Fathoms 12

Simplicity

by

Manic Intent

"Yer concerned wi' th'mental health o' some old sea dogs now, mate?" Jack asked, swaggering down the paved street, hips swaying. The Portuguese town looked a lot like Barbados, being also based on the sugar trade, except with far more black slaves than indentured Irishmen. The harbor, too, was much larger and busier, being often the last port of call before and after the Dark Continent—when they had docked, strings of dirty, underfed men of color, shackled together, were being processed through paperwork. He knew where Barbossa had likely gone before he left for Jamestown, and he needed some information.

"I meant your first mate, actually," Norrington absently sidestepped to give way to a middle-class woman on her way to the healthy fish market close to the harbor. He had been nervous when they'd docked, but when no Portuguese soldiers or civilians seemed to recognize him, he had calmed down somewhat.

"Oh, Anamaria." Jack stopped briefly, to dodge a horse-drawn cart of barrels roped together—the driver cursed at them sharply in Portuguese. "This place, bad memories fer her. She was born here, in th'planations. An' her parents, see, they couldn'a keep an' hide two gels, so they sold her when she was still a wee 'un." A smile that bared his teeth. "To th'largest brothel in town."

Norrington blinked, his lips moving as he tried to come up with any sort of appropriate answer to that sort of revelation. "She's come a long way," he said, finally, further curiosity likely stifled by propriety. Jack approved—there was no pity, or disgust in that cultured voice, only respect. On the way to Recife, Norrington had at least gained Anamaria's total acceptance, more via working under her orders without comment or question, as compared to any aid lent to her sister, or the open secret of his relationship with Jack.

"Aye, that she has," Jack allowed a note of pride to show in his voice, as he lithely leaped to the side, avoiding dirty water being dumped onto the grimy street from somewhere above them. The smell of the sea and the refuse that people dumped into it receded a little as they passed into the market square, replaced by the warm stink of animals and the heavy scent of spices. The press of bodies didn't inconvenience the relatively slightly built pirate, who had to occasionally wait until Norrington, muttering some choice curses, could squeeze past to him. He purchased some fragrant pie (probably chicken), with eloquent gestures and the jingle of coins, which they shared, rather messily, taking a breather in a corner next to a shop that sold all manner of handmade ceramic pots.

Norrington was studying one of the buildings visible over the tide of people with absent curiosity, issues of Anamaria's past forgotten—a synagogue, with its distinctive windows—curved at the top, squared at the bottom, like the tablets of Moses, the white sills a stark contrast against red brick. "Remarkable."

"We're not 'ere fer th'sightseein' tour," Jack tugged at the sleeve of his dark coat. He was certainly not interested in going near that particular building, after his last... incident here. It had really been a misunderstanding, too, that. Who would have thought that people would make elaborate, golden chests for purely religious purposes that had nothing to do with containing shiny treasure? It shouldn't be allowed, with unsuspecting pirates around.

"I suppose not," Norrington agreed with some reluctance, glancing down at Jack, and his expression turned wicked briefly, leaning down to flick his tongue at some gravy that spotted Jack's palm. And smirked.

"Mate, if we weren't in a hurry now..." Jack began to hiss, then paused. Actually, the place they were going right now could be pretty useful, for activities previously not considered. He returned the smirk. Norrington's disappeared, to be replaced by apprehension.

Jack re-evaluated some of his conclusions about potential secret lives of repressed Commodores, and tried his most winning smile. "'Tis only fer a chat wi' th'Ma'm o' th'place, Jamie-luv. An' ye said ye wanted t'accompany old Jack on his business in this fair city, instead o' bein' th'gentleman and remainin' on board wi' Anamaria, left on th'ship all by her ownsies wi' only a few hung over scallywags fer company."

Norrington's (very kissable) mouth worked, as he looked across the street at the 'building', as though it offended him personally. Which it likely did. The Silken Scarf dominated the red light district of Recife—a converted ship, painted in maroon, black and gold, its figurehead leaving no doubt as to the nature of the, ah, establishment, supported by stylized struts engraved with figures in racy positions. Burly bouncers stood impassively at the entrance, set in the hull, watching the street. Inside, it looked as though the party hadn't started as yet—it was still late afternoon.

It was also, rather obviously, converted from a British Naval ship. Its original name hadn't been painted over, and was obvious for all on the street to see. The H.M.S Reprisal. Jack, Barbossa and Bootstrap had thought the irony positively hilarious, so many years ago, when they'd visited Recife on a stopover before the Atlantic. Norrington, however...

"Jack." The smooth voice was deeply aggrieved. More strangled sounds.

"M'goin' in," Jack said, sauntering to the entrance. "Ye can go back t'the Pearl if ye like."

Footsteps informed him, once he was next to the bouncers, that Norrington had chosen with much ill-grace, to accompany him. Jack smiled to himself. The bouncers didn't seem to notice the subtext, or were ignoring it. One of them spoke gruffly in Portuguese, no doubt informing them that they were closed, and to come back later.

"M'not here fer entertainment at yer lovely establishment, mate," Jack said, swaying on his feet as he gestured expansively at the hull. Part of the keel had been cunningly sawed away, such that the ship could give the semblance of 'floating' on the street. He had been here before, and he knew that the mistress of the Silken Scarf tended to like multilingual staff—Recife was the port of choice for any buccaneers who felt like taking a trip to the Indies, Portuguese or not. "Ye can tell th'Ma'm that Captain Jack Sparrow be wantin' t'talk t'her. Friend," he added, when the bouncers seemed to frown in tandem. Come to think of it, they rather looked like brothers.

They spoke in low tones to each other for a moment, and then one of them disappeared into the dimly lit interior. The other spoke curtly in heavily accented English. "Wait here."

Jack watched the street, glad that it was empty at this point in the day and that the bouncer seemed the totally incurious type (good for working at an established brothel). Norrington's tightly reined outrage was very apparent in his flashing eyes, and the firmly set jaw. Jack sighed, knowing he had to defuse it before Norrington met the Ma'm, or sparks would fly. "Jamie-luv."

Norrington looked at him, then back at the ship, then at the cobblestones, and took a few deep breaths. As Jack watched, that considerable self-control reasserted itself, and the anger faded away, to be evident only in the thin cast to the lips. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, wry. "I did the paperwork for this ship. Missing in action. It was one of the first cases of the sort I processed when I arrived in Port Royal. Left over from my predecessor—he was more interested in doing nominal work and spending the rest of his time visiting his mistress than actually fulfilling his duty."

"Small world, mate," Jack patted his arm. "Leastways ye can close that bit o' form now, mm?"

Norrington stared at him, then chuckled helplessly. "I don't think I'm up to updating 'Missing in Duty—Lost at Sea' to 'Somehow converted into a whorehouse'."

"Barbossa did ask her how she did it, but we didn'a get any believable answers," Jack offered. It was one of the mysteries of Recife, and definitely the one mystery that gave him the most personal amusement.

Before Norrington could reply, the other bouncer reappeared. "Ma'm will see you now."

The bouncer led them up carpeted stairs, the slightly discolored red fabric held in place by heavy 'gold' rods. The next floors below deck were of reconstructed, stylized cabins. The deck was decorated for open-air revelry, and the bar at the stern was slowly being set up under the direction of a heavyset man by women and men of assorted ages, tables and chairs still stacked to the corner, the ground still being swept. Tarpaulin in case of rougher weather was neatly rolled at the helm. Some of the women (and men, Jack noticed with annoyance) shot them curious glances, those of frank interest especially lingering on the striking figure that Norrington cut. Jack, feeling somewhat possessive, had to restrain himself from putting a hand on the other man's arm as they approached the captain's cabin.

Norrington made a soft, inarticulate sound of irritation as they were ushered in. The cabin was as gaudily decorated as the rest of the ship, except that the carpets seemed to be real Persian, and assorted furs covered the couches and chairs. The scent of incense was heavy in the air, along with expensive, delicate perfumes. The four-poster bed occupied one corner, thickly curtained. A Navy-issue map was framed on one side, next to a porthole—the curtain was a frayed British flag, likely taken from the mast and converted.

The Ma'm was perched on the table, the papers on it showing that she had been engaged in the more mundane aspect of her occupation before they had arrived. The worn, ageing face had not yet been painted for the evening, showing wrinkles and crow's feet starkly in the afternoon sunlight, the hollows in her cheek pronounced in shadow, the hard cast to her features deeply ingrained. Graying, mouse brown hair had been tied back into a stern bun, and she was dressed in a heavy maroon robe embroidered with gold thread, under which pink silk-slippered feet could be seen. Years ago, Jack had thought her a beauty (if not really his type)—time had not been kind. Her smile, however, hadn't changed—amused, sharp, and catlike. "I should have known you'd show up eventually, Jack Sparrow, when Barbossa did." Her Portuguese accent was thick, but only made her seem exotic. "I'm only surprised you didn't arrive together."

"Aye, we've 'ad a disagreement in th'past," Jack said, his tone making it clear that he didn't want to discuss it.

The Ma'm's eyes slid over Norrington, looking him up and down brazenly, thoughtfully. His Jamie's cheeks colored, his lips formed a flat line of annoyance, and he looked away, out of the porthole, keeping his furious silence. She chuckled, her tone a little envious. "You have such interesting lovers, Jack."

Jack smirked, shrugging a shoulder fluidly. "Luck favors me. Now, Barbossa, what did 'e talk to ye about?"

She held out a lacy, gloved hand, palm up. Jack put some stolen coin in it, which was pocketed quickly. "He was headed to the Indies. To Canton." Pursed lips. "He knew you would come here, and ask after him. He said you may catch up with them at Seychelles, or at Madras if you make good time, but they'd only wait for you at Canton. For two weeks. If you haven't found them by then they will finish the matter themselves."

Barbossa knew him too well, and Tia had likely informed him that he was alive. Very interesting. "Did he bring anybody here wi' him?"

"No," she said, eyes unfocused as she recalled prior conversations. "But he mentioned having a pair of whelps on board who were extremely irritating, and something about keeping your secret. That was really about all he told me. Afterwards..." A pause, then a wicked, saucy grin. "Jack, since when did Hector develop an... obsession with apples?"

"I don't want to hear anythin' 'bout that," Jack said hurriedly. "An' I don't know, but it t'aint me fault." So, Will and 'Lizabeth were still alive, but didn't know that he was. And Barbossa was definitely no longer of the undead persuasion.

She laughed, and leaned back, out of habit moving such that her cleavage seemed fuller. "Anything else you want to know? Or would you like to do business? Buy a room? A girl? Another boy? Both?" A provocative glance at Norrington, who was still looking out of the porthole—though the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "I'm sure that you and your lover..."

"We're fine, thanks," Jack cut in quickly, before the unfettered violence did. "Though... yer offer of a room..."

"Jack. No." A growl.

"Why not?" Jack asked, playfully. "There be hot baths here, even."

"If..." a deep, controlled breath, and a glare. "If you insist on staying in this... this place, I am returning to the ship." Norrington leaned in, to murmur harshly into Jack's ear. "And then there will be no debauchery of any sort, in any form, until we reach Capetown. And maybe even after."

Now that was a big enough threat to give him pause. Jack's smile faltered. Then he leaned back, waving a finger under Norrington's nose, about to object. At the other man's raised eyebrow of challenge, Jack gave in, instead turning back to the Ma'm. "I guess we be turnin' down yer invitation, then. Thanks fer yer time."

"Give my regards to Anamaria," the Ma'm said, in a tone without inflexion, as she turned back to the paperwork, waving them away.

"M'know just th'place, mate," Jack said brightly. He hadn't been looking forward to accompanying an annoyed Norrington back to the ship, wasting the rest of their shore leave, as charming as his Pearl was. There would soon be far too much ship and sea, up until they reached Jamestown, and again up until Capetown. As it were, two members of his crew had informed him that they didn't feel up to it after all, and were leaving to try and make their way back to another port.

More weaving through half-remembered alleys, with only a few wrong turns, and they reached a rowdy gambling den, the scent of rum thicker than that of unwashed bodies, the sea, and city effluences. They managed to find a table at the side, away from the cleared center, where men were crowded against a raised platform, watching two roosters that were but blurs of red and iridescent green, the cockspurs gleaming in the lamplight. There was roar from the crowd was one of the small knives scored on a wing, blood spraying the sand.

Waitresses brought them tankards rum efficiently under request, with a curt string of Portuguese, probably regarding how to bet. Jack wasn't interested, however, instead savoring the rum—likely the best in this corner of the Atlantic. Norrington was watching the animals fight with a sort of fascinated horror. "They tie spikes to their legs." The wounded bird shrieked.

"Aye. Ye can bet, but m'not sure 'ow to," Jack replied, leaning back on the wooden chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "M'don't care either. Good rum." Strong rum, at that—deceptively strong under the smooth taste. Tipsy men bet more, which meant a larger cut for the establishment. Norrington didn't seem to notice, swallowing a large gulp of his with ease (perhaps too much time spent in Tortuga).

"Theft, visiting a brothel, and now a gambling house," Norrington recounted wryly, "Where next, Jack? An opium den? An assassin's club?"

"Don't know any assassin clubs, mate," Jack grinned, "But ye might want t'ask Beckett's secretary, whats-'is-face."

"Mr. Mercer," Norrington supplied absently, wincing when another arc of red decorated the ground. "Jack, this is barbaric."

"T'aint nowt worse than yer foxhuntin', mate. 'Cept it's two birds tearin' at each other rather than lots o' dogs goin' at a fox." Jack took another deep, appreciative gulp of his rum. "An' I did say, t'aint th'fightin' I come 'ere fer."

The birds didn't appear to be much more than very bloody animated feathers, now, though one was clearly losing—both wings drooped, though the yellow beak was open in furious defiance. Norrington looked away, and drained his tankard. A gesture at the watchful waitresses, and it was silently and efficiently refilled. "Good rum," he admitted, finally, after working his way past half of the second, his voice beginning to slur.

Jack smiled, a predatory one, showing the faintest hint of gold teeth. "T'aint mad anymore, Jamie-luv?"

"I wasn't angry. At you," Norrington amended, drinking again as he thought about it. "I was angry at the... the extremely offensive use of a Navy ship. And I don't know what happened to the crew."

"British privateers sink Portuguese ships, an' they do th'same back t'ye," Jack shrugged, carefully edging his chair closer, as Norrington took another deep swallow. It wouldn't do to make the man too inebriated—as previously seen in Tortuga, Norrington was a mean drunk. And he got terrible hangovers, during which he would resemble an extremely ornery bear. Not fun. But a wee bit tipsy... now that had possibilities.

Sometimes, opportune moments needed to be crafted.

"We don't create travesties out of their ships," Norrington pouted, his eyes slightly unfocused. Third tankard of rum now. Jack was still nursing his first. As much as the drink was good, he was having far too much fun with his Jamie at the moment to get inebriated himself. "And... and..." his brow creased, as he squinted at Jack. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Jack Sparrow?"

"Of course not, love," Jack said innocently. "Ye said ye needed a drink, an' I'm buyin' ye some. Since I owe ye fer th'trip t'the Silken Scarf."

"Yes, you do," Norrington said self-righteously. "Owe me, that is. And... and, I don't get drunk, not over just three small cups. Of brandy. I mean rum."

The fourth tankard made the Commodore cough, and Jack decided that he should stop him now, before the aforementioned mean drunk surfaced. "That's enough now, love. We be goin' back."

Norrington glared back at him mulishly. Some strands of hair had gotten loose from the ribbon, and hung over one green eye. "No. I like the drink. What do they do to the chicken? The losing one. Does it get eaten? We ate pie in the afternoon."

"Don't know, mate," Jack gently pried the tankard from unresisting fingers, and paid up, then firmly pulled Norrington out onto the street, the other man swaying and dragging his heels, but otherwise submissive. "Could be."

"Are we going to the assassin's club now, or the opium den?" Norrington was blinking owlishly in the smoky lamplight hung from intermittent buildings at the street. The sky was darkening fast, and Jack knew it was time to get back to his Pearl. Admittedly, the Silk Scarf was closer, but he didn't want to chance Norrington's wrath the next morning, nor the very large possibility that he might actually make good on his threat.

"We're going back t'the Pearl, love," Jack said, staggering a little when Norrington leaned his weight onto him. "An' ye got t'help me a little."

"I like it when you say that," Norrington leaned closer, rum-scented breath tickling Jack's nose. It was suddenly getting a little harder to breathe.

"Say what, love?"

"There. There you said it again," Norrington's smile was delightfully lopsided.

Jack took a deep breath. Control. He could control himself. "I'd say it as many times as ye like it then, Jamie. But ye got t'help me get back t'the ship, savvy?"

"I savvy, Jack," Norrington said absently, looking up at the half-moon, only partially hidden by clouds. "If a full moon turns you into a... a werewolf, then a half moon...?"

"Mebbe a quarter o' a wolf," Jack suggested, his brain working on auto-conversation. They turned another corner. He could smell the harbor already.

"So you'd think... ears? More hair? Tail?" Norrington frowned at Jack's amused grin. "What are you looking at... at me like that for? I'm not drunk."

"Awlright, Jamie-luv."

"You're patronizing me," Norrington pouted again. Jack wanted to shoot the few passers-by hurrying back to their homes, just so he could have the privacy to push the other man up against one of those brick walls now and... no. Control.

"M'sorry if it seems that way," Jack stroked the warm back encouragingly as they finally reached the harbor. His Pearl seemed disapproving of his tactics, but was highly tickled at Norrington's current state. However, she had also previously been tickled by the hungover-sick-dirty state of the man when he'd first signed up as part of Jack's crew, so her sense of humor was quirky at best.

"Oh, please, not you too," Norrington was growling at the black hull as Jack maneuvered them over to the gangway. "I'm not drunk. No, I'm not. Ask me a question. Obviously, if I can answer questions, then I'm not drunk. Do you see me throwing up anywhere? And that's a stupid question. I'm thirty-one this year."

Jack grimaced, as he had to tug Norrington up onto the deck, the man resisting once he was past the gangway, still keeping up his rambling conversation with the Pearl. "Missy..." She laughed at him, but thankfully fell silent. Norrington sniffed, in triumph, and consented to being pulled into the captain's cabin. Where he immediately slumped into the bed, still fully dressed, and pulled a pillow over his head.

The pirate rolled his eyes, and removed his own boots, and then Norrington's, before moving on to coats and vests, then shirts, with some difficulty and a lot of coaxing. Finally, he sat down on the bed next to the curled-up Commodore, and decided to start with kissing broad shoulders. A shiver, then a muttered, "I want to sleep."

Jack rested one bearded, beaded chin on an arm. "Really? But if ye sleep now, then ye can't 'ear me callin' ye love, can ye now?"

Norrington relaxed as he attempted to think this over through the alcohol-induced fog. Jack started lapping down his side, playfully, then nipping at the waist. A purr, then an irritated shake. "Don't want to play."

Jack pouted, but stopped, moving back up to rest his chin on warm flesh again. "Want t'tell me why, love?"

"What do you mean when you call someone else love, Jack?"

Jack closed kohl-rimmed eyes briefly in annoyance. This conversation would have been so much better left to a state of sobriety, even if Norrington had (when sober) shown no previous inclination to do even think about it. A state of insobriety was better for either getting absolutely smashed, or sex. Sometimes both, at the same time. Besides, Jamie's tongue might be looser now, but he could forget it all in the morning, making deep and profound conversation somewhat pointless. "'Tis a term o' affection, m'think. What d'ye mean when ye tell someone ye love 'im, an' then don't want t'talk t'him 'bout it afterwards?"

A pause, then, softly, "When you think you'd never see another person again, sometimes you say things."

"That ye don't mean?"

"No!" Long fingers curled tightly into the pillow. "I meant it. I just don't want to talk about it."

"It's right frustratin', Jamie."

A hollow, slurred laugh. "I don't know, Jack. This... this can't work out, not in the long term. After... after we're back in the Caribbean. I'd be working towards Admiral and... you'd be headed for the next piratical horizon. I don't think I can reconcile that. Even if I got over the moral problems I don't think I can handle just seeing you maybe once, twice in months and wondering where you are, whether you're safe. I don't want to be just your lover, Jack. But I don't want to cage you. There. Now leave me alone about it."

"M'suppose ye could give up tryin' t'get t'Admiral, love," Jack suggested gently, as he attempted to process the statement. He wasn't personally sure why he was so curious. The compass, perhaps, what it told him now. He wanted Norrington, but not as much as the Pearl and the freedom it symbolized. Instinctively, he hadn't told the other man this, knowing that it would hurt his pride. Jack had felt that it would be better to finish this business with Davy Jones' soul first, having shown his Jamie the world on the backs of different seas, before deciding on some sort of plan.

"No more than you can give up piracy," Norrington replied dryly. He clung to the pillow when Jack tugged at it. "Let me sleep. Trying to get me drunk was a mean trick. And a chicken died."

"Ye still mean it, though?"

"What?"

"What ye wrote."

"I said I did, didn't I?" Petulant, now. "Your compass says so. Even your damned ship says so. Soon I'd have your... your bookshelf and table saying so, as well."

Jack grimaced at the 'damned ship' comment, but his Pearl seemed merely curious, at the moment, rather than offended. "Don't think those are enchanted, mate."

A long pause. Then a mumble, "I felt sorry for the chicken."

Amused, Jack was about to reply, but the evened breathing and gentle snore told him that Norrington had succumbed to sleep. Jack absently stroked one muscular arm as he turned over what the other man had said in his mind. Why did he have to be so difficult? Jack would have gladly have had a relationship where he only saw Norrington clandestinely a few times a month or so, instead of nothing at all. It wouldn't even be difficult for the other man to stay an apparent bachelor to Port Royal society—he could just claim continuing heartbreak over 'Lizabeth, after the two rather public incidents. He would even have been, if absolutely necessary, been willing to take up another Letter of Marque, if it weren't signed by Beckett. The restrictions would have been annoying, but it was a compromise Jack was willing to make. But no... his Commodore had to be so obstinate.

"Why can't things be simple?" Jack asked his ship, quietly.

He knew she would have snorted at him, if she were physically able to. Simple bores you.

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