Guardian Angel 4

Fundamental Regrets

by

Manic Intent

"M'Captain Jack Sparrow. Temporary guardian angel," Jack doffed his tricorn hat extravagantly. "Who're ye?"

"Miyako. Guardian angel, to Weatherby Swann," Miyako said dryly, folding her arms. Her English was crisp, if exotically accented and too-carefully enunciated, and she spoke at a rapid-fire pace. "Why are you interfering with my charge? Who's yours? Why are your clothes so irregular?"

"All in a good cause, luv," Jack said quickly, flailing his hands as if to stop the tide of queries. "An' I be temporarily guardin' one Commodore James Norrington."

"Oh. Him." Miyako pursed perfect tiny red lips. Her eyes narrowed. "So what are you doing? I went down to the kitchen to check on the hall's cat and her new kittens, and when I come back I see you abusing the ability to 'suggest' on Weatherby." A derisive sniff. "And who trained you? You're fading in and out of my sight. Didn't learn how to concentrate? What do you mean by temporary?"

Clerks walked around them as Jack attempted to field the barrage of scathing questions, swaying a little, then waggled a forefinger, starting with the most important one. "M'visible?"

"To humans, I doubt it, unless your concentration can lapse any worse than it already is. To angels... very much so."

"Oh." Jack settled for giving her a short outline of how he had come to be a guardian angel, managing to leave out embellishments, save for a little swashbuckling action that hadn't happened, aboard his Pearl. Miyako arched an eyebrow in disbelief, though she relaxed a little, her wings fluffing behind her.

"Very irregular. But come to think of it, I've seen you before. You're the pirate who fell off the fort wall." Miyako grinned.

"Glad t'amuse," Jack said dryly. His guardian angel, whoever he or she was, hadn't exactly been very attentive on the issue of hungry giant sea monsters.

"That explains your remarkable lack in any sort of formal training," Miyako played with a strand of black hair, as her eyes flickered down absently to look at the scuffed carpet. "Not to mention your lack of knowledge in the basic rules. But I suppose in your case, they've probably been relaxed a little." A frown. "Though I don't agree with what you're trying to do, not fully. Sounds dangerous to Weatherby."

With a sigh, Jack reluctantly outlined his plan more fully. Miyako leaned against the wall, fingers tapping at her arm, thinking in silence for a long moment, then all traces of hostility seemed to melt away—she smiled, slowly. "You know. That could just work, and I admit I've been a little annoyed at Lord Beckett for a while. Though you'd be breaking a remarkable number of rules. Not to mention you're going to need a little more... training."

"Don't know where t'begin, luv," Jack shrugged.

"I'd teach you. During the nights, when they're sleeping. I know where the Commodore's house is, I'd meet you there later." Miyako straightened up. "Just... no more interference with Weatherby without consultation, okay?" Her pleasant voice edged into a growl. "Or, angel or not, I am going to thump you." Back to a bright grin. "Sayonara."

Jack blinked, startled. With a curtsey and a merry backward wave, menace dissipating abruptly, Miyako glided into Governor Swann's office.

As he flew out towards the direction of the fort, Jack wondered exactly why it was that he tended to accrue violently tempered women, of color or otherwise, about his person, even when already dead.

During a lull in the visits, he sauntered over to the table, and decided to try the same trick he had previously pulled on Governor Swann. "Yer goin' t'think aloud wi' me on this, Commodore. How much d'ye remember o' last night? Speakin' softly now, 'cos ye got guards outside yer office."

Norrington actually stopped working, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Sparrow." A soft breath, shaped into his name. A wry smile. "Stealing rum." A sigh. "Wonder where he went this morning? The guest room didn't look slept in. And he wasn't... wasn't around when I woke up."

Oh, good Lord. Jack rolled his eyes. Did 'suggestion' not work with memory? Fine time to find out about that...

He was, however, now somewhat curious. "So what d'ye think o' Jack Sparrow, Commodore?"

Norrington bowed his head, but didn't speak. Jack peered at him, his head tilting forward at an alarming angle, beaded hair brushing the papers, but when the man continued to stay silent, he got bored, turning back and heading for the balcony. Perhaps he should just go and check on Beckett, perhaps drop a few 'suggestions' about being far too busy to bother pretty Commodores for the time being.

With one foot on the rail, the sounds of the guard changing somewhere below, Jack nearly missed the whispered words.

"God. It's true." A soft, harsh laugh, wracked with pain. "I want him."

In his shock, Jack nearly fell over said balcony.

Quickly, he stalked back to Norrington, waving his hands agitatedly in front of unseeing green eyes. "No. No ye don't, mate, 'cos, 'e's a pirate, an' a man, an' 'sides, ye 'ave th'... uh, th'social obligation t'settle down an' make little James Norringtons, savvy?"

That adorable little frown, as Norrington instinctively seemed to resist this idea.

Jack would have admitted to feeling very flattered, and not a little tempted, but... but... fundamental rules. Wrongness of taking advantage of vulnerable Commodores. Bad, bad thoughts. Maybe if he was still alive... but he wasn't—that was the whole point. Norrington was alive. Jack was dead. That was really all there was to the issue. Going about seducing Norrington, with that in mind, and knowing he could never give him anything that wasn't an illusion at worst and temporary at best—that would be selfishness beyond even Jack's ability to properly conjecture, let alone perform. Also, there was the issue of the eternal damnation of his immortal soul.

He would finish this final job he had undertaken, and stay invisible all the while. Let Norrington think he'd gotten bored and left Port Royal. Jack took a deep breath of unnecessary air, and tested his conviction. "Yer goin' t'do yer best t'forget Jack Sparrow, Commodore, seein' as ye 'ave so many other problems at th'moment."

The lower lip trembled for a moment. A soft groan, eyes closing, and fingers rubbed at a temple. "Can't even get him out of my mind."

Jack gave up, and headed back for the balcony. It wasn't as though he could make the problem a bigger mess than he already had, right at this moment.

However, for the first time since he'd realized that his soul had been committed to eternity, Jack regretted, intensely, no longer being alive.

To help in that suggestion, Jack had also dropped further 'suggestions' with random people in the EIC mansion regarding their sudden need to consult with Beckett over various trivialities over the next few days. Good. He'd bought himself some time—at least something seemed to be working out.

Bored, and not wanting to go back to Norrington as yet, he checked on Governor Swann again. Miyako, however, was firmly in place behind the man's shoulder, and her darkening expression, despite the polite greeting, promised violence if Jack lingered.

Pouting, Jack perched on top of the town hall's sloping roof, snapped his fingers, and said "Black Pearl." Nothing happened. He sighed, and lay down on the warm tiles, wryly amused to note that his clothes didn't smudge from it, and stared up at the sky.

It was another problem that had only just occurred to him. If nobody else was supposed to see him other than other guardian angels, if at all, then the rest of his 'job' was going to be terribly boring indeed. Jack wasn't a stranger to solitude, having manned sloops and little boats by himself across empty stretches of ocean before, but it was probably a special sort of torture to be surrounded by so many people and yet be unable to interact normally with them.

He asked Miyako about that later, when they sat on the flat roof of the Norrington mansion.

"Loneliness?" Miyako repeated, leaning back and glancing up at the moon. Her lip curled into a faint smile. "That's just the remainder of your humanity speaking. After maybe a few decades of guardianship, it just doesn't occur to you anymore." She looked pointedly at him. "You also tend to stop thinking you need to breathe, about then."

"Then what d'ye do when yer charge isn't doin' anythin' that needs yer attention?" Jack asked curiously, ignoring the snipe.

"Meditate on infinity," Miyako said, her tone daring Jack to say anything sarcastic. "Check on animals—they don't have guardians, and cats are grateful for it, plus they're probably one of the few creatures that can see us. A lot of guardians adopt a series of cats under their wing—hence the 'nine lives' myth circulating around humans."

"D'ye talk t'one another?" Jack wasn't sure how he felt about adopting cats.

"Sometimes. But not often—usually we make ourselves invisible even to other angels. Reduces the temptation to collaborate too much, to buy and sell in favors. We're only supposed to be looking out for the best interests of the charge, after all." A snort. "What you did to Weatherby—using 'suggestion' on another charge without the prior consent of his guardian—that's considered one of the worst forms of bad manners."

"Does Beckett have a... guardian angel?"

Miyako chuckled. "Yes. Everybody has one, except for rare... irregularities. Or, like you say, if we're reassigned, though that happens very infrequently. However, the degree to which each guardian angel looks out for his or her charge does depend on the charge's personality and conduct. I doubt Beckett's angel does very much more than, say, make sure he doesn't trip while going down the stairs. He might not even be around most of the time."

"So, people trip, or get hit by carts, or eaten by sea monsters when their guardians be takin' a breather?" Jack asked curiously.

"Sometimes it's inevitable, what happens," Miyako shrugged. "We can't stop humans from dying, sometimes violently. Men beat women to death. Men fight men on the sea, on the land, sometimes totally randomly. People freeze to death on the streets, die of illness. Things like that. But for the most part, dying to accidents does tend to be because of a lapse in attention. It's not really an issue up in Heaven, though there are occasionally decades-long debates over the degree of responsibility of guardian angels. Entertaining to listen to, but dangerous. Time passes differently in Heaven."

"Ah. But t'aint ye ignorin' yer charge now by talkin' t'me?"

"I have wards up around Weatherby's home. They'd tell me if anybody who shouldn't be there turns up, then I can go look into it," Miyako smirked. "Don't know how to do that, do you, Captain Sparrow?"

"Ye said ye was goin' t'train me," Jack pointed out.

"I know. But we'd leave that lesson to later. The first problem with you is that you're having to expend too much concentration being invisible. If you think of it as a natural state for yourself, it'd just flow normally. Like your urge to breathe—currently it's because you feel that it's a natural state of being."

"So... just think natural?" He could do that.

"Yes. Easy."

Actually, it wasn't, and Jack was beginning to feel a little strained, mentally, when dawn finally arrived and Miyako announced that she had better be getting back, and vanished. Jack reminded himself that instantaneous travel was the next thing he wanted to learn, and clambered down into the balcony, and frowned—very much unlike the Commodore, coat, dress shirt, hat and boots were strewn haphazardly on the ground. The man was still asleep. Jack shook his head wryly, and picked up after Norrington without thinking—hat and coat on the rack, shirt folded on the table, boots to one side of the bed, then climbed back up on the roof.

The relative stupidity of the gesture struck him only after he heard sounds of Norrington waking up. Jack leaned back on the roof, and groaned softly, smacking his forehead with the flat of his palm. No startled oaths could be heard, though, only a faint laugh, and the sound of Norrington going about dressing for work.

Jack frowned, waited until he could see the carriage headed out to the fort, then climbed back into the room. There was a note on the table.

'I know you're hiding around here somewhere. Talk to me.'

The pirate snorted. So Norrington had probably left the clothes on the ground just to see if, by pure chance, Jack would happen over and take the bait. Well, that wouldn't happen again, for sure.

The next night there was a bottle of rum on the desk. Jack glared at the bottle, then at the gently snoring occupant of the bed, even as the sun began to come up behind him. He needed that. Especially since this night's training session had ended up with a very frustrated, cranky Oriental girl. His fingers stretched out for it, then he shook his head and pulled himself up short. No.

Oh, what the hell... it wouldn't hurt just to have a sniff...

Jack had closed his fingers around the neck of the bottle before he realized how he was very close to royally screwing up his duty again, and sighed, forcing himself to march over to the balcony and sulk. Damn Norrington! Why did it have to be rum?

He didn't look back when Norrington woke up, dressed, and left—though there was the sound of a quill being used at the table. Irritably, Jack wandered back to look.

'Just take it, the rum's for you. I know you were here—take a closer look at the bottle. Talk to me. Please.'

Jack peered more closely at the bottle. There was a thin line of oil drawn around the neck, which had been smudged when he put his fingers there—as much as it hadn't actually stuck to his own skin due to his newfound, rather pesky angelic nature.

Muttering, he wrote on the paper just beneath Norrington's neat script. 'Don't want to. Leaving for Tortuga. Bored. No whelps.' And underlined the first three words, just to make his point clear. He did, however, take the rum.

One night, however, Jack checked out the offerings out of habit, and sighed. "Oh, now that's just cheatin', mate."

A half-opened scroll of a gorgeous watercolor painting of the Black Pearl, setting sail into the horizon away from Port Royal. No doubt just after Jack had escaped execution and fallen off the wall. The brush strokes were economical, and the colors and lines showed remarkable sensitivity. Jack couldn't help unrolling it and looking more closely at the artist's rendition of his beloved ship. Abruptly, he missed her so intensely that his throat clenched—missed the joyous way she took to open sea, the wild, eager way she would respond to any challenge the sea or her captain could bring her. He rubbed his fingers absently over the painting, his smile wry as he remembered the first time he had seen her, when he'd sold his soul. Majestic. Beautiful. Breathtaking. No words could do her justice, and he'd immediately given his heart away.

He pictured her in his mind—the warm hum of the helm under his hand, the way she sliced through the waves, the knowledge that there was an otherworldly personality about her that loved him back just as fiercely. At the bottom of the sea now, awaiting her next captain. Jack dipped his head, with a bitter twist to his lip.

"Like it?" Norrington asked softly.

Jack yelped, dropped the scroll and twisted around, silently cursing himself. Rum, his Pearl... they were two things too dear to him to have to remember the little formalities of staying invisible. Norrington sat up in the bed, swinging long legs over the side. "Commodore!"

"Mister Halsbury is a talented artist late of London—he decided to travel the Caribbean and expand his portfolio," Norrington walked over to Jack, standing a little too close for the pirate's comfort, as he pointed at the discreet little signature at the bottom right of the picture.

"'Tis pretty," Jack agreed, cautiously, edging away. "An' now I'd be goin'. Busy, ye know, bein' piratical."

Norrington's smile was wry. "I thought that if this didn't make you give pause, then you'd have left as you said, and the powder smudges on the balcony would have had to be left by cats or birds."

"Yer bloody sneaky, man," Jack shook his finger at the Commodore, backing away as the other man approached him, realizing he was going in the wrong direction—away from the balcony. He tried to circle around, but Norrington sidestepped.

"What I'd like to know, Sparrow, is why you've been visiting my bedchambers every night, while I've been asleep, and sometimes even my office?" Norrington asked pleasantly, though his green eyes smoldered with a barely-hidden promise that made Jack's prick twitch. Well. At least a certain bit of equipment was still in working condition. But bad, bad time to find out... "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Yer under a big misapprehension there, mate!" Jack said hastily, flailing his hands, as he realized exactly how the nightly visits probably appeared to the Commodore. "Biggest one o' th'century, t'be sure!"

"And how else am I supposed to interpret your... actions?" Norrington drawled. Jack realized he had been skillfully backed into the bed, just as he fell back onto the sheets, balancing himself automatically with wings and arms.

"Well, if ye be leavin' gifts fer birds out everyday, they tend t'come back," Jack pointed out the first thing that came to his mind, and let out an undignified squeak as Norrington leaned down against the edge of the bed, planting hands to either side of Jack's hips, the too-pretty face with its unbound hair coming up close.

"Jack." The pirate found himself pinned in place by intense green eyes, which held a longing so palpable that it pierced his heart. "Tell me now, that you don't want me, and I'll stop."

Jack glanced at the scroll, at the balcony, at his fingers, held up between their faces, down at his compass, then steeled himself to break Norrington's heart. "I don't want ye."

"Jack." Gentler, now. A hand cupped his cheek and forced him to meet the other man's eyes. "Look at me, when you say that. In the eyes."

How in the world did he always get into these scrapes? Jack felt he was probably going to be the first guardian angel in the history of, well, guardianship, that would need a guardian angel. He took a deep breath, biting his lip, fingers curling in the sheets, trembling, and thought of selfishness, of how warm the hand against his skin was—how Norrington was alive, and he was not. How Norrington deserved someone who could love him back in a way that wouldn't be essentially artificial.

He looked up, and forced himself to hold Norrington's gaze. For a very long moment, he couldn't speak, entranced. Norrington was baring his soul to him, the cool, iron guard absolutely down, and Jack wondered if this was how he looked when he had proposed to Elizabeth. Wondered what the damage would be like to the other man, necessary or not, if his heart was broken again—but Jack again tested his resolve, and found it unwavering. His voice was steady, when he spoke again. "I. Don't. Want. Ye."

Instead of backing off, however, Norrington leaned even closer, bringing his lips up against one ear. Jack felt, rather than heard, the whispered words. "Why is it I don't believe you?"

"Don't know, mate, 'cos m'dead serious, so ye'd better be doin' th'believin' an' getting' off me right now, or m'goin' to mmmh..." Warm lips pressed against his own, and a tongue flicked against the gap, questing for entrance. Jack permitted it before his brain could object, and even found himself moaning softly, fingers coming up to carefully hold Norrington's head between his palms as the other man leisurely, a little clumsily, explored his mouth. Heat. Want. Need. They broke only briefly for air—Norrington's benefit, and this time Jack kissed the other man first, pulling him down, body eager for the attention, so much warmth and gentleness.

And he caught a glimpse of the 'P' scar on his arm when he pulled back—a dash of cold water over his fever. Jack forced his eyes to focus, then he sharply jabbed at the elbow joint of Norrington's left arm, while flattening boots on the sheets and scrambling to his right. The other man overbalanced with a gasp of surprise as his arm gave, and Jack was free—running for the balcony, knowing he only had to jump over the rail, and think very hard about disappearing from sight.

He sprawled on the grass, wings spread to either side, as he watched Norrington appear at the balcony and look around wildly, then brace himself against the rail and take deep, sobbing breaths that punctuated a string of incoherent oaths. Jack closed his eyes, and wondered if it were possible to be fundamentally, naturally inept at being a guardian angel.

"Beckett?"

"I dropped by, suggested very strongly that Weatherby is really only doing this because he misses his daughter and wants to talk to some old friends." Miyako pulled a face. "I think you're a bad influence, Jack." Somewhere along the line they had both, without verbally doing so, agreed to call each other by first names, rather than skirting around formalities. It seemed more appropriate.

Jack smirked, stretching his feet out over empty air. "All in a good cause, luv. D'ye think Beckett bought it?"

"There's nothing he can really do about it, now that the invites have already been sent out," Miyako pointed out. "And there were no real formal RSVPs, just generic announcements that Governor Weatherby Swann is holding a little social gathering and he invites whoever's interested and free of etcetera to attend." A little smirk. "That way, Beckett can't really vet the guest list."

"But th'whole point was t'invite nobs that 'ave th'power t'do somethin' 'bout Beckett," Jack pointed out. "May not work wi' a generic invite."

"Those were the official invites," Miyako grinned. "There were... some unofficial ones, sent by more trusted couriers. Along the lines of how Weatherby is feeling a little uncomfortable by the edge of power that Beckett is consolidating here in the Caribbean and the possible consequences, and how he would like to talk... terms. Discuss the issue, in a sociable way." She poked Jack in the arm. "Don't think Weatherby is stupid, just because he's a little more susceptible to suggestions than Beckett."

"Wouldn't dream o' it," Jack relaxed. "Ye know, if ye really wanted t'get Weatherby out o' Beckett's control ye just 'ave t'get 'Lizabeth back to Port Royal."

"Difficult, probably impossible," Miyako said instantly. "We're bound to a circle of influence that centers around our charges. Wherever Elizabeth Swann is, I can't reach her, let alone help her."

"Ah," Jack pouted. That meant no visits to his Pearl, either. Which was a pity—he needed to feel the reassurance of her presence, after the absolute mess he'd been making of his determination.

"How's your guardianship coming along?" Miyako asked, peering down at a brief disagreement between a merchant and a man with a donkey.

"I think I'm beginnin' t'spook him out." Jack related briefly his problems with smudging powder marks on rails.

Miyako rolled her eyes. "That's yet another habit you have to watch. Thinking that you're bound to natural rules. Until you've accomplished that, I suppose you could just will the powder back to its original state after you've finished checking." A dry chuckle. "Powder on the balcony. Suspicious sort, isn't he? Your charge, I mean."

"Aye," Jack rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His lips tingled at the memory of gentle warmth.

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