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Magnetic Variation
by Gloria Mundi
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 4/04/11
Beta: Thanks to p0wdermonkey for beta!
Dedication: Written for griffndor for the qldfloodauction fanfic auction.
Summary: "When a man's lived—an' died, an' been brought back into—as long an' interesting a life as myself," says Jack, "it's sometimes hard to distinguish 'tween what's phantasy and what's fact."
The brig of the Dauntless is considerably cleaner (and damnably more secure) than that of the Pearl. Still, the Dauntless is a sluggish sailor compared to his own darling ship, and it should take days—weeks—to reach Port Royal. Jack's fine with that. All that's waiting for him in Port Royal is a short drop and a sudden stop, and it can wait through eternity for all he cares.
Meanwhile, Norrington's sharp young Navy lads bring Jack bread and water twice a day, and take away the bucket, and don't even keep him in chains. If he'd something to read, and an adequate supply of rum, it'd be a positively pleasurable cruise. As it is, he's forced to fall back on his own resources. It's a good thing he's mad, or he'd be bored out of his mind.
"Come with me," says an urgent voice from the other side of the solid iron bars.
Jack doesn't stir. "I demand a better class of hallucination," he says sweetly. "Had enough of prissy upright Naval types promising me rum, sodomy and the lash. Well," he amends, "two out of three, anyway."
"Quickly!" says the voice, impatient now. Since it hasn't responded to anything Jack said, it must be a hallucination. On the other hand, Jack's just reached the end of an especially entertaining reminiscence, and he could do with a change of scene. He springs to his feet, stretches, and turns a wide gleaming smile on the phantasy beyond the bars.
"Commodore!" he says, surprised. For a hallucination, the figure before him is really quite convincing. Jack awards his mind full marks for verisimilitude. "What are you doing?"
"What my heart bids me do," says Norrington stiffly. "Come with me."
It's night-time; the occasional razor-beam of blue moonlight angles down through the hatches, but Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the lantern in Norrington's hand and follows him barefoot and silent as he hurries up the ladder and turns towards the stern. Something—not Norrington, or Jack's hallucination of same, but his own fine-honed instinct for survival—tells him to keep his mouth shut. Whatever's happening here doesn't need to be bruited about.
They're bound, it seems, for the Commodore's own cabin; rather a come-down compared to Jack's well-appointed quarters on his Pearl, but not to be sniffed at after a sojourn in the draughty brig. Norrington closes the door behind Jack: locks it, with a weightily official-looking key.
"Jack Sparrow," says Norrington, who may be a hallucination but looks and sounds (and smells) unnervingly realistic.
"James Norrington," says Jack, leaning back against the bulkhead and eyeing his captor. "This is unexpected." He nods at the open bottle on the desk. "What say we—"
Norrington thrusts the bottle at him. "Drink up."
Jack's very good at following orders when they accord with his own desires. He polishes off the remainder of the bottle—Navy rum, sour and weak, but it'll do—and sets the bottle down carefully. "'S better."
"Jack," says Norrington.
Can a man's hallucinations be affected by the rum said man's been drinking? Apparently so, for Norrington's coming closer, propping himself with a hand on the bulkhead right next to Jack's ear, discombobulatingly close and warm and—
"Oh," says Jack when he's regained the power of speech, temporarily denied to him by the press of Norrington's mouth against his own. "Er ..."
"I'd hate to see you hang—"
"Me too."
"—without some solace," says Norrington rather thickly. "But if you'd rather not—" And he's drawing back, which won't do at all because Jack's skin craves contact, and the heat coming off Norrington (especially the more southerly portions of his anatomy) is warming Jack's whole chilled and nerve-wracked body, indicating that there's more—there can be more, and if he has any say in the matter there damn well will be more—than just the prospect of pain and cessation in his immediate future.
"I'd rather," says Jack, and hauls Norrington back in.
He probably shouldn't be surprised that Norrington attacks him with such fervent desire. It's always the prissy ones who're hiding the most outrageous ardour underneath their fancy coats. Norrington's prick is hard and ready for Jack's mouth: that's less of a surprise than his eagerness to return the favour. And when Jack, temporarily disinterested in remaining upright, slumps to the cabin floor, he's astounded to find himself re-embraced, Norrington's mouth urgent on his own, Norrington's hand coaxing him to an unusually rapid resurrection.
Norrington's bunk is wonderfully soft and cosy, and equipped with delicious luxuries: blankets, a pillow, a flask of oil that's almost full. To start with, anyway: by dawn (and Jack's almost definitely certain that neither of them have slept) James is tipping the flask upside down to drain the last few drops onto his sore prick, and the balance of favours owed and repaid seems pretty much level. Though perhaps—
"You have to go back," James murmurs into Jack's throat, licking the sweat and stubble there. His voice is hoarse, notes Jack with pride. "I can't—you have to be in the brig."
"Port Royal today?" guesses Jack, running a hand down the ripple of James Norrington's spine and wondering if there's a weapon to hand. A wise man uses what he can: but it seems that the only weapon he has is James' own conscience.
"Indeed," breathes James. "Jack, I'll—"
"Hush," says Jack. "Wouldn't want you to be seen handing out favours. Keys. Pardons." If he stresses 'seen', why, he's surely not in his right mind. Not after the night he's passed.
***
"You're looking well, Jack."
Elizabeth Swann—Elizabeth Turner, mustn't forget that—has always been prone to understatement. Jack is looking bloody fantastic, if he does say so himself. (The mirror agreed, last time he checked.) His eyes are bright and freshly blacked, his hair's acquired several new trinkets, that unsightly pox-chancre on his chin's cleared up, and most fabulously of all, he's alive alive-o.
Trust bloody Elizabeth to be underwhelmed.
On the other hand, she's always been a perfidious wench. Perhaps she's just pretending not to be pleased to see him. Must be embarrassing to receive an unexpected visitor just when you're ... well. She's obviously busy.
On the other other hand (and Jack has as many hands as necessary for any argument) it's possible that the babe she's nursing, the babe who's obstructing Jack's view of an unexpectedly ample bosom, has addled her brains.
"Thankee, Elizabeth," says Jack, sweeping her a courtly bow and taking the opportunity to peer more closely at all that exposed flesh. The good bits are being mauled by her spawn; at least Jack assumes it's hers, though the brat's paternity is an int'resting conundrum given that she's all alone on this little spit of land, with—
"Takes after his daddy, does he?" says Jack, gesturing at the brat and raising his eyebrows to indicate that this is not mere small-talk, but an urgent request for information.
"He does," says Elizabeth, brushing back a darkish lock from the sprog's ear. She's almost cooing.
"And where might his daddy be?" enquires Jack, stepping back and eyeing the little cottage, the path down to the cove, the foreboding cliffs that loom over the valley. "Gone a-pirating, has he?"
"You might say that," says Elizabeth, no trace of a coo in her voice now. She catches Jack's eye and sighs. "For heaven's sake, Jack: it's Will's baby! And he's captain of the Dutchman now, so he's not here. Not that that should make any difference."
"Conceived in holy matrimony, was it?" says Jack, settling himself at the other end of the bench under the eaves, where with luck he'll be out of spitting range.
"He," corrects Elizabeth. "Yes, we had one—"
"Quite all right!" declares Jack hastily. "Really, Elizabeth, I'm a man o' the world: no need to recount the details of your nuptials, thrilling though they doubtless are."
"You came to visit me, Jack," Elizabeth reminds him. "To what do I owe the pleasure, anyway?"
"Just passing," lies Jack.
"Jack..."
"If you must know," Jack says, with a sigh that out-sighs anything Elizabeth Turner could possibly produce, "I ran into an old crewmate, an' he said you might have an interesting tale to tell me. Concerning the present whereabouts of one James Norrington: I beg your pardon, Admiral Norrington."
"You certainly took your time," says Elizabeth, suddenly very busy with baby and breast, and anything that doesn't involve looking Jack in the eye. "It's a year since—"
"A year since you were elected to your present august position," says Jack. "A year since you became King o' the Pirates, and sank old Beckett's little Armada full fathom five, and wed your dashing and ever-so-slightly-treacherous young man, and ..." He gestures at the brat.
"A year, Jack. So what brings you here now?"
Honestly, she's worse than the Spanish Inquisition.
"This," admits Jack, reaching into his pocket—Elizabeth tenses: good, glad to see she's retained some of her baser instincts—and drawing forth his compass. When he flips the lid, the needle's pointing straight to Elizabeth.
"Jack," says Elizabeth, with a girlish giggle that makes Jack's teeth clench. "You can't possibly imagine—"
"You'd be surprised at what I could possibly imagine," snaps Jack. "Out with it, Elizabeth. Where've you hidden His Admiralship?"
Elizabeth's silent for so long that Jack begins to wonder if she's fallen asleep, or gone into some peculiar post-natal trance. He stretches out one foot and nudges her bare ankle.
"Jack," says Elizabeth. "Norrington's—I can't believe you don't know."
"If I knew," says Jack with estimable patience, "I wouldn't be here, now would I?"
"James Norrington is dead," says Elizabeth. She'll meet his eye now, all right: her own eyes are shiny with tears, and Jack holds fast and doesn't even let himself blink. "He died saving me, Jack: he chose the right side, at the end. It was James who freed us from the Dutchman's brig, and he gave his life so we could escape."
James Norrington is dead. Jack keeps on not blinking. "You didn't think to bring him along with you? Could've been a useful bargaining-point, an Admiral."
"We—one of the sailors attacked him." Elizabeth's truly crying now, and though Jack's seen her cry before at the drop of a hat (hell, he's been known to cry at the drop of a hat, especially if it was his favourite) these tears seem real. The Turner-spawn makes a sleepy, vexed noise as a hot salt tear drips onto its face. "Jack, it was Bootstrap. He wasn't ... he wasn't himself. He killed James Norrington with the sword—the, oh hell."
Jack wordlessly hands her a handkerchief (souvenir of a fine young lass in Port Royal) from his pocket.
"The sword that killed James Norrington," says Elizabeth raggedly, sniffling in a most unattractive way, "was the sword that Will made for him, right back before ... before any of this."
'This', in the current context, seems to be the desolate little island on which she's chosen to rear Will Turner's son. Possibly also the chickens scratching in the yard. Perhaps even Jack himself, in all the finery that's so evidently wasted on her. He s'poses she might mean pirates and zombies and curses and hearts. And the Kraken, he remembers: it helps, to remember the Kraken right now.
"I'll come again," he says, before she can reach a convenient hiatus in her grief. "I'll ... I'll come back, Lizzie."
***
The Bride never really changes, though patrons come and go. It's a fixed point in the turning world, and Jack's as home here as he is anywhere on land.
Jack's tales are changeable as the sea, though they have a fixed point: himself. It's what he knows best, and what he loves most. He spins tale after tale, is paid in cup after cup, and if occasionally memory falters and needs embellishment ... well, that's part of the craft, ain't it?
Jack's well into his account of the treasure he found on a little pine-crested island that's seldom marked on any map. "An' up through the forest there's a clearing, and there right in front of me was the prize I'd been seeking." He pauses to whet his tongue, and meets the hot look of a pretty Spanishy gent with a wink and a leer. "Said treasure being, of course, mine by right for the ... taking."
"Be that right, Jack?"
Of course there's often a fly in the ointment, and this evening's greasy verminance manifests in the form of one Hector Barbossa, late of His Majesty's Navy (what were they thinking?) and insufficiently, well, late for Jack's taste.
"Now, Jack Sparrow," says Barbossa with great good humour, drawing out the vowels 'til Jack'd happily draw out Barbossa's black wormy guts. "What's all this I'm a-hearing 'bout you availin' yerself of some fine an' fancy fandangle, eh?"
Jack smiles tightly. "Oh, just a little expedition I conducted while you were back in England kissing his Majesty's arse," he says.
Barbossa's eyes narrow. "Seems to me," he says, "that I've heard that tale before."
"Sadly," says Jack, "this is far from the first occasion on which I've unaccountably—unavoidably—unacceptably found myself in the same sordid hostelry as your ... self. P'rhaps you're getting all nostalgic and misty-eyed 'bout some other evening where I was persuaded to recount a tale or two?"
"Aye, perhaps," drawls Barbossa. "Or p'rhaps I was a-hearin' it from the man as did it hisself, an' not some jumped-up scallywag a-wantin' a cup or two o' rum on some other poor bugger's coin, eh?"
"Might be," agrees Jack, leaning back and catching the Spaniard's eye again. He could do with a helping hand here, and not just in the usual sense. "Or might be your brains are addled and raddled, riddled with shipworm from back when your saggy corpse was decoratin' the grotto at Isla de la Muerta."
"Corpse?" says the Spanish fellow, all wide eyes and round mouth. (Promising, that mouth; very promising.) "But this one—he is alive, no? He is no, how you say, fantasma?"
"Slew him meself," says Jack, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle, and smiling wide and insincere.
"Didn't take," Barbossa parries. "See for yourself, Seor: I'm no haunt, bound to the scene o' my demise. An', now I come to think on it, I ain't the only fellow here who's been quick an' dead an' quick again: am I, Jack Sparrow?"
The Spaniard edges away. Jack can hardly blame him, though he's almost definitely certain he doesn't reek of corpse-mould nearly as much as his scraggly-bearded colleague, there.
"So, this tale," says Don Juan, lisp somewhat more pronounced. "It is ... how you say? It is a fiction, s?"
"Truth's more phantastical than fiction," pronounces Jack. "Why, I could tell a tale or two—"
"That be quite sufficient of the tales an' twos," interrupts Barbossa. "Jack, tide be a-turnin': we've business elsewhere, in case it'd temporarily slipped your mind."
"It had slipped my mind, as a matter o' fact," says Jack, wide-eyed and innocent. "What manner o' business might that be?"
But Barbossa's beckoning, and there's an ugly buzz of indignation 'mongst the blokes who've been keeping his throat well-lubricated all evening: Jack reckons there's something to be said for making a nominious (as opposed to ig-) exit. He follows Barbossa out of the Bride, side-stepping an especially vicious catfight and a fellow who can't juggle.
"Jack, Jack, Jack," says Barbossa, with what in a less irritating bloke might be termed affectionate resignation. "Now why do ye persist in concocting such tall tales? Ain't the curse o' the heathen gods, ol' Davy's Locker, the Fountain, Calypso—ain't they sufficient to keep your thirst assuaged?"
Jack frowns. "When a man's lived—an' died, an' been brought back into—as long an' interesting a life as myself," he says, "it's sometimes hard to distinguish 'tween what's phantasy and what's fact."
"Is that right?" says Barbossa.
"Aye," says Jack. "An' I don't care to speak of the Fountain, for reasons you well know."
"Afraid of entertaining tedious company for all eternity, are ye?"
"A shame if immortality were wasted," says Jack, sweet and sharp, "on those who ain't deserving of it."
***
By the time Jack reaches the Fountain with Barbossa hot on his heels, he's already been embellishing the story. Reality can be so very unromantick, and he's no great desire to recount his adventures with malignant botany, nor the fact that—despite being in possession of a compass that promised to point the way to his heart's desire—he's been turned around, lost and wand'ring amid said botany. If Jack were to be honest (a thing he seldom is, since there's rarely any profit in it) he'll admit that it was more luck than anything that brought him out into the quiet clearing where, choked with vines, old Ponce de Leon's famous Fountain stands.
He has no intention of admitting any such thing.
Somewhere behind him he can hear the crash and cry of the pursuit. Fortunately, Jack's always been one to think on his feet. He pulls a nigh-empty bottle from his satchel, drains the last dregs of rum, and scoops up a measure of cold cloudy liquid.
It tastes of mould and murk and mortality. It tastes as though a thousand things have drowned and decayed beneath the dark, unrippled surface. Luckily, the tangy burn of rum makes it considerably more palatable.
And, just in case he hasn't drunk a full draught, Jack dips the bottle back into the unnaturally chilly water, and slinks away from the Fountain of Youth with a measure of ... insurance.
Immortality, this time round, feels nothing like the fizzing sizzle through his very bones that'd kept him quick instead of dead, back on the Isla de la Muerta, back when he'd nicked a single coin out of the chest. This time, it feels unpleasantly like indigestion, or overindulgence. Jack belches, covers his mouth, fights down the urge to giggle.
He's really, really looking forward to the bit about not dying.
***
It takes Former Commodore Norrington the best part of a night and a day to recover from the well-deserved indignities (Elizabeth, the useless wench, refuses to divulge to Jack the sordid details) that were visited upon him in Tortuga. Jack tries not to crow, though perhaps is not wholly successful in this endeavour. He's quartered Norrington in the Great Cabin: well, it's Great, meaning large, and there's room enough for two. It is completely not Jack's fault that as they head south-west the morning sun dazzles through the stern windows and makes Norrington groan and pull the covers over himself.
Jack tweaks them back. "Fancy some breakfast, mate?"
"'m not your mate," comes an aggrieved voice from beneath the slightly-stained tapestry which Jack's so generously donated. It'll have to be jettisoned. Probably Norrington with it: Christ, he stinks.
"Breakfast, then? Gibbs c'n rustle up a passable kedgeree. Or some stew. Good, hearty stew."
There's another groan. Jack weighs the amusement value of further provocation against the increasing likelihood of adding the smell of vomit to the miasma, and elects to spend some time on deck.
By noon they're out of sight of land, and Norrington emerges blinking into the strong light. Jack's crew are busily swabbing: it gladdens his heart that he has only to raise an eyebrow and make an extravagant gesture, and Norrington's drenched with a bucketful of salt water.
He emerges spluttering and swearing—"such language from an officer of His Majesty's Navy! Oh, beg pardon: you're not, any more, are you? By all means curse 'em to kingdom come"—but somewhat cleaner. Jack sighs and waves at Marty, who's next closest.
"I think I'm quite clean now, Sparrow," says Norrington, looking down his nose at Jack as though he's forgotten who exactly commands the Black Pearl.
Jack smiles sunnily at him. "Excellent! You can start on the deck then."
Marty's there again, thrusting canvas bucket and holystone into Norrington's arms.
"Sparrow—"
"Yes, sailor?" says Jack, his smile a degree cooler.
Norrington backs down: sensible chap. Jack would stay and watch him work, but he has some business to conduct with Miss Swann. He makes sure, though, to stand where Norrington can hear every word. Information's currency, and Jack likes to keep it in circulation.
It's nearly sundown when Jack beckons Norrington back to the Great Cabin. "Some documents have lately come into my possession, Mr Norrington: perhaps you'd like to cast an eye over them."
"The letters, Jack?" says Norrington once they're alone, with a barred door keeping the crew (and bloody Elizabeth) at bay.
"Mmm," says Jack. "Oh, and that's 'Captain Sparrow' to you, sailor."
Norrington's jaw clenches visibly. "You said—"
"I didn't say I was going to show them to you," Jack points out. "Just noted that I'd acquired them."
"Elizabeth—"
"Is she here?" Jack peers around the cabin. (You never know with women. They sneak in while your attention's elsewhere.) "No Elizabeth. Jus' you and me. And I've decided, in a fit of magnanimity, that I'll be the gent that introduces you to a few aspects of the pirate way which may priorly have eluded your notice."
"Jack—"
Jack doesn't bother to correct him this time: just sways up close, sniffs—the odour of pigpen is undetectable, or possibly just overlaid with salt and sweat and tar—and puts his hand on Norrington's jaw, angling for a kiss.
Norrington must remember that night on the Dauntless, same as Jack: he kisses back like a starving man, gets his hands on Jack's accoutrements and is well on his way to bare skin before Jack can draw breath.
"Long as you don't forget who's captain, James," he says, licking his lips.
"Fuck off, Sparrow." But James is on his knees, wrestling with Jack's sash—winning, too, which means Jack can slouch back, elbows on the table, and let James Norrington do all the work. First time round, at least.
Some time later, to the distant accompaniment of the crew's nightly orgies—Jack has never cared for accordion music—the two of them are lying together, bare and sweating, on Jack's bunk. Well, more of a bed really: there's room for two. (Three, on one memorable occasion. Possibly more than one.) Jack's working his fingers, slick with Madame Sal's Number Four, into Norrington's arse: Norrington's groaning and cursing like a pirate born and bred.
"We'll make a pirate of you yet, mate," he says, adding a third finger and twisting his hand just so. "S'pose the Navy's good for something, teaching you all to do as you're told—push your knee up a bit more, love, so you c'n take it—"
"Just get on with it, Sparrow," says Norrington into the pillow. His voice is rather higher than usual, and his arse is clenched tight on Jack's fingers.
"Captain Sparrow," reminds Jack. He sets the head of his prick against James' arse and waits for James to say the word.
Luckily, James Norrington learns fast.
***
Jack ducks under the age-blacked lintel, scowling back at the faces caught and carved there. He doesn't specifically need to duck, but there's no harm in being careful. Though being here at all is the very antipode of 'careful'.
Within, there's gloom illumined with corpse-pale candles, and a snake that's never seen sunlight coiling contemplatively from a roofbeam. Worse things than snakes, too, brushing against Jack's face, snagging at his hat. He swats them back.
"Jack Sparrow," she says, standing slow as sunrise to greet him. Her once-ivory gown's more tattered than before; the rings on her fingers are as tarnished as her teeth. She is wholly different and yet quite changeless. Which makes an unexpected sense, if you twist your thoughts just so.
Jack's an expert in twisting thoughts, be they his own or someone other's, and he's not got to wherever he is today (and where is he, eh? Is he back here in the bayou? Is he truly here? Or is it still the blaring blank sky of the Locker beating down? Or is he snug and settled in his bed?) without knowing how to treat a lady.
She's no lady. Her look, her leer, the sheer wickedness of her gappy smile says as much. Jack greets her with a blown kiss—no profit in coming too close—and puts his chin back so's to stare down his nose at her.
"I knew you would come back," says Tia Dalma, "back to me, my Jack. I knew you would not leave me."
"As I recall," says Jack, sweat starting on his spine, "'twas you as did the leaving."
"You left me first!"
"Pirate, love. An' in my—"
"You left me bound!"
"I saw you freed!"
"You held the key!"
"I gave it back! And anyway, you—you turned into crabs!"
There's a small, unpleasant silence. It's not half as unpleasant as the laughter that follows it. That makes Jack shiver, though it's muggy-warm inside the witch's house.
"So, my Jack: what would you, eh? What brings you here to me again?"
"I don't believe I am here," says Jack, pointedly pinching himself. "Nor that you're back in the old place after ... after."
"I always here for you, Jack Sparrow," she says kindly. "An' you always wanting somethin' from me. Eh? So you mus' state your purpose."
It's the snake hissing, Jack assures himself.
"I've no purpose, on purpose," he admits, "and no point neither, 'cause that little compass you gave me don't seem to be pointing to anything in particular, 'specially not your grim and goddessy self." For which all saints be praised.
"Ah, but Jack Sparrow without a purpose is a sea without a tide," says Tia Dalma, waggling her finger at him. "Jack Sparrow has a purpose." Her tongue flicks out—rather a long way out—tasting the air. "Now, what can that purpose be?"
Jack takes one stealthy step back towards the door. "Just dropped by to say—"
"Your story," she skewers him with a glare, "is not done."
"Well, obviously it's not done," says Jack in vexation, gesturing at himself. "I've been to quite considerably extravagant pains to ensure that it's not done. And don't think I don't know that hurricane was—"
"The story of you an' your fine dead love," she says, and Jack's blood runs cold (colder) at the relish in her voice. "The story of you an' he, James Norrington," and she pronounces it like blasphemy, "who gave hisself to slaughter so Elizabeth might live."
For once in his life (assuming he is, in fact, still alive) Jack has nothing whatsoever to say.
"He dead," Tia Dalma goes on, watching him carefully, licking up whatever scraps he lets fall. "An' not of the Dutchman's crew, not James Norrington."
"You brought Barbossa back," says Jack, wrinkling his nose.
"I needed him," she snaps. "Norrington I do not need."
"I do," says Jack—says Jack's mouth, or perhaps his heart, or some less admirable organ. He clamps said mouth shut, biting his lip in the process, before it can further incriminate him. Wonders if he could possibly be speaking the truth.
"Aye," says Tia Dalma. "That you do, Jack Sparrow. An' for a price—such a small little price!—you sh'll have him, quick and strong."
"And what, pray, might that little small price be?" enquires Jack, folding his arms across his chest as though that'd actually stop the mad old witch from hooking out his heart for bait.
"Just one thin brittle thread o' memory," she says, almost in his ear. He startles, and she reaches up and snaps—snaps something: he hears it crackle in the dank dense air.
"You won't know it gone," she promises him. "You won't know what, nor where, nor why. You jus' follow where that compass point, eh? You give him drink. An' you don't miss that pretty shiny—"
Jack starts awake, sweat cold and bile bitter, and tries to snag the end of the dream. Dream?
"Dream," he tells himself.
***
Jack can't quite put his finger on when the last time was. He remembers it in exquisite detail, polished with recollection like a coin's polished with use, but he can't recall what came before, what came after. Only that it was on dry land (he loves the sea, but land is safe and still) and there were pine trees all around them, the cones crunching rough and aromatic underfoot.
It's as vivid as the present moment. More so.
He tricks James, trips him, gets him on his back and pins him. Tosses his hat aside and unwraps the bandana, making a show of it. James grins up at him, green eyes greener with reflected forest. "I rather think," he says, "that you're exceeding your authority, Captain Sparrow." And without further ado he tips Jack over, presses him down, tears the bandana from Jack's hand and twists it around Jack's wrists.
"Better than irons," opines Jack, permitting himself to be trapped. "Won't leave a mark, neither."
"You talk too much," says James. "Perhaps I should use it to gag you instead."
"You talk too much," Jack shoots back. "Haven't you anything better to do with your mouth?"
"You should learn to show some respect to your betters," says James.
Jack turns his head, with some difficulty, to clock the little clearing where they've found themselves. "Don't see any betters," he remarks.
"I'm an admiral now, you know," says James, grinding his hips down against Jack's in a way that brings to mind jokes about cavalry, rather than naval, ranks,. "And you a mere captain, Sparrow. As I recall, that means I've the upper hand here."
"All depends on what you're going to do with said hand, Admiral."
"And that depends on whether you've come properly equipped." But James' hand is already rooting around in Jack's breeches, disdaining the more interesting topography in favour of working free the little pot of salve that Jack's had the foresight to bring along on this ... on whatever fool's errand has brought the two of them to this apparently uninhabited corner of the Caribbean.
(It doesn't matter that he can't remember when or where or why. When a man's lived as long and storied a life as Jack Sparrow's, it's only reasonable to find the edges of fact and phant'sy blurring: as for before and after, cause and effect, life and death, they might as well be playing-cards shuffled and dealt anew.)
Jack nudges his hard prick against Norrington's wrist; finds Norrington's mouth on his own, and Norrington's hands independently busy lower down. Turns out, when he tugs at the bandana to free his own potentially helpful hands, that the Admiral hasn't forgotten his knots: Jack's well and truly tied, and his protests go unheard—unvoiced, to be exact, because of the difficulties Jack's having with regard to breaking the kiss.
"Oh, keep still," snaps Norrington. "That's an order." He reaches up and clamps one hand over Jack's mouth; rapidly withdraws it with an unadmirable oath as Jack bites. "If you ... if you don't want—" says Norrington, and there's that damnable streak of decency or possibly doubt, the streak Jack's sworn (hasn't he?) to eradicate.
"I want," growls Jack, and arches his back to prove his point.
The writhing seems to carry his argument: at least, Norrington chuckles, and returns to the labour of undoing Jack most thoroughly. By the time he presses in, and in—fuck, he's bigger than Jack remembers, and it's been a while unless you count the shenanigans in the Locker, which Jack most definitely does not since that'd been, not to put too fine a point on it, no better than onanism—Jack's forgotten everything except his own name, rank and ... something else.
Admiral Norrington fucks like a man freed from prison after long dark years. Like a man who has everything he wants at this moment, and will turn his back on everything he might've thought he craved, just as soon as Jack says the word. (What word? Jack'll say it, say it ten times over, if he could catch his own tongue before it runs away with "oh" and "James" and "fuck" and sundry intimate blasphemies.) Jack, bound with his own bandana, thighs pinned wide by James' strong pale arms, can do nothing save take it and take it and stare up through sharp pine branches to the distant, cloudless sky.
Jack swears he'll never let anyone bind him again. Swears that from then on he'll ... yet, when had it been? That little island with the pines; the two of them ashore.
"Couldn't have happened," says Jack to the compass. "Could it?"
The needle whirls, and jitters, and spins.
***
For all Jack's promised to return, it takes him an unconscionable time to realise that the compass is pointing straight back to that desolate islet where Mrs Elizabeth Turner is raising her son. It's another month, or maybe three, before he concedes that—while Lizzie is most definitely not what he wants—there might be some clue to be had from her as to where that wanted thing (that wanted man) might be found. After all, 'twas Elizabeth who told him of James Norrington's gallant and heroic death. (Gallantry and heroism are not, in Jack's experience, conducive to a long or happy life.) Maybe she knows something more, something of where his bones lie, something that'll lead Jack closer.
It's spring when he returns at last. Winter's a time for taking stock, sitting and drinking and matching each story with a taller one: Jack's heard enough ghost stories to last him from here to eternity. So it stands to reason, really, that Elizabeth's telling him another almost before he's sat himself down on the bench in front of her cottage.
Will's son stares unblinkingly at him. Jack scowls back.
"A ghost, Lizzie?"
"You've seen dead men walking too!" says Elizabeth, all accusatory in a way that Jack really doesn't think he deserves just yet. "Honestly, Jack: you know as well as I do that death isn't always the end."
"So how come there's a ghost wandering round your house, eh? Another one of your suitors, was it?"
He tells himself he relishes the pain in her expression: he most certainly doesn't relish the sharp kick to his shin that she delivers a moment later. Almost at once there's a matching pain in his other leg. The brat, glowering up at Jack so fearsomely, clearly takes after his pa.
"I don't know who he was," says Elizabeth. "But I first saw him the night after your last visit. A year ago," she adds.
Jack shrugs. "Sorry, love: been busy. You know how it is. So, your ghost: a man, you say?"
"I think so."
"He's never harmed you? Or ..." Jack gestures at the lad.
"Never," says Elizabeth firmly. "He just ... he just walks around the garden. Patrols, really." Her laughter sounds forced. "Perhaps he was a soldier."
"Perhaps," says Jack, surreptitiously drawing his compass from his pocket and lifting it quickly out of the reach of small, sticky hands. The needle's spinning crazily. Figures. "And he only comes out at night?"
"By moonlight," says Elizabeth. "It's full moon tonight: I'm sure he'll make an appearance."
"Delightful," says Jack. "So, Mrs Turner: how's your hospitality for a tired, hungry—thirsty—sailor?"
"For you?" says Elizabeth, grinning. "I may be able to find some stale bread."
By nightfall Jack's replete with fresh bread, venison stew and a rather nice Burgundy (his own contribution to their repast). He's full to the gills with talk of how wonderful Will Turner is, and how Elizabeth hopes that the curse will finally be broken and Will'll be able to leave the Dutchman and come ashore and meet his son.
Jack forbears to mention that pirating is the boy's heritage—in both sides of his blood—or that he'll be surprised if Will takes to life on land after ten years at sea. For himself ... well, never mind that. But he's itching to be afloat again.
He escapes to the garden (via the privy) just before moonrise, and is hardly surprised at all to find that he's not alone.
"I've been waiting for you," says a voice he knows well. It's a considerably stronger voice than one might expect from the shifting shadow of the man who's speaking.
"Have you now? I fear my invitation must have gone astray," says Jack, pacing nonchalantly t'wards Elizabeth's chicken-coop then spinning suddenly, hoping to get a better sight of the ghost's face.
He's disappointed. However he shifts and turns himself, the ghost's still somehow beshaded. Which is odd, now Jack comes to think of it, for the moon's rising bright and yellow, and there's more than enough light to illuminate the pair of them. Plenty of light for Jack to clearly see, just for instance, his compass. The needle's pointing t'wards the ghost, so definite that he can feel the vibration of it through the ivory casing.
"Didn't Elizabeth tell you I was here?" says the ghost scornfully.
"Only just now," defends Jack. "And she's ... you know," he confides, leaning in.
"I can't say I do know," says the ghost.
"If you're the man—if you have been the man—I take you for," says Jack, itchily aware of just how ridiculous he must sound, "then you've an interest in Elizabeth and her spawn. Might as well stand godfather to the brat, eh?"
"I died for her, Jack," says the ghost, stonily. "I've nowhere else to be."
Which is as much confirmation as Jack feels he's liable to receive.
"Fancy a drink, mate?" he says, casual as he can, extracting the bottle of cloudy liquid from his satchel and proffering it in the general direction of the spectre.
"Is that your answer to everything?"
Jack shrugs. "As a matter of fact," he points out, "it was a question, not an answer. But I've found it answers very well for the particular ailment that's afflicting you."
"That being?" says the ghost. The bottle is taken from Jack's fingers: he lets it go.
"Death," says Jack: and watches as, quite gradually, the ghost unghosts, becomes a man, becomes himself again.
END
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