Moves & Motion, Part 1

It's How You Play the Game

by

Rispa Cooper

This was not to say that he was a fair man—both the Lord above and Old Hob below both knew that one can't steal for a living and be considered a fair man, but he was a good one, young William had said so, and if one good man could spot another it would be young William Turner. And...

There, Jack's thoughts circled back, and he found himself looking at footprints in the sand that had the shape of his very own boots. It appeared he had let his mind run adrift, as it were. With something between a frown and a blink, he dropped his head to peer at the marks just above the creeping edge of the water, nodding to realize that he had, in fact, retraced his own steps.

However, as he had held no destination in mind when setting out from town, Jack merely dropped his shoulders carelessly and continued his walk, letting the moonlight on the water call him forward.

Now, the same folks as said there wasn't much left of old Jack's brains were the same ones that would have said that Jack Sparrow never did anything without a destination in mind, even walk crookedly along the shores of Tortuga. Shrewd and clever, Young William had also said that of him, hadn't he, whilst visiting Jack in the lovely cell the Commodore had seen fit to leave him in while awaiting the gallows.

If any of them that had wondered had ever bothered to ask Jack, he might have told them that a man can be both mad and clever. Madness just meant risking what others wouldn't even dare to touch. William and his Elizabeth had seemed to realize that at the end; that nothing was sacred in a pirate's eyes save what he wanted. And the Commodore... The blasted Commodore had figured that one out almost from the beginning, and had lectured him for it, hadn't he?

By remembering that I serve others, Mister Sparrow, not just myself.

Those serious eyes had conveyed the man's meaning well enough, and Jack pursed his lips thoughtfully before wetting them once more with a long sip of the devil. The Commodore, it seemed, could also chance it all for what he wanted, but was a better man for remembering that his wants were not the wants of his crew, of Port Royal, of bloody England when it came down to it.

There was almost a challenge in that, which at last brought Jack back around to his original thought, and the second set of footprints in the sand.

One doesn't lecture pirates, not even half mad ones who had been—temporarily—without a ship. A branding, a hanging, a sword through the belly were all honourable enough methods to teach a pirate the error of his ways, but a lecture meant he didn't even rank as a threat in the Commodore's fine eyes.

Lectured! And a proud figure the man had made doing it too, keeping his distance on the step, as though he needed the height to glare down his nose at the man bound before him. That, Jack had decided, had been the man's second mistake in dealing with Jack Sparrow, if Jack didn't count the incident with the Dauntless, which he didn't, anymore than he counted ending up in the Port Royal prison the first time, as they hadn't even known each other then.

A man making the effort to keep the distance needed the distance, and the pain of his heart had made the Commodore careless. He didn't seem a man like to forget himself often, and that terrible hope in his eyes had not lasted longer than a heartbeat or two before reason had returned. Aye, Elizabeth had learned the lesson of a pirate's madness well; Jack had not been the only one to hear it in her rash promise. There weren't many who have understood all that had been exchanged in that moment, on that pretty Navy ship, not even them that had been there.

But he was Jack Sparrow, mate. Even the lass had known his deeds.

That had been the blasted man's second mistake, in forgetting that. The third had been far worse, and the third was what had Jack out here with a bottle on a cold beach when there were maids aplenty for the taking back in town near the old fort. Lads aplenty as well, if that had been his inclination this evening. And though it weren't often, the thought was almost welcome this chilly night with the sand sticking to his boots and the spray sending shivers along the skin of his face and hands.

The fine Commodore Norrington had promised a chase and had yet to fulfill his vow, but that was not the source of Jack's anger. That was nothing; akin to the man's first mistake in forgetting the threat a freed Captain Jack Sparrow posed in his Pearl. There could be many reasons that a man such as that might have to postpone his chase, with all of the Caribbean, as it were, demanding his attention.

The man's last mistake had been in standing so straight and tall there on that step, while his mind had worked out Elizabeth's real desire and left him without anything to even dream of. He had stood with his chin up and his breaking heart in his eyes for all to see, and had promised the lass anyway, and then gone on with his duty as though inside he was not standing all alone on an island, watching what he wanted most sail away.

His Commodore was a sharp enough fellow, but he had had no way of knowing that at that very moment, Captain Jack Sparrow had wanted to tear away all the buttons on that fancy coat and touch the man underneath it until they both breathless and hoarse with their moaning.

No, the man had no way of knowing that at all, good man that he was.

Jack sighed and dropped the empty bottle into the water, hearing the thunk of displaced sand as he walked away, across the fourth set of boot prints and back toward the town.

His path might have looked mad, if anyone had traced it, leading back and forth, first to the ocean and now away from it, across itself and back again, and now to the drunken revelries of Tortuga. Looking closer however, one might see that the same path to town also led to his Pearl, and the smile on Jack's face at the thought of his destination was brighter than the clean light of the moon drawing him on.

~~~~~

Perhaps news of his condition today was making the rounds of the fort and was the reason for the timidity of the messenger beyond the door. Or perhaps it was knowledge of the nature of last night's festivities and the likely effect this would have on a man that many already feared. But if the messenger behind the door thought that the ball announcing the betrothal of the lovely Miss Elizabeth Swann to blacksmith and former pirate William Turner was enough to turn him into some sort of raving monster he was quite mistaken.

"Come." Norrington kept his voice level, his eyes down on the lists of expenses before him, the logs of several of merchant captains of their trips to and from England. All the lives and cargo kept safe through his actions in hunting down those who might have taken them, though of course that was never mentioned, doubtless not even a thought crossing each man's mind as he had dutifully written out his journal.

If Norrington had done his job purely for recognition, it might have been upsetting. But any annoyance he felt with merchant captains complaining about import taxes instead of acknowledging they still had their lives and something to pay taxes on was nothing to the painful reminders of the night before. He tucked his anger away neatly and without thought, somewhere behind the twinge in his back and the hammering in his skull, far, far beyond the clawing hunger in his middle that no amount of the Governor's expensive wines could fill.

Gillette had seen him that morning, and in a rather daring move, had offered to fetch his breakfast. It had only taken a few succinct words to send the man off, ready to tell the town of the Commodore's foul mood. But the fact remained, if he had been desirous of food, he would have eaten. He was not a child or a fool, and was not going to starve himself to death like some heroine in a bad play.

The door opened at last, and despite himself, Norrington could feel his lips tighten at the amount of time it was taking for one simple message. "Come." That he had to say it a second time did not merit a raised voice, but he allowed himself a glance upward, pausing to take in the very white face of the man before him. A young Marine, certainly not a messenger, but still a brave enough soldier that he should not have appeared so frightened. Not even of the Commodore Norrington who was said to dine over the corpses of dead pirates.

That such a notion was ridiculous did not stop the story from being so popular it had even reached his ears. That the pirates he did hang would gladly kill the storytellers for whatever monies that had on them did not seem to affect the sympathy people felt for them. The myth of the kind outlaw persisted despite all evidence to the contrary, and Norrington felt himself sighing once more.

There was only one pirate he had seen who had seemed to take little interest in shedding blood, if he did not count William Turner—which he did not—and that particular pirate had also been a madman.

Teeth clenched, Norrington turned his eyes back to his paperwork and held out one hand.

"Thank you," he said it from habit, though the man was gone long before Norrington had even closed his fingers around the envelope resting in his palm. He made himself finish reading the tally of goats and pigs on the vessel the Good Bessie before he opened it, looking over the hastily folded piece of paper curiously before sliding the cheap foolscap apart.

One line, that was all. A report that he had asked from all vessels sailing near Port Royal for the past month, though this had been his first reply.

Ship with black sails spotted near Greater Antilles. And then a position.

So... Sparrow had returned to the waters near Port Royal. Norrington had almost been certain the man would stay near Tortuga, or run to the Spanish holdings along the Gulf. Mad he may have been, but surely not foolish enough to return to Jamaica, and the territory of Norrington, the pirate hunter who had driven every buccaneer worth the name to Africa and the ports of the East.

Unless... Norrington paused in his thought, setting down his quill and turning instead to face the small, barred window. If he stood up to look out, he would see the fort, the ships in the harbor below them, and then the sea. But he did not get up, and did not look out the window. He tapped his fingers on the desk softly, and exhaled.

Unless Sparrow had wanted to attend the wedding of two he might consider friends, though Norrington had not seen any slim figures with matted hair and black-lined eyes. Unless Sparrow considered him soft for not following him in chase as he had promised, and was now testing the limits of daring. A day's head start was what he had vowed, after that fool pirate had fallen from the ledge. A promise made knowing there was no ship in the fleet that could catch the little ship with black sails, knowing that both Turner and Elizabeth would hate him forever if he did manage to catch Sparrow and hang him. A promise deferred intentionally as Governor Swann had demanded his presence at his daughter's wedding festivities, keeping him here in Port Royal for a long month.

Trapping him here, forcing him to weigh his heart against his duty in the name of kindness.

What Sparrow had done to deserve such generosity Norrington did not know, aside from, of course, endangering their lives and those of the people in his crew for the sake of his ship. Or perhaps it had been the final blow dealt to the pirate captain, Barbossa, which Norrington had been given to understand had followed quite an intense battle, if a strange one. It still took some effort to imagine two skeletons fighting to the death, even after seeing with his own eyes the dead attacking his men.

It was a thought to dwell upon another time; another night spent twisting among his sheets in the Caribbean heat with questions of pirate captains, and blood curses, and destiny tricking his mind into wondering. There was no sailor who did not believe in magic when the right wave swelled beneath him, but he had never before thought that perhaps...

Perhaps breakfast was in order after all, despite the hour. It would be closer to luncheon, judging from the sunlight, but he only needed a bit of toast and a strong cup of tea to ease the remaining knot of tension from his belly.

For that he rose, crossing quickly to the door in order to make the request of nearest servant he could find, ducking back in just as Gillette rounded a corner. He closed the door solidly, then paused, taking in with a frown the small room he had long ago claimed as a study.

The ledgers on the desk's surface had been spread out needlessly. Only a few were left, and those deliberately so. His duties had been ridiculously light this past month, a gesture of either pity or sympathy from his men, he could not be sure which. A touch of compassion for the so publicly jilted Commodore, discussed over daily rations of grog or over a pint in town, loud and crude but undoubtedly kinder than the words being spoken over tea in the mansions further inland.

And Elizabeth... Norrington let out a slow breath that seemed to have been held in his chest for far too long. A few steps took him into the sun's light, though not quite at the window, just enough to warm his legs, the tips of his fingers hanging down at his sides.

She had wished to speak alone with him last night. He had complied; he was no coward. Older, yes, devoted to duty and reason and lacking the dashing nature she had obviously desired. But he had stared down at the many extraordinary colours of her hair, grateful for the curtain of wine dulling his mind as he had watched her struggle for words.

She had not known, did not know enough of him to know that her apology was not wanted, or needed. It was the fault of none but himself that the soon-to-be Elizabeth Turner had not known the simplest fact of his nature.

But with wine in his blood he had nodded and kept silent. She had accepted silence, and even with spirits numbing his skin that had hurt, to know she had never expected him to speak. Smiling, her hand pressed for one moment to his, she had left; left to find Turner, to share a toast before slipping away from the crowd of guests.

It was to her credit that she wished for friendship between them. Norrington acknowledged the fact with a vague nod, moving at last to stand before the window, putting both hands down on the warmed stone. She would spare what she could, but Elizabeth had proved herself willing to wound, perhaps even kill, if necessary to achieve her goal. Odd that it only made her more admirable.

The firm knock at the door did not surprise him, and he angled his head to the side without taking his eyes from the water below, not bothering to give the order to 'come'. The rattling of the tray signified his tea, and the deliberate cough meant that Gillette had been the one to bring it.

"I thought perhaps coffee, Sir." Somehow the man managed to seem smug without saying anything untoward, and Norrington turned his head back to the window, keeping his mouth in a thin line.

"Is the entire island out of tea, Lieutenant?" He had never seen water so blue until he had come to the Caribbean. He wasn't sure he would be able to stand the gray waters of England now, should he have to return if talk of war ever became more than idle chatter. Here the water all seemed so clear until he looked straight down; into depths so limitless they seemed black.

"No, Sir," The rattle settled in the vicinity of his desk, and if he inhaled through his nose, Norrington could smell butter and burnt bread, a trace of sugary sweetness that meant mango jam. His stomach gurgled and he turned to glance at the other man to acknowledge that he had truly been hungry. The faint curve at the edge of his mouth slipped away, and he stilled in the midst of stepping toward his breakfast to study his Lieutenant.

He narrowed his eyes, and Gillette snapped to attention, nearly bouncing in place his excitement was so great.

"It's that pirate, Sir. Sparrow. There's talk that he..."

"Yes..."

The other man's gaze fixed on him at the single word, and words flew from his mouth so quickly that it took Norrington a moment to decipher their meaning. He pulled his hands sharply up from the desk, scowling to see the spilled ink, the silver pitcher of cream overturned and soaking his toast.

The scowl did not halt the stream of an explanation from Gillette, in fact only causing it to go faster, but one sentence at last made some sense and a raised hand stopped the rest just as the man paused for air.

"A flag bearing a sparrow over a sunburst now flies over St. George, Bermuda." Norrington repeated unnecessarily in a low voice, simply to feel the words on his own lips. He was not as startled as he should have been. And yet...

"Sparrow!" He would not have said he growled, but he noted the wary alertness in Gillette's posture now, the return to official business now that the gossip had been spread. "How many dead?" If Sparrow or his crew had taken the life of a single British citizen simply to thumb his nose at him then Norrington would hunt him down and hang him himself, the tender feelings of Governor Swann be damned.

"N... none, Sir!" The stammer would shame Gillette later, and Norrington let it remain unnoticed, swinging back around to direct his anger at the window. "Seems it was there one morning... just there... from the walls of the fort before they finally took it down."

His teeth were locked together too tight to speak for one long moment, his hands curled over the sun-baked stone of his window. Norrington permitted himself two deep breaths, and then he pulled his hands away and clasped them behind his back.

"It is a challenge." One nod and he knew Gillette—and the entire Royal Navy—would agree with him without bothering to ask them. "And a trap, most certainly, if he means to lure us from Port Royal." His stomach tightened at the idea of another attack on the town, though this crew of the Black Pearl was not ghosts, and easily killed if it came to it. "However..." He coughed harshly and felt something in his chest give, a slight easing of tension as he turned his cough into a snort and moved from the window.

It was his own fault, for learning all the tales of Sparrow's exploits after their first encounter, wanting to know why the name had been known to him but not the man.

"However, as Mister Sparrow's first act in Port Royal was to save a life, I do not believe..." Lt. Gillette's eyes seemed suddenly far too large, and Norrington snorted once more and lifted one eyebrow a very careful inch. "That is, he is a lunatic and soft-hearted as well. I do not believe Port Royal is his target."

"Aye, Sir?" Both an agreement and a question that indicated Gillette did not follow him at all. Norrington lifted his head from his study of the confused lieutenant and, just for a moment, saw the glinting grin of Jack Sparrow. The one that he had smiled in that moment that Elizabeth had persuaded him to save William Turner. Pleasure at rescuing the boy, or glee at getting his way, Norrington had never been sure. He was not even sure why deciphering the smile had mattered at all. The man had as many faces as the moon, and was just as inconstant.

"What did he take from St. George's Town?" He knew the answer before he asked, and perhaps that was why his voice had dropped to just above a whisper. The theft of a few casks of rum, perhaps some shine that had caught the blackguard's eye as he had snuck neatly around an armed fortress. Nothing more. A challenge indeed.

"Lieutenant." Gillette was going to wonder why he kept staring over his shoulder, but Norrington could not quite make himself turn away, though the vision was long gone. "Ready the Dauntless."

"We're giving chase, Sir?" It was hardly the man's place to question him, but Norrington ignored hint of insubordination, pulling his gaze back to the other man and sliding his eyebrows down into a heavy frown.

"So it would seem, Lieutenant." A long sigh left him, turning the rest of his words into little more than a whisper, too low for the other man to hear. "So it would bloody well seem."

~~~~~

A part of his mind noted the somewhat less-than-fine state of that sleeve, and he paused with his arm in the air to study the linen. It was reasonable to assume the colour had once been white, and now that it was close to a grayish-yellow, at least that he could tell in dark, perhaps it was time to find himself a new one. Something white, white like the good Commodore's cuffs, which were the whitest white Jack had ever seen, excepting of course the Commodore's wig, which was surely as spotless white as the clouds themselves.

Another hiccough made Jack's eyes widen, and then he glared down at the abandoned blackjack, rubbing his chest with his other hand to ease the ache. 'Course, the only cure for hiccoughing was something to drink, and lucky for Jack, he had plenty of drink on hand now, didn't he? Hauled the barrel all the way up the beach yesterday, and it wasn't empty yet.

It took but a moment to grab the cup and sit up in order to dunk it into the cask at his back, then he was settling back down easily. "...Lookin' for..." he continued softly, wriggling his arse into the sand until he was situated just right. Then he was enjoying yet another sip of the Royal Navy's fine grog, trying to imagine just what the good Commodore's reaction would be to hearing the news from Bermuda. The man ought to be getting word of it now, and there was going to be quite the storm in Port Royal when he did.

Jack had been most pleased with the notion when it had come to him. The only true disappointment was not being able to see his handiwork in the light of morning. Anamaria had called him a daft fool for doing it at all; and it was clear she had no understanding of the point of the gesture.

Beautiful, fiery, and a bit too much on the practical side of things, was their Anamaria. Much like the Commodore, Jack decided earnestly, reaching up and bending awkwardly to reach the spot itching with sweat at the middle of his back. Only her fire was more visible to the eye, ready to strike a man in the face, one might say. Whereas, Jack was reasonably certain that the Commodore would never strike him in the face. Run him through if he had the chance—which was not an altogether displeasing thought though Jack thought the Commodore might have different sword in mind for it than he did—but never strike him.

Though Jack did not intend on finding out, at least for a while. There was no sense in ending the chase now; it hadn't even begun. He ought to have Norrington following him across the Caribbean for months yet. His colours on British territory... it was as good as saying the Navy belonged to Captain Jack Sparrow. That it be Treason, well now that was most likely true. Gibbs had gaped at him to hear of what he'd done, taking another drink of the stolen rum without pause.

The memory made Jack grin, tipping his cup to the absent Gibbs. What was a bit of treason in the name of a good chase? He was Captain Jack Sparrow; he could always make his escape. He'd slipped from the noose more times than he could count, even the rope of the pirate hunting Commodore Norrington himself.

Which had been achieved due to the interference of a good man, Jack was quick to recall even just in his mind, already imagining the wrath of that lass were to forget to mention that small detail. Which would be nothing to the wrath of another man if Jack should recollect his victorious escape in his presence—which he fully planned to do, given the chance. He imagined that when the famous and most honourable Commodore Norrington did lose his temper, hurricanes would seem a breeze in comparison.

But even hurricanes didn't stop Jack Sparrow, and they were usually a sight worth seeing.

The hum started in his chest once again, and it didn't take long for the words to return to his tongue as well, much louder this time, though there was no one nearby to offend.

"I hope you find what you're lookin' for..." The cask was solid at his back, and Jack leaned against it, spreading his legs out before him, knowing the sand was likely both cold and wet but finding it warm enough at that moment. "Is it mine?" Those were the next words in the song. They made little sense even to Jack's way of thinking, ponder them thought he might, and he raised his voice to sing even louder.

There was only a sliver of the moon now, but the stars were gleaming silvery mischief down on the bay, illuminating the lines of his beautiful Pearl, anchored not far off. His Pearl, for as long as she allowed, and he shivered at the heat that always remained in the air, shocking along bare skin as though it always held a trace of lightening.

"...Walk through that door..." A plea, spoken softly, and Jack dropped his gaze back down to his blackjack of rum. It was a strange song, another one learned from Miss Elizabeth Swann before she had announced her intention to become Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. He could still recall the rum on her breath, taste it on his lips if he tried hard enough, but he was not much inclined to pine away for one Elizabeth Swann and so didn't try much. The lass was fine, and spirited, and a right beauty, but too full of ideas for his liking. Any longer on the ship and she'd have been calling herself Captain of the Pearl. Young William was a brave lad indeed. But then, young William had never done anything the easy way, so perhaps they were well suited after all.

Now, the Commodore... the man had likely become Commodore by giving orders, not taking them. 'Course, he could be taught, but a slip of a lass would hardly know the way, would she?

The grin returned to Jack's face, and since his legs felt a bit heavy now, he moved them, crossing them at the ankles. The itch at his back still plagued him a bit, and he shifted to rub himself on the cask, sighing to scratch the itch at last. There was something to be said for a man having a lover at his back, even if it was only that they'd be there to scratch it.

One last rub sent him even further down into the sand, slouching with his head down nearly to his chest. His hat weren't much in a better position, so he shifted it forward over his eyes and tossed his finished cup of rum to the side.

"Ah," the long sigh ended in another smack of his lips, the lingering warmth of the rum along his teeth, wet on his tongue. It made his body so very comfortable, so very easy, and he brushed his fingers along his leg before letting his hand fall. Why Norrington wanted to drive all the runners from the Caribbean was a mystery that weren't ever likely to get solved. Not unless someone dared to ask him. The man could be crueler than the East India Company when it came to illegal activities on these waters. Held no proper appreciation for piracy at all. It wasn't as though Jack had hurt anyone.

In fact, since regaining the Pearl, he had no reason to, though he doubted the Commodore had thought of that yet. Maybe Elizabeth hadn't explained to her former fiancée that the Isle de Muerte was filled with boatloads of swag free of any tricky heathen blood curses. Probably she hadn't; Norrington might have demanded the crew give it back, and that would have led to more than one body washing ashore.

Smart girl, that Elizabeth. Though not quite smart enough to Jack's way of thinking. He wondered if that had occurred to the Commodore, or if the man were still in mourning, as it were.

"We're wastin' time..." he sang to himself, mumbling into his chest and frowning a little as some of the words blurred from his memory, either from the rum then or the rum now. The two of them weren't suited at all, the more he thought of it. But it was commendable of Norrington to have chosen her in the first place. Said a lot for the man. Hinted, as it were, of things that Jack found hopeful for his plan to see the man naked. 'Course, it also hinted that the man was not inclined to want to see another man naked, that he was a man strictly for the lasses, and if that were true it would be nothing but a shame.

There was a fine figure under that gold buttons and silly wig. Or at least, Jack was fairly certain there was. The lasses had been lucky so far. But Fortune liked a good chase as much as Jack did, and she'd find him in the end. Always did. She just took her bloody time.

Was just a matter of waiting. Waiting a long time, maybe, for a scratch at his back.

"...Wastin' time..." he sang again, humming a bit for what he couldn't remember, "...make up yer mind... and... .and..." The rest had just gotten very blurry, and Jack curved his lips. What would Captain Jack Sparrow taste on the breath of Commodore Norrington? A question for the Ages that he pondered as he extended his tongue to lick—just a bit—at his lower lip, tasting only salt and rum. "S'crazy," he murmured, then remembered that had been part of the lyrics to that other blasted song Elizabeth had taught him.

"Mmm... you'll see. And..." Was very bad of him to have forgotten the lyrics. It would take a visit to Miss Swann in Port Royal to learn the lines again. "...I won't let you..."

"Won't let me... what?"

He would never be able to figure out how a voice that smooth could be as sharp as one of Will's swords. Which was not to say that Will's swords weren't well-made, sharp blades. Jack would say they were very sharp indeed, especially the one just under his chin. It was so clean it sparkled in just moonlight and scraped gently against the stubble along his jaw as it urged his head upward. An unnecessary move on the other man's part, as Jack had been lifting his head at the first slow, soft, sarcastic word that had left that mouth.

Jack had to lift a hand to push his hat from his face, and couldn't help but stiffen a bit at the chill of the blade against his skin as he made the move. He glanced upward first, and then allowed his head to follow his eyes, taking in the sight of stockings first, so clean he could smell the starch from where he was. Silly things for a grown man to wear, and Jack smiled before skipping over the multitude of gold buttons and lining and looking as straight into the man's face as much as he could.

"Commodore!" He greeted Norrington cheerfully, darting his eyes around and becoming more than a little pleased to note that the Commodore was here by himself, without any sort of guard at all.

He couldn't help another quick look around the man's back, but it did truly seem as though the man had chosen to meet him alone. That was interesting. Jack let himself look back up at the square shape of the Commodore's jaw and shifted, just a bit, in the sand. The man had him fixed with his gaze alright, serious as the grave he was, despite the hint of amusement Jack had thought he'd heard at first in his words.

"You seem almost pleased to see me, Mister Sparrow... if surprised." For just a moment, the Commodore's lips softened before pressing together into a thin line. Jack would have called it a smile if he hadn't seen it before, wet and cold as a drowning rat and standing there on the Port Royal dock with the Commodore's hands ripping the cloth from his arm to expose the raised 'P' he'd had since before his beard. The Commodore had a warm, firm grip, and tricks up his spotless white cuffs to do the blackest pirate proud.

Jack shivered, and let his eyes widen.

"Captain Sparrow, if you please, Commodore." Jack saw his hands in the air, gesturing slowly, without even knowing he'd raised them. But they were pointing gracefully in the other man's direction, and Jack nodded in agreement. "I've never forgotten your title, Commodore." He slid his gaze down, and then back up when he found himself again contemplating all those shining buttons. "And I'm always pleased to see a friend o' the Turners. How goes the planning for the blessed nuptials?"

Not even the hope of a smile now, but Jack grinned for the both of them.

"Watch yourself, Sparrow." The man's arm didn't even look a little bit unsteady. After all this time, bloody strong was what he was.

Jack blinked, then let his eyes widen even more. "Won't be allow to view 'em, myself. Always mindful of yer reputation. Expectin' a chase, as it were, should I venture near to Port Royal."

Seems the man could waver after all. The Commodore frowned and let the tip of the blade fall away, near to Jack's cheek it was now, but not inching toward his bloody throat as it had been.

"So instead you venture to Bermuda?" As though just to prove Jack wrong, the Commodore curved his lips upward, genuine pleasure lighting his face to hear Jack's rough breath, doubtless seeing the dark way Jack's eyes had narrowed. "Didn't expect me to know of that particular exploit yet, Mister Sparrow?"

"I didn't know you were so interested in my exploits, Commodore." His smile didn't really hide the rolling of his shoulders, but it did take some of the amusement from the other man's expression. Just his luck that the Commodore had found him here in St. Kitt's so quickly. Jack glared briefly into the shadows, at Lady Fortune, should she happen to be in that direction. Although...

"Don't see your men about." Just a friendly observation. No reason at all for the Commodore's frown to deepen. The man had been born frowning. The only times his brows weren't at his chin was when he looked at Elizabeth, and when he was smirking down at Jack.

And it was always down, wasn't it?

"Unofficial visit to the island? Few days off for a bit of fun?" Jack nodded agreeably, leaning his head to one side a moment later and laying one finger to his mouth. "I know of a good spot or two, if ye seek some pleasurable company." His gaze drifted away from the Commodore to the Pearl, baring clenched teeth in a way that almost could be taken for a grin.

"I am not looking to get...! I am not here for...!" The man choked back several words, to his shame, for they were likely the most interesting words he had to say this evening, in Jack's estimation. "...I am here for you, Sparrow."

'Course, even Jack Sparrow was wrong on occasion. These now, these were far more interesting words. He sat up, letting the sword brush right past his ear. Norrington took a half step back, and the blade was right at Jack's throat again, touching his skin once when he swallowed. As though he somehow felt the contact through the well-made sword, Norrington pulled it away a few inches.

"Well here I am, Commodore. What will you be doin' with me?" Looking up the length of Will's very fine blade, Jack only watched the frown deepen on the Commodore's face, sighing a bit at the obvious confusion there. If only he were on his feet, or the night were brighter than a slivered moon and a few stars. He could see nothing at all of the other man's eyes.

"My men will find us soon enough." Fingers shifted on the hilt, changing the grip, as though the man were growing weary at last.

"Am I under arrest then, Commodore?" Interesting, that the other man would mention that now. Jack wondered if he should ask why, but he knew, mostly, when to hold his tongue and when to speak, and when to continuously speak in a never ending stream so that people stopped listening to him altogether.

"Why did you raise your banner at St. George?" Exasperation perhaps was what made the man sigh the question, though it was a certainty he had been angry to bursting on hearing of what Jack had done.

"Quite an annoyance, wasn't it, Commodore? Seein' me, as it were, on your property?" Jack waved his hands about as he spoke, but found his eyes trained on the Commodore's hand. "Imagine it was quite a sight. Had the flag you see, a gift from a dear la... well a dear friend o'mine. And there was the fort, as pretty as you please, but naked, if you follow my meaning. And there was me, with me flag and no use for it on the Pearl. The Pearl is mine, but the crew ain't, and with our adventures being so recent, we haven't had a bit of sport. I haven't had a bit of sport... Savvy?"

The fingers moved again, and then the whole hand, twisting to show the sharp edge of the sword. It appeared the Commodore didn't favour the use of many words at all. Just one, in fact.

"Treason." The Commodore turned his head away, and with that, to Jack's great and grateful surprise, the sword was withdrawn. Not sheathed, but left at the man's side. Jack rubbed his neck immediately though he knew there wasn't a mark, just for show, and Norrington's gaze returned to him. "Captain Jack Sparrow hanged for treason instead of lowly theft; did that sound more pleasing to your rum-soaked brain? Do not abuse Governor Swann's protection."

His eyebrows were near to his hair, Jack knew, and tried to shape his expression into something less surprised. It didn't seem to matter to the Commodore if he already knew or not; the man clearly thought Jack had.

Surprise forgotten, Jack grinned. "So you were to chase old Jack after all."

"I am very aware of your reputation, Sparrow." No 'Captain' this time, but Norrington had already said it once, without the usual drip of venom. Likely on account of the ship, of which they were both very aware, floating in the bay behind them. Jack swept his hat from his head and bowed a bit, as well as he could, sitting on his arse in cold sand.

"Honoured, Commodore." Perhaps it was a shadow, a trick of the faded light, but the line of the Commodore's lips seemed a little less tight, fair on their way to even looking relaxed, and Jack frowned up into eyes bottomless dark, though he knew they were much lighter in the full glare of the noon sun.

Soft breezes, so cool on the skin of Jack's neck, were playing with the black ribbon on the Commodore's wig, and Jack sucked in a breath, hoping the breezes would grow just a mite stronger. Just one more and perhaps...

With a cough, the Commodore stepped away, turning his body half to the side to stare out at the water. If he hadn't held the sword in his hand, Jack thought his hands might have been clasped at his back, as though he were standing at the helm looking out over a miserable crew.

"Which is why I cannot have you sailing around the Caribbean, creating disturbances without even trying."

"You apparently can't hang me either, Commodore." With a slight outward push of lips, Jack was thinking over what was undoubtedly quite a problem for the good Commodore. A dilemma, one might say. He could kill Old Jack, but if the thought had not occurred to him than Jack wasn't going to suggest it. Likely it already had, but murder did not sit well with a good man; he could have killed Jack several times over by now, if it had been his wish to see him dead. So the man had found Jack on this island and come out here alone to... ascertain Jack's intentions in the Caribbean, as it were.

Suddenly Jack blinked, pushing a smile onto his face to rattle the good Commodore, though he didn't feel much like smiling at all, letting a displeased frown take his face when it did not seem as though the Commodore cared what expression he wore. "Ye can chase me all you please, but ye aren't allowed to catch me?" The Governor had sentenced them to a good cocktease, hadn't he?

Coughing a bit, Jack returned to his study of Commodore Norrington, knowing the other man likely wouldn't have put their situation in those terms. But it was going to be a mite uncomfortable, no matter how one looked at it, unless someone did something to relieve the pressure.

There was an answer to that, which Jack was certain the man had not thought of yet, quick though his mind might be.

Instead, the Commodore nodded in response to Jack's quiet question, still looking away from him. His chin was up. Could have meant anything, it was the man's usual pose which anyone who had ever suffered under his lectures was passing familiar with. Yet Jack followed the path his gaze might have taken, looking up at the stars and charting the course to Port Royal without any effort at all.

"Not everyone will connect that flag to you; there is no need for my interference, yet." The calm words nonetheless startled Jack into tearing his eyes from the sky, blinking across at the Commodore. Now that was a most strange thing for the man to say, and what exactly did he mean by it, Jack wondered. An order to leave the Caribbean, a demand to behave or to stick to his pilfering and stop toying with Royal property, those would be most understandable for the man to say. And he hadn't said either.

He was being careless again, and a glance back up at the stars told Jack the cause. The same cause as before, the same as always, for a beautifully romantic heart beat in that solid chest.

Elizabeth. Not for a free visit to Madame Li's House of Silver Leaves in Singapore would Jack have said that name aloud at that moment.

"But here you are, Commodore." Jack pointed fluidly at the other man just in case Norrington had forgotten, to his back really, which was in fact still turned to him. He hadn't thought the man's back could get any straighter, yet there it was, the man suddenly so tall and rigid that Jack was tempted to inquire about the pole up his arse. He didn't, anymore than he asked his next question in anything higher than a whisper. "'Ave you stopped to consider that?" He had no wish to view that hurricane this particular evening. Time was running out as it was.

Norrington seemed not to hear him, still studying the stars. Silent, and no doubt thinking of what he had planned to be doing with his time, which was not chasing some blasted pirate around the Main just to scratch his itches.

"If ye don't mind, Commodore..." With a grunt and obvious effort, Jack got to his feet, glancing once at Norrington's startled half-turn before bending over the cask with the appearance of concentration. He found his abandoned cup, and filled it, pretending not to hear Norrington's none-too-gentle snort as he drank from it. "Good spirits your navy enjoys."

A fistful of sand was clutched in his other hand, and though Jack almost hated to do it, the Marines might be along at any moment, and that was a good blade in Norrington's fine hand, and the chase had not yet truly begun. So he turned sharply and threw the sand directly into the Commodore's face.

Amidst the outraged gasps and swearing as the Commodore scrubbed at his eyes, Jack grabbed one last cupful and swallowed it down. Turning his back on him to daydream of a lass, as though he wasn't dealing with a bloody pirate. With Captain Jack Sparrow. It was bloody insulting was what it was.

"It's more a matter of me catchin' you. Savvy?" Jack grinned, wondering if the man would pause to think over his words at all in the coming weeks. "I'll be seeing you, Commodore," he promised with a tip of his hat that Norrington likely didn't see at all, and slipped off into the shadows.

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