Freedom

Chapter 3

by

Garnet

The second thing he noticed was that he was naked and that there were cool sheets at his back and cool sheets tucked in around him, crisp clean linen, and he hadn't slept in such as that for years. Well, to be entirely honest, he'd never had fine bedding as he was lying in. Nor such a fine bed, either.

The smell of the roses was coming in on the breeze and, slowly, cautiously, Jack opened his eyes and saw an open window just past the polished wood of the bedpost. He could hear birds singing now as well and, more distantly, the sound of the sea. A comforting sound as much as it was familiar to him.

There was a lemon tree right outside and, as he watched, the sun came out from behind a cloud and turned the leaves a brilliant green. It flooded into the room he was in as well and washed the walls white, brought out the rich coloring of the expensive woodwork and the portrait of a woman and three children hanging opposite him, one of them holding a small brown and white dog that seemed to be looking directly at him.

The light stung his eyes and he felt tears gathering, but quickly blinked them back and turned his head away from the window. The movement made him only slightly dizzy, which was a definite improvement.

Now, if he could only fathom where he was and remember how he might have gotten here.

Roses and lemons and fine linen. Sure, and he wasn't in Governor's own house, was he? Even the most forward missy Elizabeth couldn't have swung that with her father. But if he wasn't there and he wasn't back in his charming little cell back at the fort, then where was he?

Jack started to push himself up to look around a bit more, only to send that oh so fine room spinning around him, his arms trembling with even this tiny bit of effort. He fell back and closed his eyes again, gasping for breath.

"Damn," he whispered. At this rate, he wasn't likely to be going anywhere soon. Let alone getting out of this bed.

The sound of floorboards creaking drew his attention then. A moment later, the door across the room opened and a young woman in a plain brown dress and white cap began to walk inside. She stopped immediately, though, when she saw him looking at her and her eyes widened. She began to back out the door again.

Jack raised a hand. "Wait... miss..."

But she was gone, leaving the door still open behind her, and he heard her footsteps ringing out as she quite obviously rushed down the hall beyond.

He let his hand fall again, not that he had much choice about the matter. It was difficult enough to keep his eyes open, let alone anything beyond that.

He was even more sure of just how exhausted he was, when he rather belatedly realized that someone else had come into the room and was, even now, standing next to where he was lying. Clearing their throat with an impatient sound.

Slowly, he opened his eyes again and turned his head.

Commodore Norrington was looking down at him with a deceptively mild expression.

"Well, I see you're awake at the last," he commented. "Turner will be sorely disappointed that he wasn't here to witness your return to the world of the living."

"Oh, aye?" Jack managed.

Norrington gave him a clipped nod. "It was rather inconvenient of you to fall ill on the morning of your redemption. Both Master Turner and Miss Swann were quite concerned. In fact, Miss Swann came straight to my office when she found out and accused me of complicity in your ill health. Seems she thought I hadn't taken well enough care with you during your imprisonment. Apparently, she was quite correct."

"Tis a bad habit she has," Jack mumbled.

The other man seemingly ignored the comment. Instead, he took his eyes off Jack and walked past the bed and over to the window. He gazed out and put his hands behind his back, clasping his fingers together. His head bowed.

"Of course, that same day she also took ill. Along with many townsfolk and a good quarter of my men. Thank God, she recovered quickly enough, but many others were less fortunate. Including a dozen of my own. As for Miss Swann, Master Turner remained with her until her fever broke, soon after which she chased him from her own bedside, insisting that he look after you in turn."

Jack closed his eyes for a moment. It hurt now to recall how he had doubted them; both Will and Elizabeth had more than proved themselves true friends and he more than owed them an apology for his lack of trust.

"How long?" Jack asked, looking back over at the other man again. At the straight back, the long fine coat, the expensive powdered wig. Norrington was the perfect picture of a military man, forthright and compelling and strict. And, obviously, rather at odds with himself over having found himself playing nursemaid to such a scallywag as himself. "An where am I?"

"My home," Norrington replied, answering his second question first. With the tone that more than made it clear that it were a sore point with him. "And nearly a week, Mister Sparrow. Since you last seemed cognizant of your surroundings anyway."

"Aye," Jack said softly. A week, and it seemed from what the Commodore wasn't saying that he must have nearly died as well. How much of a sore point that was with him yet remained to be seen.

Norrington turned around then, his hands still clasped behind his back, and raised his head. Those sharp blue-grey eyes rested on him, appeared to almost look right through him.

"I will, of course, let Turner know that it appears that you have recovered. Your wits, if nothing else. No doubt, he will be here within the hour. In the meantime, I will send Emma up with some more broth for you. I trust that you will find the accommodations and the fare here more to your liking. Though, of course, now that you are a free man, you may leave and find better if you wish."

"Free?" Jack echoed.

Norrington's eyes flashed. A small smile edged his lips. It wasn't particularly kind nor cutting. "Oh, of course, didn't I tell you? The Governor pardoned you, Mister Sparrow. So, perhaps, your luck hasn't abandoned you, after all."

The Commodore would look in on him every morning and evening, but he refused to be dragged into a conversation, good, bad, or indifferent. He was polite enough, always inquired about his health and his needs, but it went no further than that. And, to be perfectly honest, Jack was too tired to truly give it much effort.

The young woman he had first seen—Emma—came and, rather nervously, brought him broth in the morning and evening as well and, on the second day, the fort surgeon came and looked in on him. He had been a man of middle years, with this air of exhaustion about him that had been palpable. He had pronounced him fit enough, though had suggested bed rest for at least another three days.

The servant who had shown him up to Jack's room—and who'd stood there as the surgeon had conducted his examination, as if making sure that he didn't pinch the man's pockets or some such—hadn't seemed overly pleased at that pronouncement, though he had said nothing. Just looked down his nose at him and told him that the master of the house had told him to make 'our guest' as comfortable as possible.

His name had been Knox and Emma had seemed somewhat leery of him whenever she'd come into the room to find him there. As if he were a man who might take his temper out on her. Or the fact that they were being forced to wait upon the needs of a pirate.

Though, he hadn't seemed happy to see to a blacksmith, either.

Will had come and seen Jack on that second day as well, looking worn around the edges himself and yet warm enough for all that. He had clasped Jack's hand between his own, tight enough near to bruise it, and then told him that Elizabeth was relieved to hear that he was on the mend and was already itching to get back on her feet as well.

Then he had gone on about the pardon the Governor had signed for him and handed the paper to him with a flourish and a smile that had been just this side of blinding. Jack had taken it and stared at it as Will had talked about the fever that had swept through the town and how they were already making plans for their wedding and his plans to open his very own smithy. Or to buy the old one from Master Brown, donkey and all.

He hadn't had the heart to tell the man that it would take him at least an hour to puzzle out the fancy writing on the damn piece of paper, except for his own name, which he recognized straight off of course, and that he wasn't sure what it really meant to him either. Except that Norrington no longer had the right to hang him. For piracy, anyhow.

Still, it had been good to see the lad and good to hear that both he and his lady love were well and that their lives were going on and he had smiled and joked with him and thanked him well enough and said that, yes indeed, he would like to see Elizabeth again, as soon as they both could manage it.

Even though he doubted either her father or the Commodore would approve of that little reunion.

"Take care now, Jack," Will had said at the last, clasping his hand again. "I'll see you again, soon enough."

"Aye," he had replied. "An the same to you and yours."

Not able to help the smile as William Turner had stood up and bowed at him and then swept back out the door, dour Master Knox already there to show him out. Frowning at the younger man as he gave him a somewhat impudent smile and stepped out ahead of him, all with a fresh air of confidence and grace that suited him from the tip of his brand new boots to his brand new hat, dashing white feather and all.

Even more like his father than he had been before.

Like old Bootstrap had truly come back from the dead.

As it seemed he was coming back from the dead as well, albeit a little more slowly. Rather too slowly for the Commodore, at least from the somewhat disappointed look in his eyes whenever he came in and found him still abed, as if he hoped he might wander off on his own if given half a chance and absolve him of any further trouble on his account.

Not that Jack didn't contemplate it. While he drank down his broth. While he stared out at the lemon trees outside his window or up at that portrait on the wall in front of him. While he worked to get himself up and out of bed until he could begin to totter his way around the room.

But, mostly, he slept and ate and slept again.

Though, sometimes, he fingered that single piece of paper that had set him free.

"Sir," she said in a soft voice. "To break your fast. The master says if you require anything more today, you may please ring the bell and Cook will come and see to you since I shall be out and Mister Knox is somewhat indisposed today."

"Oh," he replied. "I hope the poor man hasn't caught fever."

No doubt, he would be blaming Jack if he had. For which he wouldn't be in the least sorry.

Another head bob was his only answer, before she began backing away from him. A quick flash of her eyes and then she was out in the hall and closing the door behind her.

Jack pushed the bedclothes down and leaned over to take the tray. He settled it between his stretched-out legs and inspected what she had brought him this morning. There was another bowl of broth, plus bread and cheese and wine this time. Plain enough fare, though everything was laid out on finely painted china as always and the wine was in a pristine glass goblet.

Not terribly surprising, since he had known that the Commodore was a man well-enough off, but to be using his best serving ware on a pirate day after day...

No, Jack told himself as he picked up the goblet and twirled it before his eyes, following the blended glimmer of wine and glass, before taking a sip. Not a pirate. Not anymore. He had been granted a pardon, after all. Not that a piece of paper—signed by the governor or no—made him any less a buccaneer than before. Pirate was in his blood, as much if not more so than young Will Turner's.

And blood always won through in the end.

Look at young Will.

Jack slowly finished off the wine. It was a good vintage, though rather too watered for his taste. He tucked into the food then, eating more than he expected as he found his appetite had returned with a vengeance. When he had finally finished off the last crumb, though, he found he was tired again. So tired that a nap certainly wouldn't go amiss, not at all.

Putting the tray aside, he pulled the bedclothes back up again around him and settled down. And was asleep again before he hardly closed his eyes.

It was afternoon when he woke again, the house silent around him and rain coming down outside from a soft silver sky. Jack rolled over and watched the droplets on the glass for a while, then—feeling infinitely better than he had in for what seemed like forever—he pushed his way from the bed and over to the window.

In the distance, far below the house and the town, misty shapes of ships bobbed on the water of the harbor and he recognized the massive bulk of the Dauntless near the mouth of the bay. The same anchorage she'd been at when he and Will had made their pretence of attempting to commandeer her.

Before they made off with the Interceptor, instead. She had been a fine little ship and, for a moment, Jack bowed his head as he remembered her loss. Only to have that feeling give way to a far more painful one, as he remembered his own. Odds were, he would never see the Pearl again, except in his dreams

He pressed his forehead to the glass, then angled his head until he could see the fort as well, dark and massive of stone, with her flags all hanging down, wet and nearly colorless on this grey day, as if half in mourning themselves. No doubt, the Commodore was there right at this moment—perhaps sitting in his office with a cup of tea before him, mayhap even contemplating how best to rid himself of one unwelcome guest without risking further offence to the Governor's daughter.

Except that this was the third day and the surgeon had given him leave to end their reluctant association at that point.

Not that Jack felt completely his old self yet, but he did feel well enough that he doubted he could honestly protest the other man tossing him out of house and home this very day if he liked.

Testing the thought, he pulled off the nightshirt he had been given to wear and went to where his clothing had been laid out on the chair by the window. He put on his breeches and shirt and sash—all of which had been cleaned at some point and now seemed almost unfamiliar to him—then buckled on his belt and made his way over to the door. His bare feet silent on the floor as he crept down the hallway beyond, past closed doors and more dark paintings full of serious-looking people. Many of the men in naval uniform of by-gone years.

Norrington's ancestors all seemed a somber sort.

The stairway beyond was a bit more of a challenge and he was breathing harder than he liked by the time he got to the bottom. Watery light came in through the windows to either side of the front door and a clock ticked away gently on one wall. Next to it, another door stood half-open and Jack saw the edge of a desk and a case full of books just beyond. The door opposite was closed and a narrow hall skirted the bottom of the stairs and led away, presumably to the back of the house.

Jack went up to the front door and tried the handle. To his surprise, it opened freely and he swung it just slightly ajar and peered out. The smell of damp greenery swept over him immediately, intermixed with the scent of the sea, and a fine spray from off the rain cooled his face. There were more lemon trees here, along with a couple of palms, and an iron gate marked the end of the property.

He was about to open the door wide, when movement and a hint of bright color caught his eye and he slid back into the shadows of the foyer.

A man in red and white livery had stepped out from behind one of the trees, glancing up at the house as he walked past the closed gate. As Jack watched, another man appeared as well, the two conversing briefly before shouldering their weapons once more and retaking their positions. Out of sight, though definitely not out of mind.

So, despite his ever so proper pardon, he was still being treated as a prisoner. That bore thinking about. Certainly before he decided to walk out this door and mayhap find himself on the wrong end of a pistol or a sword.

Speaking of which, he still needed to find his own. Odds are, they were still confiscated and back up at the fort, but he had played worse odds than that before and ended up coming out on top.

He would just have to search the house. Which would be a pleasant enough pastime, even if he didn't have things of his own perhaps hidden somewhere here. To be sure, he would have to avoid the servants, but the only one he currently knew was about was the cook and he doubted he'd find either some wayward purse or his own effects in the kitchen.

Jack closed the front door and turned towards the other open door. He slipped inside and glanced around, noting several more cases full of books, plus a large and probably quite expensive globe. The curtains here were heavy, dark velvet and kept out all but narrow slivers of light from outside. There was a table with several chairs on the far side of the room, a few other chairs near the hearth, but the desk predominated.

It was made of good stout oak and had a silver writing set placed on it, plus several pieces of blank paper being held in place by a chunk of sea-smoothed glass. He picked it up and glanced through it, seeing the world momentarily through an amber hue, broken into all sorts of odd shapes and angles.

Rather like looking at the morning through the bottom of a bottle of cheap rum.

Jack thought about pocketing the stone, then remembered that he had nowhere to keep it for the nonce. He set it back precisely, well aware that the man who owned this desk and this library would most probably be sure to know if something were moved but an inch out of position.

He wandered over to look at the globe, then spun it and jabbed a finger at it to stop it again. He peered in at where it had paused, but couldn't read the name of the place. It looked to be somewhere in the middle of the East Indies, though. He had been in that part of the world but twice himself and had loved the sights and smells and women there practically to distraction.

Though none could compare with his desire for the sea. To regain what had been lost to him. And, for a moment, he remembered his dream of rescue. Of seeing the Pearl come flying into the bay, her sails full and perfect again. Of having Cotton handing him his hat and AnaMaria laying his coat across his shoulders. As she told him the Black Pearl were his again.

Of the feel of her wheel beneath his hand and how she had come about almost eagerly, as if she had been pleased to see him as well. No other ship could ever take her place. Not in his heart, anyway.

Even if some other ship were actually on offer.

Walking away from the globe, he went over to Norrington's desk and ran a finger along the top of it. He tried the drawers, but they were all locked—all but the top one which only contained more paper, a small bottle of ink, some sealing wax, and spare quills. The contents of the drawer were laid out as neatly as the rest of the desk and the room itself.

But then neatness and order seemed to be watchwords for Commodore James Norrington; no doubt, he had been entirely proper as a young boy as well, a boon to his dear mother and father and all those other dour military relations of his. As, no doubt, it had been plotted out from the moment of his birth—if not before—that he should join His Majesty's navy and rise to high rank therein.

Most like, he got his attitude towards pirates and the disposition thereof due to their influence.

More's the pity...

Jack sighed and closed the drawer again. After which, he proceeded to pick the locks of the rest, finding his belt, compass, and pistol in one of them—the weapon cleaned and polished and wrapped up in the soft brown cloth. He ran his fingers over the compass, but didn't open it. Still it felt good to hold it again and he put it and his belt on with an acute sense of relief. Before picking up the pistol and inspecting it. Aye, it had been well taken care, but it wasn't loaded and there was still no spare powder or shot, so he put that next on his list to find.

Besides his sword, of course. There was no way he was leaving without his sword. And his boots, don't forget his boots. He'd be needing his pistol and his blade and his boots, even if the men at the gate would leave him pass without a fight. Which he doubted. Pardon or no, he just couldn't see himself walking free without some issue being raised. Or, at least, without the Commodore demanding some promise out of him that most probably would consist of him leaving Port Royal and its surrounds immediately, never to return again.

Humming softly, feeling better already at the return of at least some of his effects, Jack stuffed his pistol into its usual place in his sash and then ventured back out.

O'course, if he had to, he'd leave without his boots—comfort, though they were—but no man could make him surrender his sword. He be leaving with it or he'd not be leaving at all.

And the ever so proper, should have had better locks on his desk, Commodore bloody Norrington would just have to live with that.

Jack turned his head slowly, the book still open in his hands.

Norrington was standing just inside the doors in just his shirtsleeves and vest. Somehow, he managed to look just as formal, even though his coat and hat were missing and his sword belt was unbuckled, hanging loose in one hand. As if he were about to come in and relax for the evening, perhaps write a few letters or settle down before the fire with a book and a fine glass of wine, only to catch a thief with all of those things in hand already.

Still, despite his cool tone, those blue-grey eyes were mild enough. Mayhap, he had expected to catch this self-same thief. If not with his bare feet up on his desk, then at least sitting in his chair.

"I wasn't aware that you knew how to read, Mister Sparrow."

Jack closed the book and shrugged. "A little."

Norrington nodded. He finished taking off his sword belt and placed both belt and sword on the nearest table. He then walked across the room towards him and put out his hand.

After a moment, Jack stood up and handed the book over to its owner.

Norrington took it with the air of a man who well knew its value. He ran long fingers over the leather binding, then let it fall open once more.

"Rather interesting choice of subject," he said, glancing down at the page in front of him. "Tell me, Mister Sparrow, do you believe in witchcraft or did you just pick out this particular volume by mere happenstance."

"Not sure," Jack replied, his own gaze falling to the lurid woodcut only partially hidden by the other man's hands. "I've met some who claimed the name. An I've seen things some would name impossible. As have you, if ye recall."

"Ah, yes," Norrington said and looked up at the same time that Jack finally tore his gaze from the page.

For a long moment, they stared directly at each other, as if neither of them were quite willing to be the one to look away first, before Jack belatedly remembered under whose sufferance he was here and what he owed the other man.

"I apologize," he said, letting his eyes fall ever so slightly. "I shouldn't have presumed."

"Indeed not," Norrington replied. He shut the book with a decided snap and brushed past him to return it to its shelf. "But since you already have, feel free to peruse any book which may catch your fancy. You are, after all, a guest in my home."

"A guest, aye," Jack said with a scorn he couldn't help. "With a guard at the gate."

Norrington turned and, once more, gave him that deceptively mild look.

Then his eyes fell to Jack's belt. "I see you have reacquired your pistol and that rather useless compass. Sentiment? Or should I fear for my life?"

Jack shrugged. "Only if ye don't see fit to give me me boots. An ye know full well there's no shot in me pistol and none to be found in this entire house. Is that exactly wise, man?"

"Normally, no," Norrington replied. "But in this case... all monies, shot and powder have been removed to a safe place. Free from the temptation of your nimble fingers."

"Should I be offended?"

Instead of answering, the other man went over to the side table and poured himself out a glass of port. He drank half of it, as if fortifying himself, then turned to face Jack again. His eyes were cool now, his face perfectly controlled, perfectly formal. As if posing for a portrait himself.

"I imagine you wish your sword returned as well," he commented. "But for that, you'll have to inquire after young master Turner. He took it in his head that you'd would be wanting it well taken care of and he did seem slightly offended himself at the manner in which it had previously been looked after."

Jack shook his head. Impertinent whelp...

But there could be no help for that; his father had been strong-willed as well and more of a ruddy pain then ten other men combined at times. But a good man in a fight, same as Will, and just as loyal. When it counted.

"Cook can tell you where your boots are. I assume you know where the kitchens lie by now," Norrington said then, finishing off his glass. He set it down again and picked up his own sword and belt, starting out of the room. Only to pause there in the doorway to add, still in that controlled voice. "Dinner in an hour, Mister Sparrow. And I believe you may dine with me downstairs, tonight. That is, if you are still here in an hour's time. The choice is, of course, entirely yours."

And, with that, he walked out. Leaving Jack standing there. Wondering if he'd just been told to get the hell out or if he'd actually been invited to stay.

Who, no doubt, took their cue from the master of the house himself.

Who was just now sitting opposite him, stiff and silent in a matching high-backed chair at a well-laid table, white linen all around, ivory candles burning in the center and gleaming silver before them both. As they'd already worked their way through a cream and wine flavored soup and now were starting in on a good piece of pork cooked with onions, parsley, apples, and pickled mangos. It was richer food than he was used to—especially of late—but it made a welcome change.

Even if the company it were being served into wasn't the best.

Norrington hadn't said a single word since he'd sat down at the table and didn't look to be changing that habit any time soon.

The Commodore was dressed simply enough for him, still in his shirtsleeves and a pair of fawn breeches. He had eschewed his wig as well, and his dark hair was gathered at the back of his neck with a matching ribbon. Jack, himself, had dressed as if for battle or for sudden flight—his empty pistol still tucked into his sash, right next to the piece of paper that indicated his pardon. He wasn't sure which could be of more use in this situation, let alone if he actually aimed to try and get past the men outside yet tonight.

It would have been helpful if he knew exactly what their orders were as far as he were concerned.

When Norrington poured himself a second glass of wine, he finally took his life in his hands, laid down his fork across his almost empty plate, and spoke up.

"I'm free to go, then?"

The other man took a drink and lowered his glass again to the table, before looking over at him.

"I thought I'd already made that clear," he commented. "If not, the piece of paper shoved into your belt this minute should have been proof enough."

"Aye," Jack said softly. "But you don't like it, do you?"

"My likes or dislikes don't enter into it," Norrington replied. He lifted a piece of pork towards his mouth, then set it down again and pushed his own still mostly full plate away. "The law is the law and I uphold the law, no matter my own feelings on it."

"I thought your feelings were that you didn't want to see me hanged. Or were those just kind words meant for a condemned man and of no other account than that?"

The other man's eyes were pale in the candlelight, giving little to nothing away. "They were true enough and not meant to be kind. I, personally, did not wish to see you die, but that doesn't mean that I believe you innocent enough to warrant a full pardon. Especially since I am well aware—even if Miss Swann and Master Turner are not or don't wish to be—of just how little such a pardon is worth to you. And just how long it will last."

"You believe I'll turn pirate again?" He asked the question, even though both he and, he suspected, the other man full well knew the answer to that.

"Again, that's your choice," Norrington replied. "But I would consider the ramifications full well before making it. But then, that would be my choice. To think before acting."

"Mayhap, you think too much," Jack said. "Have ye ever thought of that? Sometimes, you just have to trust in fate and hope it turns out for the best."

"Is that what you did when you took that piece of accursed gold back on the island? Trust in fate and hope for the best?"

Jack raised his head. "Will told you?"

Norrington said nothing, but that was answer enough.

Jack nodded and leaned back in his chair. He played with the stem of his wine glass, so smooth beneath his own rough fingers. "Aye. An twas the only way I could think of to fight the man and stand half a chance of it."

"Barbossa?"

He nodded again.

"Turner also said that the man was your First Mate once. That he led a mutiny that ended up with you being marooned on that island we found you and Miss Swann on."

"Aye. Tis so. O'er ten years ago now it was."

"I see." Norrington's voice was quieter now, as if to hide the fact that there was suddenly more emotion in it. "Ten years and you finally achieved your revenge on the man for what he did to you. Ten years is a long time, Mister Sparrow. More patience than I would have accounted you with."

"A man may well be patient when there is little other choice."

"Yes, and mutiny is a most foul business." Softer still, a roughness to it now. "The worst sort of betrayal. Unless, of course, the man in question has been proved to be less than honest, as when he goes against his own articles for example, and so gains his fate as appropriate."

Jack raised his head, his first impulse to take offense. But Norrington's eyes were seemingly fixed on the candle flame and he realized that the other man was just trying to come to the root of the matter, and not deliberately attempting to provoke him. He relaxed again, deliberately slouching down in the chair now, spreading his legs out in front of him.

"Aye, that's true," he replied. "Even the worst sort of pirate needs be an honorable man."

"And are you the 'worst sort of pirate,' Captain Sparrow?"

Ah, now there was the true question, the one that had obviously been haunting the other man all during dinner, if not for days.

Jack contemplated how to answer and as he did—here was his luck yet again, thanks be—one of the servants came in and cleared away their plates, replacing them with bowls of still-steaming apple pudding. He set a pitcher of fresh cream down as well, then bowed and left the room, closing the doors behind him.

"I've never broken me word," Jack said, once they were alone again. "There were no grounds for such as what they did to me, aside from their own greed and Barbossa's desire to take me ship away from me."

"A greed for which they paid dearly," Norrington commented. He picked up the pitcher and poured a generous amount over his pudding, before politely offering it to Jack.

"Aye, an many others as well," Jack said softly. He reached for the cream, but then paused as he curled his hand around it. Briefly touching Norrington's fingers as well as the cool silver surface of the pitcher.

The Commodore's eyes met his and, in that moment, there was nothing cool about them, nor restrained. Instead, they were uncertain, a little surprised, more than a little nervous. As if he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't. Something he wouldn't have ever contemplated.

But was suddenly contemplating all the same.

"Thank ye," Jack said then, taking the pitcher away and pouring an even more generous helping over his own dessert.

For once, Norrington didn't reply, even though it would have been the polite thing to do.

That same silence returned as they ate their pudding, but Jack was well aware of the Commodore's regard when he thought he wasn't looking. And by the time his bowl was clean, he was pleasantly full and somewhat pleasantly sleepy and well amused by the effect such a small thing had had on the other man.

Which was interesting. Very interesting.

It had been the Pearl he'd dreamt of, he was sure of that. No other ship had ever felt like her. Or made him feel so very alive inside, like his veins were filled by fire and his feet might very well lift off the decks if given half a chance. She had always convinced him that he could half fly and it had been a rude awakening each time he'd been forced to go ashore and leave her and the sea behind.

But then he'd never felt at home on land. If pirate was in his blood, as it also surged through young Will's veins, then it were made nine-tenths of salt and sea. And it was the one true treasure he couldn't live without.

Jack rolled over lazily and tucked the edge of his pillow beneath his chin. He closed his eyes again and began to drift off to sleep once more. Only to have the ringing of bells start him awake again. For a second he wondered if an alarm were being raised, then he relaxed again as he realized what day it was.

The Lord's Day and all good souls of Port Royal would be heading off to services to renew their faith and to offer up earnest prayers for those souls who were deemed less fortunate than they.

No doubt, Elizabeth and her father would be there even now, ensconced in their own private box. Idly, he wondered if Will had accompanied them there. Bootstrap's boy hadn't seemed the worshipful kind, unless of course you counted his feelings for Elizabeth. But if they did aim to be wed, then he might very well be there with her and the Governor. Those work and forge-hardened hands of his folded before him and his head bowed, naked of that jaunty white-feathered hat, as he listened to those self-same bells and possibly thought less than pure thoughts about the woman sitting next to him.

And would the lad be dismayed by them? By how long it was yet till their nuptials could be celebrated? Or had he finally accepted the fire in his blood, the same fire that Jack had seen in Miss Swann's eyes from the first. Since, if any of the two could be said to scorn propriety, then it were the Governor's daughter. No doubt, she would have a thing or two to teach her betrothed, even if the both of them were yet innocent of anything more sinful than a kiss or three.

Not that his own thoughts on this fine Sunday morning were anything near to pure, let alone proclaiming of their innocence. Most especially where a certain officer of the Crown were concerned. But then he had never cared to attend services of any kind and he had no intention of attempting to pray away the lustful thoughts he was currently entertaining, let alone chastising the burgeoning erection it was giving him. Even if he believed it to be a sin.

Which he didn't.

Jack slipped a hand down beneath the sheets and took hold of himself.

As for propriety... well, that was already shot to hell. After all, he was a guest in the man's home. What more could be said than that. And as for what may or may not go on behind closed doors of that same house—well, they didn't need to know that. Even if Jack had a mind to tell them. Which he didn't.

He began slowly stroking his prick, imaging it was some other hand than his own. Imagining the look on the man's face when both their hands had met over that pitcher of cream.

Which left only one problem. Well, to be perfectly honest, two problems.

One, what he was going to do with himself now that he were a free man, and whether or not that freedom extended to returning to his former freebooting lifestyle. And, if it didn't, what else he could see himself doing in order to make a living. A comfortable living. One where he didn't have to work too hard.

And two, how he was going to get that certain officer of the Crown to bed him. Preferably, the sooner the better. Without ending up back on the block or with that pretty little sword of Will Turner's somewhere where it didn't rightly belong.

A fine spot of buggery were against the law much as it were considered a sin, but he had never much minded either. A belief that his prick certainly agreed with. Just as it agreed that a certain pair of steel-blue eyes were quite fine to look into and that the legs in those pristine breeches were a fair sight to even a blind man. Strong, fine legs. Long fingers. A firm mouth and just a hint of disdain and wry amusement.

Oh, aye...

Jack's fingers caught the cream of his efforts as he let out a soft sigh, arching up on the bed. The pleasure warm, soft as a summer's breeze, and yet sharp for all that. As he imagined tasting that same cream on the other man's lips. Or, better still, the feel of Norrington's own sweet spendings going deep inside him.

Yes, he'd best be thinking about those two questions. But it would be better on a full stomach or, barring that, with a full glass. He'd take the man's porter or brandy if it came to that, but he did his best contemplating while imbibing the mother's milk of all honest sailors.

Rum... difficult contemplations such as these definitely required rum. And if there were none to be had here in the Commodore's house, then he'd just have to bribe someone to bring him some.

His eyes were half-open, but he saw nothing but dappled shadow and shifting light through the branches over his head. The bench he had chosen was well shaded by trees and surrounded by rose bushes, blocking off most of the view from the house. And that was just how he liked it.

Thinking was hard work, with the added lubrication of rum or no, and he more than deserved some rest on this blessed day of rest.

Cook had brought him his rum, after he'd liberated a small stock of monies from behind a loose stone in the hearth of the dining room he'd just visited last night. Either the Commodore had forgotten about his wee stash when he'd emptied the house of other valuables, or he'd seriously underestimated his houseguest's sharp eyes and nimble fingers.

And the servant woman must have known from whom he'd gotten the gold, but she had asked no questions. Instead, she'd nipped out and brought him several bottles of rum and handed them over to him with a curtsy and a smile and a plate of fresh-baked cakes.

The empty plate lay on the pathway beside him now, the crumbs a gathering post for an army of reddish ants.

He ignored them as he'd ignored the passing of the day. The nodding of the tree over his head and the dance of the clouds beyond and the roses bobbing on their long stems, victims of the breeze blowing in from the southwest. Squall weather, apt to shift and change with little to no notice at all.

Jack took another drink of his rum, then sloshed it around as if just noticing that it were almost empty. Then he let the bottle and his head drop again. Good thing he had stashed the other two bottles away before he'd found this most-comfortable and secluded spot, else he might well have drunk them as well. The way he was feeling.

He hadn't yet solved either of his two problems and it was wearing on him. As much as the rum would let it.

So, perhaps, he should just stop thinking at all and rely on luck and good fortune to see him through. It had served him well enough in the past, with one glaring exception. One grand, black-sailed, quite breathtakingly lovely exception. It were enough to bring a tear to his eyes and the bottle back to his lips.

Ah, my love...

Boot heels crunched on stone then, heading down the path towards him. A firm, constant tread. A man with little time this fine day and even less patience. He could tell that already, even before he hoisted the bottle back into the air and extended out it in his general direction.

"Rum, Commodore?"

"Yes, I see," Norrington replied, his tone flat. "As I see a man lolling about drunk when he should be applying himself to acquiring some means of making a living other than thievery."

""M not drunk," he mumbled. "But if ye've come to clamp me in irons and haul me off to yon fine prison again, well then it were better I should be."

He turned his head then and looked at Norrington, who was standing at attention just a few feet away from his bench. His hands clasped behind his back and every nip and tuck nipped and tucked and this fixed expression on his face. The one that they must have taught near every officer who ever served in His Majesty's navy, at least those Jack had come into contact with.

"But then what's the matter of a few shillings among friends," he added.

"A small purse of gold, you mean," the Commodore corrected.

"Ah, but that's all that's left." It wasn't but the man didn't have to know that, now did he? Just in case he did end up having to make some sort of escape.

For a moment, Norrington's eyes hardened, then his whole manner seemed to ease a bit. Something rueful flickered across his face, as if he'd bitten into something he'd suspected of being rotten, but had wanted all the same. Then, even that was gone as he turned his head and stared rather pointedly at the far end of the bench. Where Jack's boots had taken up residence.

Jack let them rest there just long enough to make it clear that he were moving them entirely under duress, then he shifted over and sat up with something approaching a moan. From his aching back and not from the rum, not from that dear drink at all.

And Norrington's back must have been aching, too, because he sat down slowly on the emptied spot, wrenched open the top of his jacket, and then stretched out his own long legs.

"Long day, Commodore?" Jack asked, gazing at him sidelong. "Overseeing the troops an catching the odd miscreant or two? After you attended services, o' course, good Christian soul that you are."

"Letters," Norrington said. "Requisitions. Orders that wait for no man. Not even on a Sunday. A buccaneer ship may well run on rum, Mister Sparrow, but a ship of the line requires paper. Reams of paper. And, yes, as if you really were concerned about the state of my soul, I did attend services this day."

And must have gotten an unwelcome eyeful, Jack added silently. Will and Elizabeth sitting there, cozy as you please and half as engaged. The Governor cottaging over them both, as if he were well and truly pleased about the swain his headstrong young daughter had dragged home from the seas to wed. Actually, Jack was quite looking forward to it. Whether he was invited or no. Which, he figured he was, being that they had, at least in part, bonded together over the saving of his life.

Now, what a wedding gift that made.

"So," Jack said. "If you haven't come down to your gardens to charge me with thieving, then was there something else on your mind?"

"They are my gardens, Mister Sparrow," Norrington said in a rather droll tone.

"An very fine they are, too," Jack replied, sweeping his hand around in a broad gesture at the bushes next to him. Uncaring of the rum sloshing in its bottle. "Especially these lovely roses of yours. Do you know they're near the shade of a woman's cheeks. If you've ever seen a woman's cheeks when they're flushed with delight."

The Commodore said nothing to that and Jack glanced at him. That fixed look was back again and he was staring across at the lemon trees that lined one side of the garden. The same lemon trees that Jack could see from the room he'd been given to stay in. Speaking of which...

"I imagine," he said. "You'll be wanting me to leave. Though another dinner as fine as the last wouldn't go amiss first. You wouldn't toss a man out on an empty stomach, now would you?"

"Please yourself," came the quiet reply. "You're a free man, Mister Sparrow."

"Free," Jack echoed, as if it were actually true anymore. As if that thought didn't bring problem number one roaring back to life in his head. He had been free as a pirate—free to go where he wished and free to serve no man but himself—but now? Now, if he didn't wish to starve, he'd have to find work somewhere, whether that be on land or at sea. Work for which he was most undoubtedly ill-suited, at least in temperament.

"So, have you given any thought at all to your future?" the other man went on. "That purse you stole from me can't last forever."

"One or two, aye," Jack replied.

"You do realize," the Commodore said, his voice ever so cool. Even condescending. "That should you decide to return to your old and rather dissolute life, that no quarter will be given next time. This is your one and only chance to make an honest man of yourself and I, for one, would make the most of it."

"An if I liked the man I was before?" he said, aware of just how sharp his words were. He had been oddly stung by the other man's tone, even though it wasn't unexpected.

Norrington paused and then turned his head and looked at him for a long moment. His eyes were sympathetic enough, even if his voice remained remote.

"Now that is a quandary. I trust, however, that you will make the right choice in the end, Mister Sparrow. I would hate to see you in irons again. Let alone facing the noose."

"An if I don't... do what it is ye think is right?"

The other man straightened minutely and his face grew as cool as his voice. His eyes suddenly looked more grey than blue, as if all the color had leached out of them.

"Then I shall see to it that you make that appointment with the gallows, as is my sworn duty."

"Is that all ye believe in?" Jack asked. "Duty makes for a cold mistress."

Norrington's face grew even stonier at that and, too late, Jack realized what a sore point it was he had just touched upon.

"If you must know," Norrington finally answered, his voice flat, empty of all expression. "It's all I have. And I find it comfort enough."

He got to his feet then and walked up the path, heading back towards the house. His back held ramrod straight and his head high, boot heels clicking on stones with a precision tread. A man perfectly aware of who he was and entirely at peace with his place in the world. Or, at least, a man intent on giving that impression.

Jack glanced over at the rose bushes, then leaned over and plucked a blossom with his free hand. He held it to his nose. The perfume was even sweeter up close, almost too sweet. A thorn pricked his thumb and he licked it, before hoisting his bottle of rum again. This time, in a salute.

"Do ye now," he said softly then. "An why do I not believe that."

He pushed himself to his feet and put his hands to the bars, testing their strength, but there was no shifting them. He had expected as much. There may be some water underfoot, enough to dampen any man's spirits, and the sails above were in tatters, but the rest of the ship was sound enough for all that. Sound enough to still out-sail and out-fight just about any vessel in the Caribbean.

Footsteps sounded and then a lantern come into view, the light stinging his eyes after the darkness.

Pale blue, shrewd eyes appraised him as Barbossa himself walked into view and stood there a pace or two away, tall and thin as ever in his once elegant coat and hat. The pure silver buckle of his belt caught the light as he took one last step towards him, raising the lantern a trifle.

"Well now, Jack," he said. "I hope you've not been to lonesome down here by yourself. I would have come to visit with ye sooner, but I was a mite busy guiding the ship out of these here waters and after your friends."

"An who told you they was friends of mine," Jack replied. "Or have ye forgotten they left me behind."

"Did they now?" Barbossa commented. "Aye, true enough. But whether this lack of trust be a fault of theirs or one of your own, remains to be seen."

"Says the man who broke both with his word and the Code in one."

Barbossa frowned at him, obviously disliking what he could not dispute. "I'd watch me tongue, Jack Sparrow. There's many on this ship still would take out ten years of suffering on you if they could. If I allowed it."

"We all voted full well to go after the treasure, if you remember," Jack retorted. "Twas not my fault it were cursed. I've naught to do with that."

"You believe it matters to them? Would you had died on that island, they would think themselves well served. But bein' that you're still alive..." The other man shook his head. "Some are all for torturing the name out of you. Some would just as soon kill you straight off and take their chances that you'll take what we need to your grave."

"An you? Or need I ask?"

A sly smile answered him. "I would take what's owed me and damn the rest of them. You'd fair give me the name by the time I were done."

"An be damned yourself," Jack hissed, raising his head slightly.

"Ye think I'm not?" Barbossa took another step towards him. "I'd fuck thee by moonlight if I could and show thee what damnation is. An then I'd choke the truth and the name out of ye and send ye off to be with old Bootstrap."

"A good man, Bill Turner. Better than most."

"A fool." Barbossa shrugged. "But then ye was always soft on him. He weren't perfect, Jack, any more than you."

"Pot and kettle, Captain," Jack said. "Who's more the fool. Me, or the man who sent his own salvation to the depths?"

Any trace of good humor—sly or otherwise—faded from Barbossa's face at that. With his free hand, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Jack. Who stood his ground, even though he had seen that look on the other man's face before. As, no doubt, had hundreds of dead men.

"Well," he said softly. "If you're going to be killing me, then get on with it."

Barbossa raised his head a little and frowned at him, but his hand was steady enough. "Killing you," he repeated. "No, Jack. You'll soon be wishing it were that simple if we don't get that medallion back."

"What then of our bargain?"

"We've no accord yet, as well you know."

Ignoring the pistol, Jack stepped forward and grasped the bars with both hands. His voice dropped, grew even harsher. "You know what I want."

Barbossa's eyes narrowed. "The same as you always wanted, I imagine. The only thing you ever wanted."

"Ten years and you've no forgotten that, either," Jack said. "Should I be flattered?"

"Please yourself," the other man responded, his own voice cool by comparison. But then Barbossa's anger had always run cold. As cold as his blood. "It were always what you were best at."

"Ah..." Jack replied, with exaggerated care. "You wound me."

The other man stared at him for a moment or two, then let out a sharp breath through his teeth. He stepped up to the bars as well and pressed the barrel of his pistol hard into Jack's stomach. His face so close to his that Jack could see himself reflected in those pale eyes. Could all but taste death on his tongue.

"Soon enough, Jack Sparrow," Barbossa whispered. "For I know full well what ye love. An better even than you, I imagine, I know... who ye love..."

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