and it's a miracle you haven't been strung yet, which I can only attribute to your incredulously consistent good fortune," Norrington snaps. Advances. Jack's hands stiffen mid-wiggle. He's sure he looks ridiculous. Certainly feels it. Norrington looms, dark in every possible way, in his way more unsettling than anything living or undead Jack's ever faced before.

"Your facile inability to execute a simple raid without calling vengeance down on all you know is perhaps the worst piracy I've ever encountered, captain, and I strongly suspect that were you not cozened up to a handful of malicious deities and assorted curs, governor's daughters included, you'd've stretched long before now.

"As usual, you've ignored every sensible thing you've been told about the situation, risks and penalties included, and while you may not know what's happened in the past year, I assure you the rest of us on board the Pearl do."

* * *

That simple, Jack remembers more.

* * *

The thing about knowing someone like James knows Jack is how fast you can break them, how thorough the job once you've sworn to it. Only thing stopping you, he thinks, is your own conscience.

He feels he may have scuffed his somewhat over the past year and wonders how he's supposed to decide between wound A and wound B. Broken memory or broken everything else.

He can't do as Calypso's asked, though he's aware he can't keep malingering. Her countercurse is a trap, poisoned fruit before a starving man.

Until that morning, he's content to let it wait, the viper in his midst. Then Jack remembers and James's time runs out.

* * *

"Have ye figured out what be different on that night?" When she speaks, he hears Tia. Likes the illusion she's at least part-woman because when he thinks Calypso, he connects it to those gods he doesn't believe in.

"Tia," he says, because he does, he has, he knows, and he'd trust his speech to Mr. Cotton's parrot before he'd willingly say it aloud to anything as capricious as she. He skips the sentiment for the salient. "That wasn't the first... "

"Aye, but did ye check the skies when him say it back?"

James laughs, high and tight. Hysterical. A shipwrecked sound. Remembers what caught his attention, fathomless black reflecting strange light as ruddy lips slid over gold grin. Jack's eyes as he said the words had been all the proof James required that he meant them.

"No." He can't bring himself to regret that, either. Not when he'd had Jack-by-night's eyes to hold his attention.

Tia clucks her tongue. "Then this be on your head, Sly James, and be no fault o' Witty Jack."

That worries him. As does her move to leave. "What did I miss?"

She looks over her shoulder. Pities him a sigh. "Dawn," she says. "You miss the dawn."

* * *

"So what was different about that night?" Must've been something what sparked his memory but Jack doesn't know. Feels something important niggle but can't catch it. Story of his life, really.

"You're sure you want to know?" He sees James in Norrington's eyes, imagines an invisible smile at play on that mouth. Hears words he never expected playing in his mind and drops his jaw in surprise.

"You said you love me," Jack whispers and James's eyes flare with that thing that's not guilt. Matches Jack's memory of the night, James's head on his chest, pinned to his stretch of beach with hard thigh and tanned arm. James's eyes lifting as dawn toys with the edge of night on the horizon. Simple exchange, really, he can't imagine they haven't done it before, but he remembers falling asleep with his fingers curled in James's dark hair.

Remembers waking alone and naked, searching for his pants. Nothing he hasn't done before there, either. At least he remembers that now, even if most of his year's a mite sketchy.

"And you said it back." James's voice breaks a bit, cracks like the words have meaning. Jack supposes they do.

"Yeah," Jack says, he's not sure to who. "You'd think I'd remember that."

* * *

If pressed, James remembers dawn approaching that morning. Wanting one last kiss, wanting the words once more before they disappeared for another day.

If he'd known it's effects, how having his heart's desire come dawn gave Jack partial memory, how it forced James's hand eventually, sometimes James thinks he should have foregone it. Left well enough alone because maybe what they had wasn't perfect, maybe it was bloody hard, but it was something.

Something he's lost.

Something he's paid.

And the only thing he hates more than his own weakness that morning is the price the witch extracts. For stealing what she cherished most, she's not after galleons. She's after all Jack holds dearest.

And maybe it seems that should be his Pearl, his crew, his freedom, his life, but it's not, James knows him better than that.

It's respect. It's James. It's everything they had that morning and walking away from it, James can't even begin to tally his own losses. Sparrow's are quite bad enough.

* * *

One morning there's no Jack at the table, no Jack on the deck, and Anamaria finds him in his quarters staring at nothing, toying with his infamous shotless pistol.

Brooding Jack Sparrow is never good.

"Captain," she says, though she's not sure what's meant to follow. Just as well he cuts her off.

"Am I?" He twirls his pistol on a finger. Points at the window, purses his lips, and twirls again. "Should I be?"

"Jack," she says, and when he turns hollow-eyed stare at her, she finds him broken in ways she'd never thought possible of him.

"I'm a good captain," he says, but he doesn't sound sure and she can almost hear James's scorn, Norrington's threats. "I'm... I'm a good captain. M'not reckless. Well, I am, maybe, sometimes. A little. Have to be, don't I? Pirating's not for the faint o' heart, yeah? S'all I need, savvy, me and me Pearl. Fool's lot, thinkin' otherwise."

For a long, awful moment, they simply stare, her at what's left of her captain, him at things she can't see. "He's left, then," she says, and it's not a question because right now, they both need the Code.

"Bring me that horizon," he says, and for the first time since she's met him, she doesn't believe he means it.

* * *

Calypso's waiting when James makes shore, arms folded and patient smile.

"It's done," he says. "We have an accord."

"Took ye long enough, Sly James."

* * *

James stands on an islet cliff somewhere off Mexico's coast, barefoot and burnt and so bloody sick of his lot, he watches the waves break on the rock below and thinks, "That could be me" with something akin to optimism.

Hears bloody sea goddess cackle on the wind, much like he suspects Sparrow hears his Pearl.

Until him lose what him loves most, him suffer, she says, and James hurls a rock the size of his fist into the sea, as near to vengeance as he'll get. Because maybe Sparrow's fine now and maybe Jack remembers, but James... when the hell does James stop suffering?

No bloody witch for what ails him.

Read Part 3