Some Other Fool Across the Ocean Years Ago
Part 1: Time and Tide (DJ Lethe mix)
by
Pairing: James Norrington/Jack Sparrow
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 5/16/10
Dedication: For Hannah
Note: This work was inspired by Untitled Norrington drabble by Hannah
Summary: James Norrington has everything he needs—a job at an independent IT firm, a couple roommates who pay rent on time, and a recurring dream about a pirate who is enough adventure for anyone to handle. Of course it can't stay that simple forever.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 5/16/10
Dedication: For Hannah
Note: This work was inspired by Untitled Norrington drabble by Hannah
Summary: James Norrington has everything he needs—a job at an independent IT firm, a couple roommates who pay rent on time, and a recurring dream about a pirate who is enough adventure for anyone to handle. Of course it can't stay that simple forever.
Swann poked his head out of his office and looked over the tiny cubicle farm. "James, could you come here a minute?"
James hadn't been doing anything that took too much attention—well, to be honest, he hadn't been doing anything he was paying enough attention to, not since he and the other three programmers on staff had seen the guv disappear into his office with the guy in the sharp suit a couple hours ago. So he nodded, tried to give a reassuring glance to his team (who were not, repeat, not reassured) and headed across to the only real office that Cygnet Integrity Software had.
"Ah, here we are. James Norrington, I'd like to introduce Cutler Beckett, from EastWest Communications," Swann said.
James held out his hand on reflex. Beckett was shorter than he was, and dressed in a suit that looked like it was attempting to add three inches to his height out of sheer class. It was a good effort, if wasted on James, who had seen his fill of power ties well before.
He had a classic management handshake, too, the kind you could buy at a seminar. "Pleasure to meet you, James," he said in a voice like tanning oil. "I hope we'll enjoy working together."
James raised his eyebrows, and looked over at Swann. "I appear to have missed something."
"Oh, so sorry," Beckett said. "We've just bought your company."
While James was still reeling from that, Beckett continued, "As a major communication service provider we naturally have our own division working on firewall and security services, so I wanted to have a chat with you at some point to discuss operating redundancies."
James hadn't been in business as long as Swann had, but even he knew that elision when he heard it. "You mean layoffs."
"I mean optimization of human resources."
"It still means people getting the sack."
"We are ourselves particularly short on qualified programmers with a history of management," Beckett said without blinking, "something which Mr. Swann has indicated you're quite adept at."
James tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, someone has to."
"So I'd like you to get together some profiles on your team," Beckett continued, "and we'll look at EastWest's current knowledge-base gaps and see how well your people fit. Okay?"
Beckett's smile matched the rest of him, in that it made James want to punch him in the face. Instead he smiled back like it was a challenge and said, "I'll see what I can do."
***
"So are we getting the sack?" Murtogg asked at the pub that evening.
"Can't say," James said honestly.
"Isn't that what they do, though?" Mullroy asked. "They buy up your company, strip out your ideas, keep one or two owners around for show and sack everyone else?"
James rubbed his eyes. "Maybe, I don't know."
Old timers like Swann could tell stories of recessions and booms of years gone by. James had just been a kid in the eighties, but in the nineties he'd had an internship at a dotcom in California which had actually sent him a plane ticket, and he'd spent a summer writing code in an office which seemed to be made out of foam-core and bean-bag chairs and powered entirely by Jolt Cola and Doritos. So he had at least a little perspective on the whole dotcom boom, bust, and web-2.0 resurgence, enough that he didn't feel like he was totally guessing when he read tech news and tried to make predictions.
What he knew: EastWest was a company large enough to have an HR department staffed with arseholes like Beckett. He was pretty sure they wanted a certain amount of development support, which meant people.
Anamaria had been sipping thoughtfully at her lager. She caught his eye and asked, "Is this one of those things where they keep management and team leaders only, and show the rest of us the door?"
"I'm going to fight to keep that from happening," he said truthfully. The only lie there was that he probably should have answered "Yes."
***
So the day had been miserable.
He got home to find Andrew and Theodore monopolizing the television for Rock Band. Andrew was on guitar and Theo was belting out a completely shameless rendition of "We Don't Need Another Hero." "Hey, about time," Andrew said. "Jump in."
James frowned and toyed with one of the drumsticks for a moment, weighing his desire for sleep against the urge to hit things for a while. "Nah, I think Tina's good without me."
"Bad day?" Andrew said, just before the musical break came up and he got distracted by flashing lights.
"Yeah," James said. "Bad day. I'm going to get some sleep."
Hey lay in bed for a few minutes with the light on, cataloging the cracks in the ceiling and wondering if he was going to have that dream again.
James had been having the same dream since he was seventeen and discovered he was bisexual by making out with Theo after school in an empty janitor's closet. Not that the dreams had anything to do with Theo, or his sexuality, but that had been his first explanation for the recurring theme—something like "displaced anxiety" or "working out personal issues through metaphor."
But the dream had stuck with him for years—nearly fifteen years, at this point—and it maintained an irritating amount of continuity. Other people had dreams with dream logic. His had a conversation with a man who insisted on telling him about their adventures in an alternate reality, which may have made for a good science-fiction novel but James was really loath to believe in real life.
Oh, well, he thought, and switched off the light. At least the sex was good. And after the day he'd had, that was a cheering thought to fall asleep to.
***
The dream—and it was the same dream—started as it always did, as though he was just waking.
"Excellent," a rough tenor voice said at his elbow. "Look what I've found."
James opened his eyes. By now the scene had become familiar. He was lying on his back in a rather comfortable bed, snug up against a wooden wall, in a cabin on board a ship. The ship was always the same, as was the man whose bed it was.
He propped himself up on his elbow to give himself a look at Captain Jack Sparrow. Jack was sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in not much more than trousers, a shirt, and a vest. His hair was up in dreads, tied back with a scarf, and covered in charms and bangles which clinked whenever he moved. His beard and was similarly adorned. He was, at the moment, grinning widely and holding out a box.
James looked down at himself briefly. What he was wearing tended to vary; Jack had insisted for about three years that he was supposed to be in uniform, so for a while he'd shown up in something out of an uncomfortably accurate reenactment society. After enough complaints about wearing trousers he didn't know how to take off, he'd started appearing in professional-looking dress from a few different periods of history, then a very strange couple of weeks in tight leather trousers, but now he was regularly dreaming himself in the jeans-and-a-polo-shirt which were what he usually wore to the office when he didn't have to meet with customers.
Today he was wearing a bloody suit and tie. He reached up and yanked the tie undone and asked, "What's in the box?"
Jack rolled his eyes and opened the lid. "It's a compass," he said.
James took a look. The compass was an antique, an off-white disc on which had been painted arrows, letters, symbols. North was apparently somewhere past him. "Okay, nice," he said.
Jack rolled his eyes and shut the box again. "It's more than a little annoying what you don't remember sometimes," he said.
James finally got the tie off and flung it on the floor, then started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Jack frowned at him. "You look frustrated."
"Shit of a day at the office," he said. The shirt came off and he lay back, rubbed at his eyes. "It's not interesting, anyway."
"I still can't imagine you pecking away at a bloody computer, mate," Jack said. "You're supposed to be hunting pirates."
That was the common thread of these dreams. James smiled and sat up again so he was face-to-face with Jack. "Right," he said. "Pirate hunter Commodore Norrington would never put up with a prick like Beckett. Probably challenge the git to a duel or something."
Jack got a funny look on his face. "Beckett?"
"Yeah, Beckett." James shrugged. "He's this thug from HR from the company buying us out. Jackass."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Shortish fellow, nasty sense of humor? Fondness for anything that isn't nailed down?"
"Yeah, I guess. You know him?"
"Only by reputation." Jack smirked. "You're saying you'd rather not think about that."
James reached out and grabbed Jack's shirt by the collar. "Please," he said, then dragged him down for a kiss.
If he was going to have someone claiming to be a pirate show up in his dreams for more than a decade, James thought, at least it was someone who was good in bed. Jack climbed on top of him, biting softly at his mouth and balancing carefully on one hand while unbuckling James' belt with the other.
He'd been twenty, the first time they'd done something like this—James gasped into Jack's mouth as Jack's clever fingers wrapped around his dick—and he'd been stinging from being dumped by his first boyfriend, frustrated and angry, and Jack hadn't even seemed surprised when the first thing James did was jump out of the bed and onto Jack's body.
And now this, rocking his hips back and catching his leg around Jack's, thrusting upwards against inviting friction, this was all just part of the dream, it was part of Jack, it was part of his life. Jack moving away just far enough to push James' trousers off, fumbling with clothing until they were both naked, or near enough. James pulled his legs back, and Jack lined his cock up, and pressed forward, and James let himself just fall open and groan with pleasure. God, yes, this was all he wanted. Jack's arms under his knees, Jack's dick flexing inside him, the rolling of the sea beneath them, the whole wonder of the dream around him—
He reached for his own dick, and it only took a couple strokes before he was coming, sharp bolts of pleasure racing through him, leaving him sweaty and breathless. Jack always liked it when he came first, watched him with a softly amused expression until he was lying back limp on the bed. Then Jack started thrusting again, slowly, as James closed his eyes and moaned against the tingling, almost-painful feeling.
And yeah, this was brilliant, this was fucking brilliant, ten years worth of experience in this, better than any of the half-dozen hookups he'd had in the intervening non-sleeping hours, none of which had lasted more than a couple nights. This was it, this was enough, this was enough to get him through. Watching Jack as his eyes closed and he thrust harder against him and made strangled noises as he came—that was enough.
Jack took a few deep breaths, then worked himself out of the tangle their limbs had become. When he lay down at James' side, he said, "So I found the compass."
"Good for you," James said, trying to work out how one became sleepy in a dream.
"So I'll come find you," Jack said. "Don't worry about Beckett. I'll think of something."
"Thanks, Jack," James said, smirking. "Sounds good."
***
He woke up to find his sheet was tangled around his dick and covered in dry white streaks, which was about par for the course. He stuffed it in the laundry hamper and went for a shower.
At the office he left the rest of the team huddled in their cubes and went into Swann's office without knocking. "What's going on with EastWest?"
Swann sighed. "They made a very good offer."
"So what, so they made a good offer? What's this about?"
"Shut the door, James." Swann's expression was grim.
James carefully closed the door, then pulled up a chair. Swann looked down at the surface of his desk, over at his monitor, then pushed his keyboard away and said, "There just isn't the market out there that there was a couple of years ago."
"Yeah, but that's always true," James said. "I mean, you've seen this before; you had a database company in the eighties which means you've gone through much worse than this."
"We just don't have the resources to weather out the current storm," Swann said. "Maybe if we had more capital, maybe... maybe not."
He looked... old, suddenly. James had never thought of Swann as old—experienced, patrician, canny... but never old.
Swann looked up, caught James' expression, and smiled wryly. "Oh, don't look like that," he said. "They're not all like Beckett over there, after all."
"So you're going along, then? Or..."
"I am most likely retiring." He laughed softly. "Until the next idea comes along, I suppose."
James nodded, and stood. "You'll say something, then? To everyone?"
"Yes. Of course." Swann looked up and smiled sadly. "No one is prouder of what we've built here than I, James. But it's of no use to anyone if the whole enterprise just vanishes."
And he couldn't help but agree to that. "Of course."
"Thank you."
When he shut the door behind him he was greeted with blank stares from the other three programmers. It still felt as though someone had knocked one of the walls of the office in, letting cold wind rush through all of them as they waited to find out what would happen.
"We're getting the full story later," he said.
Anamaria nodded slowly, then asked, "Any chance this isn't going to happen?"
"Doesn't sound like it." He took a deep breath. "I'm gonna need everyone's resumes to argue over offers, so email them in?"
"Email them out, more like," Mullroy muttered.
James wished he could advise otherwise. "Just make sure I have them by tomorrow, all right? Thanks."
***
"It occurs to me," Jack said that night (in his dreams, and James really tried to not lose sight of that) while James' toes were still uncurling from the blowjob he'd just received, "only in hindsight that I could have just asked you where you live."
James took another second to get his breath back, then looked down to meet Jack's eyes. "What do you mean?"
Jack tilted his head back and contemplated the ceiling in exasperation for a moment. "Where do you live?"
"I live in London," he answered, then chuckled. "Why?"
"Easier than triangulating with the bloody compass, mate. Could wind up going in circles."
"Of course." He smirked. "Couldn't find a magic map, could you?"
"I had one of those. Also lost. Maybe I'll be able to find it again once I've got you."
James chuckled. Jack climbed over him and nestled into the crook of his arm, sweaty and warm. "I have a nice flat," James mused sleepily. "Share it with Theo, who I've known forever, and Theo's boyfriend."
"Nice to have a steady living arrangement," Jack said.
"It's really everything I want," James said. "Steady work close to home, friends, peace and quiet..."
"Regular shagging?"
James reached around and dug his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jack's neck, and for a moment just let himself breathe, slow and steady. "Close enough."
***
"So, this shouldn't take too long," Beckett said the next afternoon when James sat down in a conference room in EastWest's HR offices.
James had found himself in a state that morning. Beckett had him so worked up that he'd actually stared at his closet wondering if he should dress up, then angrily decided to just go in a T-shirt and jeans, then panicked and decided to at least put on some proper trousers and a button-down shirt. But damned if he was going to show up in a tie.
Beckett, of course, was immaculate in a suit and tie, a completely different and just as expensive ensemble as when he showed up at Cygnet. He smiled brightly and folded his hands on his notepad. "Tell me about your people."
James opened his folder and pulled out Murtogg's resume. As he flipped over the cover page Beckett cleared his throat and said, "I should let you know at the outset that we aren't going to be able to hire your entire team."
James looked up into Beckett's smug expression, and for just an instant his vision went red and he envisioned taking his pen and jabbing it through Beckett's throat. The moment passed, thankfully, and he was able to say with a professional level of calm, "There are only four of us."
Beckett pursed his lips in utterly transparent false sympathy. "I'm sorry, but we just aren't able to leverage that level of commitment at this time."
As James sat there seething, Beckett pulled his pen out of its cap and flourished it over his note paper. "So," Beckett said, "Why don't you help me decide who the most expendable resources are, hmm?"
James knew he was arguing as hard as he can, but by half an hour in he'd put Murtogg's resume in the layoff pile. Mullroy's joined it there before the end of the hour.
"We'll pick this up tomorrow, then, shall we?" Beckett said. James had never wanted more to do someone injury in his life.
***
He didn't have the dream that night. It was almost a relief.
It happened—he'd go days or weeks without dreaming about Jack, and then one night Jack would waltz back into his life, apologizing and claiming to have been out of reach in mysterious parts of the tropics or Antarctica or Atlantis or the moon.
At least, that's what James' mind came up with. He grumbled to himself as he picked out another clean shirt. It was difficult sometimes to remember that it was all just a dream, that Jack Sparrow was a figment of his imagination and that none of it was real. Not the man, not the ship, not the sex. The whole thing was probably unhealthy and definitely bad for his social life. He couldn't imagine anyone reacting well to the revelation, Also I've got this recurring fantasy where a pirate shows up in my dreams, tells me I'm his long-lost rival-slash-enemy-slash-homoerotic interest, and we have sex, which has been my main source of that particular activity for the last ten years.
Not very appealing, no.
Of course, he thought as he buttoned up his shirt, it was all a bit ridiculous, imagining himself as someone important back in an era when Britain was conquering the rest of the globe by screwing over everyone who already lived there. Projecting himself into some kind of White Man's Burden fantasy... it was grotesque and juvenile and he really ought to know better.
Beckett had yet another sharp suit on when James went to see him that afternoon. "And now we come to Miss Nazario."
James put Anamaria's resume on the table, impressive qualifications in casual formatting. Beckett looked at his own notes and smiled, faintly.
"Anamaria's basically the architect behind the Interceptor program," James started when Beckett had stretched the silence out to awkward proportions.
"It says here," Beckett said, "that she has a criminal record?"
That was sealed you utter son of a bitch, James managed barely to not say out loud.
What he did say out loud was, "She's been working for us for years without any trouble."
"I suppose most of this could just be put down to juvenile delinquency," Beckett mused. "Downloading confidential information, hacking phone systems for free service—I believe that's called 'phreaking'?"
"She's very adept at building packet analysis protocols," James said, trying not to grind his teeth together.
"Ah, yes," Beckett said. "Someone who managed to steal half a billion pounds from Lloyd's would have to be adept at packet analysis." He paused, then smiled wider. "I'm sorry. Someone who almost managed to steal half a billion."
"She has completed all of her required community service," James said, "And she is one of our most adept programmers on the team."
"Yes," Beckett agreed, "Which brings us to you."
James' blood suddenly went ice cold.
"Do you think you could handle the Interceptor project on your own, from the stage it's at now? Or is Miss Nazario such an invaluable resource that we should take a flier on a known criminal instead?"
James took a few slow breaths, then looked at Beckett and schooled his expression into a calm smile. "If you're only going to hire one of us, I believe you have enough information to make your own evaluation."
Backett looked innocent and gestured with his pen. "I'm only asking for your assessment of your own skills. Could you, given time and support, take the Interceptor program to release?"
It took him a long time to come up with an answer. Finally he said, "We could do it in half the time with Anamaria working on it."
Beckett smiled and laid his pen on his blotter. "Well. It's not really necessary we settle this right now. Why don't we take the weekend to think things over and have one last meeting on Monday?"
"Fine," James said. Beckett didn't even try to crush his fingers in their handshake, which was almost a disappointment.
***
He couldn't concentrate at the office, not after that. He couldn't bring himself to look at Anamaria, much less Murtogg and Mullroy. So he took off early, got a latte from the corner coffee shop and stared into it like it would give up the secrets of the universe in white foam.
It was a relaxing fantasy to get a table by the window for a few minutes and look out into the street, and imagine that he could walk off and not come back, that he could leave Anamaria and Swann and the others and Beckett behind without a thought. That he could disappear into that mass of people and never have any work-related drama ever again.
Something caught his eye in the crowd, and he blinked a couple times to clear away the glare. Then he stared. And stared.
He kept staring as Captain Jack Sparrow swaggered through the door of the shop, walked straight up to his table, and spilled himself into the other chair. Jack snapped closed a very familiar box, set it on the table, and grinned. "Told you I'd find you," he said.
James honestly couldn't move. He wasn't sure if he was still breathing. Jack's face grew concerned, and he leaned across the table to wave his hand across James' eyes. "Y'there, mate?"
"You're not... real," James said.
Jack looked startled. After a moment's consideration, he poked himself in the chest a couple times, experimentally. "Feel real enough," he said.
James shook his head in disbelief. Jack frowned for a moment, then suddenly brightened. "I know. You're worried that yours truly is some kind of drug, fever, stress and/or altered state of being alive-induced hallucination, right?"
James took a deep breath and looked around. Nobody in the cafe was looking at him as though he were interacting with Banquo's ghost, but then again, no one had ever gone broke overestimating the British public's politeness around people who were apparently going mad. "Stress, if I had to guess," he finally said.
"All right, then," Jack said. He picked the compass up off the table and stood. "Back in a moment."
If James could believe his eyes, Jack didn't even look all that incongruous, what with the hippies, hipsters, and students who hung around the place; dreadlocks and eyeliner and even his ridiculous hat seemed passe. He sauntered up to the counter and flirted with the barista—and she seemed to think he was real enough. She poured him two shots of espresso in a cup, and Jack thanked her and returned to James' table.
"There," Jack said, pulling a flask out of his pocket and dumping something in on top of the caffeine. "Satisfied?"
"... Confused," James admitted. "This can't be happening. How can this be happening? How can you be here?"
"Took the train up from Brighton," Jack said amiably.
"That's ridiculous," James said.
"What they charge to dock a bloody rowboat these days," Jack said.
"You aren't real," James said desperately.
Jack frowned, downed the contents of his cup, and tilted his head sideways to frown at James from another angle. "How am I not real?"
"You're a dream," James said. "You're a figment of my imagination, a—a fantasy. Not—" he cut himself off as Jack leaned over and pinched him. "Ow!"
Jack's grin was smug. "You're not dreaming, mate."
"But how..."
Jack's grin got, if anything, even wider. "Ah. See," he raised a finger, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."
James stared at him for a moment, then covered his face with his hands. "I'm going mad."
"I keep getting that complaint from people and I don't know why." James heard Jack push his chair back and stand up. "C'mon, obviously you and I need to have a talk."
***
James wound up leading Jack back to his flat. It was the sort of thing that under normal circumstances he would think was a terrible idea, but Jack was either the same person who had been showing up in his head for the last fifteen years, in which case taking him home wasn't that big of a stretch, or he didn't exist at all, which James was still considering as an option.
Jack had been relatively quiet on the way. He stayed that way until he saw the Rock Band setup, at which point his eyes lit up. "Oh, I love these guitar things."
James shut the door and watched Jack pounce on the guitar controller and swing the strap over his neck. "So..."
"Right, mate," Jack said, fingering a few fake chords on the controller neck and flipping the plastic strum bar up and down. He looked up from the controls and gave James a confused look. "What is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?" James blurted. "You're not supposed to exist!"
"And who gave you that authority, mm?" Jack walked over to the Playstation and poked at it a few times until it lit up. "I've been existing just fine while you didn't. How'd you turn the telly on, then?"
James pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. "How—if you're real, how did you get inside my dreams?"
Jack stopped poking at the television and frowned at him again. "I thought I explained all that. Didn't I explain that?"
James had a semi-coherent memory, actually, of asking this question before in a dream. Jack's response hadn't been helpful. "Something about a Native American woman and a sandstorm and some kind of magic rock—I wasn't paying much attention at the time."
"Dust storm," Jack said offhandedly. "Not really a sandy desert, Pueblo country. Ah!" The television snapped on with a hum and the chords of the intro screen's soundtrack.
"Will you leave that alone?" James said.
"I got the dream charm in 1826," Jack said, flipping through the menus and loading "Sweet Child O'Mine." "It didn't start working right until I found you."
"Eighteen twenty-six," James said as Jack started hammering away at the opening refrain. "So that would make you how old?"
"Fountain of Youth," Jack said, then flubbed a note. "Damn! I'd've thought you'd remember that, at least."
James could feel his breathing getting shallower as the disbelief set in. "And you were looking for me because..."
Jack looked startled, and the music over the speakers faded to dissonant clunks as he missed a handful of notes. "You're Commodore James bloody Norrington, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not!" He ignored Jack's expression and continued, "I'm not commodore anything! This is ridiculous!"
Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his controller, then reached down and turned off the game. The sudden silence was deafening. "But your name is James Norrington, innit?"
"That doesn't mean anything," James protested. "You can pick a bunch of James Norringtons out of the bloody phone book."
"Oh, yeah?" Jack pulled the guitar controller off over his head and hung it up on its stand. "How many?"
James wasn't even sure what he was arguing about any more. "Well, fine, three. And they're all my cousins, and one of them has changed her name to Trina—but that's not the point."
"What is the point?"
James closed his eyes and attempted to gather his thoughts. "The point is," he slowly said, "if you're real—and I haven't conceded that yet—then all those stories you've been telling me, whatever you've thought..."
He opened his eyes to see Jack staring at him, scarily still and quiet.
"I don't remember any of that," James finished.
Jack spent a long, awkward pause not moving. Then he pursed his lips, and reached up and stroked his beard. "Interesting."
James watched him play with the trinkets woven into his beard for a moment before he startled himself by laughing. Just a chuckle, at first, but once he started he found he couldn't stop, until he was doubled over on the couch and gasping hysterically with Jack staring at him as though he'd completely lost his head.
"Also interesting," Jack said when James had calmed down and was wiping at his eyes. "What's this, then?"
"Oh, God," James said. "I—my work has gone to hell and got bought by these arseholes, I might have to work someplace I have to wear a tie, and the man of my dreams—literally, you know, since you're the man who I've been sleeping with in my dreams—has just shown up in my flat, and all I can do is argue." James shook his head and laughed again, now that it didn't feel like it'd kill him. "My friends would say this is why I can't have nice things."
"I do have to admit I was a little surprised at the reception," Jack said, walking over and sitting on the couch next to James' head. "You really don't remember any of it, then? No past-life flashes or visions? Dreams?"
James shook his head.
"You do look just like... y'know," Jack said, fluttering his hand around James' eyes. "And Cutler Beckett can't just be a coincidence."
Unsure of what to say to that, James just nodded.
Jack visibly mulled the idea over for another moment, then pushed himself to his feet again. "Right. I'm going to ask some people I know some questions."
As startling as it had been to have Jack Sparrow in his flat, it was more startling to realize he was leaving. "But..."
"Don't worry about a thing," Jack said. "I'll sort it out."
James propped himself up on his elbow as Jack turned to go. Jack took a step towards the door, then turned around, put his hands on James' shoulders, and bent down and kissed him.
And if nothing else, the kiss would have told him that this was the same Captain Jack Sparrow—the same dream-ghost fantasy fuck he thought he'd been imagining since he was seventeen—but it was real this time, and better, with Jack's breath hot and tasting of coffee and rum.
"Right," Jack said after he'd pulled away much too soon, "So at least that's sorted." He tugged the brim of his hat down, smirked, and sauntered out the door.
Fuck, James thought, as the apartment suddenly felt smaller and quieter, if I hadn't fucked that up he'd've probably stayed for a shag.
***
James pondered lying there on the couch and waiting for Jack to return for about fifteen minutes, or until his arm started to tingle from lying on it.
His mind was running in circles and he couldn't pin down any thoughts long enough to examine them. He wound up picking up the abandoned Rock Band guitar and loading the game again, running through song after song until his brain was filled with white noise and colorful note progressions.
Theodore and Andrew came home when he was halfway through Code Monkey. "Way to start without us," Theo complained, and reached for the other guitar.
James lit into the third verse and said, "Actually, d'you wanna go for a pint?"
Theo shrugged. "I'm easy."
"Especially when drunk," Andrew added.
James smirked and finished off the song, then shut the console off. "Thanks, guys."
"We're only willing to get you drunk in the hope we can talk you into a threesome," Theo said.
"I suppose I'll have to pay for my own beer, then." James grabbed his coat as Theo pouted. "Let's go."
He felt almost guilty as they left the flat, and he realized he was still half-expecting Jack to swagger up at any moment, and half-expecting that Jack had left for good or was never more than a fever-dream in the first place. He hadn't shaken off the feeling by the time they'd acquired a table and a round at their local.
"So what is wrong?" Theo asked. "Is it the job?"
"Oh, God, I don't even want to think about the job," James said. He rubbed at his eyes. "Not the job. That's bad enough."
Theo and Andrew traded a glance. "Love life?" Andrew guessed. "You've met someone?"
"Or want to meet someone?" Theo guessed, slightly more reasonably if James was going to be an objective judge, and slightly more dickishly if he wasn't. "You should meet someone, James. You should date."
"Guys," James complained.
"You could get together with one of the guys from the club, we could make it a double date—"
James rolled his eyes. This was, of course, the price he paid for having solicitous friends. "I don't want to date any of the guys you know, all right?"
"Women?" Andrew suggested. When Theo and James both gave him a look, he spread his hands. "You date women, right? We know some women—don't we know some women?"
"We don't know any women," Theo said, half-amused.
"No, what about Kate? The actress?"
James groaned. "I am not going to date an actress, Andrew. I'm not going to date someone who needs so much attention they made it their career."
"Okay, okay," Andrew said, and leaned back to study the ceiling and try to find another name. "How about..."
"Guys, really," James said, leaning forward and holding up his hands. "This is not my problem right now. I will let you know when this is my problem."
"I don't get it," Theo said. "You're hardly an eyesore, your personality isn't actively abrasive, and yet you haven't had a serious relationship since we moved in together."
James raised his eyebrows. Theo sighed, exasperated, then took a drink. "All right, all right. What is your problem?"
"It's not a problem, so much as..." he rolled his pint glass around its base on the table, watching the foam swirl along the glass and leave streaks. "What do you know about reincarnation?"
"Uhhh," Andrew said, "I know that it's a theory, and inherently unprovable."
"It's a lot of theories," Theo offered. "What kind of reincarnation are you talking about?"
"I dunno," James said. "I mean, do you think there's anything to it?"
Theo looked at him intently for a moment, then said, "We are definitely going to need another round."
"What brought this on?" Andrew asked as Theo attempted to get the attention of their waiter.
James attempted to find some way to phrase the situation that didn't involve telling the truth. "I... met someone who claimed to have known me in a past life," he compromised.
"He's trying to take your money," Andrew said immediately.
"I don't think so," James said. "I mean..."
"He's not trying to offer past-life regression, is he?" Theo said. "Because even if you think reincarnation's real, that stuff is bullshit. It's all hypnosis and feeding you a line."
James shook his head and took a drink. "I'm so lucky to have friends who are so interested in looking out for my well-being that they don't listen to what I say."
"Well, you are an idiot," Theo said reasonably. "You need all the help you can get."
It was probably best not to respond to that. "This guy recognized... well, he recognized this dick from the company that's buying us out. He says we knew each other back in that previous lifetime and he was just as much of a dick back then."
"That's probably just wishful thinking," Theo said. Andrew nodded.
"Well, I mean..." James gestured with his glass again. "Do you think that... groups of people can come back together, get tangled up in the same situations over and over again?"
"No," Andrew said, as Theo said, "Sounds reasonable."
Andrew gave Theo a look. Theo rolled his eyes. "Well, come on, if we're accepting the premise that reincarnation does happen, then the reason for it is likely to work something out with someone or work off your bad karma. So if you have stuff to work out with other people, then it stands to reason they have stuff to work out with you, and you'd be drawn together for that purpose."
Andrew waited until he'd stopped, then asked, "Drawn together how?"
"Midichlorians," Theo said. "I don't know."
"Haven't you ever gotten an immediate reaction to someone?" James asked as Andrew looked even more irked. "Like, knowing you could trust them right off?"
"I knew I wanted to get into my third-year history TA's pants," Andrew countered, "But that wasn't midichlorians, that was hormones."
"So what's with this mysterious person, then?" Theo asked.
For a moment, James thought about giving them the whole story—dreams, sex, miraculously-appearing pirate and all. Then the waitress showed up with the second round and he thought better of it. "Guy I met on the internet," he said. "Probably won't see him again."
"Ahh, the perils of internet dating," Theo said. "You should have let us set you up with Kate."
***
Jack didn't come back that evening. Or Saturday.
He didn't show up in James' dreams, either. That made sense, or at least James told himself it made sense. It made him spend Saturday and Sunday morning in a state of annoyed, itchy anxiety, but it made sense.
Jack did show up mid-afternoon on Sunday, when Theo and Andrew had gone off to the movies and James had resigned himself to a day of pacing out the apartment, unlocking new songs on Rock Band, and arguing with people on the internet. "Here's the thing," Jack said without preamble once James had gotten over his shock and let him in, "You probably are James Norrington, by which I mean the original James Norrington, the one I knew when with the girl and the whelp and the adventures and so on, but you won't remember any of that without some serious intervention, which I think we can find but will probably take a while. So it'll be a little confusing first off. Right?"
"Riiight," James said carefully, then, "First off?"
Jack frowned at him, then gestured vaguely in the direction of the door. "When you come with?"
"When I—" He couldn't help but laugh. "When I come with you? What—when was that ever the idea?"
"I thought it was obvious, mate," Jack said, still frowning.
"Jack, I—that's ridiculous. I can't just drop everything and run off with you. I've got a life, a job, a—a lease, for God's sake."
"Those are excuses and you know it," Jack said. Then he paused, and slightly quieter, said, "If you're worried about the whole piracy, looting and pillaging thing, we're not doing much of that these days. Nearly a hundred percent salvaging, transporting, and magical artifact thingamagummy ferrying. Nothing violent and almost nothing illegal."
"I'm still not entirely convinced that you're real," James said.
Jack made an aggrieved noise and rolled his eyes. "Not much I can do about that, at this point," he said. "If showing up on your doorstop doesn't convince you I'm not sure what will."
"Well, I..." It was a pretty good argument, all things considered. Considering that the entire situation was completely unbelievable. "I don't know, maybe I could take some holiday time, we could actually have time to talk..." Even to his own ears, that sounded ridiculous.
Jack snorted, then looked around the room until he spotted the pad of post-its that Andrew used to label the food which he wanted to make Theodore feel guilty about stealing. "We're sailing again in a few days," Jack said, sketching a brief note. He pulled the sticky off the pad and slapped it on James' chest. "That's where I'm docked. Come down if you change your mind."
"Wait," James said, grabbing the note before it detached itself from his shirt. "Wait... you're going?"
Jack shrugged. "If you're not interested, there's not much to stick around here for, is there?"
"But you're not going to totally... I mean, you'll be back? At least... y'know, the dream..." James trailed off under Jack's narrow-eyed stare.
"Y'know, mate," Jack said, "You can't just get all the benefits without doing any of the work." He snorted. "But I'll consider it."
You're breaking up with me because I won't join your pirate ship? James thought, but by the time he'd put the words together Jack was gone.
***
When he went in on Monday, Anamaria, Murtogg and Mullroy were all clustered around a computer at one end of the bullpen. "What's going on, guys?" he asked.
"Nothing," Murtogg said guiltily.
Anamaria caught his eye and tilted an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to take the offer?" she asked.
"I—" he shook his head. "Nothing's finalized yet, so—"
"Beckett's going to make you an offer and dump the rest of us," she said, not sounding too upset about it. "So?"
James put the heels of his hands against his eyes and wondered what would happen, what would really happen, if he just jumped out the window. "I don't know," he said. "Honestly."
They were looking at him when he put his hands down, Murtogg and Mullroy with a degree of bafflement and Anamaria with sympathy. "You should tell him to shove it," she said. "That's what I'd do."
"Yeah, well, my rent and I will consider it," he said.
God. After the weekend he'd just had, the last thing he wanted to do was have one last meeting with Cutler Beckett, nightmare from HR. Even knowing that Beckett was going to be coming to his turf instead of conducting the final interview at EastWest didn't help.
Beckett was on time, of course, precisely on time. Swann waved the both of them into his office and shut the door on the rest of the team.
"Well," Beckett said, setting his briefcase down on Swann's desk. "I believe we only have a few more things to settle before we're finished here."
James nodded. Beckett smiled and opened his briefcase. "We've decided to offer positions to a limited number of Cygnet Integrity staff," he said. "Well, to be more precise, we're offering a position to you, in our security optimization department. My superiors thought that Ms. Nazario's... experience didn't fit the company's community profile."
James narrowed his eyes. Beckett pulled out a leather-bound folder, opened it and pulled out two gleaming white sheets of paper. "The fine print is all there," Beckett said, "But in essence it's a managerial position with one of our coding teams, overseeing the project integration. I'm sure you'll work out just fine."
Beckett handed him the contract. James took the heavy-bond pages with his fingertips, like he was handling a snake, and looked them over.
It was a pretty good offer, he noticed. The salary was certainly nothing that Swann could have afforded to pay him, and there were no unexpected clauses about sacrificing babies or summoning demons or signing over all his off-premises work to the company. Just a solid salary and a job turning the software he'd spent the last two years building over to a communications giant, and in return getting to keep his job, his life, and his ability to spend his Saturday nights on his couch playing video games.
"D'you have a pen?" he asked.
Beckett smiled triumphantly and pulled one from his pocket. Nice and solid, it dispensed dark blue ink from a slim fountain nib. James lay the contract on Swann's desk and with a strange sense of giddiness wrote "SHOVE IT" on the signature line.
"Sorry," he said as Beckett's expression turned to confusion, then anger. "I got a better offer."
"But..." Beckett said.
Swann raised his eyebrows. "James, I don't know what you're doing..."
"Sorry, sir," he said. After a moment's thought, he offered his hand, and Swann took it with more that a little confusion. "I have to go pack."
"But..." Beckett repeated, slightly more forcefully.
"Godspeed, then, to whatever end," Swann said.
"But..." Beckett tried a third time. James didn't pay him any mind.
Murtogg, Mullroy, and Anamaria looked up in synch when he closed the door behind him. "Well?" Anamaria asked.
He couldn't help smiling. "Screw EastWest," he said.
"My thoughts exactly," Anamaria said. She hit a few keys on her keyboard and stood.
James pretended to look concerned for a moment. "What was that?"
"Nothing you need to worry about, was it?" she said, pulling her jacket from the back of her chair and pulling it on. Murtogg and Mullroy looked slightly embarrassed, but also slightly proud. "We figured that Beckett wasn't interested, so..."
"Don't tell me," James said. "I won't have to testify."
"All right." She smiled at him. "Good luck, then?"
"Yeah, good luck to you, as well."
"C'mon, boys," Anamaria said. "Let's get out of here."
James grinned. The post-it note was still in his pocket. He hoped he'd be in time.
***
Their flat was empty when James reached it. He left Theo enough to cover the next month's rent in cash, and a note deeding him the rest of his stuff besides. He threw a change of clothes and his mobile's charger in a bag and took off for the train station.
When he made it to the dock it was getting late, but there was still a rowboat docked where Jack had written—a rowboat! He tried not to laugh and looked around for any hint that Jack was still there.
It felt like an eternity before he saw the figure at the end of the pier, walking closer with a familiar ambling gait. Jack's stride didn't hesitate until he was right there, right in front of him, close enough to touch.
"Well?" Jack asked.
James took a breath. "Look, Jack..."
Jack waited, head cocked back and eyebrows raised like he expected to be disappointed.
"What if I'm not—what if I'm never going to get those memories back?" he asked. "What if you've been searching all this time for some James Norrington who's been dead about three hundred years, and I'm not the right person, and I'll never be him? What happens then?"
Jack looked him up and down, then met his eyes and smirked. "D'you want to sail with me or don't you?"
There was only one possible answer to that. "Yes."
"Well, then, welcome aboard," Jack said. "We'll work out the rest as we get to it."
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