James Norrington stands in the cool shade of a convenient palm tree, watching as the pirate approaches.

"You know, Commodore, seems to me as if you're the one supposed to be doing the carrying."

"Is that so, Captain?"

"Aye. The whelp gave ye to me, remember, and that means that it'd be right and proper for you to be doing what I tell you to be doing, savvy?"

"It means that I have to do right by you. Have I not?"

"Doesn't seem right of you, letting your poor ol' Captain Jack carry all these bucketfuls all by his onesies."

"Jack, there's no magic in that spring."

"Shows what you know."

"Oh please. If that water could heal, Mr. Ragetti would have two eyes by now. If that water could rejuvenate a man, Captain Barbossa would have been a toddler three times over. If that water granted immortality, that poor Chinaman of Mrs. Turner's wouldn't have been in need of a burial after that coconut fell on his head."

"Oh ye of little faith."

"If there was even the slightest possibility that that spring might be the Aqua de Vida, do you think Barbossa would have left you alone with it?"

"Well, his King and her pup had elsewhere to be, aye?"

"That's hardly the proper way to refer to your godson."

"And Jonathon James Hector Weatherby Turner's supposed to be any better?"

"I admit it's a bit of a mouthful."

"Aye."

Then Jack picks up the bucket and walks down towards his Pearl.

In the end the actual reclaiming has been downright anti-climactic. It has mostly been a matter of making all the pieces add up, leaving Jack Sparrow as undisputed captain of the Black Pearl, while Barbossa assumes command of the Empress, on the condition that he will convey Mrs. Turner and child safely to Port Royal. Apparently, she has matters to attend to there.

Sitting in the warm sand, drinking rum and coconut milk, while complicated discussions revolving around which pirates will sail under which captains aboard which ships takes place—it has felt like a holiday compared to what came before.

They will probably never know what dark force had been behind the thing that had once been Lord Beckett and the abominations he called crew, all the more horrible because their monstrosity had been so very subtle. Even in the warm daylight, the memory of the bone-pale vessel, reeking of old blood and sulphur, can make James shiver. At least it is over and done with. At least Beckett met his end at the tip of James' blade. Hopefully for good this time.

Still, the impromptu adventure has had the benefit of giving him a chance to truly observe Jack properly for the first time. Time to learn that the pirate is an excellent sailor and far too clever for his own good, a good man (though loath to admit it) who would be perfectly content never to raid another ship as long as he could sail the seas aboard his Pearl till kingdom come.

He has also seen the man's faults. Greatest of which, of course, is that he is a pirate—that he has in the past made the devil's bargain of letting others pay for his precious freedom. Also, he has seen that Jack is by nature a trickster, a schemer. He will not share his thoughts and plans freely, keeping things to himself, preferring to nudge people along, getting his way with his silver tongue, his roguish charm and luck that would leave an Irishman green with envy—and always keeping a trick up his sleeve.

A leader of men, Jack Sparrow is not. But that's alright. James can be that for him.

And if, quite coincidentally, he can keep him out of trouble at the same time, well...

A sharp crack has him running even before he truly notices that his musings have been rudely interrupted.

Jack is lying on the sand, bucket forgotten, the angrily red handprint on his upturned face ignored, expression caught somewhere between a pout, wonder and pure, unadultered adoration.

Already drying in the midday heat as she lowers her hands to what should have been hips, she is a magnificent sight, haughty and furious and simply divine. Or she would be, if not for the single brilliant drop of water dangling from the very tip of her nose.

James cannot help himself, try as he might. He starts to laugh and simply cannot stop. Pirate and ship turn to level equally affronted glares at him, but that just makes him laugh even more. Then Jack joins him, throwing his head back to howl with mirth, and then finally the Pearl, her deep laugh somehow reminiscent of the creaking of planks and rope, of sails being filled with a fresh breeze and of every shanty ever sung.

It is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.