Diving for Pearls

Chapter 3

by

Kitty Fisher

"Commodore?"

Stilling, Jack hesitated, then closed the door softly. Curled lightly onto one side, Norrington lay asleep in the moonlight; bruised eyes closed, his breathing only faintly disturbing the ripped and stained cloth of his shirt.

Setting the bucket down, Jack lowered the sack and crouched at his side. Norrington looked young. Without the wig and the uniform, he looked... innocent. Startling himself with the thought Jack laughed silently. Aye, and he himself was the Queen of Sheba, complete with entourage.

"Commodore?"

It took a moment, but then the still body tensed, and Norrington uncurled, attempting to sit upright. A hand under his arm helped. Jack kept the contact for a moment.

"You."

"Aye, well done. Nice to know your sight's so excellent. Never know when it might come in handy after all."

"Fool."

"A fool with water and food."

Norrington groaned in relief, and reached forward as Jack handed him a small jug. Taking it, he drank slowly, carefully, before slowly wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Only then did he look up, his dark scrutiny holding Jack's gaze for a long time. Then he swallowed. "Thank you."

"You really thought I wouldn't be back." In answer Norrington just shrugged. Jack drew himself up indignantly. "I do usually do what I say I'm going to."

"Is that in The Code?"

"In my own code, aye."

"Then I thank it, Mister Sparrow."

Jack looked at him reproachfully. "Captain, please."

"I beg your pardon, Captain." And he smiled.

Breath caught sharply in his lungs, Jack smiled back. "More water?"

"Please."

Norrington drank again, while Jack watched him intently. Thin, battered, but whole enough. Nothing time wouldn't heal, which in itself was a surprise, after all that had happened. Jack thought about the last few months, and felt his own gut clench and his skin crawl. Three months was a long time to endure such treatment. That the Commodore had survived? Well, it showed more than the blind courage he'd already known the man possessed. All that determined obstinacy must have been a great help too.

The jug was drained. Jack nodded to the sack. "I've bread and cheese, and some clean clothes for ye."

Norrington handed the jug back. "I will repay you, in time, believe me."

"Commodore, if y'think I'm doing this for payment, think again."

"Not a reward in sight?" Somehow Norrington sounded very doubting.

"Er, no. See, they buried you in Port Royal a few weeks back. Well, not you, as you might be understanding, but a coffin with your hat in it. I think they felt sorry for it."

"My hat?"

"All they had left. Very sad. Lots of long faces and black cloth. I believe Elizabeth tried to persuade them not to—the lass being convinced you still lived—but there you go. Six feet under. And they planted something pretty on the lifted earth, a plant with bright petals. Nice touch, don't y' think?"

Norrington just looked bewildered. "But, why do they think me dead?"

"You disappeared in Tortuga, mate. You, a nice shiny officer of the nice shiny Royal Navy larking about in Tortuga—where your skin was worth slightly less than a half-full bottle of rum? What would'ye think, eh? Look, 'ave some cheese."

Distractedly he took it, and bit off a mouthful, chewing and swallowing before he spoke. "I was there looking for you."

"And look, you found me—not in Tortuga, mind. And to be truthful—as I am sure you know I always am—I kind of did the finding. Shame ye had to get so battered on the way."

Norrington looked down at his hands, and Jack followed his gaze, wincing in sympathy at the shackle galls around the bony wrists. "They'll scar, even if they don't get infected first." He touched a finger to one particularly raw wound on Norrington's arm. "Come on, let me see. I brought some salve. Eat that up, mate, you need the strength."

"You're a strange man, Captain Jack Sparrow." But Norrington obeyed, biting into the cheese.

The intense gaze was back on his face. It made Jack shift uncomfortably. "I'm not heartless... What am I meant to do, pretend I can't see your bruises, pretend I don't know O'Connell's had you prisoner for nigh on three months?"

"Three months? What... ?" Norrington almost choked.

"That's why they think ye dead."

"Lord... " Norrington looked stunned. He shifted, curling one leg up. "How come you didn't think me dead too? After so long, well, I can hardly believe that I am alive myself."

"Who knows?" Jack pulled the sack towards him and rummaged. "Maybe I thought you too stubborn to die without having caught me first? I mean, you seem quite determined to have the hanging of me."

"Maybe not as determined as I was." Norrington's voice was dry. Jack nodded at him and mimed for him to keep eating.

"Really? See, I knew rescuing you was a good idea." He rummaged in the sack. "And, to follow the cheese... " His hand emerged holding a bottle. In a trice he had it uncorked and tested. "Lovely." He smacked his lips and holding the bottle out, offered it to Norrington. "Here, it'll do ye good."

Norrington shuddered delicately.

"And it'll dull the pain... "

"And make my head ache in the morning."

"Commodore, it is morning. Well, near enough anyways. And besides, can you really sit there and tell me your head don't ache already? Go on." He cajoled very prettily. He knew he did. "Just a swig."

"Just the one?"

"Aye." Jack watched Norrington drink. "There."

"Thank you."

"So polite!"

"Manners maketh the man. Apparently."

"Who said that? Doesn't seem very likely, does it! I mean, blood and bones an' squelchy stuff makes up most men." Jack paused as Norrington made a face. "Oh, seen a lot of squelchy stuff of late, 'ave ye?"

"Yes, and a lot of it was mine, so if you don't mind... "

They sat drinking for a while. "You know?" Norrington said, after his fourth go at the rum bottle. "It does help."

"Told you."

"Clever pirate."

And nicely soused Commodore. "I think it might be time to 'ave a little look-see at ye. Now, shirt first."

One arm, then the other, Jack slowly and carefully removed the tattered garment. He hissed in sympathy when he saw the state of Norrington's torso. He'd been whipped at some point at least two months since, for the deep cuts left by the whip were healing into scars that striped around his back and ribs. Along with the spectacular bruising that ran through an array of evil colours, the front of his body was marred with strange sores, ones that looked like burns.

"What are these?" One long finger delicately touched at one of the marks.

"Nothing." Though Norrington flinched.

Jack looked into the pale face that seemed to have gone significantly whiter. "Tell that to the mermaids. What did they do?"

"You do not want to know."

"I do."

He sighed. "I believe they thought it a game."

"None I have ever seen!"

"No? Then I think all the better of you."

"Did they burn you?"

"Captain... "

"Aye I know. You don't want to talk about it." Jack touched again, seeing that the marks were topped and tailed by small wounds, some of which were still as raw as the burns themselves. "It'd be better if I knew. So I can help."

"Lord, you confuse me so." Norrington sighed deeply, and shifted uneasily. "Very well. According to your friend, it's an old Indian trick. You force slivers of wood through pinched flesh, a process that in itself is not exactly charming, then you set fire to the wood."

"Jesus."

"Yes, indeed."

"The bastard."

"Apparently it is considered a good game. So much so that the amusement is repeated again and again."

Jack swallowed, and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I believe I am pleased to know it."

As Norrington sat, quite still, his head bowed, Jack took a strip of cloth and dipped it in the water. He hesitated, then began to wipe at the grime coating the pale, bruised flesh. Norrington flinched. "Please, James. Let me?"

"James?"

"It's your name. An' you can call me Jack."

"Not Captain Jack?"

"If I gets to call you James, then fair's fair, right?"

A faint smile lifted the corners of Norrington's mouth. "Then James it is, Jack."

"An accord." He spoke softly, relishing the moment. "We have an accord, James."

"Aye."

They smiled. "Good, now I think the breeches need to go next."

"Tyrant."

Jack growled.

"I said, tyrant, not terrier."

Giggling like the fool he was, Jack Sparrow stood up. "Come on, James, breeches."

Sighing, Norrington stood, the process slow. He unfastened the buttons himself, and dropped the offending garment to the floor. Jack held out a hand and kept him balanced while he stepped free of the ruined cloth. Under them he was naked. He stood quite still to let the pirate act as manservant, and Jack was careful to be gentle. It took a while for the dirt and blood to be sluiced away, the water trickling onto the floor and into puddles that spread then slowly disappeared, taken away by the heat of the night. Norrington's skin was the same, for even though they had nothing to dry him with, the moisture evaporated quickly.

The damage Jack could do little about, but the salve helped on the worst of it, on the deep cuts that lacerated skin at wrist and ankles, on the small burns that made him cold to look at and on the weals that marred the fine, long back. When he washed into the cleft of Norrington's arse, the man only gasped, and shivered a little, from the intimacy, not from pain. And, pausing in his work, Jack sent up a small prayer of thanks to a deity he had long thought unforgiving.

In the silence, Norrington sighed. "They didn't sodomise me."

Jack bit his lip. "I didn't mean for you to think... James... "

"Please, you were being most subtle."

His gut a knot of emotion, Jack Sparrow stifled an overwrought laugh. "Thank you. And I'm glad. That they didn't."

"As am I. I cannot think of much I would enjoy less."

"With any man?"

Norrington turned, his face very still. There was a long silence, then his lips twisted sardonically. "Only with one who wished to force me."

"And if it were otherwise?" Stunned at himself, Jack bit his lip. What was he saying—what was he admitting?

"Otherwise?"

In for a penny... "If the two of you were willing." He stepped closer, breath bated, feeling the air thick with tension, his own stomach churning with the sudden realisation of desire and attraction.

Norrington said nothing, his thin face unreadable, but then he leant forward and brushed his lips against Jack's.

The action was shocking, but so right. The bruised lips tasted of rum, underlain with the copperiness of blood. Jack sighed and kissed him back, gentle as his whirling feelings would let him be. When the dry lips parted for him, he moaned, and pressed closer, licking, tongue to tongue, the sensation more fiery than rum, sweeter than the ripest mango. His hands came up and caught the other man by the shoulders, holding him fast, until Norrington lifted his own and brought them hesitantly around Jack's sides.

There they stilled, the kiss hardly more than a light touch of skin on skin. Jack tilted his head back, and stared into the dilated green eyes. "Is that a promise, Commodore?"

"On my honour, Captain."

Jack kissed him again, lingering in a haze of untoward delight. Ah, but James Norrington surprised him more and more. Intrigued him. It was a lovely feeling. Like coming across the Pearl for the first time.

And that thought struck him like a bolt of lightning from out of a blue sky, and he pushed away, gasping.

"What?"

Norrington looked so confused, and no wonder. Jack shook his head, and tried a smile. "Sorry, getting carried away... "

"I beg your pardon."

"No, no!" Dammit, now Norrington was climbing on his dignity. "Just, not here," Jack explained, breathing deep. "But elsewhere, Commodore? I think you might tempt me to all kinds of sin." And Jack smiled as Norrington's pale cheeks coloured slightly, though he still looked uncertain. Reaching out, Jack touched his shoulder lightly, the act merely one of reassurance and comfort, his own flesh fiercely controlled. "I am not toying with ye."

The rum, or the night, had darkened Norrington's eyes, and it took a moment for him to meet Jack's. "Just confounding me, then?"

"Not out of choice." Jack watched Norrington as he nodded slightly in agreement, or sympathy, he wasn't sure which. The tension was thick in the air around them, and Jack knew himself to be suddenly awkward. But so, so curious. "How long is it since you laid with a man?"

"You think I have?"

"Aye."

Norrington sighed. "You'd be right. Though it has been years. Since my father found out and discouraged me with his belt."

"Caught you in the deed then." Norrington nodded. Jack felt a sudden flare of hatred for morality and those who upheld it with a whip or a belt or worse. "What happened?"

"The story is not vile, only sordid. A sound beating and being sent back to sea was all that happened to me. Though if he knew half of what goes on below decks I swear I would be a vicar in deepest Devon by now."

"I 'spect it goes on there too, buggery's a wide-spread vice."

"Oh." Then the comment sank in, and the pale skin flushed a shade deeper. "What have I embarked upon here, Sparrow?"

"It's called enjoying yourself. And less of that Sparrow nonsense—I've seen ye naked, so no need to be formal, Commodore." He brushed his hands together brusquely, point made, and turned his mind to the practicalities of rescue, not the delights of a willing commodore. "Now, let's get ye dressed. Then we can discuss how we get from here to there without O'Connell or his men distracting us."

"Distracting?" Norrington's dry laugh was amazed.

"Can you think of a better word?"

After a moment's consideration, Norrington shook his head. "Sadly I appear bereft of vocabulary."

"Good, as all ye need to be doing is getting dressed." Jack passed him a pair of cream breeches. They were even reasonably clean. With one hand on Sparrow's shoulder, Norrington stepped into them, letting the other man pull them up. He tackled the buttons himself. The shirt was loose, but it covered him well, and it had not one tear or stain.

"Better?" Jack stood back to admire his handiwork. He even managed to do so with a degree of equanimity which made him quite proud of himself. The attraction was there, the arousal, but it was shuttered away, allowing him to think.

"Infinitely, thank you. Where on earth did you find them?"

"Ah, well, I really am sure you want to know."

"Don't I?" Light dawned. "Oh. No. Maybe I don't."

"Come on, sit down. I haven't been thieving gold or jewels, just the things you need—and before you ask, how else was I to get 'em in the middle of the night? Even Santo Domingo sleeps, you know. Or, at least, the tradesmen do. Except the carpenter, of course, an' 'e didn't 'ave anything I wanted."

"Sorry." Norrington lowered himself to the floor, wincing slightly. "Forgive me."

"Of course!" Legs crossed neatly before him, Jack sat down next to Norrington, so they were shoulder to shoulder against the wall. "Now, what's your plan?"

"I have none. All my energies were concentrated on getting out of that house." He nodded as Jack offered him more rum. He drank, and passed the bottle back. "Luck was with me that day, for I'm not sure O'Connell was going to let me live much longer."

"You were lucky he went to sea for that month."

"I prayed he'd never return."

"God doesn't listen to the likes of us."

"Us?" Norrington considered, then nodded tersely as a nerve pulsed in his neck. "You may be right. Anyway, once he was back, the men stopped more or less ignoring me and started finding new ways to entertain their Captain."

"So you found a way out."

"I sweet-talked a boy. He liked me. I... I hope O'Connell hasn't been too cruel to him."

There was misery in Norrington's tone, and an unasked question. Jack answered it. "He has no idea who it was that let you go."

"Really? Good for Adebayo—and for the lad's sake, I hope it stays that way."

"Agreed." Jack nodded. "An' I don't believe O'Connell was going to kill you, not as in murder with his own two hands, you understand. See, word got out that he was sellin' you to the highest bidder." Jack smiled at the outraged expression that swept across Norrington's face.

"Sell me!"

"Aye, but only to me. I came prepared to be sure of that."

"But you might not have heard, or got here in time." Norrington was spluttering, completely overwhelmed.

"But I did."

Norrington took a deep breath, and let it all sink in. "So if I'd stayed, you would have got me out anyway." He groaned. "Jesus, give me more rum."

Laughing, Jack handed over the bottle. "Here." With a sigh he watched as the bottle was upended and drained. "Better?"

"No."

Ah, intriguing indeed. Funny and clever and he looked good in a uniform. Probably better out of it, once he was back to eating and being less manhandled. Jack swept a glance over him, seeing a man, not a commodore. A man who, for all his airs and graces, liked men. Bloody hell, he even seemed to like one J. Sparrow Esq. Amazing. Quite mad of course. "Your hair's grown."

Blinking at the abrupt change of conversational tack, Norrington nodded, and fingered the straight dark brown locks that fell over his eyes. "It feels strange after so long of having it cropped short."

"It looks good, better than that wig. An' only a few days' growth of beard... "

"I begged the lad to let me shave. He agreed a few days ago. My beard was foul, rank with sweat and blood and worse." He paused. "Jack, you know, I am most probably alive with vermin."

There were a few bite marks on the fine-boned ankles. "Never mind—our fleas can mate too." There, that colouring of the pale skin. Jack smiled and leant over to plant a kiss on one cheek. "You like the idea of mating?"

"Jack, stop it for heaven's sake. I can hardly think straight."

"That'll be the rum."

"And you."

"Me?"

"Aye, Captain Sparrow, you're guilty of disconcerting an officer in His Majesty's Navy, how do you plead?" The words were slurred, and his head tilted back as if suddenly far too heavy.

"Guilty!" Jack grinned. Then, suddenly, was quite serious, his face intent, eyes fixed on Norrington. "The Black Pearl's close by. If we wait out a day, AnaMaria will be here and we can get away." As he watched the shadowed eyes closed, and a slight shiver rippled through Norrington.

"Do you think I am dreaming? Or dead?"

"No. I am real. And I don't turn into bones in the moonlight or fade away in the morning sun."

"Then it shall happen." Norrington nodded, and slowly his head tilted sideways. "In the morning."

"Ah, James. 'Tis morning now." But he whispered the words, and sat very still, Norrington's head weighty on his shoulder.

Nothing. Nobody.

He groaned, and closed his eyes, taking in a long breath. At least escaping hadn't been a dream. That was something.

Pushing himself up, he sat against the wall. And looked down at the clean clothes he was wearing. On the other side of the doorway stood a bucket and a jug, folded by it was an empty sack.

So that was no dream either.

Carefully unfolding himself, he sat up, then made it upright. Sleeping had stiffened all his muscles, and he felt as crabbed as an old man. Stretching eased matters, and he walked the confines of his kingdom a few times before halting by the jug. Drinking water helped too. He finished off the last drops in the jug, and put it back on the floor. By a dented floorboard he spied something shiny, and stooping down he plucked it off the floor. A coin. One with a small hole drilled by the side of a worn palm tree. Norrington rubbed his thumb over it, seeing the golden, intriguing face of the man to whom the coin belonged.

A pirate. Yet a good man, maybe.

Slipping the coin into a deep pocket, he sighed. And remembered that he was dead. It was a curiously liberating feeling. He hoped the obsequies had been fulsome. Shame about his hat. He'd been quite fond of that.

Dead in name only. Though he'd be dead in reality if he didn't get away. After three months (and the thought still daunted him, for in truth time had seemed to both pass immeasurably slowly and yet also been gone in the wink of an eye) of alternate misery with pain and misery with complete and utter boredom, he had no desire to return to O'Connell. Of course, returning would surely be a one way journey.

Strange, that after so long when he really had no care about the value of his own life, that he should suddenly find a purpose here. With a good man. Maybe. The thought made him smile softly. It was, after all, perfectly possible for a bad man to be a king or a naval officer, so why not a good man a pirate?

Ah, but it was a fine conundrum, when not so long ago it had all appeared to be so clear cut. Good was good and bad was to be hunted down and hanged. Now he wasn't so sure of any of it. Not of Sparrow's character—or even his own. All the years of serving his King and Country, of discipline and obedience, had it all really just been a mask for the degenerate self that lurked underneath? If he could still contemplate lying with a man as with a woman—and he certainly seemed to be doing just such a thing—then the Church and parliament quite clearly damned him. If he could fall into iniquity without a qualm, what did that make him? Certainly not a good man. And if not a good man, then what?

Mayhap he had more in common with the pirate than their differences had first seemed.

The thought alone would once have shocked him. Now it was merely unsettling. Like Captain Jack Sparrow himself.

Though whatever he was, surely he should be back by now? His skin prickling with sudden uncertainty, Norrington walked to the door. He could hear nothing on the other side, so he put his hand on the latch and slowly levered it open. Silence. It was cooler in the stairwell, and he slowly walked down, the stone steps cold on his bare feet. At the end, he stilled and listened again. Not even sure why he was so wary, suddenly so alarmed. But he trusted his instincts, and what could save a man at sea could just as surely save him in a den of thieves.

The second door opened at his touch. The ruined, looted church looked even more wretched in the bright daylight that flooded in from the ruined windows. Nothing moved. His breath caught high in his chest, he moved onwards. Stepping over broken stones and statues, across burned wood and puddles of indescribable filth, cautiously he kept to the wall and headed to the main doors. Two of the confessionals were still standing and he peered into each of them. Nothing.

Jack, where are you?

Gone to find help, he answered himself. But... what if it wasn't help he'd gone to find. The thought was chilling, and hateful. But it had to be thought. Trust was something to be earned, and Norrington wasn't sure if the pirate had earned any as yet.

He cursed silently. No. Trust had to be there. Jack had been so kind. And kindness counted for something, did it not?

A loud commotion sounded outside the broken doors. Voices, and the wheels of a cart, horses' hooves. He waited, hoping it would all pass, but the sounds grew louder and then seemed to converge on the church. Fear turned his skin ice-cold. O'Connell. Sweet merciful heaven it had to be.

Scarcely capable of reason, Norrington ducked into one of the confessionals. In the dank, evil-smelling place he crouched, and tried to think himself invisible, just as the main church door crashed open.

"Commodore, you fuck, come 'ere!"

Hardly the sweetest invitation he'd ever had. Norrington ignored it and tried to pray. He wasn't sure there were any other options left open to him, even though no words sprang into his mind.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are... "

There was the sound of more booted feet running into the church. The unmistakeable sound of swords unsheathing made Norrington's skin crawl. Pushing back into the shadows, his thoughts whirled, searching for some prayer that he could recall past the first few words. Strangely, he could think of none at all. All he could remember were lines from the Psalms. Ones that gave no comfort. He tried to blank out the words, but they ran mockingly through his thoughts: O God, my God, I cry while day appeareth: But God, Thy ear my crying never heareth...

He shook his head, fingers clutching at the cracked and scarred wood that encased him. Surely there was some verse, some prayer that gave more hope? He tried to concentrate, to not listen to the sounds of shouting, of men laughing, of wood breaking.

The Lord, the Lord, my shepherd is, And so can never I taste misery.

Oh, no, the psalmist could never have been in a dilemma such as his. Norrington swallowed, and knew it was hopeless. And surely better to stand and die than be dragged out like an animal. Better, indeed.

He counted slowly. Listening. He couldn't hear Jack's voice among the tumult. That heartened him a little.

Inside the confessional he stood up, brushed ineffectually at his creased garments, pulled his fingers through his hair to straighten it, and then simply stepped outside into the light.

"O'Connell, I believe you must be looking for me."

He stood straight, head high, and in sudden silence looked at his Nemesis.

A black-toothed smile greeted him. "Commodore."

"I wasn't receiving visitors this morning." Norrington walked forward, trying to appear as if he hadn't a care in all the world. "In fact, I don't believe you even left a card."

"Very funny. Isn't he funny, boys?"

The assembled pirates all laughed obediently. Norrington took another two paces. "I'm sure you don't care about the social niceties in a backwater like this, but you'd have to mind your manners in Tortuga, O'Connell." Another step and he could make a run for the door.

"A wit! Ah, Commodore, how we missed ye."

"Afraid to say, I haven't missed you at all."

And at that the laughter seemed to double. "Imagine! Boys, imagine the pretty officer here not having missed us. Bet he doesn't mean it, what d'ye all think?"

A shout echoed up into the rafters, and at that moment Norrington ran.

Fear lent wings to his speed. Somehow he slipped past O'Connell's reaching hands and was at the door, hesitating for the briefest of moments there as the sunlight blinded him. The shouts grew to a clamour. Panic seized him, and he ran, stumbling down the steps but somehow keeping his balance, heading towards the far side of the square and the faint possibility of losing himself in the dark alleyways and narrow streets that led towards the sea. There was a carriage in the way and he almost ran into the horses. They reared in their traces, snapping their yellowed teeth at him. Past them he veered right, running hard, his bare feet slapping on the filthy, uneven cobbles.

He evaded the first hand that reached for him, but the next took hold of his arm and he was half-turning, half-falling, screaming his rage as a large body collided with him, brought him down, breathless, and the world exploded into red and gold as his ribs hit the ground.

Somehow he stayed conscious, though it was hardly a blessing. Held down, his arms twisted behind his back, he coughed into the foul dust that covered the street and waited for death. A sword at his throat brought the instant closer.

"Bring the bastard back here." O'Connell's bellow could probably have been heard in Tortuga.

Hauled to his feet, Norrington felt the world turn alarmingly around him as they forcibly dragged him across the square to stand in front of the pirate captain.

"Hurt 'im, lads, just a little bit."

His arms wrenched brutally back, Norrington bit down on a scream. Another inch and he knew his shoulders joints would give. Head down, sweat dripping into his eyes, he stared at the stones, at the boots that surrounded him, though everything was curiously tinted red as the pain overwhelmed him.

"Enough."

The hands relented, though they still kept a firm hold. Almost sobbing with relief, Norrington straightened very slowly and looked up. Just in time to see the slap that rocked his head.

Norrington licked his bloodied mouth. Squinting in the dazzling morning he was suddenly very weary. "Go on, O'Connell, just do it."

"What? Ye think I'm about to kill your precious self?"

"Yes, the thought had occurred to me." Norrington winced as a big hand took hold of his chin.

"But I'm not. Not yet." The hand tightened its grip. "You shamed me in front of me men, Commodore. What am I going to do about that, eh?"

"If I were you, Connor, I'd slap his wrist and sell 'im to me."

The voice was lazy, amused. All heads turned. Norrington closed his eyes, but the image of Jack Sparrow was burned into his retina, so he gave in and looked his fill instead. Jack, looking sprightly and larger than life as he walked up, braids dancing, body moving like a wave breaking over deep water, all insolence and bravado.

"Jack Sparrow, I wondered when ye'd turn up." O'Connell, one hand still closed around Norrington's jaw, grinned.

"Think I'd miss this? Nice to see you found 'im." Sparrow nodded at the captive. "Good. Better keep a tight hold, lads, we don't want the nice Commodore skipping away again, do we?"

"How did you find us, Sparrow?" O'Connell's eyes were narrowed.

"Someone told me that this little bird was nested in the church—I came to see if it were true." He closed the distance between himself and the tableau around Norrington. He smiled, gold teeth flashing in the bright sunlight. Norrington looked at him and doubted. Doubted everything with a misery that twisted his soul.

"And hoped to get away with him without giving me the jewels, no doubt."

"Connor!" Hand on his breast, Jack turned and looked shocked. The dark paint under his eyes made his pupils seem black. Norrington looked at the dirty, proud, fine-boned face and prayed neither he himself nor Black O'Connell was right. There had to be at least a chance that Jack was simply making the best of finding O'Connell here. Didn't there?

"Aye, look askance, Captain Sparrow. But where else did 'e get the fine new rags he's a wearin', eh?" He turned back to Norrington. "What about that, Commodore—who helped ye this time?"

Jack leant in and spoke close to O'Connell's ear. "Let go 'is face, mate, and 'e might be able to tell you."

"Oh, aye." O'Connell released his tight hold. "Tell me where you got the garments, Commodore."

Norrington didn't deign to answer. The slap that followed would have taken him to the ground were it not for the hands that held him up. But, before O'Connell could hit him again, Jack was somehow between him and the other pirate, very close, staring hard into Norrington's eyes. "Now, Commodore, tell the nice man where you got the outfit from."

Norrington met the wild eyes. Could he allow himself to hope? There was nothing in the dark depths to answer him, nothing but a flat stare that seemed to offer only an utter lack of mercy. Norrington felt chilled, even though sweat was sticking the shirt to his back. "For what business it is of yours, I stole them from a washing line."

"Ah." Jack turned. "See, the oh so upright officer is a thief! King George must be very disappointed... "

O'Connell laughed out loud and clapped Jack on the back. "What d'we do with thieves, Jack?"

"Well, I usually recruit them to me crew, but I'm not sure the Commodore 'ere would be too willing. And besides, the others'd all mutiny an' I've been there, it wasn't nice." He shook his head gravely.

O'Connell growled, and most of his men visibly cowered. "None o' this lot'll mutiny. Ye should keep a tighter hold of your men."

"Indeed I should. Perhaps ye could be giving me some hints and tips?"

"Pleasure. When we're done with pretty, here."

"I could just give you the money?"

"You could. But where'd the fun be in that. Come on, Jack, Get in the carriage, I want to enjoy meself. There's plenty o' rum to be drunk too."

"Rum? Good idea, mate, let's get his lordship back to your nice house." Jack grinned.

"Tie up the Commodore. Make him feel wanted." O'Connell grinned, and putting an arm around Jack's shoulders led him away.

Norrington watched them as his wrists were bound, wincing as the ropes were pulled burningly tight. He felt drained, utterly exhausted. When they pushed him forward he stumbled and fell to his knees. Looking up and around he saw groups of people watching, laughing and making comments in both Spanish and English. Entertainment for the populace. Dragged to his feet, he walked on, straight-backed as he could manage, and with a thought assigned them all to Hell.

Only the chiefs among his captors had the joy of riding in the luxury of the—undoubtedly stolen—carriage. Oh, and their captive. Shoved and pummelled until he walked forward, Norrington was brought to the open door. Inside, Sparrow was sitting back, one hand stroking his beard, while O'Connell avidly watched his men push Norrington up the step, to make him kneel in the narrow floor space at the pirate captains' feet.

A casual slap knocked him sideways. Someone kicked his feet until he curled up and the carriage door clicked shut. After a moment the whole vehicle lurched forward, rumbling over the cobbles. Norrington started to sit up, but a foot in the belly dissuaded him, and he shifted painfully back, giving the boots around him more room. Struggling for some sort of composure, he lay in the dirt, and cursed silently as O'Connell lifted his legs and simply used him as a footstool.

It was a long journey back to the house. The distance had not seemed that far when he was running, but from where he lay it seemed now to be immeasurable. His mind hardly aware, he heard the two men talking above him, but nothing of what they said seemed to make much sense. The carriage jolted and bounced over the rutted track, each jolt digging the boots deeper into his hip. The one consolation was that Jack didn't join his fellow in using him so. It was shameful enough as it was.

Pressed tight to the floor, eyes closed, his body jolted at every step of the horses' hooves, he lay and sweated. Fear was there, in his mind, but more pressingly he knew he could not let himself give in. His honour demanded it. All that waited to be seen, was if he could uphold his principles. If he would bend or break.

And what part Jack Sparrow would play in either eventuality.

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