Rags of Time
Part 4
by
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Life seemingly returned to normal following Sparrow's latest escape, save some stern words and raised eyebrows from his superiors. He rose each morning, dressed and breakfasted. Made his way to the fort, attended to the days business. On a particularly good day he might have need to make a short trip aboard the Dauntless. But generally paperwork and politics were the order of the day. He returned home, took dinner, made occasional polite conversation with the staff, maybe read a little with some brandy until sleep came. And then over again.
Drudgery.
In the following weeks he found his gaze wandering to the horizon. His heart jumped in his chest if ever the Black Pearl was mentioned, though it was rarely seen close to Port Royal. It seemed Norrington's mind was also wandering. At the strangest times he found himself picturing some aspect of Sparrow, as though his memory was testing him to ensure he did not forget anything. The earth-and-sea smell of his hair, the dark spark of his eyes, the way his lips and brow worked together at forming thoughts far ahead of the words he spoke. The way his slight frame danced with movement and charm, his voice a calculating smile.
Norrington took to fetching the scrap of note from its place in the hidden drawer in the davenport on some nights. He'd read it over, put it back again. Read the poem it referred to. Once or twice he even dreamt of the man, dreamt they were in his cabin again. Felt the man's calloused fingertips catch on his linen nightshirt as it rode up past his waist, the tip of his tongue drift firmly up the inside of his thigh and twist around his balls and take him in his warm soft mouth.
He'd awaken in a knot of bed sheets, a drenched and sticky mess the likes of which he had not endured since he was a boy, scooping away the evidence to spare the housemaid's blushing.
The dreams disturbed him, shame flushing his face when he recalled them during the day. But at night his mind dwelled on them, making them occur more frequently.
Norrington had had fumblings with men before. Aboard ship for months on end, drunken stumblings below deck occurred often enough, and a blind eye was turned. On one or two such long journeys he'd found himself pressed up against a small corner of the ship with another young midshipman, hands working in earnest around each other's cocks, foreheads on shoulders gasping and grunting and avoiding eye contact when it was over.
But it was understood that it was desperation and lack of female company to blame for such behaviour. Even though the thrill and feel of another man pressed against himself had fulfilled him on those few occasions more than any women he had known, the memories of one man had certainly never followed him into sleep before.
There had been a boy. The stable boy from his home, back in England. His name was Martin; he'd come from the Workhouse with the young housemaids to fulfill his father's charitable deeds. He had been pale and slight, long-legged and smiling always with muck on his forehead and a messy pile of black hair. Norrington had been drawn to the way the boy had treated the horses, with love and respect and gentleness. He was a few years older than Norrington. And his father had sent him back to the Workhouse before Norrington was old enough to understand the harm in the way they looked at each other, how his hand would linger on Martin's arm as he showed him how to brush the horses. He had not thought of Martin for years, but lately he'd remembered him.
Now he almost wished the Black Pearl would be spotted nearby, just for an excuse to chase the man. But the Admiralty had made it very clear that any future encounter between Sparrow and the Navy of Port Royal had better be concluded with the man's hanging, or serious questions about Norrington's competence would need to be answered.
So Norrington resigned himself to daydreaming toward the horizon, watching the sea meet the sky, and wondering where the other man might be.
Sparrow smiled triumphantly as the lock clicked open, and returned the picks to a fold in one of his coat's many pockets. The hinges opened silently, the staff entrance being in near constant use.
He crept quietly over the flagstones and made his way upstairs, half feeling his way through the darkness with his expert fingers. The first two rooms he tried were empty bedrooms. Why did the man need so many bedrooms if he was on his own, anyway?
He gently pushed open the door to the third room and realised he'd reached his goal. He went in slowly, closing the door behind him.
He stood still to get his bearings. There was a washbasin beside him, and a davenport. A bookcase overloaded with books, a desk and an elaborate-looking armchair and the bed. Everything was neat—not a thing out of place.
The bed was a rather grand but sedate thing. Four posts supported a canopy with no fancy frills, only thick stiff-looking cotton. The man lay with his back to the door, facing the window, wearing a nightshirt with the thin sheet covering him to the waist.
Sparrow moved silently over to the window and pushed his hands past the curtains to find the catch. He was unsure how tonight's escapade would turn out, and it was always better to have a quick exit in case one was needed.
He winced as the window frame creaked when he pushed it up, and froze as he heard the pistol cock behind him.
Sparrow raised his hands and turned round slowly to see Norrington, still on his side but lifted up on one elbow, the other arm outstretched and pointing the gun directly at Sparrow's chest, making the ten feet between them seem awfully close, suddenly.
"What the hell are you doing here, Sparrow?" Norrington asked, his voice calm though still thick with sleep.
"Just came to see you, luv," he replied cheerfully. "Don't think you'll really be needin' that."
Norrington remained motionless. There was a chilly silence for a moment.
"You came to see me? Why?" he demanded.
"Just wanted to is all—" Sparrow said, smiling the words.
"Do not move," Norrington said after a pause, and sat up, leaning over to light the lamp, the arm that held the gun not once wavering. He sat on the edge of the bed and returned his gaze to the other man, still standing with his hands raised. He looked just as his mind had been persistently reminding him for the last few months. He wore his old battered coat, which must have been left aboard the Pearl when Jenkins took him, and a dark blue sash covered his vest and shirt. But apart from those details he was still the same. And the rush of something in his chest the vision evoked did not calm Norrington's nerves.
"Did you mean to kill me?" Norrington asked.
"No!" Sparrow laughed, genuinely surprised at the question.
"Did you mean to kidnap me? Are your men waiting outside?"
"No," he replied more seriously.
"Then why did you come here?"
"Told you, luv. Just wanted to see you."
"You broke into my house and crept into my bedchamber in the middle of the night just to see me?" Norrington asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Well I could hardly walk up to you at the fort in broad daylight now, could I."
The man's logic looped around so many times it actually made sense, like some elaborate Oriental knot.
"No, you could not," Norrington replied flatly. He glanced towards the table on the other side of the room. "Put all your weapons over there. In fact, leave your coat there too, God knows what you have hidden in it. Bring the chair over here and sit—and if you do anything to make me doubt your sincerity, I will shoot you. I swear it."
Sparrow brought his hands together and made his funny little bow before moving to the table. He removed his coat and belts and pulled various sharp and shiny objects from his sash, placing them on the table. Norrington's pistol tracked him throughout.
He returned with the chair and placed it a few feet away from where Norrington still sat on the edge of the bed.
"Think you might put that down now, luv?" he asked, nodding towards the gun. After a long moment Norrington uncocked it and lowered it to his side.
"What are you really doing here?" he asked.
"There's no mystery. I just wanted to see you."
"For what purpose?"
"Just wanted to. What other reason is there to do anything?" Sparrow smiled and shifted in the chair, reclining with one elbow cocked over the back of it and a foot resting on his knee.
"Indeed," Norrington replied, unsure and uneasy about the whole situation. He did not like nor understand what he felt and thought—the giddy excitement and the dread, the sense of wanting this and also not.
"Did you get my note?" Sparrow asked, his gaze becoming liquid as he smiled.
"Yes," Norrington replied shortly, looking away. He felt his face flush, and hoped Sparrow wouldn't notice in the dimness.
Sparrow smiled. He sat upright and leant forward slightly.
"Why didn't you come after me?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Norrington frowned.
"I stayed far enough away to give you an excuse not to, but brought the Pearl in close enough once or twice for you to give chase if you wanted to. Why didn't you?"
Norrington paused, looking puzzled. He sighed after a moment, and ran a hand through his hair.
"Because, as is probably all too obvious to you by now, I do not wish to see you hang. And I most certainly don't want to be the person to condemn you." He sounded tired suddenly, worn out by the admission.
"And why is that, James?" Sparrow persisted.
"Because—I don't think that..." he began, unsure how to phrase the sentence he hadn't let his thoughts complete. "Your crimes are outweighed by your nature—what I mean is, you have redeemed yourself in my eyes in a way the law does not recognise. It would be unjust."
"And what of all the others who hang for unjust reasons? Thieves stealin' just to feed a family. Do you allow them to escape?" Sparrow's face was unreadable. He was smiling amicably, but there was a bitterness to his voice.
"I do not make the law, Sparrow," Norrington replied sharply.
"But you choose who will be subject to it."
"You are twisting my words. I am not a judge, I do not decide who will be punished and how. I simply uphold the law. I did not chase you because I do not want you to hang. It is as simple and as ridiculous as that."
Sparrow stared at him in silence. The kohl around his eyes was smudged, making his eyes look bigger. He really was doe-eyed—liquid dark eyes surrounded by heavy lashes. His thin dressed beard framed his features, his mouth—his lips not a cupid's bow, but an archer's.
Norrington was staring now, and was suddenly aware of it. He looked away quickly and found something to fill the silence with, anything to stop his thoughts racing.
"I hope to God you have not been seen by anyone," he began, running his hand through his hair again. "If it's known that you have evaded capture again I will have hell to pay. The Admiralty were not impressed by your last escape."
"But I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, luv. I escape." Sparrow smiled, swaying in his chair with arms swinging wide.
"They do not listen to legends, Sparrow. They do not listen to stories of mad escapes," Norrington snapped, annoyed at the man's lack of concern. "To them you are just a man, just a pirate to be gotten rid of, and they wish to know why I am apparently incapable of doing so. My competence has been questioned more than once, and I am under strict instructions to ensure you do not escape again, should you be caught. I am to assign five soldiers to guard you at all times, even if you are behind bars, and to conduct your hanging in private so as to prevent a repeat of last time. If I do not carry out those instructions, or if you evade execution in spite of them, I will be summoned to answer for it personally." Norrington sighed finally and rubbed his temples.
"Didn't realise I was such a priority for the Admiralty," Sparrow said, slightly smug.
"Oh, don't flatter yourself. It's not who you are that matters to them, only that you have been captured and have escaped from the Navy so many times. It does not look good if we are unable to bring even a pirate to justice. That is the only reason they have instructed me as they have—you are an embarrassment to them."
"Politics, eh?"
"Yes, indeed," Norrington said with distaste.
"I 'spect you have little time for politics."
"You would be right about that, Sparrow," Norrington replied, pulling himself up onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard, legs outstretched before him. "There are far too many things in the Navy which are done for the wrong reasons, I'm afraid to say."
"What do you see in your future, luv? Cuz if you don't like politics then I think you're in the wrong job." Sparrow leant closer, resting his elbows on his knees. Norrington only narrowed his eyes slightly.
"See, I know exactly what's in your future," he continued, waving a finger towards him. "You'll make your way further and further up the chain of command, getting nothing better than a prettier hat for it, until you are so immersed in your dreaded politics that you barely set foot on a ship—and when you do, it will be someone else's ship, so though you outrank her captain you are still as unable to command her as if you were midshipman." He paused to see how Norrington would react. The man only stared at him blankly, and then moved his hand with eyebrows raised, gesturing for Sparrow to continue.
"You'll take a wife," he said, leaning back in the chair. "She'll be some pretty young thing, in awe of you so that she's a good match, and will serve you well for your career. She'll bear you children, and then become fat and complacent, happy that her duty is fulfilled, and will be nothing more than a rope around your neck as you are dragged to this event and that occasion and all the other dreary little social gatherings a good Navy man's wife is inclined to attend. Your children will be perpetual disappointments to you, unable to fulfill your unrealistic expectations for them—and you will sit, sipping tea blankly, while everything you thought you wanted becomes a quagmire for you to drown in."
Sparrow's eyes sparkled, proud of his diatribe.
Norrington smiled tightly. "You assume, of course," he began, some small annoyance in his voice, "that the situations you describe are going to have negative outcomes. I will progress in my career, and although I may not be involved in the running of a ship, I will be involved in the running of a fleet, and will be leading ships into battle when necessary, not to mention being involved in the fundamental decisions integral to life and law in this colony. As for children—having grown up as the perpetual disappointment of my own father, I will ensure I do not inflict the same upbringing on my own. The circumstances of the life you describe are exactly what I plan on achieving. It is only your twisted interpretation of them that makes them unhappy."
"Aye, but you forget, luv. I've seen you captaining a ship, seen the way you stare at the sea and know her ways. The joy of the wind and the spray in your face—that's not something you feel sitting at a desk with fat pompous men discussing politics and running a fleet. You weren't made for law and decision-making—you have too passionate a heart. And you will grow restless and uneasy with yourself, and not know why as you will have everything you'd planned for—but it won't be living the life you want. And it's that resentment that will seep into your home, embitter you to your lady and children, so that they will be naught but a reminder of what your life has come to. You only plan on achieving these things cuz it's what you think you should do."
Norrington felt the words more than heard them. He refused to think them true, but something itched at the back of his mind.
"So are you suggesting an alternative, then?" he asked.
"No, luv," Sparrow replied shortly. "You're a stubborn ass, like all Navy. So you wouldn't take one even if there were."
"So why tell me?" Norrington asked, frowning.
"Just so you know, luv. That I know you, really know you. So that years from now when you're sipping your tea listening to the idle gossip from your fat little wife, or being told why a certain Lord's son must be promoted even though his incompetence will result in the deaths of good men—you'll remember a mad pirate once told you that you'd come to hate the life you chose to live. A life with no more than little packages of freedom."
"You do paint a dim picture, Sparrow," Norrington replied after a long pause. "So did you come here only to depress me?"
"No," he said, smiling broadly. "I came to repay a favor."
"And what might that be?"
"I brought you something owed. It's in my coat though, and I think you might shoot me if I try to retrieve it."
"After your bleak predictions for my future you could retrieve your sword and run me through for all I care," Norrington replied, letting his head fall back against the wall.
"Come now, luv!" Sparrow said, jumping to his feet and going to his coat. "It's not all that bad."
He rummaged through the pockets and then pulled a bottle of brandy from it with a flourish.
"Figured I owed you for the one we drank last time."
Norrington stared at him blankly.
"I don't have any glasses up here," he said.
"I could go fetch us some?" Sparrow suggested excitedly.
"No, you could not. I'm not having you running around my house in the dead of night. Well, no more than you probably have already. If you were to wake the housekeeper she'd batter you with a rolling pin."
"Ah, not once I'd warmed her to me charms." Sparrow winked lewdly.
"You've not seen Mrs. Owens, have you," Norrington replied with a frown. "There is a mug on the wash basin."
"Excellent!" Sparrow exclaimed, dashing to fetch it and pouring brandy into it as he returned. "Then I shall have the mug and you shall have the bottle, as it's yours anyhow." He practically threw himself onto the bed, practice preventing him from spilling any drink, and pulled his knees up beneath him to sit cross-legged.
"Take those filthy bloody boots off of my bed!" Norrington said, taking the bottle and shoving Sparrow with his foot.
"All right, luv, calm down. God, would have thought I'd..." he muttered as he removed the offending boots and tossed them on the floor.
Sparrow repositioned himself and drained his mug in one go. Norrington looked down at the man's now bare feet. The word 'dirty' hardly began to describe them.
"On second thoughts, you may have been better to keep them on..." Norrington said, taking a long swig from the bottle. Sparrow looked at his feet, wiggled his toes and looked back up at Norrington.
"What?" he asked, eyes innocently wide, as though he didn't have a clue what the man was talking about.
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