Moves & Motion, Part 7

Make Up Your Mind (Win Or Lose)

by

Rispa Cooper

Norrington stopped as he was, one hand to the wall to hold himself steady as the room seemed once more to dip and roll around him, keeping his eyes wide open since closing them seem to worsen the effect. When it passed, he rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for a razor and perhaps some water. Though, soapy or not, he probably would have downed any water he came across without regard for his rough face.

Scowling, James looked down over his uniform and fastened the last remaining buttons on his waistcoat, not at all pleased to see it covered with smears of dirt that were shaped remarkably like a man's hands. That it was not more wrinkled was due only to the fact that it—and the rest of his clothing—had been removed whilst he slept, and just as he had when he had first realized this, Norrington took a moment to glare at the door. The door from Jack Sparrow's room, which Jack Sparrow had no doubt used to slip out long before Norrington had awoken.

Awoken to the blasted pounding beat of that song in his skull, and that was as much Sparrow's fault as anything else this morning. The other man had probably found him very amusing last night; he had enough memory to recall Jack grinning down at him, shoving the rum back into his hands, and then himself drinking from a bottle still warm from Sparrow's mouth.

Norrington swallowed carefully at the thought of the rum, his stomach clenching. He would not be sick on Jack Sparrow's floor, no matter how appealing the thought. It was already bad enough that Sparrow had seen him so... out of control. Convenient to his plans as it must have been last night, Sparrow hadn't bothered to stay this morning. Leaving once he had what he wanted, just like a pirate.

Norrington spared a moment to frown, glancing at the rumpled bed and then quickly away. If Sparrow had had what he'd wanted. It was shaming to admit, but Norrington could not remember most of the evening to be certain of anything except for Sparrow's absence this morning and that he had, it seemed, allowed Sparrow to undress him.

That the man had seen him naked before didn't matter, and Norrington reached out without looking and grabbed his hat from the table—where Sparrow had left on top of his scabbard, neatly folded coat, breeches, stockings, and shoes. Only his wig was missing, but that was no surprise. Sparrow had taken his own clothing back as well, something else that was hardly surprising. Even a madman pirate had to have seen that they had ill-suited a Commodore. Norrington had only borrowed them with the intention of sneaking through Tortuga without being recognized.

He had not anticipated the tangy scent that had seemed woven into the cloth itself, a mix of the sea's many exotic ports and distinctive aroma of Tortuga that was probably unique to Sparrow. And like Sparrow, what was at first loathsome and irritating soon became remarkably appealing and intriguing, and then at last strangely mesmerizing. And Norrington's feet had not led him back to the Dauntless as they should have, but to a tavern and enough rum to deaden the senses, to his complete and utter foolish behavior of the night before—or at least what he could recall of it.

His skin felt hot and uncomfortable, and Norrington thought longingly of a bath if that comfort were not now also tainted by Jack Sparrow. He settled for gritting his teeth and twisting to scratch his back, feeling the stink of Tortuga on every inch of his skin.

But he left his coat on, leaving only his neck bare. His neck cloth was doubtless still on the floor, thrown aside the day before in anger as James had set about freeing himself from Sparrow's bed.

Too much rum and too little sleep were his problems now. Sparrow had for once nicely removed himself before he'd had a chance to provoke Norrington's temper, Norrington decided firmly. Some water and a good meal would set him to rights, and he could sleep on the voyage back to Port Royal before he set about convincing Governor Swann to reverse Sparrow's pardon.

Sparrow had obviously proved himself a liar just like every other blackguard buccaneer to sail the Main. Protestations of affection had been nothing but a ploy, clearly, if Norrington was to be used and thus abandoned.

Again, James' gaze went to the bed, prepared for the dizziness that struck him as he did but not the flashes of colour behind his eyes when he closed them, the warm breath at his cheek.

"James-love." The whisper sent a thousand tiny sparks down his spine, and Norrington straightened, jerking at his coat to keep the fit correct. It was just the remnants of a dream, even if the words had the sound of Sparrow's. Surely Sparrow would not have said that to him as anything other than a joke. Surely. Except.

Except that Sparrow could have left him to sleep off his drunkenness in that alley, as in fact seemed to be perfectly acceptable on this island, was not something that even this miserable hangover would allow him to forget.

And there was of course, the faintest possibility—the faintest hope—that he had not done anything to be ashamed of in that bed last night—unless he counted sleeping in Jack Sparrow's arms, which he was startled to realize he did not—since there had been no strange marks on his person, or indeed, any other spot on his body near as sore as his head now.

Face aflame to recall his careful accounting of his physical condition, Norrington slipped his feet into his shoes and then slapped his hat atop his head, keeping his eyes on the window, where cracks of light that slipped through the curtains drove nails straight into his brain. He could only be grateful Sparrow had not seen that either. Norrington had not even been certain what to look for; nothing in his experience would have left a sign that could not have been cleaned up even if he had of course heard of other things that went on below decks when ships were long at sea.

It was very possible that his ears and neck were red now as well, and Norrington frowned and turned away to swing the door open, stepping outside with a sure foot. Even if he did not know the way back to his ship, or indeed what inn this was, now was not the time to admit to weaknesses. Though perhaps a drink of water and some headache powders would not be too much to ask.

There were still sailors and wenches alike to fill the hall this morning, though few seemed able to fully open their eyes, and their voices were, thankfully, a low murmur that did not disturb him.

The sun was another matter, and Norrington stopped once out in the street, trying in vain to pull his hat down enough to cover his face, swaying when he closed his eyes. There was a reason that only pirates and scoundrels would love such a drink as rum. Doubtless he—they would urge him to drink more now to cure his ills.

"Commodore Norrington, sir!" The alert, pleased voice could only belong to Lieutenant Gillette. Norrington too obviously flinched away from the noise at his shoulder, putting out a hand in warning even if he could not quite make himself face the other officer yet.

"Whisper, if you please, Lieutenant." He ordered, his voice rasping. But that alone seemed enough to make Gillette pause and lower his voice, not quite daring to put a concerned hand Norrington's arm.

"Are you alright, sir?" He answered Norrington's curt nod with one of his own, licking his lips before speaking, his voice lifting up once more to previous levels. "I'm so glad to see you, sir, we've all been looking for you. There's... there's a situation back at the Dauntless."

Now Norrington did turn to look, wincing at the glare of the sun at Gillette's back. There was a certain—odd and yet familiar—twisting in his stomach, almost negligible next to the melodic pounding in his head, drowning out the quiet lull of the morning after in Tortuga, drowning out all thoughts but one.

"Situation," he repeated carefully. "It is still there?" The question burned as much as his blushes had only moments before. That he even had to ask... But Gillette was shaking his head, gesturing in the direction of the harbor.

Norrington swallowed, then pinned his officer with a stare. "Is it still ours?" He would not dare. Not even Jack Sparrow would dare to do such a thing twice.

The Lieutenant nearly stumbled back before he caught himself, jerking his chin up and holding himself stiffly at attention. His eyes could not seem to hold steady on Norrington's face, and Norrington spared a moment to wonder what he must look like. Hardly a pretty picture, he was certain, and felt his scowl tighten his face, his mouth a thin, pressed line.

"To the Dauntless." At the quiet order Gillette was before him and moving quick enough that some might have called his walk a run, or at least a trot, but James followed him without a word, only glancing to the skies for a plume of smoke or perhaps an approaching cannonball, though not truly expecting either. That was not Sparrow's style. Not when there were lies and manipulation to fall back on, it seemed.

It was entirely his fault for encouraging this silly game around someone as lack-witted, and as lack-principled, as Sparrow. Sparrow who had thought all of this fair exchange indeed for a night of whispers and intertwined bodies, nothing to warmth underneath a fat blanket and heat at his back.

Norrington stumbled over his own feet, and glanced to Gillette, but the man was still walking. The memory was fading even as he thought it, dim at the edges, and James blinked, frowning when this was all he could remember after being in the alley, think hard though he might.

Doubtless this had also been part of Sparrow's plan—make promises with those dark, glinting eyes and then fly away before... before...

He managed to turn the rough growl forming in his throat to a dry cough, jerking his chin up and glaring when Gillette turned back to glance at him. The Lieutenant was hurrying forward with wide eyes, and his clear expression of amazement and fear made Norrington set his jaw and rub a hand across his face, becoming more irritated at the unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation of a morning's growth of beard.

He was tired, thirsty, in need of a bathe and a shave and a change of clothing, with a splitting headache, and had no time to tend to any of these problems. He looked, in short, like every other sailor on this island this morning, only he had done nothing the night before to make his current suffering worth it. In fact the only one who likely had found any pleasure at all today was Jack Sparrow.

"Sir?"

"What?" That he just might have snapped at a good and loyal lieutenant only occurred to Norrington moments after he had stopped short to do just that, shouting at Gillette who had also stopped short and had been gesturing ahead until James had yelled. All but slapping the man in the face, if his expression were any way to judge it. He had in fact the same look of injured surprise that Jack Sparrow usually wore whenever Norrington forgot—or refused—to address him as captain. Norrington thinned his lips but said nothing for the moment, shifting his gaze carefully to where Gillette had been pointing and then letting out a small burst of air.

He took in the scene for several racing, rushing beats of his heat, and then he swore under his breath.

"Jack." It had the sound of a curse, he knew, and did not care about Gillette's reaction as he swore again and strode forward. If he'd still had his pistol, he would have used it.

Tortuga's harbor was a mess at the best of times on account of pirates too eager to get ashore to take proper care of their ships or cargo. This morning it was Bedlam, and there was only one pirate living or dead capable of such a feat. James did not even have to search to find him among the many people arguing on the docks below. It would have been easy even if Sparrow were not currently surrounded by every single one of those arguing people and—judging from the constant, fluid motions of his hands—arguing back with each one of them.

He did not have his hand on either his sword or his pistols, so Norrington swept his gaze over the crowd as he approached, noting red coats as well as dirty brown and black, the colourful feathers of a squawking parrot floating in the air above them all. His eyes followed one and then he blinked, observing the beautiful sight of the Dauntless anchored not too far from shore. At least, he thought it was the Dauntless. He would have known her sleek lines anywhere, or so he would have thought. It was difficult to determine exactly what the strange pattern along her side was from this distance, but if James had to guess—and the twisting in his stomach told him he had no choice but to—he would have said it had the shape of a bird.

Of a Sparrow.

Annoying did not even being to describe it.

"Jack Sparrow!" It seemed he had shouted, or at least spoken louder than he'd intended, for those at the outer edge of the crowd moved to let him pass, and those in the middle seemed to vanish abruptly, granting him a clear path to the center of this mess.

Sparrow had the gall to look startled, spinning about with one hand out in the air, a stunned expression crossing his face that would all too soon be replaced with one of calculation, if the fools around him continued to give the man time to think. This close, James could see the streaks of light paint on Sparrow's face and hands, dotting his clothing. He could also see the members of Sparrow's crew in the faces of those around them, not one of them looking pleased.

He pulled in a deep breath and met Jack Sparrow's gaze.

He would not blush. He was James Norrington, Commodore of the Fleet of the Caribbean. Commodores might fight legions of the undead and hang scoundrels if duty demanded it, but they did not flush with colour at one heated look from Jack Sparrow.

"So this is what you left to..." Norrington cut himself off, clearing his throat roughly and glancing away before he would have to see Sparrow grinning. But when he swung his gaze back, there wasn't even a hint of amusement on Sparrow's face, only the usual frowning lunacy. The pounding inside his skull worsened, and Norrington knew himself to be sickly pale, as well as dirty and unshaven. No doubt Sparrow had run from his bed this morning.

"What," he spoke after a hard, long moment, and wondered why the crowd seemed to grow quieter. He had not raised his voice, or put a hand to his sword no matter how he wished to. "What... have... you... done... to... my... ship?" And softly, in front of him, as though Norrington had not even spoken, Jack Sparrow sighed and murmured some madness about hurricanes.

"It weren't us!" The high voice of a woman answered his question before Jack could do more than smile, and Norrington tore his gaze from him to study the thin, dark-skinned woman who sailed in Sparrow's crew. He narrowed his eyes, and saw her do the same, though she looked from side to side first, at the other members of the Black Pearl's crew, and her hand was at her belt, very near to her weapons.

"Anamaria... love..." Sparrow was wheedling, the tone familiar and grating. James hitched his shoulders, feeling the tight throb in his head spread down to his chest. "He wasn't supposed to find it until after we'd..."

"After you'd left, Sparrow?" Norrington bit down hard on the words, watched carefully as Jack flinched, saw the flush of colour onto Jack's tanned cheeks that could only be guilt.

"Meant to be before you 'woke, mate," Jack explained quietly, rolling his shoulders easily as though this excused it all, and perhaps in the man's immoral, unfaithful mind it did.

"Your foolish games are goin' to get us all arrested again!" The woman pirate was yelling back at Sparrow now, and Norrington would have ducked from the painful echo of her voice in his ears if the marines and crew of the Dauntless still ashore had not chosen to start shouting again in response. It took an agony-filled moment to make any sense at all of the resulting commotion, and Norrington felt his brows draw together, too distracted to stop his hand from going to the sword at his waist, still not looking away from the slightly frowning face of Jack Sparrow.

His men, it seemed, wanted the whole lot arrested for the insult, despite the Governor's orders, and Jack Sparrow's... men... were protesting their innocence in Sparrow's schemes. And above it all was the sound of that voice, that rough, persuasive voice that sang in his dreams, that whispered in his ear, that undoubtedly was the only reason the entire mob around them had not yet shed any blood.

With little effort, Jack Sparrow had almost started a battle and then had almost ended it. A few more moments, and it might have all have been over, and Norrington wouldn't have known about it until he had found his way down to the harbor on his own to behold that great, mocking bird on the side of his ship, Jack and his Pearl long gone.

He twitched, his jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder his teeth did not shatter, and then suddenly he was yelling, shouting indiscriminately into the crowd who fell back as sullenly as chastised schoolchildren.

"Is this some sort of last gesture, Sparrow?" He didn't bother to lower his voice, all of the Caribbean be damned, and smiled grimly at Sparrow's look of befuddled hurt, the damned wounded pout at not being addressed as 'captain' and asking Norrington why. That look was nothing but pretense; they both knew the game to be over. Sparrow had made it more than clear. James could hear himself breathing heavily, and wondered if Sparrow could as well, so many feet away.

"Turnabout for the flag, Commodore," Jack answered slowly, carefully, after a moment, waving grandly with one hand as though his own chest were not moving rapidly with his breath, as though his eyes were not bright with deception. "Gibbs and Anamaria didn't find that at all amusin', even if Mr. Cotton's parrot seemed to." This last was almost an afterthought, and then Sparrow's hand was waving anew.

"I don't give a damn about Mr. Cotton's parrot." Norrington told him succinctly and thought he heard a squawking voice say, "Dead men tell no..." before it was abruptly silenced. "But I do give a damn about the sparrow on my boat!"

"Ship," Jack corrected him immediately, and for a moment, Norrington's vision blackened, the headache-induced blindness the only thing preventing him from leaping at Jack Sparrow and crushing him to the ground. He curled his fingers around his sword and let it remind him of his duty, of Governor Swann, of Elizabeth's face when he told her he had killed her favourite blackguard. "If ye're forgettin' that, mate, maybe it's time for a rest?" It was obvious from the loud, playful way Sparrow posed the question that he was jesting for the crowd, mocking the stern Commodore for ruining their fun on account of too much rum the night before. And blast it all, the sound of muffled laughter that resulted showed that others agreed with him. Sparrow probably found it most amusing.

Norrington opened eyes he hadn't known were closed in time to witness the sudden blanching of Jack Sparrow's face as their eyes met, the quick, darting frown that meant something had not gone as Sparrow had intended. And Norrington felt himself grow warm, embarrassed at his eager ability to read the thoughts flickering across that clever, handsome face.

Sparrow was leaning in now, swaying forward as though there were no distance between them at all, his voice soft with more whispers. Brown eyes steady and serious upon his face, as though his reaction mattered.

"Are you completely well, Jam—Commodore?" If James wished it, he could imagine it was the sound of true concern and honest curiosity in that careful change of address. And a weaker man might have done so, a man that had not woken in a strange bed, alone, with the memory of promises ringing in his ears.

He exhaled, and saw Sparrow's mouth open as it had so many times before, to speak of treasures sought as he crept forward to try another embrace.

"Should I not be?" James answered at last, struggling to seem bored, looking away into the crowd when Sparrow would not turn from the study of him. It was the sun that made him wince, the light blurring his vision. The muttering of the crowd quieted anew at his fierce looks, and Norrington deliberately left his hand where it was. It was, after all, no worse than walking into a tavern full of buccaneers with only two Marines at his back. No less foolish, or dangerous, than staring into Jack Sparrow's eyes and seeing the knowledge there, since Norrington had been so careless as to admit to his lack of memory.

"No reason I can think of why you should be, mate," the warm, gentle, and yes, regretful, amusement in Sparrow's voice now told him that indeed, Sparrow had followed his meaning, and had chosen to rescue him once more. Norrington glanced back, eyes wide at his own thought. Rescue him only to drop him into another mess, he added firmly, but then a pirate would have a hidden motive for everything, and Jack Sparrow always managed a dissolute act for every pure one.

Sparrow's words echoed what his body had already told him upon waking, that he had not truly been touched at all. It was impossible not to stare—in horror of course—at the considering little lick Jack gave his lips, the tug on his braided beard as Sparrow arranged plans in his sun-addled pirate mind for exactly when to correct that mistake. It was horror just as it had to be fear quickening Norrington's pulse, raising his flesh and making him shiver.

He gasped, headache momentarily forgotten, and Jack grinned—a slow, wicked grin that the man had no right to share with those around them. And for a time, Norrington again felt himself standing naked in his bathwater, looking down at a shamelessly aroused Jack Sparrow.

"Then why...?" Norrington started to ask then cleared his throat, resolutely holding his tongue to keep the rest of his thoughts to himself, even if the man would have had no hesitation in seducing a drunken Elizabeth, something that Norrington had strangely never even considered until now. Not for one second had he felt jealous of Elizabeth spending the night in Jack's company, even while knowing Sparrow to be a rogue and a scoundrel, as last night had proved. Pushing the thought away, Norrington tried to compose his face into something calm.

He shouldn't have spoken at all, especially not in front of such a crowd, and Norrington blinked, blaming his misuse of rum for his lack of judgment. It was as though he were still standing at the edge of a cliff, struggling not to fall.

He swayed on his feet, putting out a hand and half-expecting ringed and tar-stained fingers to grab it and send him plummeting. A sharp ache twisted his stomach, and Norrington remembered being a young midshipman, seasick and staring out alone over a cold deck while on watch.

"He's trying to get us all strung up with him," the woman's voice came as though from nowhere, and James felt himself focusing on her, letting his gaze swing to her as though she were true north. He could have charted a course by her much as he could have done—as much as he had done with Elizabeth. And he felt himself smiling, a deliberate curve to his lips that only one person here would have possibly appreciated.

She seemed surprised to have his attention, and perhaps his men did as well. But they had seen him willing to lay down everything at the feet of Elizabeth Turner, they should not find it odd for him to listen to a woman now. And such a defiant woman too, her chin so high that for a moment James wondered how Elizabeth had gotten along with her even for a short length of time. Long, wavy lengths of black hair fell down around her smooth face, and Norrington blinked before looking into her eyes. They were dark brown and sparkling and just a little afraid, for all their anger. It seemed he could never inspire admiration where he wanted it.

But then, it also seemed that he was not a man seeking north.

"Now, Anamaria, love..." That Jack Sparrow would take that moment to speak, to speak to this woman in that pleading tone that had haunted Norrington's dreams was just proof of how mad Sparrow truly was. And that she would look just a little ashamed of herself for her near mutiny at a few reproachful words from Jack Sparrow, keeping her frown but shutting her mouth, that was only evidence of Sparrow's pull on everyone near him, regardless of sex.

"Enough." Norrington declared abruptly, a frown between his eyes and a burn in his chest. "You've a poor excuse for a crew, Sparrow." He let his gaze swing back to Sparrow and inhaled sharply at the way Jack's head reared back in instant offence, his features blank except for the intent light of his eyes, aimed at Norrington.

"Now, Jamie..." It was Norrington's turn, it seemed, for the wheedling explanations.

"They seem well fed and turned out for pirates." His words rang out like the church bells at the Turner wedding, and it was no wonder the sound made Sparrow flinch. Had he been anywhere else, Norrington thought he might have ducked and run for cover. The woman had much the same look when he bothered to glance back at her. "Yet they disown you." Beyond her, Mr. Gibbs had dropped his head, and Norrington noted that the bloody parrot had suddenly gone silent as well.

"They claim me when it matters, mate," Jack responded seriously, and Norrington's hand was shaking where it gripped his sword hilt, but he merely lifted an eyebrow and continued.

"Aside from drunkenness, and his stealing, and of course, his lies..." Sparrow's eyes were wide, his hands going still in midair, and Norrington wondered just when he had gotten so loud, why he could not stop himself from speaking when prudence suggested he leave. His throat was maddeningly dry, and he would take rum now, or whiskey, even saltwater. "...What, precisely, is your complaint with Captain Sparrow?"

He had said Captain, and knew it, but not even that would stop him now. "Pirates are supposed to drink, and steal, and... lie..." James paused only to swallow, refusing to look away from Jack as he went on. "You knew that when you decided to follow him." Honour demanded he say it though it rubbed raw along his skin, stinging in his face and eyes.

The piercing throb of his headache was nothing to the blades slicing through his middle, and if he were not... if he were anyone else, he might have fallen right there. But of course, he was not anyone else and could not be, no matter how much liquor he drank.

"I know well his determination to annoy me... and the navy, but what has he done to his crew other than give you all the opportunity to prove yourselves as good at the game as he is..." It was probable that only Sparrow heard his voice break there, and Norrington coughed quickly, frowning when it looked as though Jack might speak. He felt Jack's eyes fairly burning through him, undeterred, it seemed, by his words or his frown, and he couldn't stop his slow shudder. "Whether you know it or not... you owe your lives to Jack Sparrow." Yanking his gaze away from Sparrow's face allowed him space to breathe, and he swore quietly, finishing just above a whisper. "...Wretched man though he may be."

Damn all pirates and their rum to the blackest depths of the ocean. Norrington clenched his jaw and looked back to see Jack blinking rapidly, as unsteady on his feet as though he were also feeling the effects of too much drink. But the wide, gleaming grin was directed right at him, far too bloody pleased with himself, and Norrington scowled, jerking his chin up.

He recognized that grin. It was the same ridiculously triumphant expression Jack had displayed in Port Royal, when Turner had stepped between them to save him. As pleased and bright as though Norrington too had just named Jack Sparrow a good man when that had not been his intent at all.

But of course, he had done just that, and biting his tongue would not take the words back. He might as well have yelled it for all the Caribbean to hear.

His eyes were open this time, but the wave of sickness swept over him just the same, the sun and the sand spinning yellow around him. He stumbled though he had not been moving, regaining his balance and blinking at the sudden motion in front of him. Jack had had stepped closer, standing between him and the cool blue of the ocean, and James shook his head, exhaling far too loudly.

And Jack knew. Jack had known all along, from the moment he had flown his colours over Bermuda for a bit of sport to when Norrington had ordered the flag painted on the Black Pearl—statements for all the world to see, and how funny Jack must have thought it.

Smiling at him, humming before he'd handed over that blasted bottle. The man was humming now, where everyone could hear, and James stared back at him, his face and body hot with his blushes as Jack Sparrow only stared back, promising treasures beyond his wildest dreams without saying a word. Just as he had done from the start of this game, only this time...

This time Norrington believed him.

Believed a pirate. More than a pirate—Captain Jack Sparrow. The best pirate to sail in the Caribbean and the only one to earn a lifelong pardon from Governor Swann himself. There he stood, black smudged along the lines of his bright eyes, as bedecked with stones and trinkets as any doxy, ridiculous hat marking his profession if his sword and pistol did not, his hair matted and thickly curled, hanging with spoils. Surprisingly soft to the touch, Sparrow's hair, and Norrington felt it anew along his palms, his breath catching to realize that he could not remember ever attempting to run his fingers through the tangled mess. But he knew he had just the same, and that Jack had not minded.

Norrington's mouth opened, a strangled cough emerging instead of words, and Sparrow paused in his low singing, stilling the thumb that had been stroking the pistol strapped across his chest, saying his name when he should not.

"James," Jack was frowning and holding out that same graceful hand for him, to pull him up, if he wanted. He did not need to push James anywhere; Norrington had thrown himself from the cliff without any assistance.

"Commodore, Sir?" Gillette was speaking to him too; one of many voices, and Norrington turned his head to study his lieutenant, and the number of his men with him. It was safe to assume for now that they had not understood most of what had been said, even Sparrow's crew would not. They all thought it was a game, just as he had.

James pulled in a long, chilling breath and stepped back, letting go of Turner's sword to gesture somewhere to his side. Beyond them lay his ship, with Sparrow's message still bold along the side for him to see, and he could not seem to look anywhere else.

"Gi... Gillette..." Norrington could sense how Jack scowled at that, even if he didn't know why or how. There was the force of a stare at his back as he turned, as persistent as an itch. He ignored it, straightening sore shoulders and licking parched lips. "Ready the men... we leave for Port Royal with the tide."

He did not wonder why he still spoke loud enough for the whole of Tortuga to hear him, and could not allow himself to guess if his men did.

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