Guardian Angel 2

Of Mice and Sparrows

by

Manic Intent

Not that he objected to all the attention he accrued when he had still been alive, but sometimes people tended to get a little... clingy. Especially the Royal Navy, what with their predilections towards brigs, chains and jail cells (right perverse, it could be). And hanging, of course. It wouldn't do to forget the hanging. That and if he had still been alive (and hence visible) he wouldn't be able to do this—'this' being sauntering into the sea-view mansion that was now the Port Royal branch of the East India Company.

"Very fancy," he murmured, stopping just outside and teetering back on his feet dangerously, looking at the immense clock affixed over the doorway. It was the afternoon, about lunchtime, and Jack had decided to leave his charge to his own devices for the moment, and take a little walk around Port Royal. To do some research, really, nothing to do with pranks and mischief at all. Even the suspiciously squirming sackcloth bag in his hands had absolutely nothing to do with tomfoolery. Serious.

He tipped his hat playfully at the two heavyset guards at the entrance, pulled a face at a passing Lord attended by a train of secretaries and hangers-on holding stacks of paper, and stepped into the busy foyer. People walked around him absently, without noticing that he was there, hurrying on in the machinations of probably the most powerful commercial force in the world.

Terribly English place. The ground was wood-paneled in rich, dark oak. Lots of somber-hued rugs stitched with the three-spoked symbol of the EIC. The furs of a hapless Bengal tiger, its green glass eyes staring sightlessly at the reception against one wall. The reception itself was manned by a monocled, stooped old man who was speaking calmly to a flustered, stout merchant behind an oak counter, trimmed with gold and heavily embossed with the EIC logo. Three sets of comfortable leather armchairs around three round rosewood tables with tastefully decorative glass chess sets. A huge painting of London, between two long glass windows. A painting of the King, whoever he was, (Jack found it a little hard to keep track) above the reception. Several ornate clocks on the last bit of wall, each set in different times, a plaque beneath each of them—Bombay, London, Cathay, New Amsterdam, Manila and Port Royal, amongst others.

Two stairways up to a balcony, and several oak doors marking exits on the ground floor. Jack hefted the struggling bag in his hands, and headed upstairs, folding wings against himself absently to avoid the paper-laden traffic of clerks.

He tapped his lip as he looked to either side of him for a moment, then randomly chose one of the carpeted corridors, sashaying down it and tipping his hat occasionally at random people—a maid, a merchant prince, a tabby cat, plump and well-fed, with a leather collar. This last looked up at him piercingly as he walked past, and hissed. Jack grinned at its retreating back as it fled. Cats, he had found, could see him perfectly—dogs could sense him.

Several wrong turns and occasionally very amusing scenes later (an elderly Lord kissing up with a maid, how fun—Jack left the door open), he found a man whose face was all stern, cold lines, holding a tray of tea and biscuits and moving purposefully, his stride too noiseless and measured to be a true member of the butler fraternity. An air of lethality that other clerks and merchants sensed—they scurried out of his path, sheep before a wolf.

Interesting. Jack fell into pace behind the man, peering at his clothes. The coat had a slight ridge in the side that suggested concealed weaponry. An assassin? Employed by the EIC? Jack vaguely remembered Elizabeth mentioning something along the lines of Beckett having employed something of the sort. Which meant that he had just found his guide.

The man turned down another corridor and knocked on a door with a silver-etched crest of a wyvern curled around a spear.

"Come in."

"Tea, sir." The man opened the door and stepped in, Jack wandering in beside him, whistling as he checked out the large room. Sea view again, different angles. Large map on one wall of the world, East India Company territories marked out by crested tacks. And the man he'd been looking for—the vertically challenged Lord Cutler Beckett, EIC, seated at the desk and going through reports with a frown of concentration.

For reassurance, Jack's fingers stole to his compass at his hip, patting it as he held the bag with his other hand. He was unable to fight down an evil grin as he contemplated Part One of his recently formulated strategy of revenge.

Unfortunately, for his purposes, he had to wait and watch for an opportune moment. Beckett gestured to the assassin-secretary-butler to put the tray down on the only clear space on his desk, and immediately started sipping his tea, without bothering with sugar or milk, eyes fixed on the paper. "Thank you, Mercer." A page was turned. "How's the terrier?"

"Busy, sir. Seems there's been lots of poorly handled work since his resignation." Jack blinked at this. Work? Resignation? Small furry dog? Didn't seem very related. "He hasn't considered your suggestions."

"Hn." Beckett took another sip. "Perhaps it's about time we pulled in his leash a little. Invite him to dinner, will you?"

"Yes sir." Mercer bowed, and left the room.

Jack tilted his head, then shrugged, incurious, keeping a firmer grip on the mouth of the bag. Probably some poor sod out there that Beckett had caught in his web. Absently, he traced the 'P' scar on his wrist, and shivered, offering a silent muttered prayer for said poor sod's mental health once Beckett was done with him. He figured that since he was now technically an angel, it should count for something.

Beckett sat annoyingly at his desk and continued writing. Jack waited for a little, shifting from foot to foot, stared at the map, wandered out into the balcony, and then muttered darkly to himself. And remembered something that Alisa had told him.

Perhaps this was a perfect opportunity to test 'suggestion'.

He swaggered up to Beckett's side, and waved a hand slowly in front of the man's nose. "Ye really, really need a breath of fresh air, mate."

Beckett frowned slightly, his writing faltering, and he glanced out at the balcony, but looked back to his work with a snort.

Jack rolled his eyes, then tried again. "Ye really want t'go out t'the balcony, 'cos o' th'fresh air, an' ye feel a pressin' urge to check out one o' th'ships in th'harbor. From the balcony. Looks like another East India Company ship, mebbe one o' yer rivals from London."

This time, the man shot the balcony a more thoughtful glance, and (finally!) got to his feet, walking to the rail and looking over it. Jack let out a whoop of triumph, and moved to the desk, pulling out a drawer randomly and dumping the bag into it, then pushing it shut quickly. Beckett muttered something inaudible from the balcony, and walked back to his desk, sitting down.

And began to write again. Jack watched him, pouting, for a long moment, then leaned in again. "Ye really want t'open th'lowest drawer t'get somethin'."

Beckett paused, put down his quill, and reached down. And started to his feet with a sharp hiss of shock as carefully gathered and handpicked mice poured out of the drawer in a squeaking, panicked furry mass. "What the devil...?"

Jack stumbled back and leaned against the wall, unheeding of the uncomfortable press against his wings, laughing uncontrollably, as Lord Beckett backed away from his desk. The squeaking mice milled in the room, scurrying under rugs and onto cabinets.

"Sir?" A concerned passing guard opened the door, then yelped out a string of oaths as mice poured gratefully out, leaping over booted feet. The man literally staggered back and fell onto his rump, batting at little balls of fur as they attempted to climb up his sleeves.

There was a feline snarl from the corridor as the tabby cat found itself in a heaven of mice. More shouts and crashes as the creatures, further panicked by a bloodthirsty cat, wreaked havoc on clerks holding large stacks of paper and unsuspecting merchants and Lords. Feminine shrieks of dismay from maids and visiting ladies, high pitched over the yells.

He was laughing so hard that he was beginning to tear up. Jack took a few gasping breaths (habit, habit) as he tried to calm down, and burst into another round of chuckles as, from the direction of the reception, he heard a very loud, very English voice bellow, "What in blazes is going on? Good Lord, are those mice?"

Random mayhem in the EIC offices accomplished, Jack clambered out of the window and managed to glide haphazardly to the street, not exactly feeling very comfortable with flying as yet. He put a spring in his step as he passed the docks, watching a very distinguished-looking elderly Lady talking to a group of marines about the best methods to charter a jaunt to Kingston.

Waited until a very dour-looking merchant prince walked by, then leaned over and pinched the matronly bottom. Watched the chaos that ensued for a moment, smirked, then continued sauntering towards the fort. He supposed that he really should get around doing some actual... guardianship, but this was far, far too entertaining.

He waved his fingers in front of Norrington's nose. "Yer feelin' very sleepy. An' yer goin' t'take a nap right now, on yer desk."

Norrington yawned, but only rubbed his eyes, his head drooping a little. Jack pouted. Were suggestions resistible by people with strong will? Or was it merely suggestions that went against the grain of what the person wanted to do at the moment? Beckett, for example, had only been movable when Jack had mentioned something dear to his heart—a challenge to his personal power. And as to the drawer, he likely took stuff out of it all the time. In that case, asking the workaholic Commodore to sleep in the middle of a workday was probably pretty difficult.

Okay. He could improvise.

"Yer feelin' damned sleepy, so ye've decided t'go t'wherever th'johns is, an' wash yer face, mebbe get some coffee."

That worked—Norrington rubbed his eyes again, got a little unsteadily to his feet, and left the room, picking up his hat along the way. Jack let out a breath, then fished some of the scrunched up reports from the wastebasket, comparing it to the newly written script. Looked like the man was going about it in order. He put the papers back, and picked up the stack of stained dispatches.

If water to wine was possible, this was probably pretty bloody easy. Jack imagined a perfect copy of the dispatches written on the new papers, sans ink stains, and snapped his fingers for dramatic effect.

Words appeared with a faint shimmer over the papers. Jack put the papers back down, and flipped through the pristine copy in satisfaction, then placed it back on the desk and went to perch on the balcony to wait, feeling very pleased with himself. Easy peasy. Miracles didn't require any real stretch of the imagination after all. The sea breeze pulled at his feathers—Jack glanced back at the long feathers for a moment. Was it just him, or did the wings suddenly feel oddly more... real? Heavier? Was that because he had just...

He was interrupted in his musings when the door opened, and Norrington entered, holding a cup of coffee, taking a deep swallow of the bitter liquid before placing it down on the table. And frowned again, hastily picking up the dispatches in disbelief, rifling through it. Looked sharply around again, then compared the writing with the ink-destroyed papers. "What in the world...?"

"Sir?" a worried question from the door. "Is something wrong?"

"Did... anybody enter my office when I was out?"

"Uh... no sir."

Norrington pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I must be going mad." He stared at the dispatches for a long moment more, then shook his head, scrunching up the ink-stained versions and dumping them into the waste. Another gulp of coffee, and he settled back at his desk to go through the new dispatches.

Jack rolled his eyes. Was this how Norrington spent his life normally? Surely being able to chase pirates and such all over the Caribbean was far better. He pursed his lips, unable to understand why Heaven thought everything was his fault. Besides, the man had what he wanted back, didn't he? He was now a Commodore again. Nothing much Jack could do about that to make it any better, could he? What was he supposed to do, make the wig shinier? More brocade on the uniform?

Cheeping on the rail beside him made him look down—and grin. A pair of sparrows—the American versions, anyway, also white, brown and fluffy, like their English counterparts—had alighted beside him. Evidently, birds couldn't see him, or weren't disturbed by him—they hopped on the plain wooden rail, cocking their heads at the interior, scanning the place for crumbs with beady black eyes.

Entranced with the adorable creatures, Jack didn't realize Norrington had also noticed them until the other man spoke, wryly, softly. "Late today, aren't you?"

Frowning, Jack looked up. Norrington had leaned his cheek on one hand, a half-smile on his face as he watched the birds. Jack blinked. When the man smiled, he was drop-dead gorgeous, silly poncy wig and all.

He shook himself quickly, even to the tips of his wings. Irrelevant thought. Guardianship. Right.

Norrington was reaching into one of his drawers, where he picked up a crust of bread, probably leftovers from breakfast, and tossed it into the balcony. The sparrows set on it in earnest, cheeping at each other, obviously regulars. Jack pulled his feet up into a cross-legged position, torn between watching the two balls of fluff go about tearing at a piece of bread larger than any one of them, and the bemused expression of indulgence on a suddenly very pretty Commodore.

Okay, so the man had a softer side. He couldn't wear that thunderous expression all the time, after all, not without it sticking. That didn't exactly help Jack's little dilemma, though. Unless the man liked birds? However, Jack wasn't sure he could go around catching the little creatures and dumping them in the office. Birds didn't tend to cooperate very well, even if they were prone to suggestion. Besides, he wasn't sure Norrington would appreciate flocks of miscellaneous panicky birds flying all about his office, any more than Beckett had appreciated the mice.

He leaned back against the rail, trying to think. If only there was rum...

The Commodore seemed remarkably tense for somebody returning home after a long day. Surely he wasn't that much of a workaholic. Jack eyed the rigid, broad shoulders suspiciously, and the occasionally clenching fist, as they descended a flight of stairs, marines saluting as they passed. A carriage was already waiting outside—Jack frowned, seeing the logo of the EIC on its side.

Curious.

He clambered up onto the roof, spreading his wings for balance, peering over the side as Norrington got in.

Why the EIC?

Then again, Jack supposed that Norrington had likely stolen the heart to exchange it with Beckett, in return for reinstatement. That much seemed obvious, since Beckett evidently wanted the damned thing for whatever nefarious purpose. So, were they good mates now?

A niggling thought struck him, a reminder of an overheard conversation in the afternoon, about terriers and resignations. Funny thing, that, Norrington had also resigned from being a Commodore, hadn't he? Before he'd been picked up in Tortuga... resignations...

Good Lord.

Jack held on to his hat absently as the carriage rattled on towards the EIC mansion, his eyes wide. Norrington was the... 'terrier'? The 'poor sod' Jack had previously sympathized with?

Good Lord.

Trying to sort out this mess was going to be a huge undertaking. Jack scowled. That explained the tension, at least—it'd be like eating dinner with a sadistic snake, it would, supping with Lord Beckett. And, well, the feeling of not-really-happiness that he'd gotten from Norrington so far (though he'd put that down to work stress and the ink prank). Norrington didn't look like the sort who'd enjoy being under another man's thumb, Navy or not. And Jack knew as clearly as any other how Beckett could and would abuse any position of superiority with malicious, cold cruelty.

The 'P' brand on his arm itched. Jack rubbed at it out of habit, nibbling at his lower lip. Well. Whatever Norrington had gotten himself into, he'd started it, what with stealing the heart, didn't he? Of course, causally speaking, it all started with that little chase his Dauntless had danced with Jack's Pearl. But that wasn't exactly Jack's fault, either.

A closer consideration of this thought made Jack aware that it was fairly beside the point. Fault or not, getting accepted into Heaven depended on, apparently, proper guardianship, i.e. Norrington becoming somehow happy. For a decent amount of time, anyway. Whatever satisfied the Higher Ups.

Jack groaned. From what he knew of the Commodore, he knew the other man was going to be bloody difficult to please, let alone extricate from whatever tangle he'd gotten himself into now.

"Come in."

Jack slipped in after him, peering around curiously. Two sets of cutlery and plates on the desk, and another chair added. Norrington put coat and hat on the rack, and sat down in silence, jaw working, not looking up at Beckett.

All evidence of the mice fiasco hours ago had been cleared up efficiently—Jack hadn't even noticed any hint of the past chaos on the way up here. He leaned against the wall, watching as Mercer served the first course—some sort of clear soup.

"Busy at the fort?" Beckett was asking, in between mouthfuls.

Norrington shrugged. "It seems no one really bothered to handle the paperwork in my absence."

"Ah," Beckett arched an eyebrow. "You can't avoid our terms forever, Commodore."

"I said I'd look into it after I've sorted out the administrative disaster in the fort," Norrington replied evenly.

"Delegate. Train some men," Beckett said dismissively, "You should know how. I doubt all of your paperwork requires your personal perusal and signature, does it?"

Silence. Obviously, lying didn't come naturally to Norrington. Jack shook his head slightly. Finally, dryly, "I don't see why I have to captain the Flying Dutchman."

"Reassurance, of course. And, of course, the ships under East India Company protection are unlikely to turn tail and panic if the captain appears to be the famed Pirate Hunter. You can also solve the problem of any Navy ships that might feel like hunting supernatural prey."

"Why don't you do it?" Norrington said irritably. "If you think I have so much time to sit on a magical pirate ship and run around the Caribbean doing your bidding. Isn't it more efficient for you to command the damned ship?"

"Two reasons, Commodore. Firstly, you're expendable. Secondly, I'm also... busy," Beckett finished his soup, nodding to Mercer, who went out for the second course.

"Expendable," Norrington repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"Precisely. On the other hand, I am sure that if I were to go aboard the ship by myself, no doubt sometime a regrettably fatal accident would befall me."

Norrington snorted. "Why did you bother to go to all the trouble to get me reinstated, then? No doubt you had to call in a fair number of favors."

"Because ships are less likely to fire on a Commodore than an ex-Commodore," Beckett said with exaggerated patience. "Understand?"

Green eyes flashed fire for a moment at the jibe, and then Norrington bowed his head, controlling himself. "I can't condone firing on merchant traders simply because they are East India Company rivals. It's... it's piracy."

"No, it's business," Beckett corrected smoothly, as the next course arrived—salad, with slivers of grilled fish.

"And of course, if there are any survivors..."

"You will take the fall," Beckett smirked. "Even if you were to tell the truth, no one would believe you."

"As far fetched as it is already that I'd be captaining a submersible ship crewed by monsters?"

Beckett shrugged. "Even so, it'd be your word against mine. And I need not remind you in detail that as easily as I reconstructed your position, I can also ruin you. Irreparably."

Jack looked worriedly at tensed shoulders, and then at Beckett, then turned his eyes heavenward, muttering, "Oh bugger."

Of all the trouble that Norrington had to be in... well. At least it very likely couldn't get any worse than this, could it?

The rest of dinner was conducted in cold silence. After coffee, Norrington rose to go, but Beckett spoke up, his voice still carefully bland. "Commodore."

"What?"

"I feel you need another... reminder." A smirk. "Besides, I've had an extremely trying day."

A deep, shuddering breath. Lips parted and pressed shut, and a fist clenched.

Jack leaned forward in curiosity. Beckett had moved his chair, angling to face the balcony. Norrington stalked around the desk, and knelt down before him, Jack admiring the fluid grace so much that he took a moment to register exactly what the gesture meant. His eyes widened as Norrington began to undo the other man's breeches.

"Bloody hell." He definitely, definitely didn't want to see this. Quickly, he stepped into the balcony, spreading his wings.

His natural curiosity, however, made him take a backward glance over his shoulder just as he climbed up onto the rail. One image froze into his mind—Beckett rolling back Norrington's right sleeve. Norrington's fingers, white-knuckled on the armrest. On the arm, just below the elbow joint, was a brand in a pattern that matched a ring that currently adorned Beckett's middle finger—his family crest.

A wyvern, curled around a spear.

He wished that there could be an easy way to resolve this particular dilemma. Control—it was a demonstration of control in the worst sort of way. Even when Beckett had branded Jack, he hadn't taken any liberties with the pirate's person. Perhaps he only took some sort of sadistic pleasure in doing... things... to very handsome and uptight Commodores. Hmm. Possible.

That didn't help Jack either, though—in fact, it only brought very bad mental images before his eyes.

Besides, I've had an extremely trying day...

Oh, bugger. Jack thumped his head once against the wall, remembering the prank about the mice. Again another problem in the life of the Commodore that had Jack as an indirect cause. Of course, seeing how there had been no protest or question at all from the Commodore, it didn't seem like that had been the first time Norrington had performed that... service... but it didn't make Jack feel any better.

Go back to Beckett and try 'suggesting' something along the lines of "Ye really don't want t'do that t'the Commodore anymore, mate, in fact, ye want t'be real nice t'him now"? Possible, but unlikely, given the nature of 'suggesting' that Jack had found so far. Besides, he was fairly sure that Heaven didn't intend to make it easy for him to get into their good books.

He needed rum.

Norrington probably had rum, didn't he? Jack pulled himself to his feet, and wandered off down the corridor, peeking into rooms as quietly as he could. Drawing room, study, down the stairs, foyer, parlor... parlor? Jack sidled in, and brightened as he saw a drinks cabinet.

He muttered as he tried opening it. Locked. Focusing all the concentration he could on the immediate problem, he sat down cross-legged, and poked at the lock. Okay. He could probably go about performing another miracle, since it didn't look like he had any quota. Besides, this one would help him think—perfectly legitimate, committing larceny irrelevant. Definitely. All for the greater good, right?

A bit of fiddling and experimentation afterwards, the lock clicked open with a muttered, self-conscious command, and he began rummaging through the bottles, placing the discarded ones on the ground beside him. Finally, just as he was beginning to despair of the Commodore's taste in liquor, he found a relatively unused-looking bottle behind the cognac and gin that looked promising.

"Hah!" He got a little unsteadily to his feet, hands flailing for balance, squinting at the cork, tightly jammed in place. Now to do something about that...

And he froze, as a warm hand clapped firmly on his shoulder.

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