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The Day The Sea Stood Still
by AndreaLyn
Pairing: Jack/James, Elizabeth/Will
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Originally Posted: July and August, 2005
Note: It's a story in the vein of the movie. It's got a curse, but hey, it's got Sparrington! I hope it's enjoyed. The poem used is 'Tale of the Ancient Mariner'.
Summary: Sparrow & Company encounter a curse, the seas stopping, and other oddities enough to make any day a very bad one.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold :
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
"Stop that man!" Norrington commands in his most official voice—a voice that pierces through the billowing gun powder and fog of the day—as he sends a miniature legion of Marines down upon the two pirates that have seen fit to turn the docks of Port Royal into their personal breeding ground for chaos.
"The both of them, Commodore?" a shrill lieutenant's voice calls out from the fray.
"Yes," Norrington barks, sighing to himself in frustration. "Both of them!"
It had been such a lovely day to begin with. He'd written his correspondences to London in the morning with a cup of tea that had been the perfect temperature so as not to scald his tongue, and then he had discussed current events with Governor, being ever so careful to avoid a discussion with Miss Swann and Mister Turner. It's not as though he despises them, not in the least, but rather that he had a duty to perform and had no time for small talk and niceties. The Dauntless is set to sail to Nassau to reload her hull with precious cargo so that Port Royal may continue to thrive as a colony in the New World.
And yet, every single plan for his afternoon had gone to hell when the alarm had sounded at the docks. His first thought had been, 'Not the Pearl, please not the Pearl' because his one day's head start had turned into a mound of paperwork and explanations regarding the Interceptor. In fact, the Admiralty seems to have completely forgotten about the Pearl during the bureaucratic process. Weeks later, with everything mostly sorted, nothing truly explained, and many officers on forced leave, Norrington is not ready to face down Sparrow.
It cannot be the Pearl anyhow. While Sparrow was by far not the best pirate in the Spanish Main—make that the whole seven seas, Norrington snorts—he knows enough to know when to stay away. This appears to be mischief of a different sort. Of course, mischief in this case had turned out to be two young pirates who seemed to pray to chaos rather than any god or goddess of the sea.
The most infuriating aspect, however, remains that Norrington and his men are currently unable to apprehend them. Finally, one of the men runs towards Norrington and seems to have a quick tussle with Norrington's coat. A strange and heavy sensation falls over Norrington as he twists in a show of his reflexes and binds the pirate's hands behind his back, grinning with triumph when he sees that Groves has captured the other one. The lingering hints of a freezing sickness washes over Norrington and he pauses, slightly shaken in his step. Groves looks at him, his face the picture of concern. Norrington waves him off and regains his posture and strength with one step towards the rebels of the day.
"Well, well," Norrington muses aloud, smugly noting the scowl on both the pirate's faces. "I do hope that you've stretched your legs, seeing as you won't be putting them to use for a good while now. Perhaps eternity even," he smirks triumphantly, feeling the familiar wash of pride and the feeling of a job well done flooding him.
He turns to see the fading shadow of a grin on Groves' face and Norrington pivots, hands folded behind his back as he gives his nod of assent and stands in place to bring up the rear as they transport the prisoners to their new homes. The sun blares bright in the sky and glares double back off the shining waves of the sea. The morning has brought them strange weather and a dying of the winds. Norrington hopes that they will be blessed with fair winds and he is willing to spin the suitable three times and spit to the floor if only to placate any sea-gods. Nassau waits on the horizon, but it will not wait eternally for one ship of sailors with good intentions. He's sure that one of the local jailers can tend to these criminals in the duration of their voyage.
"Take them to the cells," Norrington commands, schooling himself to sound strict and stern though his mind has already begun to drift towards the inventory for the trip and his fingers itch to graze against the parchment of his maps; though his palm wishes for the comforting weight of the compass. "We shall deal with them promptly as soon as we return."
One of the pirates—the one that had run straight into Norrington—chuckles in a terrible mimicry of the human voice and breaks the well-ordered setting. Norrington pauses in his step and turns to regard the man curiously, raising one eyebrow. Now that there is no chase afoot and Norrington can properly study the man, he notices the pale sheen of his face and the deadened set of his eyes.
"Kill me now," he pleads, his voice rasping and desperate.
Norrington's men do not know what to do in this moment and Norrington gives them no signal to do anything in particular. He frowns and hesitantly takes steps towards this young man. His partner in crime seems to be watching nervously, his eyes wide and Norrington can see his pulse hammering in his neck. Norrington leans in until there is nothing in the world but him and this young deviant and all he can hear is the raspy and painful-sounding breath of this man who pleads for his life.
"Why?" Norrington asks simply, lowering his voice to indicate that this is a private question.
"Anything is better than this half-life," he coughs out, blood trickling down his mouth as his body spasms, causing the Marines closest to grab hold of his arms as his body is wreaked with more violent shakes as every second passes. Norrington stands his ground though the shiver down his back tries to distract him from his steadfast nature. This is more than unnerving.
This is unnatural.
He shouts in pain, he shouts in terror, and his body spasms with a desperation that Norrington prefers not to associate his sight with. Suddenly, as though commanded, the man stops moving and goes slack-still. He raises his gaze slowly, lanky brown strands of hair blocking his eyes, but there is no doubt that he is staring straight into Norrington's eyes with blue eyes as bright as the sky on clear sailing days.
Strange. Norrington pauses. In his previous studies of this man, his eyes had appeared an unnatural green.
"She's gone," he breathes out in relief, the forgotten remnants of a smile falling from the man's face like rain on the sea, splashing and bouncing back to the sky like the corner of his lips upturned to the clouds. He laughs pitifully, his back slumping as he falls to the ground, cushioned by the Marines. "She's gone," he repeats quietly, his eyes shutting.
Norrington has not moved one millimeter during the events.
"Sir!" a voice shakes him from the incomprehensible wave of thoughts that assault Norrington. "Sir, he's dead."
"Beautiful day for sailing," Groves murmurs, his eyes closed and the salt of the sea coating his skin with another light breeze over the rail of the Dauntless. When he receives no response, he turns to Gillette and raises an eyebrow. "Was I unclear? Beautiful day for sailing," he repeats, slower and louder in a mocking parroting of his previous words. Gillette rolls his eyes, his eye on the sky.
"Beautiful day for minding cares," Gillette snaps, perfect posture, yet seemingly bent over the railing as he watches the crew load persons and people onto the ship. Groves turns to see what Gillette could be looking at and finds a parasol shielding two distinct shadowy figures.
"They're to be aboard with us?" Groves murmurs in actual surprise. He'd not been briefed.
"The Governor requests that we accompany them to Nassau to Miss Swann's dressmaker," Gillette mutters bitterly, throwing glances over his shoulder as though to check that the good Commodore is out of hearing range. Groves suspects that he would disapprove both the subject at hand and the tone Gillette is taking. "Minding cares," he repeats with no less disdain.
"Why are you so angry with them?" Groves inquires, unable to strip his voice of the amused tone that has latched itself on as though a barnacle. "It's not as though they've harmed you personally."
Gillette turns to him as they load crates of fresh supplies and foods into the cabins. "We're going to Nassau for supplies. We are the Navy. We are lieutenants of the Navy and we are traveling to Nassau under orders of King George the Third himself, and we have been commanded by the Governor of a village to escort his daughter and her fiancé to a dressmaker. Fancy that. Perhaps you can pick out a little outfit for a doll? Perhaps a bit of a dress for those lonely nights?"
"I hardly think I give you enough time to play with dolls," a very commanding, very familiar voice is the one to respond to Gillette's tirade. "And if your nights are indeed that lonely, I must say, Lieutenant, I'd be very concerned." Groves fights to keep his laughter inside, and he sees the hint of a smirk on Norrington's lips, a hint so tiny that it might be mistaken for a trick of the light.
"Sir," Groves nods to Norrington before taking his place at his side and walking down the length of the ship, Gillette trailing slightly behind.
"I trust everything is going smoothly?" Norrington inquires, his eyes seemingly studying everything at once, as though he doesn't trust a thing to be done unless he does it himself. Though, Groves thinks belatedly, there's truth to that. They're pushing off to sea, the ropes being tied and the oars taken in as the anchor is hoisted up and Groves follows Norrington into the main cabin.
"As smoothly as it's ever gone," Groves nods, relaxing once the door have closed. "Sir, have you considered the effects of the dying wind? We hope it will pick up again, but there's always the worst case scenario to consider."
"Stuck on a ship with the lovebirds?" Gillette mutters under his breath.
The Commodore raises an eyebrow. "Lieutenant, have you something to say?"
Gillette straightens his posture and takes a step forward. Groves shakes his head, already impressed as to how this story is going to go. "Commodore Norrington," he begins with a smile. "With all due respect, sir, I don't see how it's necessary that we, as men of the Navy, must be commissioned to fulfill tasks that a simple sloop could perform, and..."
"She is the Governor's daughter," the Commodore interrupts with a heavy smile. He lifts his chin and bears his gaze—strange, Groves considers, colder than most looks—straight at Gillette. "Therefore, we abide by his wishes." The Commodore sighs deeply and Groves wonders as to how much the Commodore has rested before this. The scene on the docks the past day had been both worrying and unnerving, and Groves would never wish the responsibility of the men and that unnatural death on anyone, let alone a man he respected and would die for. "Has any other word come in about our prisoners?"
"The men from yesterday?" Groves clarifies.
"The very same. Has his friend said anything?"
"Apart from blathering on about how we're all in terrible, terrible danger if we don't set him free?" Groves lifts a dubious eyebrow along with a half-smile.
The Commodore lets out a graceful laugh. "Yes, well, if that weren't the eleventh version of that same old tune, I might be further inclined to believe him. Has the Doctor inspected the corpse?" Groves nods and pushes some paperwork across the table. The Commodore picks it up and shakes his head, sighing again, yet more woeful this time. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This damned mystery. Gentlemen, a man of perfect health one moment, yet keeling over dead the next. What do you make of that?"
"A perfectly confounding mystery," Gillette shrugs, standing at attention. "Commodore, sir, with your permission, I'd like to help set sail."
"Granted," the Commodore swiftly waves his hand away, and Gillette is gone in a few seconds. Groves remains and studies the set of the Commodore's face.
"With all due respect, sir," Groves says, haltingly. "How much sleep have you indulged in since yesterday morn?"
"And how is that naval business?" the Commodore asks distractedly, signing his name to a document.
Groves lets a small laugh slip past his lips, concealing it quickly by pressing his lips tightly together. He shakes his head and stands at attention, the very picture of naval obedience. His uniform is straight and clean, his wig is perfectly set upon his head, and his hands are ready to be bruised and callused with a hard day's work. He tips his hat to the Commodore and joins the other sailors as they push away from Port Royal into the increasingly still sea, tranquil and calm; only the sound of the gentle lapping waves against the hull meeting their ears.
"I don't like this," Groves murmurs, loud enough for those around him to hear.
"You don't have to like it," Gillette replies under his breath. "You just have to serve."
Groves holds his hand up to the blazing sun and blinks, wiping the sweat from his brow. The weather has taken a turn for the worse with the incessant heat burning at his skin, every wave of heat that comes seeping upon the deck of the Dauntless makes Groves wish for the Arctic. Nassau is days off yet, but with the dying sea, they've added days to the voyage. He fans himself with a spare leaflet of papers and shakes his head, marveling at the strange nature of the weather.
"No!" the sharp voice calls Groves' attention away from the waves. He turns slowly, surprised to find the Commodore barking orders at the men swabbing the deck. Groves takes a step away from the rail and walks towards the Commodore apprehensively, starting slightly when he sees Norrington throw the mop and bucket of water at one of the men. "Since when does this constitute a job well done?" he hisses.
"Commodore?" Groves calls out.
The Commodore pauses a moment, almost as if snapping out a dream and then looks to Groves, smiling pleasantly. The hint of something disturbingly icy chills Groves' spine as he stands there, merely able to stare at the Commodore and force a smile.
"Commodore, perhaps we can chart our course around this strange weather?" Groves finds his voice and approaches with another tentative step. He steps around in order to be able to look the Commodore in the face and as soon as he looks up at the familiar features, every last trace of icy cruelty has all but melted and the same brusque face of business is back. Groves frowns, slightly confused. "As I was saying," he stumbles to find his subject. "Our course, shall we discuss it, sir?"
The Commodore smiles warmly at him now and Groves pauses to wonder if perhaps this is merely a trick of the heat. "Of course, Groves. We'll chart our course at thirteen hundred hours in my cabin with the officers." He nods and walks off calmly, no hint of recollection at what he had just done. Groves stands there, utterly dazed and confused with the strange happenings. He grasps the sleeve of Gillette's shirt as he passes and tugs him to the railing of the ship.
"Theodore, whatever is the matter!" Gillette sputters in indignation, straightening his shirt compulsively.
Groves clears his throat and surveys around them, making sure that no one is liable to listen. "I think we have a problem. It seems to be something outside our expertise. We may need to consult someone outside the Navy."
"Outside the Navy?" Gillette echoes.
Groves frowns. "I hate to say it," he mutters, "but I think it might be prudent to call upon Jack Sparrow."
"Sparrow?" Gillette hisses. "That black mark on humanity? Whyever would we need him aboard the Dauntless for this nonexistent problem you think you've imagined!" Gillette laughs and turns away when Elizabeth and William arise on the deck—him helping her with the aid of one hand—and Gillette glares at Groves, who merely stands his ground, almost sure this is the problem.
Mysterious death, odd behaviour, strange weather. It all has the bearings of a curse or some other strange business afoot and who better to deal with strange business than Jack Sparrow?
Groves turns slightly so they are further angled from Turner and Miss Swann and leans in slightly. "Tell me you haven't noticed the Commodore acting oddly," he whispers, raising an eyebrow and fidgeting slightly with his hat, repositioning it atop his wig. They will have to stop talking and start working soon, but that is soon and they still have a few moments. "It's been more than a little odd, wouldn't you agree?"
"He did snap something quite... well, something that wasn't quite himself to one of the midshipmen this morning," Gillette admits with a thoughtful frown, his brow furrowed in many crinkled lines that all bespoke of individual worries, from the look on the man's face. "But really, Sparrow?" he moans, a little louder than he should have.
"Are you talking about Jack Sparrow?" Elizabeth's voice rings out, perfectly clear in the air—the wind having died down to the lightest of breezes. "He's around here, you know," she confides excitedly as she makes her way to the two Naval officers, William Turner in her wake. "Jack insisted we see him before we set out. He also insisted that he follow the Dauntless after he heard a terrible rumour of the death in Port Royal just the other day. Is it true?"
"The civilians have heard about the death," Gillette scoffs. "Wonderful."
"Elizabeth," William admonishes. "It was only a rumour."
Elizabeth turns and smacks him lightly on the upper arm. "It was not only a rumour. Father says he didn't want me around the morgue. Which means there was death. And Jack confirmed it, remember?" She turns to Groves. "He only wants to make sure nothing happens to Will and I. He's been rather worried after the last debacle." She beams prettily, as shining as any of the sun's rays. "He said he would follow us, just past the horizon."
"A day's sail," Groves murmurs beneath his breath. "At least, in this weather."
"Closer than we ever thought," Gillette says dryly. "Still want to bring him aboard, let him wallow in our miserable fun?"
William steps in quickly. "I'm sorry. Did you say you wanted to bring Jack aboard the Dauntless?" His eyes flash with worry. "What's going on? You're not going to arrest him, are you!"
Groves pauses, shares a quiet and secret look with Gillette in which they carry out a quick conversation using only the barest use of smirks and smiles and odd noises. Finally, Groves stands tall and turns to William Turner and his woman. Gillette murmurs under his breath in French behind Groves, clearly disapproving of this choice, but it is inevitable, especially if they're going to need help to signal Sparrow when the time is right.
"There are some issues," Groves explains haltingly. "We first stumbled upon them in Port Royal. I suspect Mr. Sparrow might know more about it than any of us," he says, fingers drumming a quick tune of his forearms. He gives a quiet laugh. "Indeed, one would almost suspect he knows more about it than us. Miss Swann, forgive me, but I don't think Mr. Sparrow would follow you to Nassau for your... protection. He's but the last of a dying breed. Pirates run these waters no more. He must be following us for other causes."
Her mouth opens and closes in shock and by the look of her face, she is clearly wounded by Groves' words.
"So what do you need him for?" Elizabeth asks defensively.
Groves applies his battle visage. "We'll know better as time progresses."
Will rises with the dawn sun, careful to make sure that Elizabeth is content and settled in their cot—which the Commodore had been nice enough to find for them, though Will begins to wonder if it is the Governor and not the Commodore who has procured such a thing for his darling baby daughter, for Will's fiancé.
Will grins.
His fiancé.
Will has risen at dawn ever since his middling years as Mr. Brown's apprentice. A hard day's work began with first light and at times, didn't end until the sun had plunged past the horizon. There's something stable and reassuring to that and it doesn't rock unpredictably like the sea. It's dependable and stable and something that a wife should have out of her husband. He's not a pirate. He doesn't think he really could be one for more than a week before the lure of land and a respectable life called back to him. He emerges from below to find himself in the thick of fog, shouts, and the oddest sensation.
There is stillness.
He stumbles through the odd weather he cannot ever recall seeing and finds Lieutenant Groves in the madness. There's a bell ringing somewhere and panicked shouts on the deck. Something is happening.
"This weather," Will states when he has the Lieutenant's attention. "We're stopped, aren't we?"
"Quite," Groves replies, but he's not really looking at him. "It seems our idea for Mister Sparrow to aid us has fallen by the wayside. It's impossible for him to have caught up to us in this weather."
Will walks towards the rail slowly, hands gripping the wood as if a need for something to touch. His fingers have calluses from years of just touching things and being curious. He'd been curious when he'd first learned to use a sword and three hours a day since then were borne of curiosity. How far can I go? How much can I learn? How skilled can I become? Will she care if I learn this? He cannot see past this fog and he's quickly sweating, which are two events he never thought could happen together.
"This is beyond strange," Will murmurs, a part of him willing his feet to carry him back to Elizabeth's side, just to check. What keeps him in place is the newest voice amongst the shouts, the one... singing.
"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot. Drink up me 'earties, Yo ho!" the cheerful voice calls over the dead sea and Will hangs his head, cringing at the sheer inopportune timing of it all. He wonders if Elizabeth will rouse for the madman's entry and he hopes against all hopes that the Commodore is somewhere that has walls too thick to hear, but the way the voice is ringing out in the air like a bell summoning its guest to dinner does not bode well for Jack.
"We," the word is drawn out and off-key, "kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot. Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!" Their rowboat cuts through the fog and Will realizes that the Pearl must be on the horizon. There's hardly a chance that Jack would let his precious ship out of sight—though, with this fog, hardly anything is in sight anymore. He can barely see up the deck to the helm to see whether Gillette or Groves are glowering as Jack, Anamaria, and Gibbs from the looks of it, board the Dauntless.
"Yo ho, yo ho! A pirate's life for me," Jack finishes with a flourish, bowing amidst the ethereal fog, making him look a demon amidst the trappings of angels. He turns to Will and heads over to him, clapping him on the back. "William," he greets warmly. "Fancy meeting you here."
The footfalls of at least a dozen pair of boots assaults Will's hearing and Jack and his crew are surrounded by the Royal Navy quicker than you could lead Mr. Brown to a jug of rum.
"How did you manage to get so close?" Groves demands, not sounding angry so much as curious. He's the first one to take a step closer to them and Lieutenant Gillette is not far behind. Will doesn't move out of a sense of propriety, thinking that with Jack aboard, he holds a right to be included. Anamaria is actually squabbling with Gibbs about something that sounds like paranoia regarding some of the Navy.
"William," Jack greets warmly, clearly ready to launch into one of his regular speeches. He turns to Groves and Gillette, nodding and Will frowns, noting that Jack seems to be almost respectful. "William, this is a matter for the adults," he notes quietly. "And is no place for children," he gives him a pat on the arse towards the cabins. "Go tend to your fiancé and we'll fetch you when we're done."
Will scowls. "Jack, I'm not a pup."
"I never said you were," Jack quickly replies, in complete accord. "I hardly think you'll have anything helpful to add and I can't imagine these fine officers are jumpin' for joy at you hearing about their Commodore's issue."
"You know?" Groves frowns.
"I guessed," Jack smirks. "He's not on deck, yet every last man is. And of course, it being a bonny ol' day for oddness, I'd have expected him to greet me by wonderful Turner-made swordpoint." Jack turns to Gibbs and mumbles something about rum and ropes. "So, then, William. I'll greet you and Miss Turner-To-Be later."
Will drifts slowly, frowning at Jack's tendency to push him out whenever he thinks it should be done. But he goes to Elizabeth, who he finds is still asleep, and brushes a lock of hair off her cheek, pressing a kiss there and making sure she isn't too warm.
"Morning, fiancé," he whispers though she only stirs and doesn't open her eyes.
"It's bloody hot," she growls to him. "Someone should do something."
Will just laughs, crawling back into the cot. "I'll have a word with the Commodore later."
No reason to tell her about Jack's arrival. Not just yet. She would only get involved in their discussion and from the way that Jack had actually boarded the Dauntless with no more than his sword, pistol, and two allies, Will figures that it must be something quite serious.
He'll figure it out later.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
"An audience with the Commodore," Jack beams, clapping his hands together as Groves paces back and forth in front of him, tapping his fingers against his thigh as though in the form of terrible deep thoughts. "His hospitality rivals none," his voice is dripping with sarcasm as he leans against the railing of the Dauntless, shrouded in this all-too-mysterious fog.
He had been in Tortuga when he heard the news of James 'Jimmy' Jameson, young pirate that Jack had never cared for—not after he'd stolen his favourite whore right from under him, even after Jack had paid her worth in ale to loosen her up, in a manner of speaking—dying right in Commodore Norrington's arms.
Or rather, in the long arm of Norrington's law in Port Royal.
News had traveled quick, whispering about curses and voodoo, telling tales that Jim had snatched the wrong treasure at the wrong time. Jack could sympathize, he could. He just didn't want to. In fact, when he had heard of his death, the first thing he'd done was order another drink to toast the fact that there was one less sloop out there, one less man trying to ease in on his business.
The gem Jim had snatched, Jack had been on its trail for a while, figuring he'd get rid of it before it got to be more trouble. Gibbs had been drunk one night, mumbling on about a curse on an emerald stone that could be worth thousands and how they wouldn't have to pilfer for weeks if they found it, snatched it, and ransomed it off. Marty's cousin had gone for it, so the tale goes, and had died promptly afterwards but had made quite the killing in coinage in the process. Death... devastation... general oddness that accompanied a curse followed in the wake of each of these tales of a stone whose beauty and price rivaled none, yet caused more pain than the sharpest sword.
One of the other, more delectable rumours in Tortuga was that James Norrington, Commodore himself had snatched up the pretty treasure and was carrying it around the Caribbean until he could find the proper pocket to drop it into, to make a certain pirate suffer. Jack had grinned when his name was passed around.
In truth, the Commodore had left him alone. Though, Jack supposes it was less out of a desire to let him be and other, far more important, duties arising.
Jack had decided after too many drinks to set a course for Port Royal and see if there was truth to the myths.
Upon arrival, the Dauntless was getting ready to set sail and he had met with Will and Elizabeth, hearing the tale of the two pirates who had come to Port Royal and the tale of the one who had died—Jimmy had indeed, bitten that last bullet—and the one who was going to be sitting in a jail cell while the Dauntless hopped, skipped, and sailed across the sea.
He'd snuck in at four in the morning, bribing the guard with a warm meal and slipping down into the dungeon his memory refuses to forget to find Jimmy's friend on his knees, with his arms looped through the grates of the cell. Jack had paused to drop the ill-gotten second meal for the prisoner just outside his cell.
"What's your name, boy?" Jack had demanded, tugging over a crate and sitting himself down, tipping his hat up and narrowing his eyes at the wayward pirate—looking thinner than most men should be, by rights.
He had barely looked up. "Does it matter?"
"Does to me," Jack had uncapped Gibbs' flask and had taken a good swig back. "I like to know a man's name if I'm to be sharing food with him," he had nodded to the meal outside the cell, sitting there half in shadow, half in light. "Rum for your trouble if you give a pretty answer."
"Peter," he had said quietly. "Folks call me Pete."
"Peter, mate," Jack had smirked. "Pete the Pirate. Not bad." Jack had leaned forward, all mischief gone. "Your friend, Jim, he stole a stone. Now, your friend Jimmy is dead. Why?"
"The stone."
"I gathered that, mate. Explanations."
Pete had gone pale, looking down at the food, but never touching it once. Jack had been wounded. Really, he had gone and found the man good food, top-notch quality food, and yet he left it for the dog. "James said he didn't believe in the curse." He had looked down, wistful. "Days later, he just... changed. And then it turned worse. We were in Port Royal on our way through, to try and find a shaman of sorts to exorcise the spirit, the demon."
"Demon?"
Pete had just nodded. "But the Commodore and his men, they caught us on the dock. I... I saw Jim slip the stone into the Commodore's pocket."
And Jack had left just a day's sail behind the Dauntless, planning to confront Norrington in Nassau and tell him about the odd luck that had befallen him. The sea had slowed days into the voyage and Jack had begun to suspect foul play. Thankfully, his girl garnered a bit of distance on the Dauntless and with a bit of rowing, they were close enough that he didn't feel terrible for abandoning his girl to go aboard the Commodore's ship.
It's not as if his crew can abduct his girl and sail away. The sea is completely dead.
Groves knocks on the cabin door. "Commodore, please," he pleads. He turns to Jack. "Would you please just promise not to kill my Commodore?"
"Your Commodore?" Jack asks wickedly.
Groves scowls and turns back to the door and the seemingly ineffectual knocking.
Jack rolls his eyes as he paces, arms crossed neatly as he goes about his merry way, one eye always ticking over to check on the children to see if they're playing nicely with Gibbs and Anamaria and when he sees that no blood has been shed, he turns his attention back to the door.
"I think it's me," Jack comments self-deprecatingly. "Can't imagine why he'd object to my..."
The door is swung open violently and there stands Commodore Norrington in all his brusque, daunting, intimidating glory.
"Speak of the devil," Jack murmurs.
Norrington arches an eyebrow. "I've not spoken your name in weeks," he retorts dryly, moving out and pushing Jack back a few steps in the process.
Jack smirks, the dull blade of his wit getting sharpened by the second. "Commodore, I have missed the repartee." The Commodore steps out, seemingly surveying his ship at work—though, what work is to be done, Jack doesn't know. When the sea is dead, you can only swab the decks so many times before that pretty varnish gets scraped off—just like the layers of a certain Commodore. So Jack goes a-scrapin'.
"I heard you ran into trouble," Jack remarks. "Had a run-in with some pirates. And oddly enough, one died right in your arms."
"That is none of your business, Sparrow," the Commodore comments evenly, running his fingers along the rail of the ship. Jack toddles after him slowly, following in his footsteps and glancing over the edge. He can't see the sea for the fog's grown too thick. A bad omen, that. "As far as I am concerned, I hardly see the point to your presence aboard my ship."
Jack glances to the Commodore and sees the green glint.
He's got it fastened around his neck, just under the cravat.
Jack twists his lips in a consternated line of thought, wondering just what's prompted the Commodore to begin wearing pieces of swag that he's discovered in the pocket of his very fine coat. Myths come floating back to Jack's attention and he steps a little closer to Norrington.
"Commodore, mate," Jack starts amicably, getting in front of the Commodore. That stops him in his tracks. Jack hops up and sits on the railing, spreading his thighs in order to lean forward and appear friendly—though what friendliness a Commodore would seek in a pirate belongs only in dreams and naughty fantasies. "I've a few questions," he says, utterly serious. "And if you're a smart man, which I trust you to be, love, you'll answer without a fuss."
The Commodore stops and smirks.
Wait...
Jack tries to scramble forward because the look that flashes past the Commodore's eyes is not a good one and not a good indicator of blessings to come. But it's all too late.
"As the Sparrow flies," the Commodore whispers and the sound is lilting and melodically pleasing, sweet in a way a man's voice shouldn't be. "So the Sparrow swims." And there's no more warning than that before the Commodore's very strong arms shove him off-balance and arse first into the calm standstill of an ocean. Jack hits the water so hard that there's pain upon contact and Jack submerges when the sting fades, sending a school of the little fishes scattering.
He pushes past the thick film of the ocean and hears bells ringing, shouts in the air, "Man overboard!" in a panicky voice and "Best he drinks water 'stead of rum," in a voice that sounds distinctly like the lovely Miss Anamaria. Jack sputters and coughs up salty water—and though he knows it to be absolutely impossible, it feels like they're stinging his scars.
There's a rope tossed over the side and how wonderful of the Navy rats to give him a means to climb back aboard before some ignorant sea-creature picks him as his dinner.
He's sopping wet and his hair won't dry for a good day now and that's all Jack can think as he strokes in a forward crawl towards the hull of the ship and he spits to the side, shaking out his hair and touching the bandanna wrapped around him. He thanks his own common sense that he'd taken off his hat, not exactly suspecting half-mad Commodores, but at least he'll come out of this with his effects intact.
He coughs and sputters more of the saltiest water that he's ever inhaled as a result of a mouth dropped open in shock by being pushed into the ocean and it's the efforts of six Navy-men and three Marines that gets him out of the sea.
And there's little Lizzie and Will waiting for him.
Elizabeth looks about half-delighted, half-shocked, half-terrified—and yes, there are sometimes that many halves, you just go to Singapore, down one of the wrong alleys and ask a nice mistress by the name of Miss Yin about so many halves, your head starts to spin—but Jack's simply not in the mood.
He clambers onto the deck and rights himself, flicking off tiny droplets of water, splattering Groves and Gillette in the process and making sure to get Anamaria a little wet.
He nods his thanks to the men and straightens his breeches, his shirt, his bandanna as best he can as he storms towards the Commodore's cabin—and isn't it funny that mysteriously, the Commodore has disappeared.
"Jack!" Elizabeth crows happily, joining him at his side. "Jack, whatever did you say..."
"Did you insult him?" Will pitches in his worried suggestion, flanking his other side. Jack wriggles and writhes a bit, effectively soaking the two pups. "Jack!"
Jack's content on ignoring them, storming forward. "Maybe I will kill the bastard," he mutters under his breath before pounding on the cabin with a firm fist. "Norrington!" he growls. "Open the damn door."
No response.
Jack turns, glowering and presses his wet back to the cabin door. "I'm not leaving this ship until you answer my bloody questions," he snaps furiously. As much as he hates the man—no, not hating the man, hating that he gets the best of him so many times lately—he's not going to let some stone dictate the deaths of another harbour of people.
"It takes lives," Pete had whispered, face haunted by more than just shadows and memories. "It kills people. Jim. Jim, he... he killed whole families and by the time I came back to him, there was blood on his hands, his lips... he was gone, but he wasn't. We moved faster after that day, but he... he was..."
Jack's not the idle type.
He'll get that bloody stone if it kills him.
Night rolls in and does nothing to magically evaporate the fog, thought the temperature seems to have plummeted from scalding hot to chillingly cold. The crew is ready to bed for the night since the Commodore has yet to come out and give them orders. Even Gillette is about to retire from watch, heading to the Commodore's office and knocking on the panes when Groves realizes that they've lost all sight of the horizon in the dense fog. He sighs and walks down the rails of the ship, keeping one eye turned to Sparrow. They may have brought him aboard for aid, but the Commodore has yet to express his true discontent for the situation. Groves is hesitant to want it, but he almost wishes for the brunt of the storm to pass so that they can rest calmly in the eye before the true damage hits.
Gillette still knocks at the panes of glass, murmuring "Commodore" quietly and Groves peers out to sea, the sound of the odd wave lapping gently up against the hull filling his ears.
"Is the Commodore not playing nice tonight?" Sparrow asks, sprawled on the railing of the Dauntless shamelessly, crunching on an apple. "Won't come out and have a round of dice with the men?"
"Contrary to your belief, not all naval officers are that easily corruptable," Groves responds, his heart not truly in the retort. He's stopped his pacing and is now only watching Gillette. He frowns, something not right and it isn't just the chill of the night in his bones. He turns to find Elizabeth and Will huddled in the corner, glancing at Gillette and whispering between them. "Have you seen the Commodore within the past few hours?" Groves asks, taking slow steps towards Gillette.
He feels rather than hears Sparrow behind him, hot expulsions of breath on his neck and shoulder. "Not since you boys did. Is he loose?"
"The opposite," Groves frowns. He turns and jumps when he sees Sparrow is barely inches from him. He curses a little in French—the odd word here and there Gillette has taught him whey they have become bored. "I've not seen him since he sent you into the sea."
"Remind me to thank him," Sparrow sneers. "Salt water is terrible for a man's complexion, honestly, a man of his rank ought to know that."
"Or perhaps he just doesn't care," Groves remarks evenly, his voice betraying how tired he is. He rubs at his eyes to try and make sure he's properly awake. With the Commodore acting the way he has, Groves has been pulling extra hours to make sure the Dauntless doesn't fall apart. He turns to find Jack looking at the children. "What's wrong, Mister Sparrow, jealous of their good fortune?"
Jack rolls his eyes. "Wondering if they caused this. Honestly, mate, after that bloody island, I wouldn't think of Miss Swann in a romantic capacity if she wooed me with Cupid's arrow itself. And Mister Turner is the rather spitting image of my dead best friend, platonic," he warned with a stern glance. "Maybe you're applying the jolly old green-eyed monster to the wrong man. There an itch you just can't scratch, Groves?"
"I can scratch all my itches perfectly well," Groves doesn't rise to this, merely keeps his voice steady. He knocks on the Commodore's cabin and joins Gillette. They exchange a brief and silent conversation marked by one arch of Gillette's eyebrow, Groves' pursed lips, and a small, "ah," sound from Gillette. After working together as Lieutenants for so long, language is no longer a necessity.
"I don't think he's in there," Gillette sighs, his words clipped. He squints through the fog. "Honestly, what are they doing above deck?"
Groves' lips twist up in a smirk. "He might be jealous," he confides ever so briefly in Sparrow.
Gillette sighs and presses his back up against a wooden pole. "Have you seen the Commodore? Honestly, this is becoming beyond bizarre."
"I think it's safe to say that we have no idea where the Commodore is," Groves frowns. It sounds even stupider when he says it aloud. Honestly, he doesn't enjoy being made to look a fool. He sighs and rubs at his eyes, hearing a commotion across the deck and hurrying over to find one of the midshipmen in a fight with Sparrow's woman, Anamaria. "This is ridiculous," he snaps. "Stop it!" he orders. "Both of you, stop this now before..."
And then he hears it.
Hears the sound of Gillette choking and crying out for help.
Time stops and Groves does the first thing he has been trained to do. He shouts for the Commodore and for aid until he realizes that the man holding Gillette by the neck is the Commodore himself—mussed and without his wig, his clothes looking torn and through the thick fog, it appears that he's got the Turner sword to Gillette's throat.
The stampede of feet rushing over drowns out Groves' hearing and soon, he's there with both hands in the air, Sparrow by his side and Elizabeth and Will standing somewhere close.
"What... are you doing?" Groves demands, eyes wide with panic, shock, and a thousand other emotions and reactions that simply have no name. "Commodore!" the title is high-strung and tense and everything is all too fast and then the Commodore starts laughing, the laugh a dark and sickly sound, the blunt edge of his sword stroking Gillette's neck like one would pet a kitten.
"Him," he gestures with the sword to Sparrow, shoving Gillette to the ground and in the blink of an eye, wrapping one arm around Sparrow and holding him in the exact same position that Gillette had been in, the position of a hostage. Sparrow simply chuckles, as though he is amused to be in this situation, but the sword tightening around his throat is no laughing matter.
Groves shakes his head. This needs to end. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, withdrawing his sword and stepping forward, only stumbling back when the Commodore points his gun straight at him and cocks the barrel. "Commodore!"
He doesn't listen, merely begins to turn the gun in a half-circle, lingering on faces. It sways and it sways, all as the Commodore gently strokes the sword up and down Sparrow's neck—obviously to the pirate's discontent, judging by the scope of the scowl on his face.
"Pretty little bird. I can see why he admires you," he purred into Sparrow's ear and Groves supposes that he should wish he hadn't heard that. There's the sound of more feet running forward and arms being drawn, but the gun seems to stop defiantly at that moment.
Groves turns.
It's trained on Elizabeth Swann.
"If you so much as move, I kill him and shoot her," Norrington threatened, voice barely more than a vicious growl. Groves can stop this, he can, he simply has to signal Gillette from behind and he can knock the Commodore out cold—and quickly, because the sword is beginning to leave lingering marks of red along Sparrow's neck—and then they can begin to figure out this madness. Groves catches Gillette's eye and they have a brief and silent argument before Gillette gives his nod of consent, moving ever so slightly and readying himself to hit the Commodore until... until the Commodore's eyes suddenly roll back, the gun falls from his hand and the sword does the same—twirling and clattering.
Commodore Norrington is a brave man at sea who never loses his balance once, so the tales say. He had been born with sea legs, that man.
But now he tumbles and faints to the ground like it's a natural state of being for him and the only one close enough to support his fall is Sparrow. Oddly enough, he does.
He grunts and staggers to the ground. "Little help!" he calls out, muttering under his breath about 'Navy bastards' as he braces one foot against the pole of the cabin, going down nowhere near gracefully with an unconcious Commodore in his arms. The sound of chaos resumes, accompanied by loud yells, shouts, the sound of feet pounding hard against the worn wood—yet always reliable—of the Dauntless.
People splash the Commodore's face with water, shout for him to wake up, and all the while, Groves is busy pulling Sparrow and Gillette aside. "We need your help," Groves confesses to Sparrow, sighing and hanging his head, arms folded behind his back like the ever dutiful man of the Navy. "It's not natural."
Gillette merely nods, as much as it appears to pain him.
"Well," Jack chuckles—voice a little hoarse, as though the Commodore had pressed up against something delicate. "Of course it isn't natural. And I'm the King of the unnatural, prince of the super, jester to the preternatural," his smirk turns a little wry, a little mocking. "Get some ropes, get me a book, and get me the children. Captain Jack Sparrow will right this little wrong of yours."
Gillette exchanges a momentary look of abject doubt, but one solid nod from Groves gets him moving.
"I believe it goes without saying," Groves begins, voice deceptively mild, "that if the Commodore dies on your watch, there will be repercussions."
Sparrow just snorts. "As if the man wasn't enough trouble already."
The many men, so beautiful !
And they all dead did lie :
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on ; and so did I.
"Tie him," Jack orders, twirling a rope in his hand as he paces back and forth, taking undue joy in the sight of Gillette and Groves tying up their own Commodore. It just tinges of irony and it's so bloody lovely that he wishes he could revisit this moment again and again. "Tightly."
"Orders from pirates," Gillette sing-songs bitterly.
"Silence leads the way or else I don't help," Jack commands, tossing the ropes to Groves and reclining back into the chair with the book they'd brought him—a book on naval procedure, there was a laugh and a half. He flips through the pages idly as he brushes a few odd pieces of white string off his shoulder. "The children, will they be making an audience for me soon? I've got things and manners of questions to ask."
"W... Wh..."
It sounds as if the Commodore is rousing. Jack slams the book shut and grins mischievously as he gets ready to watch this fun scene. Jack idly flips the pages back and forth between his thumb and index finger, enjoying the look of pure confusion on the Commodore's face, no smirk in sight.
"Why am I tied?" he finally gets out.
Groves and Gillette exchange a floundering look—doing a marvelous impression of fishes of the sea—before gesturing towards Jack in the chair, feet propped up on the desk. "Sparrow felt it necessary," Groves takes the bullet and speaks for the both of them, assuming that ridiculous Navy posture as he speaks, despite the fact this his Commodore is tied.
The sigh from Norrington sounds so practiced that Jack wonders if the good Commodore spends his time in front of a mirror, perfecting those tiny sounds. "And at what juncture did we decide to listen to what Mister Sparrow says?" he asks, Jack's very name so strained that it just might break from Norrington's lips and the scowl that accompanies the words is harsh and cold, just as one would expect.
"With all due respect, sir, at the point in time when you took your sword to my neck and threatened to carve out my heart," Gillette says bluntly and Jack lets out a quiet 'oh-ho' of a chuckle. Seems the Navy brat's got a spine and the possessed Commodore has got some interesting ideas.
Norrington frowns. "Yes, I see," he comments, more than a little troubled. "But really, Sparrow?"
Groves lets a warm laugh slip and both Jack and Norrington give him a bit of a glare this time. "He was a bit eager with the ropes," he admits. Groves holds up both hands in innocence, turning to Jack. "William and Elizabeth have been given word that you want to speak to them," he relays, which sends endless shivers—mock, of course—that the Navy can still perform a simple task such as delivering a message.
As though they've been eavesdropping and Jack really wouldn't put it past the lass—after all, Will Turner's been raised proper—they enter swiftly. Elizabeth worries her lip when she sees the Commodore, but they turn swiftly to Jack.
"We're returning to Port Royal?" William asks nervously and Groves lets out what sounds like a snort. Jack agrees with the Navy-man and arches an eyebrow.
"Well, besides the dead sea," he says, a little cruelly, "this boat is not going anywhere, children. Your Commodore isn't himself as we can all plainly see. He... or she is a threat to your precious Port Royal unless you're looking for a massacre. You and he and I are staying jus' where we are."
'She?' Gillette mouths and Groves gives him an impatient roll of the eyes.
"What do you intend?" Elizabeth asks, glancing over her shoulder when the Commodore doesn't pipe in a good word of defiance. He's gone unconscious once more. It's odd, but it's hardly the oddest thing that's happened aboard this ship so far.
Jack gives a sneaky little smile. "Whatever needs to be done," he says quite innocently. "Perhaps a little dabbling, perhaps a little mystical voodoo, hoodoo, supernatural," he smirks.
"James will never approve," she tuts.
That was most excellent and the loveliest of thing, Jack thinks to himself. He's been given permission to use the first name now by decree of someone else saying it first. He smirks and gives a little bit of a laugh as he snaps the book shut and heads to the Commodore's side. "James will approve when I've saved his bonny life." He tips his chin just a little further in the air, daring her to contradict, but Elizabeth—smart girl that she is—doesn't say a word. "Good," Jack says briskly. "Now, leave me alone, I want to coax this troublesome sprite out of the good Commodore. Or, excuse me," he rests one palm flat across his heart. "James," he says with great delight.
That gets him a glare from every last party in the room, save for the James in question.
That makes Jack grin.
"Go to," he instructs. "And bring me an apple. I get a mite peckish when I have to deal with strange spells."
Jack carves the apple with infinite care, going into hour four alone without the Commodore waking. Jack has searched the Commodore for that damn trinket, but hasn't found it where he thought he might—the neck being his prime hope, but to his disappointment, it hadn't been there when he'd pawed. He had to find that stone somehow.
Jack eyes the Commodore now. There aren't that many places a man could hide an object and Jack is beginning to wonder just where it is. He also wonders if perhaps the possessive little spirit inside the Commodore had him put the gem somewhere hard to find.
The groan is what tips Jack off; that tells him that the Commodore is back. Typically, evil spirits don't groan like that when they first awake.
"Welcome back," he greets him.
"Mister Sparrow, whatever are you still doing aboard my ship?" Norrington asks with another impressive groan, bucking his arms slightly and frowning. "And why am I still tied?"
"You started convulsing about two hours ago," Jack explains evenly, gesturing with the knife he's been using to cut up the apple. "Had to sit on you a bit to get that calmed." He smirks. "You got feisty." Jack recalls the feel of Norrington's hips beneath him, thighs straddling him and well, enjoying it. Jack's always liked the feel of a warm body beneath him.
"I did no such thing," Norrington protests.
Jack smirks. "Whatever's in you did. Now, Norrington, to business," he says plainly. "You've a gem on you someplace. It's hiding, but it's there. If you want to live..."
"What in heaven's name are you talking about!" Norrington interrupts him incredulously and Jack sighs. Can't a man finish a sentence without being jumped on? Apparently, not on this ship, where jumping a man is like second nature. He bucks against the restraints once more. "Sparrow, honestly, this is far beyond ridiculous."
"You are a man possessed," Jack growls, his voice ten shades of serious. There's a time for play and a time for amusement and it is not the time, not when Norrington is slipping further and further into this trap, skin paling and going the shade of a full moon and the way he sweats in this cold lack of heat is a chilling sight itself. "James, you are going to have to work with me if you want to live."
The laugh that escapes his throat turns ugly.
Here we go, Jack thinks.
"Work with you, Jack?" the voice replies, the musical, lilting, teasing, wonderful voice that Jack actually likes, if not for the terrible associating with that voice and a thing that is most likely killing the Commodore—a voice that has been in many men's throats before killing them too. He laughs and Jack just glares. "I'd be happy to."
"James," Jack merely states evenly. "I want to talk to James, not you."
"You'll go through me," he whispers, eyes alight with a gaze that speaks of hunger and eyes that seem to be glinting a little greener than before. "Mister Sparrow," he trills. "Since when do you refer to the good Commodore as simply James? Hm?" He laughed loudly and locks those eyes on Jack, hair tousled and a slightly more feminine edge to his body, his position. Jack steels himself for anything. "Come closer, let me whisper into your ear."
"And I'll press a kiss upon your lips?" Jack sneers, leaning closer nonetheless. The good Commodore is tied and won't be putting up a physical fight anytime soon. "Fess up, m'darling," he growls. "Where'd you put the gem?"
The Commodore bucks wildly, seemingly gaining control for a second, but it's the briefest of seconds before She takes over again and Jack gives another growl of frustration, straddling the Commodore to get him to stay still. He sighs with relief when Norrington stops bucking, thrashing, and writhing. Jack doesn't really think he can stand much of that in his new position, not really. Jack glares down at Norrington and presses both palms flat on his chest.
"Stay," he commands to both the spirit and the man, hoping to get some answers out of one of them.
But it's not answers he gets when Norrington surges forward and kisses Jack fiercely. Jack sputters a little, but the intensity of this one kiss burns a little brighter than any fire, than the most searing kiss of a shot of rum, and burns brighten than a whole sun of surprise. Jack kisses back—impolite not to—and finally parts after his hands have conducted a thorough grope of Norrington's body.
"You're not him," Sparrow accuses coldly, hands still searching the body for a hint of the gem. Where could it be? It's a damn tiny green gem, it had to be somewhere on him and yet, for all his searching, he still finds absolutely nothing.
"You're not terribly bright," Norrington counters with a smirk. Still Her. Jack sighs and eases back, resting back and still keeping Norrington straddled in case of another fit of twitching. It would be a terrible thing to have to explain why the Commodore had snapped his neck under Jack's watch.
Jack shakes his head. "Aren't you a friendly little sprite?" he marvels, a little acidly.
Norrington regards him with something cold and knowing, something that is meant to frighten the odd and normal person, but Jack is hardly either of those things. "I seek what he denies."
"Denies, hmm?" Jack counters. "Nosy little possessive spirit," he mutters under his breath. Jack realizes that he is still atop the Commodore, but there looks to be no more thrusting forward and kissing, no writhing in sight so he just sits there and begs upon his mother's grave that he can avoid getting hard, at least right now. He cocks his head to the side and watches Norrington seemingly go through a transformation right before his eyes. And then, it's clear as day that it's the Commodore beneath him.
"Sparrow?" he sputters.
Jack gets off quite obligingly. "Long story," he says, and before the good Commodore can ask a single question about that story, he leaves the room to find the children and ask them some questions.
Gillette exits Norrington's cabin the next morning looking like a man who's just departed a funeral. Jack really doesn't like that because it's him that the officer is marching towards. "Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath. It's just about time for sleep and Jack is tired out of his mind. Funny how trying to rid a ship of sprites wears at the spirit. "What now?"
"The Commodore asks that you wake him up in the morning," Gillette reports with a nod. Clearly orders as the quiet undertone of Gillette's voice implies that pigs, cows, and pirates would fly before he himself asked such a thing.
"He wants me to..."
"Wake him up, I know," Gillette snaps and storms away like a nasty tempest upon the sea. Jack chuckles at that. He's beginning to love how easily he can get the Navy's knickers in a twist by doing absolutely nothing but appear.
"He likes to be woken at dawn with a report on the progress of the voyage," Groves offers politely, standing a few feet away.
Jack snorts. "I'll just slip below deck and practice saying, 'nothing's different' in my best official voice, then," he remarks with a lewd look, trying to scare Groves away, but all it does is earn him an amused and warm laugh. Damn. Some of the local Navy is beginning to get used to him. That's nowhere near as fun. "Can I at least ring a bell in his ear?"
Groves shrugs. "If you must."
And he walks away too, a slightly calmer storm on the seas in a lovely mirror of the utterly dead sea beneath them. It's another sweltering day and he's expecting another frigid night. All these things merely point to this spirit being a tough one to deal with.
"Jack," Gibbs nudges him with his elbow. "When're we getting out of here? It's bad luck, Jack, terrible bad luck to be aboard any ship in this weather."
"Let me guess, a Tortugan port in a storm is what you fancy?" Jack replies, not quite looking at him, but simply staring forward at the other side of the ship and watching the little argument the Turner and the Turner-To-Be are having. He makes a note to intrude on that soon. "Mister Gibbs, we have been summoned and when we are through with this summoning of sorts, we will ensure we are paid thrice what we deserve, savvy?"
"Aye," Gibbs mutters. "Savvy, sir."
Jack strides over in the midst of Gibbs' response because he knows he inspires loyalty in his crew, a thing like that isn't even something to be questioned. He happens upon the young lovebirds and smiles as though he's somehow experiencing the shared bask of young love.
"Trouble?" he inquires.
Will sighs and it's wonderfully put-upon and it's wonderfully reminiscent of the way Bootstrap used to sigh when talking about his tyke's latest mischief. "Elizabeth insists that we should aid in your... investigation."
"I do!" she says stubbornly. "James is a close, personal, family friend and God only knows what you do to him in there!" She stares down Jack and he just has to laugh. He's not had a day of regret since the day he called her a pea in his pod because besides breeding, gender, and a myriad of other things, Elizabeth Turner neé Swann could not resemble a Sparrow as much as did at times like these. "Jack, he's not better!"
"Lizzie, darling," he smirks, wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders. "Have you, perchance, seen me walk on water? Convert water to wine?" He frowns, pauses, presses one finger to his chin as he glances to the sky. "Terribly good talent that would be if you substituted rum for wine," he chuckles at that. He clears his throat and returns to the matter at hand. "As I was pontificating," he smirks. "I've not performed a single one of those things, so please, children, stop treating me as though I work miracles!"
Elizabeth gives a tiny murmur.
It's Jack's turn to sigh now. "What, poppet?"
"Just promise me he's okay."
Jack laughs wryly, his smirk turning a little dark. "He's alive. For now."
I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.
The knock on the cabin door is hollow and seems to resonate in Jack's ears, even as his fist leaves the wood. He stifles a yawn and checks the horizon for the sun's progress and wishes it would hurry up and jackrabbit all the way into the sky already, hard to see through the thick fog, but still visible. "Commodore, I don't know why you're insisting that I check you in the morning instead of your boys, but..." Jack is snarling, but at the sight in front of him, he stops, grins, and locks the door. "Well, now, what's this?" he purrs with curiosity, playing with a charm in his hair, the hints of curiosity lurking in the corners of his lips. "It's not the Commodore at play this morning, is it?"
"Jack," the tone of the Commodore's voice is the same as ever, but Jack has never heard that teasing lilt to it before. "Come in," he murmurs softly, his hand clearly moving beneath the white sheets. "Have a seat." His head falls back in sinful grace as his lips part and wisps of sweaty brown hair cling to James' forehead. "Stay a while," the Commodore insists, eyes locked with Jack's.
"My, but I do enjoy this presence," Jack announces with giddy delight, clapping his hands together once and sitting himself on the foot of the Commodore's bed. "Well, not that you're intending to kill the man, but you show a good time, love."
"Jack," the Commodore reprimands, pushing the sheets down past his hips with his free hand, linen pooling just past his hipbones, "I find you talk too much."
"The more you show," Jack says seriously, eyes burning as they dip lower, creating a trail from the Commodore's chest all the way down to watch the way he cradles his cock with intricate delicacy, long fingers wrapping around the length and thumb flicking over the head as those long fingers stroke slowly up and down, drawing Jack's breath with every stroke. "The less I talk," he finishes when he finds his train of thought, leaning forward and gazing downwards. "Bloody hell, Commodore, but I didn't think those breeches of yours hid that much." He smirks. "Perpetual cold water in the pants?"
The Commodore chides him softly, grinning as Jack leans closer and closer, hands splaying on the Commodore's thighs and creating a sharp contrast of dark skin on light, shining in the light of the rising sun spilling in from the window.
"Such a pretty boy," Jack whispers.
"Wait," the Commodore teases, hips rising off the bed in a smooth arch. "Just wait."
Jack watches with keen interest, his eyes as wide as currency, and his mouth lit up in a full grin as he watches the Commodore fall prey to bliss, ecstasy, and the terrible, carnal sin of knowing himself as he thrusts forward with hard spasms, lips parting and mouth forming a terribly lovely 'O' of pleasure.
"Jack!" he cries out, panting hard, pleasure filling every single syllable of his name.
Jack glares. "Oh," he sneers, lip curling up. "You're good."
"According to all the stories," the Commodore replies primly, "I thought you'd be better."
Jack sneers. Damn the spirit. Witty spirits hold no place aboard any ship that Jack is present upon and he wishes that could be a universal rule, but for now, he settles for storming out of the cabin and whistling loudly. "Navy brats," he shouts for Gillette and Groves, "Lovebirds! M'lovely Anamaria and the esteemed Mister Gibbs. By the helm. Now. We're holding a meeting."
They stand in a line before him like he's about to selecting a crew from them, picking the finest and the fittest, the firm and fitting birds of a feather, but it's less than that and more of a line for Jack to scale up and down. They stand in a line, like criminals awaiting their guilt, but it's not that.
"It's a small green stone."
That's what it is.
"Commodore Norrington is in possession of a small green stone and it is somewhere on that man's body," Jack lectures, up and down, up and down with his hands folded behind his back like a man with knowledge—and that's exactly what he is and that's exactly what makes him dangerous. "We can end this if we can find that bloody stone," he growls. "It's small and it's green and he has to be wearing it."
"And what's gonna happen if he swallowed the damn thing?" Anamaria snorts, her voice irritably shrill to Jack's ears, like a seagull screeching for its dinner. Jack rubs his eyes. "C'mon, Jack, this ain't your mess. Let's row back to the Pearl and wait this fog out."
"What makes you think the fog will disappear?" Elizabeth retorts and Jack can see about twenty ways in how this will turn out badly. "What if this fog and this heat and the ocean standing still is connected to the odd happenings! What if we're trapped here! And James? What of him?"
"Yes, what of James?" Jack echoes with a smirk. "For one moment, forget the bloody Commodore and be selfish. Lizzie, darling, if you're trapped, there's no wedding and Will, no finding your erstwhile father..."
Will looks shocked but Jack is a dangerous man—knowledge, recall—and he knows that the whelp has been pulling up research and asking questions in Tortuga about Bootstrap Bill and of course, he's been getting his answers.
"Groves, Gillette, no promotions, Ana, love, no man at the next port willing to be suckered into your siren call, Mr. Gibbs, the ale and the wine is running out and I simply won't part with my rum," Jack continues on, gaining steam and never losing confidence. "And I, myself, wouldn't mind having the grateful nature of a Commodore at m'back. T'would be a fine and dandy difference from the hostility I've come to expect."
He takes a deep breath. "He's a tied man, but he's still dangerous. That spirit is sapping the Commodore clean of his life. And I've got the slightest suspicion that present company would like to avoid that."
"He's dying?" Gillette interrupts, but the voice doesn't quite sound like the one Jack has grown used to. "He... how..."
"How long would you say he has?" Groves swiftly interjects; always working as a team.
Jack glances over his shoulder towards the cabin. "A day," he estimates, stories of Jim flooding his mind. "Two, at best." He runs his tongue over his teeth, one of the golden teeth wobbling a little as he stands there in deep thought. "It's a damn green stone and I can't find it." Anamaria might have a point. Maybe it's inside him somewhere, but Jack hadn't seen a single stitch or scar. He rubs his beard, a little for luck, a little for thought. "Right," he announces. "I'm going back in. If he calls for help, ignore the bastard."
Gillette looks ready to protest, but to Jack's surprise, he doesn't say a word as Jack scales the steps quickly towards the deck and strides to Norrington's cabin, withdrawing a Turner sword—not purchased so much as 'borrowed'—and used it to barricade the doors behind him.
"Sparrow," comes the tired greeting.
It seems Norrington is himself again.
"Good to see you, Commodore," Jack relays, grasping a chair and sitting, pitching his boots up on the table as he cocks his head to the side and takes to studying Norrington. The man is pale, washed with the slightest of green tints, as though he has somehow developed a perpetual case of seasickness. He looks thinner and that would likely be because Norrington has refused all manner of food that they've tried to give him.
"I suppose I'm dying, then," Norrington comments evenly.
"Now there's a Navy spine. No melodrama, no worry, just the inevitable acceptance," Jack chuckles darkly. "Tell me where the stone is, Commodore and you won't have to give up your life."
"My body will go on," Norrington concludes. "I think she's mining me out to use me, upon which time I will become quite the dangerous man."
"So you die," Jack says quietly. "You're willing to die?"
"I don't recall where I put the stone, Sparrow," he replies ruefully. "I can't save myself, I'm afraid. When all is said and done, however, you will see to it."
Jack wishes he didn't understand, wishes he didn't completely understand the meaning behind Norrington's words. "Here now, I'm not in the habit of killing men of his majesty's navy."
"If the worst should come to pass, I won't be a man of his majesty's navy anymore, will I?" It's wry and dry humour in Norrington's voice, but it gets a small chuckle from Jack.
"Why me?"
"Because you will see it done," he replies quietly, avoiding Jack's gaze. "And you will not hesitate."
Jack simply laughs once more, control utterly out of his hands now as he stares at the Commodore and the Commodore stares back and for another moment, they are the pirate and the naval commander instead of just Jack and James in a small cabin. Jack sees the ropes have begun to burn imprints on Norrington's skin and it's hardly a pretty sight on that paler-than-most skin. It's a terrible thing to watch a man so certain of his own passing and especially watching one whose death he's supposed to stop.
"I'm burning up with fever, Sparrow," Norrington comments tiredly. "Half the time, I barely know where I am. Delusions, perhaps?" He sighs and coughs to the side, as though something is inside and trying to get out. "Yes, hallucinations, I would call them. I've no control of whether this thing stays or goes. There is the certainty, the swift c-certainty," he coughs a little harder and Jack closes his eyes. He's supposed to save the day. "Yes, the certainty that this is it." He glances to the belt of Jack's trousers. "Your gun. Is there a bullet left?"
"Just one."
It's become a habit. He's only carried one shot since the days of Barbossa, and it's a terribly hard habit to break. One shot seems safe. It's not as though he uses his gun as a primary weapon. His charm and his words and a swift, brilliant plan is all he needs and wants. One shot in a gun is just habit.
"You have to..." Norrington begins, but begins to cough again.
"Aye?" Jack arches his eyebrows. He's not sure how much longer he can prevent this death, so he needs Norrington to pass out so he can search his body once more. "Cursed commodores need their rest."
"You have to do it," he insists.
"Do what, love?"
"You have to kill me if we can't..." he's going nearly maniacal with it as his eyes roll back into his head and Jack stands there, approaching the door for his sword and slowly reverses it so that the hilt is in a strong grip. "...if we c-can't..."
Jack swings to hurt and knocks Norrington unconscious.
"Sorry, there," he apologizes, dropping the sword to the floor in a clatter and proceeds to straddle Norrington to peruse his body once more for the elusive stone that's causing all this terrible trouble. "Come on," he hisses. "Where are you!"
"Jack..." Gibbs quietly speaks. He must have snuck into the room when Jack wasn't looking. "Aren't you going a bit overboard?"
Jack pulls himself up and storms over to Gibbs. "You think we have a choice anymore?" he growls. "We're stuck, Mister Gibbs. We are absolutely stuck and if that presence gets through, we are dead. Most certainly, dead!" He swirls abruptly and stares. "A small green stone. Where could it be!" he rages, staring at Norrington's unconscious form and feeling absolutely furious. He storms over and yanks Norrington up by the shirt. "Come on, where is it!" he demands from the unconscious body.
Gibbs pulls one of his arms back gently. "Jack, stop it."
"He's going to die, Gibbs. And then we're all going to be picked off, one by one," Jack swears under his breath. One shot in his gun can stop this, but he doesn't want that guilt on his back. "All because I can't find a bloody stone!" he shouts and Norrington snaps awake, but it's not Norrington.
"Don't look," he snaps and his voice is discordant and... and dead. There are harmonies that sound terrible and an echo and an inhuman tone. "Stop." Jack steps forward and climbs atop Norrington, pulling him up by the shirt, his other hand wrapped around his throat. "Don't."
"He asked me to kill you," Jack snarls. "Why shouldn't I?"
And then, Jack realizes with cold horror that one of Norrington's hands has come loose and that sword, Jack's sword, the one he had dropped is now in Norrington's—no, you fool, Jack snaps at himself, a possessed Norrington—hands and there's no stopping the hard pressure of the blade from pressing against Jack's chest, between collarbones. Jack inhales as evenly as he can, but he still has to breathe and while Norrington's hands are shaking, they aren't stopping.
Blood pools at the blade and the shaking grows worse, enough of a pause for Jack to grab the sword and throw it to the side, grasping Norrington's wrist with a hard grip.
A blink of green eyes and there is fear where there had been confidence.
"You have to do it," Norrington whispers. "You have to kill me."
And he's unconscious once more without Jack touching a single hair on his head.
The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice ;
'The game is done ! I've won ! I've won !'
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
Jack paces. Night is falling again, which means another onslaught of icy weather to chill his bones. Anamaria is the only one who dares approach him when he's in such a visibly terrible mood and he never did understand why she dared do something so utterly stupid.
"He's a Navy-man," she scowls. "Why're your breeches twisted for him?"
"My breeches remain untwisted," Jack replies. "Don't fancy him."
"Yes, you do." She rolls her eyes at that. "Knickers in a twist because he's a bit of a puzzle for the great Captain Sparrow to figure out, spirit or no. He was just your enemy, but now you see there's more and you won't rest t'il you figure it out."
Jack doesn't need to tell her everything. He's made a living of keeping secrets from people since his betrayal, the Jesus to a crew of Judas'. So he hasn't told a soul about the little kiss Norrington—or whatever was controlling him at the time—had given him. He also hasn't told a single living being about the shiver that the kiss had pulled from the base of Jack's spine, enough lingering heat beneath the surface to make him curious, but not too much to make him seem as though he'll be a volcano of passion, bursting and then dormant for decades.
"I don't give a rat's arse, Jack," Ana snarls as they stare off the railing out towards the fog as the chill rolls in off the waves. "I care about living. I say we row out of here. Nearest land is a two day's row and we..."
"No," Jack interrupts, stuck in deep thought. Why can't he find a bloody little stone, why can't he find it? It's not in the skin, it's not in his hair, it's not down his throat because Jack had looked. Maybe he had swallowed it. Maybe it's hopeless.
She sighs and hands him her knife, her own. She hasn't let another living being touch this blade, but she's handing it to Jack. "Kill him," she growls. "I'm tired of this. You still owe me a ship! That's it, then. Drive the knife into his throat, his stomach, his bloody groin for all I care, but just grab the bastard and do it." She sneers, a terribly ugly look on her pretty face. "Yank those stupid, smelly week-old breeches off if you have to and bugger him before you do it, but just get it over with."
Jack pauses.
"Ana," he turns, grasping her by the wrists. "What did you just say?"
There had been something there, something that had caused a signal to go off in Jack's mind. What is it, what is it, come on, Jack, what is it?
"I said kill the bastard," she grunts. "Bugger him first, but kill him."
"No," Jack snaps. "Something else! Something else, Ana!"
"For Christ's sake, does getting in a man's pants really get you this worked up?" She rolls her eyes again, as though unable to believe how very insane her Captain has become, but Jack simply twirls her in the air, laughing with great glee and delighting in this moment, this feeling of victory. She stares at him like he's gone mad and maybe he has, but he recalls now.
When he had been straddling Norrington, that poke, that slight poke that he had assumed for the scabbard of a sword, but there was no sword, no sword at all because they were so paranoid that the spirit would kill them. They had given him a new shirt every morning, but out of Elizabeth's request, had kept his breeches on to preserve his dignity.
"Groves!" Jack shouts. "Gillette, Gibbs, Ana! With me, we're going to cure the Commodore. Bring an axe!"
Jack rushes into the cabin with nary more than a wild idea in his mind and the others follow him like he's their pied-piper as he kicks the door open and beams at Norrington. "I figured you out, you bitch," he announced with mad delight. "Gibbs, your short knife, now!" Gibbs places it in Jack's palm and Norrington bucks awake, but it's not him, it's Her and She's angry. "I know where you put it," Jack announced with giddy delight. "I should have known."
He uses the knife and holds it between his teeth as he straddles Norrington and snaps his fingers to get the others to hold him down. They're on him in an instant, one person on each limb and they struggle to hold him down.
"You won't have him!" Norrington shouts, pale, sweating, and looking two minutes from death. "I'm too close, he's mine! This one is mine!" His head snaps to Gillette, snaps to Groves, his neck cracking as he does. "You stopped me before, but you won't stop me now!" he shrieks. Jack frowns and pins him down a little harder, ignoring every curse Norrington spurts and every last vile thing he has to say as Jack grabs his knife and cuts the belt loop of Norrington's breeches open.
"Come on," Jack mutters. "Come on, where are you?"
Norrington begins to actually wail, horrible sound like a banshee and Jack almost claps his hands over his ears, but he doesn't because he's found it, it's just out of reach, that damn cold stone, he can feel it. Jack begins to laugh, loudly and the victory taints the edges to make it appear that he is truly happy as he yanks the green stone out and nearly stumbles back. He holds it up, madly laughing now.
"Jack!" Anamaria beams. He hears the smile in her voice. "Throw it overboard!"
Jack grabs the hilt of Gibbs' short knife. "Better yet," he muttered, placing it down on the table and smashing it to bits, the force of the destruction knocking them all backwards, a force so vast for something so small. Jack stumbles to his feet and gets the last traces of the stone in his cupped palms, taking them out to the edge of the Dauntless and casting them into the still sea.
The oddest thing happens.
As he squints to see the splattering of the stones in the water, he feels a breeze pass his face. It's like the weather's sighing with relief. Like it owes Jack a helluva favour. Jack just grins. He's done right. Now there's the matter of a tied Commodore and to figure out just what he's been denying.
He strolls back rather cockily to the cabin and the first thing he sees is Norrington's disapproving gaze and by all the looks of it, he's back for good.
"Jack!" Elizabeth has snuck in. "Isn't it wonderful! He's better! You can untie him!"
"Yes," Norrington replies with a dry, acerbic tone that Jack has begun to miss. "You can untie me now. I must admit, the burns are becoming trendy, but I don't think I can keep up when the latest fashion switches." He locks eyes with Jack. "Go on, then, untie me."
Jack just grins and pauses to contemplate this request. "Don't trust you jus' yet, mate."
There's also a little bit of fun to be had.
James has little secrets to his success. There hadn't been one big event that deemed that he would become the youngest acting Commodore in the Royal Navy. No; there exist little bits of history sprinkled over his past, that, when put together would form a rich history that would lead most Admirals to remark, "It would hardly look good on us if he remained a captain at this point."
He had been one of the men of the Royal Navy to volunteer to help go after Blackbeard, most infamous of pirates in that particular year. Yes, the name 'Pirate Hunter' is earned also through various feats that have left him tangible memories littering his skin. Now, there are no more pirates, no more standoffs on Ocraroke Inlet with his gun pointed at a wild man, hands shaking—only a lieutenant then—and following his orders. That had been nearly fifteen years ago now, perhaps he had been eighteen? The timing escapes him. He had traveled up the coast to one of the colonies for that and had taken tea with a gentle widow of a Navy man who had tried to explain the Navy, life, and all its answers to him.
She hadn't mentioned curses in there.
He's still recovering. Every day is a struggle to merely open his eyes and recover the memories of what he's done, of everything he's said, and dear God, did he really let Sparrow sit there and watch him pleasure himself?
Miss Swann comes to see him daily and so do his lieutenants. Also odd is that Sparrow is one of his daily visitors, tossing him an apple in their daily routine. James catches it with grateful hands. His wrists are no longer tied, but he still bears the marks of those ropes and the feel of the ropes still burn in his mind. It's also odd that Sparrow seems to initiate conversation found comfortable to James' ear. It's as though whatever had taken hold of him has also given him the gift of interpreting Sparrowese to English.
"You're not as fun anymore, you know," Sparrow comments one morning. James laughs wryly at that, being put through a crucible and coming out the other side only to hear complaints from pirates that he lacked whimsy. At least there is still faint amusement to be found. "But I've got one question still, Norrington. The shot. The one shot." James nods. He understands. "Why did you ask that of me?"
The answer is so simple, he's not surprised that Sparrow didn't see it. Sparrow looks for the puzzle and for the complication when, here, the correct answer is sitting in front of him so clear and plain as day.
"Because you would have given it."
Sparrow comprehends immediately with a simple nod of his head and an "ah" spoken'; not a stupid man as opposed to James' first impressions. He understands, but he gives off a show of ignorance. James had considered that for a while and he realizes that perhaps Sparrow is far smarter than anyone has given him credit for. Certainly, he is still not the best pirate on the high seas, but to feign such blissful ignorance and take advantage of everyone's supposition that he is nothing but a fool, that is a mischievous type of genius indeed.
"Sparrow," James takes a deep breath, knowing this will be the most difficult thing he's ever had to say, but it needs to be given. His life had been in worthy hands and he must show his gratitude. "I..."
"It's Jack, love," he interrupts with an amused smirk.
James nods and tries to shift his entire perception. "Jack," he says again, and it bears the weight of a world changed in the blink of an eye. He takes another needed deep breath and closes his eyes. Now or never. "Thank you."
The sea has begun to move again and the fog has cleared. Any hint of strange weather or oddness has evaporated like the rain on a sunny day in this bastion of heat. They are making progress towards Nassau with the Pearl following behind, Anamaria at the helm—ah, and Jack had confessed to James one afternoon as he had sliced an apple. "That woman is going to make off with my ship one day, I feel it in my bones."—and James has granted them safe passage until they arrive in Nassau. He can hardly deny it. A good deed done and the burden of Elizabeth Swann glaring sternly at him as though to say, '...and if you do anything otherwise, James, so help me...' and he's done more than give them safe passage.
He's considering giving Jack a letter of marque.
Jack clears his throat and brings him back to the conversation. "That's a start," is what he's saying.
"What do you mean, a start?" James expresses his incredulity.
Jack winks. "I figure after all you've put me through, 'thank you' is only the start of how you'll be payin' me back."
James simply laughs.
Something that has come of a great surprise is that Jack is marvelous at plotting a course. James can tell that it's causing jealousy with Gillette and further hero adoration in Groves, but for the moment, he'll simply remain impressed. They have been in James' cabin for hours now, since the sun had set and cast copper shadows over the table. Jack has brought his rum and James is enjoying the red wine he's brought aboard for this voyage and they are laughing about an old story that Gibbs had told Jack about his early days in the Navy and discovering the oddities of this particular Captain of Gibbs.
They are both, quite honestly, a little tipsy and James pauses to think, drinking with pirates every few moments, but it passes with the next sip of wine and they are simply enjoying this, their last night before landfall.
James has instilled a sort of separation. For now, he is drinking with Jack; the man who saved his life, the man who knows how to sail and plot a course and enjoys a good song and dance. This Jack is a friend, a man he owes a debt to.
When they dock, he will become Sparrow again and they will part their separate ways without so much as another word. If Sparrow accepts the Letter of Marque the Governor will draft, then perhaps one day, he will become Jack again if he abides by the laws the Letter requires.
James grins ruefully at that thought.
He very much doubts Sparrow will ever become Jack again.
"James," Jack speaks quietly. "You're drifting away. Come, now, our last night before Nassau, can't have the good Commodore passing out on me!"
James rolls his eyes and stands cautiously. It's one thing to be merely drunk. It's another thing to be drunk at sea. Sea legs don't have handy adjustments. He clasps the table as he makes his way around to tell Jack that perhaps the night is over and that they should rest for the work in the morning, but as he's leaning on Jack's shoulder to tell him, the chair Jack is sitting in—well, half-sitting; his legs are propped up on the table—splinters and James tumbles forward onto Jack and they spin until James' back is pressed to the cabin as it creaks and Jack is atop him, having stopped their rolling with his knees dug into the floor around James' hips.
James breathes heavily, chest heaving in its rise and fall and Jack isn't moving, not once. James looks up and recalls the spirit finding the deepest desire in him, speaking things that should never be spoken. "Jack," he murmurs softly. "You're on me."
"Am I now?" Jack exhales, just staring down and James almost wants to reach up and rub the kohl off his skin, wondering why he paints himself up. Another bit of the part that Jack plays on a daily basis. "Funny that," he grins now, mischief dancing in his eyes as he doesn't shift his gaze from James once and then, he...
James moans at that friction.
Jack had rocked his hips up against his own. In a circle and then a slow thrust up, pushing and garnering quite the reaction from him. No, James thinks with an inner gasp. Don't. Stop reacting.
"Jack," James starts warningly.
Jack's gaze shifts from something mischievous into something far more intense, desire in his gaze and it's as though the air has shifted and Jack's motives have become clear. "Are you going to kiss me, Commodore, or do I have to do everything m'self?" he growls and lowers his head a little closer, close enough that if James wanted, he would merely have to raise his head and kiss Jack.
"Jack," James whispers softly. "Off."
The air shifts again and then Jack pulls away and it's though nothing has happened in the first place. He brushes his breeches off and reaches a hand out to James to aid him to his feet. James takes the hand, never one to refuse help and stands on his feet and the air between them speaks as though nothing has happened and that everything is fine.
"Nassau in the morning," Jack comments as he sits down in one of the unbroken chairs.
James just glances at the deck through his cabin window. "In the morning."
The ramp goes down and everyone leaves the ship for supplies, for land, for a drink until the ship is completely devoid of souls but himself and Jack. There's been something on the tip of his tongue, something he wants to say, but his brain has done him the disadvantage of not telling him what that thing might be. James sighs and paces in his cabin, considering the events of the previous night.
Jack knocks on the glass panes of his door and he glances and beckons him in. There's an air of silence to the ship that is almost eerie and simply reminds James that they are alone right now. This is the last moment before Jack returns to being Sparrow, but not hunted. No, that bird will fly free after today.
"Your crew is pilfering the village for women," Jack chides with a grin. "They become my kind of men the moment they leave this ship."
"Well, after the hardships they've encountered on this particular voyage, I think their actions warrant a blind eye," James shrugs, standing at attention in front of Jack, but then recalls that he's not in the presence of anyone but another man and relaxes. He then does something that he himself doesn't expect and reaches out to tug Jack closer, one arm wrapped around his neck. He frowns as he presses his forehead to Jack's. "Jack..."
"Commodore," Jack interrupts quietly.
"Sh," he nearly snaps. "Not right now." This is the man who saved his life, who's changed his life, and changed his perception too many times to count. "I've arranged to have you a letter of marque written." He closes his eyes and breathes in the musky scent of sweat and dirt and rum and knows that this scent will always define Jack. "For good deeds done in the name of the Crown. Much better than a simple 'thank you', I believe." He truly believes he's done right this time, perhaps he was blinded before, the PIRATE label too hard to see past.
"Commodore..."
"It's James," he interrupted.
"James," Jack exhales. "My crew is waiting and I've business to take care of regarding that little jewel that caused you so much trouble."
James keeps his eyes closed and imagines that they are in a different place and time and that this gratefulness for Jack would be permitted, wishes that he could begin to understand the depth of his gratitude and the meaning of these feelings for a pirate he had wanted hung, but now wanted to see off safely.
"Keep touching me like this and I'm going to kiss you, James," Jack warns, and when he breathes out, the smallest scent of green apples filters into James' awareness. James doesn't do a thing because if he doesn't incite it, he can't be faulted for whatever happens next because Captain Jack Sparrow is nothing if not a devious man and any ill-chosen actions are quite in character for him.
There's a soft chuckle from Jack as he leans in and presses his lips to James', soft—and oh, he hadn't expected that kind of feeling from a pirate's lips—but Jack shifts the kiss and suddenly there is roughness scraping at his cheek, Jack's beard rubbing against his smooth skin as Jack turns greedy and nips at James' lower lip, tugging it out, only to suck at it and release.
Jack ends it with a veritable smack on the lips with his own and he pulls away.
Breath catches in James' throat and he finally opens his eyes to see Jack's own brown eyes dancing with glee and mischief. He's staring at someone who could be a free man, but chose not to, and yet, in the long game, he's the freest of them all. James lets out a hum, caught deep in his throat as he glances out the window at the sun blazing in the sky.
"If you adhere to the Letter, you'll never be in peril of being hung again," James tells him casually, and perhaps that is simply a reluctance on his part to want to hang Jack Sparrow because the law deems it so. He truly believes he would be sent to Hell for killing a man who saved his life—and really, how many times has it really happened. James, old friend, you had better re-evaluate this—and he would do anything to avoid that. "Jack," he chastises when he sees Jack's attention wandering. "It would be easier."
"But it would be boring," Jack retorts. "Commodore, keep chasing me around the Caribbees, why don't you? I always loved a good chase."
"And if I catch you?" James asks, arching an eyebrow as he smirks and watches Jack settle his effects on his body, gun in the holster—just one shot that could have gone through his heart, but it didn't—hat on the head, belt properly buckled and the most devious effect Jack has, his grin—gold flashing as bright as the sun.
"James," Jack chastises, that grin growing a little wider. He leans in, one hand—leathery, or is that the leather he wears around his palm; perhaps not, perhaps his years in the sun have finally given ramification—and kisses him once more. "You're never going to catch me, really."
"Oh?"
Jack nods, opening the door. "And if you do, I'll jus' have to think of something to keep you distracted until I can slip away."
James laughs warmly on this warm day and watches Jack slip off onto the deck of the Dauntless. James follows him, watching every step of the way until he's stepping down onto dry land and he becomes Captain Sparrow again. James waves slightly from the ship, watching him get further away.
"Sir?" Groves is somewhere near, judging from his voice. James turns and gives him a settled smile. "How are you feeling, sir?"
James grins wryly. "Oddly enough, like it's time for an adventure."
Groves simply laughs. Somewhere in James' mind, he hears Jack approval, echoing in Groves' warm laugh as they make their way into the cabin to chart their next course.
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