Night had fallen over the vast waters of the Caribbean; the sky consumed by a creeping of black velvet, painted with the light of thousands of stars. The cerulean glow of the sea had been muted, replaced with a dull, impenetrable gray mirroring the sky above, only interrupted by occasional glows of phosphorescence from schools of krill or shrimp, or other, stranger things living beneath the waves. The heat of the day was gone, blown away by cool night winds. Over the sound of the rippling currents lapping against each other could be heard the creaking and moaning of timber and rope—the unmistakable sound of a ship.

The ship was the Black Pearl, and it was nigh on invisible against the night; black ship upon black water upon black sky. A soft, yellow light suddenly flared into being, illuminating the deck, as well as the man holding the lamp which was the source of the light; it was Captain Jack Sparrow, making his nightly rounds of the ship.

"Right-ho, mate" He mumbled, more to himself than the sleeping pirate he had no doubt been addressing, "Splendid; as you were and all that."

But even as he spoke, he started, weaving from side to side in his surprise. Some yards before him, slumped against a coiled pile of rope, was a man he had not seen before in the darkness. He was huddled into himself, nursing a bottle of rum, and staring morosely into the night. His face was obscured by grime, as well as the lank threads of his unkempt hair and his rapidly growing beard, but there was no way Jack Sparrow could mistake this man for anyone else.

"'Ello, James." He said softly.

James Norrington did not look up. "I don't recall us ever being on first-name terms, Sparrow." He said frostily, taking another bitter swig from his bottle. Though he had been stripped of both his title and his dignity, his voice still had the bite of authority to it; the air of someone who was used to giving orders, and used to having them obeyed. It was a tone which would have sent most men scuttling back to from whence they had come, but Jack was not cowed.

"Ah; very well, then." Jack grinned broadly, the gold in his smile sparkling in the light of the lantern. "'Ello, me favourite ex-Commodore."

Norrington grimaced. "Thank you ever so much for reminding me." The statement had no mirth in it, merely a cold, simmering resentment which took Jack somewhat aback.

"Terribly sorry." He muttered, and he meant it.

There was a long silence then; James was clearly not eager to make conversation, and in the absence of anything more stimulating to do, Jack cautiously sat down beside him and began to study him. No matter how it might have appeared, Jack had always admired Commodore Norrington; he was a true man, and a fine man; a man of the sea, to boot. He might have had a rod ten foot long up his fine Naval arse, but it was rare to find a man with such an unwavering sense of duty and conviction. It was not through nothing that he had gained the epithet "The Scourge of Piracy". Had things turned out otherwise, he might have made a fine pirate captain himself, Jack had sometimes mused privately. Now that his musings had partially become reality, however, Jack was saddened by the sight of the once upright Commodore. It took a lot to drive such a prideful man to depths such as these, and Jack hated to see anyone broken and cast down like that—well, perhaps not anyone; even Jack Sparrow had his limits, after all—but any decent human being, and certainly James Norrington was more than decent.

He watched as James drank steadily from his bottle, the level of liquor gradually lessening as the man himself sagged father and farther down against the rope, wallowing in his own misery.

"I am, you know, James." Jack said roughly after a while, having grown uncomfortable with the silence. "Sorry, I mean. Always was rooting for you."

"Pray do not suffer yourself any delusions, Captain Sparrow." James growled, "Merely because I am no longer in the employ of the Royal Navy does not mean my feelings for you have changed a whit."

A smile tugged at the corner of Jack's mouth as he regarded James. "No," he murmured, "Nor mine."

For the first time, Norrington looked up. "You say that as if it were a compliment."

"But of course!" Jack exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "You're a fine man, Jamie; I always thought so—'twas only Lady Fate what put us at swords end of each other."

James snorted mirthlessly, "A fine man... and I suppose I should be grateful to hear this coming from a pirate?"

Despite the barbed words, Jack merely shrugged, gazing steadily at James. "And what are you then, if not a pirate?"

At that, James winced visibly, and took a long, angry drink of rum. His voice was even harsher than it had been before when he answered. "Have I sunk that low, Sparrow; that you should claim to be my peer?"

He glared at Jack; his oceanic eyes glowing in the firelight, livid with a sort of impotent hatred, directed at Jack but not for him. It was a hatred of everything that had put him here; had turned the proper, upstanding British Commodore into a hopeless, rum-sodden pirate serving under the very man he had pursued so obsessively. It was a hatred of himself; of the weakness which had allowed him to become that which he most loathed.

"Evidently" said Jack evenly, still regarding James curiously, and at that, something in the other man seemed to snap, and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, laughing weakly, nearly empty bottle lolling in his loose grip.

"I like what you've done with yourself, mate; you're quite handsome without that bloody ridiculous wig."

Jack reached out absently, fingering the loose strands of what would be rich, chestnut brown hair had it not been so dirty. James twitched away from his touch, more out of habit than anything else.

"Glad somebody likes it." For the first time, his voice held a sort of self-deprecating amusement, and Jack looked over at him with a twist of his lips as he continued. "I look like a pirate."

At this, Jack allowed himself a broad smile. "Aye. So you do."

To Jack's eternal surprise, James laughed at this. It occurred suddenly to Jack that he had never before heard Norrington laugh—really laugh. He had been only the frosty and aloof Commodore, and then the drunken, angry sailor he'd encountered in Tortuga; and that in itself had been shock enough to last Jack Sparrow a lifetime. The man had a rich baritone laugh, and it sounded like what it was; something which came seldom, but was more than worth it when it did.

"Why am I here, Jack?" He asked, more to the night air than to Jack himself.

Jack quirked an eyebrow at the former Commodore. "So it's Jack now, it is? Thought we 'weren't on first name terms', Jamie."

James snorted derisively, ignoring the pirate. "God, this is absurd..."

Sensing that it was safer now to move slightly less cautiously around the drunken ex-Commodore, Jack scooted himself closer to the other man and draped an arm over his shoulder. "Of course it is." He said, his hand flopping about near Norrington's face, "Absurdity is the mode in which we live our lives, James; if life wasn't absolutely bloody ridiculous, we'd all go mad."

As if to illustrate his last remark, Jack's eyes widened and he grinned a grin which seemed more than a little mad to James. His own mouth twisted in a wry smirk. "It doesn't seem to me that you need any help on that front."

Jack blinked, "Eh?"

Norrington bit back a snort of laughter. "You're already mad, Sparrow."

Jack nodded sagely, "Aye, so I am. I'd certainly rather be mad, though."

"Rather than what?" Jack turned in surprise, for the man beside him sounded genuinely curious.

"Well," he started, not entirely sure how to phrase what he meant; it was something he had known all his life, something he had known so implicitly he had never really had to articulate it, "I'm a sailor, James. I'm the offspring of sailors; the call to sail and to sea is in me blood, innit? I imagine you know what I mean." He looked quite sincerely at James, who nodded.

"Aye... I do."

"Right. If I wasn't mad, what would I be? I'd be some Naval tar; mebbe a Captain or a Lieutenant; mebbe even a Commodore like your goodself." He inclined his head solicitously to the other man, who acknowledged it with the barest ghost of a smile. "Commodore Jack Sparrow, aye? I'd be at sea, but I couldn't live like that; strung up in brocade and powdered wigs and fancy talk with governors and lords and whatnot; just wouldn't work, would it?"

James exhaled through his nose in what might have been the beginnings of a laugh, trying to picture Jack Sparrow in civilised wear; a wig, powdered and starched and curled, a greatcoat covered in brass buttons and brocade, tight white breeches, buckled shoes, lacy cuffs... he tried to picture him without his mess of beaded and bangled dreadlocks, without the horrible two-plaited goatee, without his bronzed, sea-weathered skin, but the image wouldn't come. The idea of a clean-shaven Sparrow with fresh, pale skin and no glitter of jewels on his fingers was so absurd it positively defied imagining.

Jack grinned, almost as if he could read Norrington's mind. "See?" He said, "It en't me. And no sane man would ever think of taking up the account, so I must be mad. I think it takes a touch of madness to let yerself enjoy life; if you're too sensible, you end up, well..."

"Like me." James completed the sentence for Jack, who looked somewhat abashed. James, however, was staring at Jack as though seeing him for the first time. "I do believe," he said in a rather awed tone, "that that is the first time I have ever heard you speak seriously about anything, Sparrow."

Jack grinned. "You people are always surprised..."

Norrington's mouth twitched in a smirk, but his expression was still serious, "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Aye." Norrington looked at Jack, and though his expression was faraway, his eyes were brighter than James had ever seen them; they burnt like the sea, and James felt almost like a voyeur, as though he were intruding on something he had no right to see. "Aye," Jack spoke again, his voice low and rough, "It's me life, James; that right there. And that" He nodded towards the barely-visible horizon with a familiarity Norrington knew well. But then, he smiled suddenly, and there was Captain Sparrow again, all roguish, golden grin and perpetual sway. James blinked. Jack laughed at him.

"What did'ye think I was, Jamie; some illiterate urchin who turned pirate just 'cos he had no other option?" He chortled, "Nay... we've all got our own reasons, as you've evidently discovered."

"Mmm."

"Now," said Jack, cocking his head at the almost-empty bottle of rum James still held loosely in his hands, "I think ye'd like to give me the rest of that bottle, mate."

"Oh?" One eyebrow rose with a touch of the old Commodore Norrington arrogance, "And why, pray, would I want to do that?"

Jack smirked, "'Cos ye've had far too much, and you're a maudlin drunk anyway; 's not good for a man."

"Well, I'd hardly say I'm being maudlin at the moment, but since you seem to need it so terribly..."

He handed the bottle to Jack, who pulled out the cork with a satisfying phlup, and promptly proceeded to drain the entire thing in true pirate fashion.

Now it was James's turn to study Jack, and he did so thoroughly, possibly for the first time. Jack Sparrow seemed a different person now, and not only because James was no longer looking down upon him from a marble pedestal; he knew, somehow, that Jack told very few people what he had just shared with Norrington. It was private information; Jack's own secret motivations, his deepest beliefs. James had gained a respect for the other man; he knew that he was unlikely to have ever volunteered such information himself, and that Jack was willing to spoke a great deal for him. In James's mind, the pirate was no longer "Sparrow", he was "Jack".

Jack's fathomless eyes glinted with reflected starlight, and his bejeweled fingers toyed absently with the neck of the empty bottle. Quietly, he began to hum to himself; it was terribly out of tune, but Norrington thought he recognised the melody.

"Jack." It was not a question, not even really a statement, more a testing, tasting of the name as it sounded on James's tongue.

"Mmm?" Curiously, Jack turned to face the other man. For a moment, James said nothing at all, just looked at Jack with a slight crease between his eyebrows, but then, quite suddenly, James leaned forward and kissed him.

Jack froze momentarily, shocked by what seemed so out of character for the former Commodore; but then, more out of habit than anything else, he opened his mouth under James's, his hand sliding up to tangle in Norrington's ratted queue, allowing himself to be kissed by the other man. James pressed his body against the pirate's, and Jack braced himself against the deck with his other hand, feeling James's creep up to his cheek.

The kiss went on for some time; not hot or passionate or needy, but somehow strangely innocent; lazy and exploring. When James finally broke away, Jack pushed himself back up so he was sitting Indian-style and looking at James. His gaze was a curious expression; half breathless and half scrutinising.

"What in the name of all seven hells was that then, Jamie?"

The distinct beginnings of a smile were tugging on the corners of Norrington's thin lips as he returned Jack's look. "A little bit of madness, I think."