"Former Commodore Norrington, a word please?"

He blinked his eyes open to see Jack Sparrow looking down at him. A toss of the head conveyed the rest—my cabin, now—before Sparrow twirled and strode off.

Norrington didn't bother to hide his annoyance. He'd been hoping to enjoy a little peace and quiet at last, and a chance to nurse his sore head in the shade of the mainmast. Apparently, it was not to be. He hauled himself to his feet and followed the swaying coat.

When he reached the cabin, Jack had hung his coat from a hook and was taking a flask from the pocket.

"Hair of the dog?"

Norrington accepted it and gulped at the contents. "For once, Sparrow, your behaviour surprises me in a pleasant way."

He could see Sparrow eyeing the way his throat pumped and the angle of the flask, gauging rum intake.

"Reckon that should do the trick," he said, retrieving the rum from Norrington and taking a swig himself. He tossed the empty flask aside and flung himself into the cabin's only chair. His sprawl put Norrington in mind of a many-limbed idol from the East Indies, although a quick count found only the usual two legs and arms, one of which waved vaguely towards the unmade bunk.

"Sit."

Norrington glowered. Pointedly, he cleared a space amid the jumble of charts, inventories, dirty crockery, and even dirtier shirts obscuring a fine oak sea chest. He used one of the shirts to wipe the wood, and sat down.

"Thank you," he said, all bland politeness.

Sparrow watched him with raised eyebrows. Waiting.

Norrington studied the floor. Let the bastard wait.

A soft sigh as Sparrow shifted position yet again. "Captain," he breathed."Thank you, Captain." Then, abruptly shifting to command mode, "Mr. Norrington, while you are in my crew, you really are going to have to stop holding me responsible for..." he flapped a hand, command mode slipping fast, "...Elizabeth, Will, yerself... the entire sordid 'n' sorry mess. You do know that, eh?"

"Ha!"

Norrington winced at the petulance in his own voice. He fought to sit up straight, drawing the tatters of his naval persona around himself and tried again.

"With respect, Captain Sparrow, my feelings are no concern of yours. However, I hope I retain sufficient honour to appreciate the need for shipboard discipline. You have my word I shall not show insubordination."

That sounded more like it! But bloody Sparrow just grinned at him and tapped his glinting teeth with a pencil.

"Talk is cheap, Norrington," he said, flicking the pencil onto the desk.

A challenge then, and one a former commodore could rise to.

"My conduct on the Pearl will show nothing but respect for your authority, Captain."

He stressed the last word and accompanied it with a rapid, but proper, naval salute. Sparrow's posture remained offensively casual but something flared in the depths of those eyes, just for an instant.

"Let time be the judge of that, eh?"

Norrington thought to be dismissed then, but Sparrow merely fidgeted in his chair. At last, having apparently exhausted the full range of positions available to him in that item of furniture, he bounced up and perched on the desk. Propping his feet in the chair, he leaned forward to fuss with the crinkles round the knees of his shabby britches.

"For what it's worth, mate, which admittedly ain't much, I do know how it feels. Rejection, I mean."

It was such an easy target that he simply raised one eyebrow, not troubling to dignify it with one of the wide selection of cutting rejoinders that presented themselves to him.

"Just when you reckon to be all tucked up snug together for the rest of your days."

Sparrow's black eyes gazed at him, seemingly filled with genuine sorrow rather than pity. Where were all those cutting rejoinders when he wanted one?

The pirate shook his head, jingling those ridiculous charms. "Don't talk of it generally, so I'll thank you not to be spreadin' it among the crew. Not that any'd believe you—'xcept Gibbs, and he knows already—so tellin's pointless either way really, innit? But I wanted to tell you, see? Because it was a fine thing you did for Elizabeth and young Will—not forgettin' my good self as well—that day at the fort, and it seems to me, not to put too fine a point on it, that you don't appear to be takin' it so well these days. Now to my way of thinking, that's a waste of... of somethin' or other."

Too much. Definitely too much. But for the fact that he'd minutes ago promised to respect Sparrow's authority, he'd have jumped off the sea chest and punched him. Instead, he remained where he was, keeping his voice low, and relishing the carefully controlled fury in it.

"Consider your concern noted, Captain. Now permit me to acquaint you with a few facts in return. First: it is entirely possible you are at your most infuriating when you attempt to show sympathy. Second: please do not presume that your understandably blighted romantic encounters have anything in common with my loss. They don't."

The painted eyes narrowed. "Knee in the bollocks is a knee in the bollocks, aye? Don't much matter if it's dainty or knobbly. Point is, it hurts like bloody hell." Sparrow's eyebrows drew down into a frown but, before they could settle there, a smile sent them soaring up again. "However! Sea's still blue; sun still warm; gold still shiny; kisses sweet..."

Sparrow hesitated, staring at the palm of his left hand as if something there alarmed him. Norrington could see nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps that it was less filthy than the right one.

"What I tryin' to say is, yer a long time dead and life's too short to sit around mopin'."

Norrington closed his eyes, just for a second. "Sparrow—Captain Sparrow—I am not moping. When I let Elizabeth go, I not only lost a beautiful and charming companion, but also destroyed my only prospects of social and professional advancement. The heartbreak, I mean to overcome with courage and dignity. The practical consequences, however, look to outlast the pain."

Sparrow frowned again. "Aye. Not much so much in common at all then. Do enlighten me further."

"No doubt you are unfamiliar with politics in the more elegant circles of society. My family is respectable enough—vastly more so than yours, I'm quite sure—but almost entirely without real wealth or status: a man of such relatively humble origins needs a good marriage to be fully accepted. Frankly, it was something of a miracle I was promoted to commodore on merit alone."

Sparrow grinned appreciatively. "Unusually young too, unless I'm mistaken."

"Indeed."

Oh yes, he could still feel a glow of pride at the achievement for all it was now lost.

"But to return to the matter under discussion, Elizabeth is not only the most eligible woman in Port Royal, she is—she was—the only eligible female for a great many miles in any direction."

"An' she'll be marryin' a blacksmith. Funny old world, eh?"

The gilded grin faded into a puzzled expression. Norrington fancied he could hear the grinding of cogs as the pirate's mind lurched onto a new track.

"Eligible? Would that be a fancy commodorial way of sayin' she was up for it?"

"Hardly. It's a civilised way of indicating that a match with the person concerned would be, well, advantageous."

"Hmm. Which Will isn't I s'ppose."

Brown hands fluttered like... like a flock of bloody sparrows. Honestly, the man was so easily distracted it was hard to keep one's own attention on the topic of conversation...

"Norrington? So Will isn't advantageous? Eligible, I mean."

When in heaven's name had they started discussing William bloody Turner?

"Oh, Mr. Turner is perfectly eligible. If you're a tavern wench. For a governor's daughter? It's social suicide."

"Nice for the tavern wench..."

Norrington found himself almost envying Sparrow's—or rather, the hypothetical wench's—freedom. He was beginning to think the lower levels of society were more comfortable than the higher. Certainly, only those caught in the middle between reality and aspiration felt the full pinch. Not that this was a likely to be a problem for him any more.

"Elizabeth's no fool, mind." Sparrow tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes before continuing. "You know, James—it is James, aye?" (Too much to hope he'd wait for an answer to that.) "In my experience, which is considerable, you can save yerself a great deal of grief by not troubling overly about a person's eligibleness."

"Eligibility."

"That as well. Point is, mate, you'll likely get a whole lot more enjoyment out life if, when you chance on a willin' lass, you don't waste time calculatin' how eligible she may or may not be."

"It is certainly obvious you don't."

"Or, in fact, female."

What? Ah... He took a deep breath.

"You spend too much time at sea, Sparrow."

An easy shrug. "Find land don't suit me really."

Sparrow's voice dropped and he fixed Norrington with a dark stare. "You need to reassess your priorities, James. Eligible and female—those are details. Willin' is trumps." His gaze became gentler. "It don't do to throw away the only good card in your hand, luv."

"I no longer hold any cards worth playing."

It was true. He'd gambled and lost. It had taken this long to admit it, but he'd months ago given up on the game, any game.

There was a silence, during which Sparrow actually kept still. Briefly. Then one fluid motion took him from coiled on the desk to standing in front of Norrington.

When Jack Sparrow stood close, he stood very, very close. Slender fingers stroked the front of Norrington's shirt as that glittering smile hovered below the taller man's chin. A thumb traced tenderly through the scratchy hair on his jaw-line.

Just before their mouths met, he heard Jack's soft murmur. "See, that's where you're wrong, luv."

Oh, Jack wasn't Elizabeth; he wasn't eligible, and he certainly wasn't female—but he was willing. Also warm and soft, and hungry and hard. This seemed, in the end, to be all that mattered.

Because there were times when all that honour and courage and dignity just hurt so damn much a man could hardly breathe.

For a while, he'd hoped rum might be the remedy. Then he'd thought nothing could be. Now this: a pair of urgent, grimy hands tugging at his shirt, his belt, his breeches. His own arms pulling Jack closer to bury his face in that smoky tangle of hair and trinkets, to feel the heat of him, the roughness of scars, the smoothness of skin between, sweeping him onto the bunk to know nothing but need and want and oh-so-willing response.

To want and be wanted back: this was enough. This was redemption. How the damned pirate knew was beyond him, but he no longer cared. He had found what he needed.

In those few days on the Pearl, the game rapidly regained its appeal. Ex-commodore Norrington learned from Jack Sparrow that you could always discover unlikely alliances, unexpected moves, new cards, even different rules. Of course, there was still an ache in his heart for Elizabeth, but he was aware of possibilities he'd never seen before.

When the Pearl reached Isla Cruces, Norrington knew he had a few worthwhile cards to play after all.

By the time she sailed away, he had his best card yet: the heart of Davy Jones.

It was time for a whole new game.


The End