Tyger, Tyger
3. Tyger's Stripes: Know Thy Prey
by
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted:9/19/2009
Dedication: To Theodore Groves, because this chapter is all his fault.
Note: Not like you can tell I'm a sucker for characterization, ay?
Warning: This one is very long and full of backstory.
Summary: Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night, and the tryst that results has more of an effect on both men than expected. Jack begins to do some research on the commodore's past in order to better understand what James might be planning for the future.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted:9/19/2009
Dedication: To Theodore Groves, because this chapter is all his fault.
Note: Not like you can tell I'm a sucker for characterization, ay?
Warning: This one is very long and full of backstory.
Summary: Jack Sparrow makes an unsettling discovery in Tortuga one night, and the tryst that results has more of an effect on both men than expected. Jack begins to do some research on the commodore's past in order to better understand what James might be planning for the future.
James Norrington was called a tiger by his peers long before he ever met Jack Sparrow; his peers, however, had not originally treated it as a compliment.
Originally, James was called a tiger partly because he did not get close to people or even open up easily to the few men he called friends, but mostly because it had been well-known that the man had literally "earned his stripes" in service, however well-hidden they were beneath his uniform. To most of polite society, such scars were to be reviled, and their owner was treated like a damaged, possibly contagious thing.
It was a relief, then, that after the initial flare of gossip, most of polite society forgot that James Norrington had been so gravely injured or, since his scars were not easily visible, they simply assumed that he was as healthy and unmarred as he appeared to be upon first glance.
On occasion, however, James would run across an old acquaintance who had seen him, three and a half years ago, when those stripes were fresh, still bleeding, and exposed for all to see. They were unnerved by him, both because they remembered his scars and because Norrington seemed normal, but still different than he had ever been before those old wounds had been inflicted.
Few, if any officers possessed scars like James'.
Theodore Groves was an observant man. He had been the one who had noticed the very slight change in temperament undergone by one Captain James Norrington when, over three years ago, the man had returned from nearly a full year spent apart from his only close friends: one year spent serving under the Honorable Cutler Beckett (now titled 'Lord' these days) and the East India Company.
Groves and Gillette both had sensed the quiet sea change in their formerly close friend: a strange, almost sad and reluctant distance behind those cool green eyes, as though he had aged several years instead of one. And distant from them, he was: scarcely speaking to anyone unless he was working, and the subject matter was purely naval. James worked into the night, every night since his return to Port Royal, finding things to do to keep him at the fort as though quietly trying to anchor himself there.
Gillette had almost let the matter go, thinking that there was nothing to be done, that the distance between them and their old friend was regrettable but natural; Groves, however, took notice one day of the slight limp that James walked with, well-hidden by a man unwilling to show himself to be hurt, and suddenly knew that as James' friend, it was his duty to ask the man what on earth had happened to him.
And so, one night, Theodore Groves finally asked just that.
James, still seated at his desk, having worked late and into the night as had become his habit, looked up at Groves and shook his head slightly. "Too much, Theodore." It was the first time he had used the other man's given name since returning to his more usual naval service.
Taking a deep breath, Theodore made the quiet observation, "It had seemed, when you left, that the Honorable Cutler Beckett had intended to keep you transplanted, away from us here at the Fort. I am honestly surprised that you've been returned to us."
James' lips pulled into the barest suggestion of a bitter, humorless smile. "Beckett recognized my usefulness as a weapon, especially against pirates; however, he underestimated my tendency to bend rules and take on selective hearing when it comes to direct orders." He shared a look with Groves; both men well knew that James' so-called 'selective hearing' had saved a great number of lives over the years, thus preserving both of their reputations. "In addition, he overestimated my ability to be blind to open and inhuman cruelty." A harsh look, darker and more vicious than any that Groves had ever seen from his old friend even in battle, settled over James' features for a moment. Then the captain took a deep breath, willing his expression back into calm, and sipped his brandy with deliberate slowness.
"You're hurt, James. I caught you limping, the other day. I can tell it was something serious at one point." Finally, not waiting for permission, Groves dragged a chair near James' and sat down, facing his friend with determination. "You have been one of my most loyal friends, and you still were, some months ago. Until your correspondences with Gillette and I abruptly cut off."
James set his brandy aside, his expression a truly grim mask. "We were sent to guard ships off of the coast of Africa." He almost, almost kept his hands from shaking. "The ships were harvesting men, women, and children. From conditions that—" James halted, shaking his head.
"Slave ships," Groves said quietly, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Theo, you know as well as I... after our experiences in Hispaniola—" James shook his head. "We would not have survived if not for those men. I refuse to think of them as anything less than men: rebel slaves or no." He swallowed, thickly. "We were attacked, by rival slavers. The... overall ordeal eventually gave me an excuse to come home, but I shared parting words with Beckett that are sure to prevent me ever working directly under the East India Trading Company again." He would have reached for his brandy again, but his hands would once more shake, so he clenched them into fists and kept his gaze determinedly fixed on the view outside of his office window.
Groves looked down, gulped almost audibly. "I'm sorry, James."
The stern, but still slightly haunted-looking captain nodded in acknowledgement, taking a few long moments to find the words he needed. Even once he had the words, he hesitated for a moment before continuing, "There is more."
Groves nodded, saying nothing. The calm, concern, and patience in his look were like a salve, and James felt unexpectedly soothed by it.
"They caught me: the rival slavers," James murmured. "Smugglers, more like. A motley crew of vagabonds with not an ounce of human decency among them. If Captain Henderson had not caught up with them before nightfall, there is little doubt that I would not be alive today. As it is... well, the officers aboard called me 'striped' among other things, when they did not think that I could hear them." In an absent-minded manner, he adjusted his coat, straightening it needlessly. "Those who caught me wanted to steal human cargo from men whose sole redeeming factors, in comparison to the thieves in question, consisted of legal sanction, English discipline, and perhaps a certain level of personal hygiene." James' voice was calm, but there was a venom in his green eyes that Groves had not seen before. Then the glow of rage dimmed as James glanced once more at his friend. A look of apology and grief crossed James' features. "I... am not who or what I was when I left, Theodore. I stopped correspondence with you only because I could not think of any words to..." He shook his head. "I had hoped, in the months following, that I would wake up as myself again." He swallowed tightly, chagrined by the tremor that had managed to leak into his voice over that last phrase.
"Then who is this man here, sitting at your desk, James?" Theodore asked softly.
"I do not know," James said, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes tiredly. He looked centuries older than the brash young captain who had left Port Royal when the call came from Beckett. "I well and truly do not know."
Slowly, Theodore nodded, looking at the floor for a moment. "I've not seen you smile properly since you returned," he murmured. "Gillette was convinced... well, he had thought you indifferent to us. Your lack of attention paid him hurt his pride, and that blinded him, I am afraid. Should I... can I tell him what you have told me, James?"
James looked at him with a hint of bemusement. "I've hardly told you the merest summary, Theo, but if you think that will help..."
"Your poignant silences and omissions in this conversation have been more than eloquent enough, my friend."
For the first time in months, some iota of tension left James' too-stiff shoulders. A flicker of relief crossed his face. "Forgive me, for not... for not being able to..."
"James." Theodore raised his eyebrows. "From the sound of it, you have been through Hell. I didn't even see you like this when we were avoiding capture in Hispaniola and had your arm in that make-shift splint. And I—I have more than a vague idea of what you must have seen, even just aboard the slave ships. God, James, to have had to sail with them... I could not have done it." His eyes snapped shut, tight, then opened quickly, as he winced a little at the images that had played on the backs of his eyelids. "I would have... Well, I dare not think what I would have done."
"That, more than anything I think, is why the wise ship's surgeon kept me heavily sedated for so long as he did. My leg was broken, but I was not injured as badly as... some of the others were hurt worse." James winced, then, the first time his mask visibly cracked. "I think that I said things to the doctor whilst in fever-induced delirium that worried him. I have no doubt that he was the one who suggested to Beckett that a better weapon could be found for his fleet than Captain James Norrington." His hands were steadier, under the influence of anger, and he reached for his glass, draining it with alacrity.
Groves himself reached for the bottle to refill it. "That explains why you did not commandeer a ship and start a slave uprising."
"Aye." James' brow furrowed. "Only laudanum and God knows what other drugs he gave me, along with fever, overall helplessness, and a total lack of awareness of myself prevented me. But what would I have done then? It would have been the only just action, but what could have possibly followed it?"
"I do not know," Groves murmured.
James smiled wanly, bitter as coffee grounds. "Perhaps when I that find out, I will also discover who and what it is that I have become."
Theodore took a few moments for heavy contemplation. Finally, he said, "James?"
"Yes, Theo?"
"I think... No. I demand that you take a holiday."
James blinked a few times in surprised. "What? Theo, I only just—"
"You can either request a vacation, or I can appeal to the governor and he will force you to take one, for the sake of your sanity, James. I think that you need it, and that for God's sake you bloody well deserve it. Go out in your sloop and get away from all things military."
James chuckled bitterly, despite himself. "Where on earth could I possibly do that?"
"The James Norrington I know tends to find all sorts of interesting things when left to his own devices," Theodore said, making it sound like an exasperated sigh. "It is, after all, how we met: when he discovered me in a position that might have compromised mine and young Andrew's careers had it been any other officer..."
James snorted, but his smile this time was more sincere. "In retrospect, especially considering the relationship that you and Andrew currently share, the most amusing part of it is that you two ended up in such a position in such a pure and innocent fashion: embarrassed and bleating positively sincere denials as to why you were both nude and locked in such a suspiciously narrow space with a half-drained cask of rum taking up so much of it."
Despite blushing a good deal, Theodore countered, "And for 'innocent' one may read: you may still be the greatest prankster in the history of this navy because I have yet to work out quite how you managed that without use of supernatural powers."
James smirked, helpless against his own amusement and a hint of smugness.
Theodore grinned wide and pointed a finger at him. "There you are, James. Good to have you back."
Again, James rubbed his eyes, as if with exhaustion, but his smirk lingered. "My God, Theo, but I should have come to you sooner."
"Damned right, you should have. Do you have any idea how much pouting and sulking that I've had to deal with, both on and off duty, from one Andrew Gillette? Hmmmm?"
James almost managed to snort, and his eyes had a flicker of life in them that had been too-long absent. "Thank you, Theo."
"Are you returned to us for more than just this meeting, or shall I have to bring you back to your senses several times?"
"I think... that I will be alright. You see, I have this terribly loyal and stubborn friend who has demanded that I take a holiday, and despite my annoyance, I think he may be right about my needing it." Absently, James took off his wig and ran his hand through hair far shorter than Groves recalled. It had been shorn, doubtlessly, to take care of the bullet-graze along his scalp, which now formed a pearlescent line from just above James' temple to behind the top of his ear.
"You didn't mention the head wound," Theodore said, his voice tight. He got to his feet and took hold of James' head before he could think about what he was doing. "My God, James, this could have gone—" He stopped, a half-formed and unintelligible further word dying on his tongue as he traced the healing scar with his thumb.
James stilled, his eyes very wide. "Er... Theo?" He glanced toward the doorway to his office, as the night-watch marched by audibly.
Theodore took a very abrupt half-step away, almost stumbling, his hands folding behind his back. "Sorry. I just... a bullet nearly brained you and you didn't think to mention it?" In a smaller voice, he added, "They even cut your hair."
Ah yes, his one vanity. James tried to shrug it off, but this only made apparent that the tension in his shoulders was not purely of psychological origin; luckily, Theodore was still distracted by the head injury and did not quite notice. "Well, I myself was not fully aware of it until I woke up after nearly a month of delirium to find myself heavily bandaged, weak, and with a broken leg." He cleared his throat. "As for my hair... well, they did not even feel the need to mention that they had cut it and I did not even know about it until they finally removed the bandages." It was growing out again, already uncomfortable when worn beneath a wig and no longer short enough to bristle like the spines of a hedgehog when the wig came off.
"It's just a bit of a shock, I suppose," Groves murmured. "Sorry if I..."
"It's quite alright, Theo. We've known each other for nearly eight years, now."
"And I look forward to you getting well and letting us get to know who it is you've become now, after this past year," Theodore countered, his humor easing away the remaining traces of tension between them. "Speaking of, I should go find Andrew and comfort him on that matter, since he believed himself abandoned somehow, I'm sure." He heaved a dramatic sigh, but could not prevent the affectionate smile that tugged at his lips.
"Go on. Give him the offer of my sincerest apologies. Perhaps before I leave on this vacation of yours, I shall deliver some of them to him in person, however repetitive that may be. And it will spare you some of his initial reaction of ire, if he can aim it directly at me instead."
Theodore bowed slightly. "My thanks, James."
"I owe you far more thanks than you owe me, Theo."
Smiling, Theodore made his way to the door. "Goodnight, James."
"Goodnight."
Three years James would spend, visiting that den of chaotic debauchery that is Tortuga every three or four months: whenever his cravat started to feel too much like a dog collar.
The first trips had been a mixture of motivations: learning about his enemies and reluctantly asking himself if the freedom they possessed could be his, or whether he could possibly accept it. In Tortuga, James had witnessed Caribbean pirates of all temperaments, sensibilities, and levels of intelligence. There were among them honest working men who played a game of underhandedness and did not lend themselves easily to outright cruelty, but many more of them were rat-like in their manner—underhanded, gutless, ruthless, honorless. Rare among their number, there were better, more interesting creatures: the leaders who walked through the ebb and flow of lesser men like cats or wolves or snakes. Of course, many of those more interesting men were still very cruel, and their intelligence had made them only more evil.
It was those men, and the worst of the more spineless rat-like ones whose cowardice made them prone to similar sadism, that James Norrington had always been determined to hunt.
On his third visit to Tortuga, James had witnessed one particularly evil pirate captain, and a number of the more loyal members of his wretched crew, in action in one of the usually-quieter taverns—one that James had become rather fond of, in fact. One of the scoundrels tried to steal Marie from Norrington's table when she arrived to refill his rum, and the navy man risked his neck openly to threaten the man into letting her go. The fight that ensued was the most adventure Norrington had ever gotten from Tortuga: luring several drunk and particularly vicious pirates out into the dark to chase him down and kill him for his impudence (and it had been a lot of work to incite them so thoroughly as to get the captain involved) and then working out a clever means of escaping them using only his quick wit, a particularly unstable bit of scaffolding, some apathetic livestock, a bottle of rum, a lantern, and the element of surprise. (One day, James would suppose in retrospect that it had been a trick more than worthy of Captain Jack Sparrow, and remind himself to relay that tale to the pirate some time.)
At first, the incident had thoroughly convinced James that piracy and its freedoms were not worth it, and not just because he would have a new little knife-slash scar on his forearm for his trouble. It was, and always would be, his duty and the driving force in his life, to hunt down men like that and see them brought to justice; it came as naturally as breathing to James Norrington, just like his love of the sea.
Then, he had returned to the tavern the next night, if only to quietly bid it farewell with one last night spent unobtrusively watching the show put on by its occupants, and had been greatly startled by the abrupt hero's welcome he received, from both the tavern's staff and a number of its customers who had witnessed some of his actions the night before and approved of them.
"He made it!"
"By God, he lives!"
"Good lad! Get him some rum, ay, Marie?"
"Well, I'll be damned!"
Men had clapped him on the back and cuffed his shoulders, and Marie had sat in his lap despite his protests and kissed him soundly on the mouth until he was somewhat dazed and more than a little chagrined. "Yer a good man," she had told him. "What's your name, lovely?"
James had, of course, hesitated. Then he improvised. "Andrew. Andrew Norton." The idea of Gillette somehow learning of this nearly made James laugh aloud.
Marie had seen the lie straight away, but smiled anyway as the men around them began toasting loudly to Andrew's health and to the misfortune of the bastards James had so greatly chagrined. Apparently, they had left port that morning.
Feeling humbled, James accepted the rum that the tavern-keeper shoved into his hand, and as he drank it, he watched his well-wishers drink and celebrate themselves into forgetfulness. It was more than disconcerting for him to realize that he was happy, and pleased, and that he could almost say that he liked these men just now, dissolute brigands though they were. They had seen him handle several horrible bastards with trickster finesse, and weasel his way out of the fight that the bastards had wanted, if only to get them away from a few good wenches and one of the more peaceful taverns in Tortuga: an act of mixed selfishness and honor. And for it, they lauded him where polite society would not know in the least what to make of him.
"What are you thinking of, that makes you look so stern an' confused an' pleased all at the same time?" Marie asked playfully. She was still in his lap, draped over him and smiling, looking both genuinely content to be there, and more than willing to make it much more interesting.
"Freedom. Honor. How to politely decline what you are offering for the sake of the latter, with some apology," James had replied absently, but then looked down at her with an almost shy smile, looking for the first time that evening like a man not yet thirty.
"You're no pirate, are ye, sir?"
"Not in the least, Miss Marie."
Marie only sighed, and got out of his lap, for all that she kissed his cheek before leaving. "Take care, 'Andrew Norton'. Come back an' see us sometime."
James watched her go, finished his last mug of rum, and unobtrusively took his leave early that night, heading down to an isolated patch of beach to sit and think of how he could possibly have his cake and eat it too. Or, rather, seize his freedom without forsaking his honor.
James Norrington knew himself well enough to recognize that he could never be a true pirate. He was too... military.
So what did he want to do?
Hunt down evil men who deserved to be hanged...
Possess his own freedom...
Without a ship and a crew, how could he hunt them?
Armed ships in these waters fell into three main categories only: merchants and businessmen, Navy men, or pirates.
And yet...
James found himself smirking a little as the answer to his quandary slowly unfolded in his mind. It was, to say the least, highly unconventional. Then again, so was James Norrington.
Theodore Groves was an observant man. This time, he observed an altogether different change in James Norrington's behavior: the man was wickedly amused. As usual, the commodore hid his feelings well, but after over a decade in the man's acquaintance, Theodore had learned to read mischief in the man strictly in order to survive, especially as a prankster himself who had once often competed with James, when they were both younger men.
Thus, the first day following James' return from his most recent vacation was spent, by Theodore Groves at least, in a state of expectation that alternated between worried amusement and outright terror. When nothing of a truly hilarious and/or embarrassing nature occurred, Theodore reviewed the events of that first day, and then took a closer look at his commodore the next day, and noticed a few rather... interesting telltale signs of the source of James' mood.
Even working on paper work, in his own office, the commodore remained on his feet, leaning over his desk in favor of taking a seat; this lasted the duration of his first day back in Port Royal. Also, there was a small cut on his lower lip of a slightly odd shape, as though it had been bitten by someone; and he continuously adjusted his cravat so that it covered his neck a little more thoroughly than he usually bothered caring about, and when he adjusted it, his ears turned just the slightest bit pink.
The signs were small, but Theodore had a sinking suspicion that James Norrington was not only up to something, but there was another man helping him with it as well. He was a bit put out that James had not seen fit to share his secrets, but chided himself for asking too much of such a private man, even though he and James were quite close friends. Theodore had learned, over the years, how few people got under James' armor (especially as far as himself and Gillette had gotten) even after years of relative closeness to the man.
Months passed, and Groves was still, despite himself, feeling more a little put-out: knowing that James had successfully hidden whatever affair had happened over his last vacation; especially given that Theodore was increasingly sure that the commodore had been more affected by it than his lieutenant had first guessed. After the first month, the amusement and smugness had finally faded, if only in the face of a suddenly larger number of pirate raids on Jamaica, which kept them busy until recent.
Now, in the sudden calm of the past few weeks, following all those skirmishes with far-too-many French and Spanish privateers (but at least, Theodore thought to himself with relief, no Black Pearl to complicate the raids even further) James was growing distinctly restless, only truly calm and sedate as usual when faced with others' anger, as seemed to be James' instinctive reaction. The still-healing bullet wound to James' upper-right arm had not helped matters; the commodore was always more easily frustrated when limited by some kind of injury.
Usually, the waters had to be calm (at least, enough to keep them ashore) for at least two months before the commodore showed signs of boredom's strain, but Theodore had taken note of the increasing frequency with which, after only a few weeks, James already tended to be caught out of his desk, leaning on the window frame of his office and staring out at the sea as though deep in thought. When disturbed, James' expression would become a perfect mask, but behind it was a strange tension, an excess of energy and, perhaps, a powerful desire to do something reckless or at least a bit violent.
The tension was of an utterly unfamiliar sort, as though James were trying to provoke some kind of conflict with his sharp, icy demeanor and the sheer the force of his mind. Theodore and Andrew were both consoled by the thought that James would be due for one of his usual holidays, out on his private sloop, in just a week. When he returned, so his lieutenants both hoped, his tensions should vanish, as they had always done in the past; albeit few, if any, in the past had been quite like this one.
Theodore's personal theory was that the commodore should take that vacation as an opportunity to find his lucky beau and shag until neither of them had enough energy left to be frustrated or restless ever again, or at least not for a few weeks. He was also confident that this would occur, and was therefore relatively at ease.
Andrew, however, had worked himself up with worry and irritation, and thus required soothing, which was how Theodore had ended up curled up with him in bed early in the night. Usually, the pair of them tried to avoid spending too-conspicuous amounts of time together in Theodore's more gossip-ridden neighborhood, but Andrew's house was too far from the pub. Both of them had imbibed heavily, and gotten drunk relatively early into the evening since some stranger had kept buying rounds of drinks for everyone. Andrew was dead-to-the-world asleep, the combination of good wine and good sex having provided sufficient distraction from his worries. Theodore was still more than a little drunk, and with too much of a buzz to sleep deeply, he lingered instead in a very light doze.
Thus, the sound of someone moving in his downstairs study—falling through the window, it sounded like—was enough to wake him; although it took Theodore a few moments to figure that out, due to the lingering effects of alcohol and weariness on his mind. Then he heard, very faintly, the sound of creaking boards from downstairs: footsteps, a cabinet being opened. The night was deathly quiet, especially with the calm that had settled over Port Royal earlier in the evening: scarcely a breath of wind to stir the air, the waves and the ships in the nearby harbors whispering far softer than usual because of it.
Disentangling reluctantly from Andrew, Theodore murmured something soothing to keep his lover asleep, pulled himself out of bed, and put on a nightshirt and dressing gown with haste. Finally, he picked up his pistol, checking to be sure that it was loaded, and made his way downstairs, silent as a shadow despite his still-considerable inebriation: he was, after all, a sailor, and capable of holding his liquor... mostly. Sort of. He had his moment.
Also, this was Theodore's own home, and he knew which boards made noise and which did not. The first thing that the intruder in his study was aware of, indicating the homeowner's presence, was the sound of the lieutenant's pistol being cocked.
"Don't move." He was proud to have managed not to slur, and his hand was steady; although he had to lean heavily on the doorframe to keep himself upright.
There was a pirate sitting at his chart-table.
Looking up from his examination of the recently-pilfered rum bottle in his hand, Captain Jack Sparrow stilled for a moment, then raised his eyebrows a little and took a sip of rum from the silver flagon in his other hand. "'Evening, mate. Had a good night out, have you, Lieutenant... Groves, I believe it was, then, was it not?"
Theodore's face was a study in confusion. After a moment or two he finally hissed, "Sparrow?"
"Captain," Jack chided. "Captain Sparrow if you please. And I think you'll be wanting to put that pistol away."
"Why on earth would I want to do that?" His eyes narrowed. "You've broken into my home, of all places, in the middle of the night, apparently to steal my rum. What in God's name are you doing here?" He had already slurred a few times, but had enough sense of self-control to bite his tongue before he could add something truly undignified, such as: I know you to be smarter than this, you dissolute bastard.
Jack grinned rather wickedly. "Because I very much doubt that you'll be wanting the sound of that little weapon to alert any of the local watchmen, or to call in the militia, considering the company you're currently keeping upstairs in your bed, mate. You'd have more than a little bit of explaining to do there, especially given your current state."
Theodore's glare grew darker, his jaw tensed. He did not lower the gun.
"By the way," Jack added, "This is very fine rum, Lieutenant. I'd not expect your fine naval self to fully appreciate the drink, considering that all you get shipboard is that terrible grog, and you boys seem to prefer ale when you're ashore."
With a snort, Theodore said, "I myself prefer brandy; that rum was a gift."
"Ay?" Jack's eyebrows raised. "From the red-headed lad upstairs?" He sounded a little incredulous, and understandably so, as the Lieutenant Gillette that Jack Sparrow recalled was far too stiff and pompously indignant to be a rum sort of lad.
Despite himself, Theodore smirked at the thought of who it was that Jack was truly complimenting, and leaned more heavily on the doorframe. "No. Not Gillette."
Jack seemed to ruminate on this for a moment, then recalled a deep, cultured voice in a tavern in Tortuga: Just the rum, my dear. And how the commodore had treated it: like it was as refreshing as cold water after a hot day spent in the rigging—just like any good sailor worth his salt would treat it, in Jack's opinion. His gold-edged smirk turned knowing for a moment. "Well. My compliments, then, to the man who gifted you; he has excellent taste."
Biting his tongue to keep from chuckling, Theodore managed a passable imitation of James, drawling, "I shall be sure to pass it on to him." Then he made a show of glaring once more, but there was an almost plaintive edge to it. "Why are you here, Captain Sparrow? Surely the Turners would provide you a kinder welcome. I've scarcely ever so much as spoken to you."
"Aye," Jack mused, "But I'd overheard you and that lad you've got upstairs, whilst we were all of us aboard the Dauntless, you see. It was very informative, you see, what it was I overheard, and so I believe that I actually know you quite well indeed. Better, at least, than most of your fellow officers, I'm sure." He grinned at the way that the lieutenant flushed scarlet and cursed softly. "And the Turners, y'see, haven't got quite what I need just at the moment, for a particular little project of mine." He sipped the very fine rum, musing on what it would make James' mouth taste like, or how it would taste licked off the commodore's skin. The man's taste in rum was just another unexpected bit of shine, hidden away, for Jack to discover like the pirate he was.
"And I do?" Theodore snorted, his confusion mounting. "I find that hard to believe. What is it, then, that you imagine you might get from me?"
"Well, I've got a question on my mind 's all. I can't work it out on me own, this time, see—because I think like a pirate, as you well know, but that thinking is, in this case, getting in the way of my finding the answer to this little question, because it's not a question of what a pirate would do, but rather what a man more of your sort might do. Savvy?" He grinned, and his coal-dark eyes glittered, unreadable. "Are you goin' to be putting that gun away, then, lad?"
Looking both suspicious and utterly confounded, Groves considered the matter, then glanced at the table. Jack had poured a second serving of rum and now pushed it towards him, and despite his preference for brandy, Theodore wanted that drink quite badly right now; if only because he thought that if he were to drain it quickly, then perhaps the pirate would make more sense, seen through the amber haze of deeper intoxication. Slowly lowering the gun and letting the hammer settle into a less threatening position, the lieutenant sat down across from the pirate and picked up the offer of stolen rum. If he were not already more than a little bit drunk, he surely would not have found himself saying, "Fine, captain. I shall humor you, but only if you will swear, not on your honor, but on your ship, that once I have answered your questions, you shall leave my house, committing no further theft and leaving the reputations of myself and Lieutenant Gillette untarnished."
Jack seemed to mull this over, and held out a hand. "We have an accord."
Cautiously, Theodore shook his hand, the feel of all those rings and other decorations a little odd. "Aye." Releasing hold of the pirate and sitting back to take a swig of rum, Groves waved one hand in an encouraging gesture. "Question away."
Jack waited until the other man had taken another, larger swig of rum, and then smiled graciously. "Alright, then. Now, if you were to leave the Navy, for its p'raps doing you some wrong or for the sake of some other, suitably unconventionally noble cause, what would you then do? What kind of man would ye become and what would you do with your life? Leavin' out, as I'm sure you automatically do, the possibility of turning pirate, because yer obviously not the type."
Eyes narrowed, Groves found himself appraising the pirate with a whole new level of wariness, but the rum was already hitting his system and the fog of inebriation made it a bit difficult. "And why, exactly, is it my answer that you want to this... particular question, Captain Sparrow?"
"Because, lieutenant, here you are." Jack spread his arms in a wide, opening gesture, inviting Groves to take in some great and grand picture, which he then explained, "You, a lieutenant of His Majesty's Royal Bloody Navy, are sitting and drinking rum here with me, instead of trying to capture or kill me like most any other navy lad would be more than eager t' do, including your lad upstairs, I believe." Jack gave a wide, made grin. "It's an officer of that sort, which is, of course, your sort, that I require the opinion of in setting to answer this question. Savvy?" Jack's gaze was intent, interested. "But why so quick to balk, mate? Anything else that might be havin' effect upon your answer?"
"A number of them, actually. What officer am I answering on behalf of, if I may ask?" His voice was sharp. "And why on earth do you expect him to leave the Navy?"
Jack grinned outright, but now it did not quite reach his eyes. His target was not drunk enough by half. "You're an observant man, for an officer."
"And you're one of the most intelligent and—if Miss Swann is to be believed, as I myself certainly believe her concerning her stay on an island with you—surprisingly civil pirates in the Caribbean. But that's also why I know that you're up to something. Well, that and the nature of the question itself and the fact it's you asking it. Who on earth have you been talking to?" The playful, bitterly amused attitude that was Groves' norm had vanished, replaced with pure (albeit, rather tipsy) steel.
Admiring the transformation, from reluctantly amused and playfully willing, to determinedly unrevealing and suspicious, Jack reflected that James chose his friends well. This lieutenant was a very good man indeed; it would be a pity, in fact, that Groves was spoken for, if Jack had not been so focused on James in the first place. Then again, Jack would hardly be here if not for that focus, now would he? Finally, Jack smiled more sincerely and replied, "You'd never believe me if I told you, mate."
Theodore's brow furrowed, as though a very odd thought had just occurred to him. Then his eyes widened. He set his rum down firmly and leaned back in his chair, staring at Jack in open shock and awe as the drunken epiphany tried to reveal itself to him. At first he had thought, somehow, that the pirate had gotten his hands on information about James' past, and somehow concluded that James would leave the navy if it compromised his honor. But what if the mischief-making pirate before him had something in mind for the commodore other than manipulation and blackmail? What if Jack Sparrow wanted not to cause mischief for the commodore, but with him?
Well, it was certainly an interesting mental image, which he would have to give some deeper thought to at some time later, because while he as quite happy in his own relationship, Theodore was not averse to indulging in the occasional fantasy and damn did that one sound interesting.
Then, as reality kicked in, Theodore shook his head, trying to dislodge such mad thoughts, muttering, "You... No. No, there's just no way that..." his brow creased further, his confusion dueling with his intuition and his intuition dueling with the part of his mind that still demanded that some things were simply preposterous.
Jack seemed intrigued by this reaction. "Care to guess?"
Groves took a pull of rum, trying to pull his thoughts together. "I just had a rather disturbing thought, 's all. I do not think that brandy and rum mix very well. Not if I'm thinking that you... somehow..." He gestured vaguely with one hand, waving it about in a manner somehow meant to indicate James Norrington. Finally he gave up with an exasperated sigh. "A friend of mine has just been acting a bit strange lately." He drained his rum after that thought, because Theodore had been growing increasingly sure that James was showing signs of being affected by surprisingly powerful desire, fiercer than even when Miss Swann had been taken from Port Royal. That, surely, should be enough to deter thinking that Jack Sparrow had anything to do with it. Surely.
Jack insinuated himself a little closer across the table and surreptitiously refilled the fine silver mug with rum as he asked, "Aye? What kind of friend, then?"
Theodore snorted. "I have only one friend such as Gillette, thank you," he said acidly, glaring at the pirate even as he sipped at his refilled rum. The first dose of it was hitting him even as the brandy finally began wearing off, and the rum was far stronger stuff, for all that its flavor was fine and smooth.
"Aye. I'd gathered that, from what I'd overheard. It's not often that love works out in such cases. You've a fine thing going, I'd hazard."
Despite himself, Theodore found himself smiling warmly as he glanced at the ceiling. "That I do." He was feeling very well-disposed toward the world at large, by now.
"Your friend, then, the one actin' odd. You seemed to think it might somehow link back to ol' Jack, ay?"
A snort of amusement. "For a mad, startling moment, I almost did."
"Well, if he's an officer and a friend of yours, I'd imagine so," Jack mused.
"Well, yes, there's already that to contend with, but..." Theodore chuckled softly. "This particular officer... Well, it would be mad. Moreso than I can give even you credit for, because you're clever, but so is he and I seriously doubt that he of all people would give in to your charms." For a moment, he seemed to doubt his own words, his brow beginning to furrow again, even as he took another swig of rum.
To distract him, Jack topped off the other man's mug again and asked, "Well, what are his symptoms, then? If not suffering from my charms?"
"Well, it all started a few months ago. He came back from holiday and had me on edge for days, thinking that he had some kind of... evil plan, as he was prone to when we were much younger and he was still the cleverest prankster the Navy had ever seen." He looked at Jack with raised eyebrows. "Aside from you, but none of us knew you at that point, and I have serious doubts that you were ever actually in the navy."
"Did he have a plan?" Jack urged.
"No, no. But he looked so bloody smug that I had to wonder. Then, of course, I noticed a few... other things." His free hand gestured at his neck, then tugged at his collar to illustrate. "Cravat worn a bit higher and tighter than usual, for the one. He usually hates the bloody things, but for a week or so..." Again, he tugged at his collar, this time as though nervously fretting with it. "And he kept touching it, tugging it up now and then to make sure it was in place. Not the usual for him at all."
Jack smirked to himself. He'd left a few marks just a little too high on that pretty pale neck for expressly that purpose. "What else?"
"There was also a bite-mark on his lip, at an angle he couldn't have made himself. And..." Theodore cleared his throat and looked away. "Well, perhaps I was looking too much into this, considering my own...er—" he glanced at the ceiling "—habits, but I never saw him actually sitting at his desk. For at least the whole of his first day back in Port Royal. He was often in his office when I saw him, or out on the ships, but never actually sitting down anywhere. I only realized it later, once I stopped thinking that I was going to find myself the butt of some kind of trick he might've been planning."
Recalling his own similar state of soreness after his rendezvous with James, Jack smirked, mostly smug, but with a hint of something also ever-so-slightly sympathetic hidden in it as well. "So ye think he got into a bit of an affair with another man whilst out on holiday?"
"Yes," Theodore murmured. His second rum was half-gone already. "It probably wasn't anyone in the navy, or he wouldn't be so frustrated of recent." He snorted. "And considering how it seems to have been a bit more than sheer lust, I'm a little off-put that he's not discussed it with me." A thoughtful hum. "Or even Andrew for that matter."
Jack's eyebrows raised. "Symptoms of love?" His voice was a little less smooth than before, but Jack felt safe knowing how inebriated his audience was. He took a steadying swig of his own rum.
"Symptoms of something. It's not exactly..." Theodore set down his flagon and gestured with both hands vaguely for a moment, as though trying to pull his escaping, rum-scattered thoughts back into his head. "It's a bit like what happened when Miss Swann was taken by that rat Barbossa, but without anger to guide it. James is clearly restless, with the need to do something, but whatever it is, it's out of reach, so he relies on his self-control to keep his restlessness in check, which makes him outright icy towards people: less smooth than his usual demeanor, but more impeccably cold, too. He doesn't joke nearly as much, and when he does, it's a bit crueler than usual, but not apparently on purpose." He shook his head. "This has only just started happening with him, these past few weeks, once our workload slowed enough that we could finally return to Port Royal, after we had finally finished with all those damned privateers, but I know James, and I know that this isn't just... He's not just feeling suddenly bored now that he's back in his office again. There's more to it. Damned if I can work it out, though."
Trying instinctively to stifle the highly unfamiliar, warm-and-comfortable feeling that seemed to be suddenly spreading through his chest, Jack cleared his throat a little. "Aye, seems he's, ah, got something on his mind indeed, but why would you think of the good Commodore when I asked about an officer who might leave the navy? Seems to be doing more than well for him."
Groves snorted. "It is. At the moment, anyway. He and I... we love the navy, but we know better than to trust her." He smirked a little. "A long time ago, when we were in rather dire straits, I was trying to be positive, so as not to go mad, and he said to me, 'Theo, I agree with you, but do try to keep this in mind: you fall in love with the navy; the navy does not fall in love with you.'"
Jack's eyebrows raised. "What dire straits were these, then?" Again, the pirate marveled at how very much he loved drunk people and their tendencies to babble.
"Hispaniola. We'd been taken prisoner, and gotten free, but we were further inland than we'd realized. If not for a group of... well, James had apparently met one or two of them before or something, because they took to him well and helped us a great deal, but they were escaped slaves, you see, planning a revolt." Taking a deep, steadying breath. "They saved our lives: good men, all of them." His lips thinned. "But our time spent with them... it's made some things more difficult, I suppose, insofar as living in more polite society than that of sailors."
Again, Jack refilled his rum. "I know what you mean, mate."
"Do you?" Theodore looked up with a bitter half-smile, quite incredibly drunk by this point. "Then again, as I recall, Elizabeth mentioned that your first mate was a lovely woman."
Jack smirked a little. "Aye. Anamaria."
Theodore nodded. "That was the name that she mentioned, yes."
Refilling his own rum, Jack nodded. "But with Hispaniola: that was mostly the Spanish, ay? They're a cruel lot to everyone. I take it that the navy herself hasn't always been so kind to ye, either." He remembered scars on James' back, from a long bout with a cat; and also thinner, more faint scars on the commodore's wrists from where rope or metal had bitten into the skin.
"Myself, I've not seen much worse than that and undead pirates, but James..." Theodore sighed raggedly, pausing for a moment to try and collect himself before meeting Jack's gaze. "Have you heard of Lord Cutler Beckett?"
Jack's spine stiffened instinctively. The brand on his forearm itched, and it was an effort not to reach for it. "Aye," he said, his voice oddly chill. "I'm familiar with 'im."
"Well, he saw potential in James. This was back when he was still a captain, as it was four years ago when he was ordered to leave his station here in order to protect some of the East India Company's interests abroad. He was with them for a year, or nearly a year. He had stopped writing to us, Andrew and I, after six months, and we had begun to worry." He drank deeply.
"Something happened?"
Theodore told him: slowly, haltingly recounting James' story.
Jack listened in silence, feeling a flare of fresh rage toward Beckett as well as more than a little surprise, both due to what he found himself learning of the proud commodore's less-than-shining past. Finally, when Theodore had explained the events of that year under Beckett, it occurred to Jack to ask, "Why did he return to Port Royal instead of England?"
That made the lieutenant thoughtful. "I never asked that, but I think I recall that some of the other officers wondered why he didn't take the opportunity to 'go home' as it were and I supposed... I suppose it was because of what he'd come so close to doing." He looked down at his rum, then, lost in thought. "After the men we met in Hispaniola..." He shook his head. "Well. To skip ahead, James was heavily sedated for most of his voyage back to port after he was wounded. If not for his broken leg and all of the medications he told me—and he knew I would have done the same, he might've... No, no he definitely would have started a slave rebellion, along with a series of mutinies on the slave ships, at his first opportunity." He drained the last half-mug of rum in a single swallow.
Jack did not refill it this time, sitting suddenly quite still, with an odd look on his face. "He said that?" His expression was masked, but he could not quite keep all of the surprise and awe out of his voice.
"Yes. And then he turned to me and he asked, me, 'But what would I have done then? It would have been the only just action, but what could have possibly followed it?'" Theodore sighed. "I did not know, and I told him so."
After a moment's hesitation, Jack urged, gently, "Then?"
"Then he said, 'Perhaps when I that find out, I will also discover who and what it is that I have become.'" The lieutenant's brows furrowed. He was very glad that he was drunk, or this would be much more difficult. "He'd changed, you see, and that's part of why he'd stopped writing to us. He'd come so close to just... throwing off all the trappings of the navy, of fine living, and of civilization and society with their laws; and he wanted to, but had his chance taken from him by capture and injury and overall bad timing. England would have meant death for him, for his soul; probably landing him office-bound and surrounded by men who could never dream of the sea the way it is out here. Port Royal, though, is at the very edge of England's world. We've both noted before, he and I, that we breathe easier out here."
Throughout his whole explanation, the lieutenant had not looked up, or he would have seen the way that Jack's expression suddenly fell open to show relief, awe, sympathetic unease, and also something sharper and more intense that the pirate was hesitant to name. Theodore's words were insight, and through them, Jack could see more of James than before, and what the pirate saw was treasure: pure, shining, beautiful treasure. And Jack Sparrow had never felt more greedy in his life. "Do you think, then, that he's got an answer now? To what he would do?"
Theodore blinked a few times, and peered at Jack through the haze of alcohol. "I think so, but he's not told me what it is." Then he seemed to recall himself a bit, and leaned back in his seat, looking at the pirate with the sharpest scrutiny that he could manage, which was not much, because just maintaining enough balance to remain upright in his chair was a challenge for him at the moment, but even so he noticed that something was odd. "You... what's that look for?" He pointed at Jack's face.
Jack blanched for half a moment, then his lips curled into something that was not quite a convincing smile. "Just thinking, is all, mate. That I've underestimated you navy lads and all."
Theodore was not to be dissuaded this time, however. He was drunk enough that he could not recall why he had dismissed this idea before. "Was it you, then? That he had the affair with, I mean. Are you..." A slightly unfocused, but sincerely curious look crossed his face and he asked, sounding as ridiculously innocent as only the deeply intoxicated can sound, "Do you love him?"
A bit startled, Jack leaned back from the table, even as his hands gripped the edge of it a little tighter. "It was me debauched him, true enough. And I couldn't do much sitting about for a couple of days either." He started to get up, fully planning to ignore the second half of that query.
"Well. I suppose that actually makes sense, now that you've managed to get me properly drunk enough to not reject it out of hand. Of course, now that I'm thoroughly sloshed, I also seem to be convinced that the answer to my second question there is also 'yes'—but I'll be damned if I know why I'm quite so convinced, exactly."
Jack raised his eyebrows. His voice was disapproving as he said, "I'm a pirate, mate. I love the sea, I love my ship, I love treasure, and I love mischief." He hoped that not commodores was convincingly implied.
Apparently it was not, at least, not for the drunken lieutenant. "Then no wonder James caught your eye, too," Theodore countered.
Jack frowned. "I liked you better before the third mug kicked in."
"However," Theodore continued, as though Jack had not spoken, "it seems to me you've caught his eye in return." Then he grinned. "If you manage to catch more of him than that, you really will be the best pirate I've ever seen."
Helplessly, Jack grinned at that. "Need help getting back upstairs, mate?"
"Are you kidding? And risk Andrew seeing you, helping my thoroughly rum-soaked self to my bedroom? No, no." Theodore got unsteadily to his feet, but managed to remain upright, leaning on the back of his chair. "Onshore, Andrew wakes for only three things: cannon- or gun-fire, glaringly bright sunlight, and incredibly awkward timing. Trust me on this. I've learned from experience." He managed to reach the door to the study without incident; although he staggered in a fair imitation of Jack, for all that his stagger was quite involuntary. "Now get out of my house."
Jack smirked, wondering how much James' lieutenant would remember in the morning, because for all that the lad was still surprisingly eloquent, he was also quite incredibly drunk and Jack did not envy him his eventual hangover. "Aye, Lieutenant," Jack said, and climbed nimbly out the window.
Nodding firmly, Theo made his way out into the hall, to the stairs, and failed entirely in his attempts to climb them normally. Eventually, he settled for half crawling and half pulling-himself-up-the-railing, and managed to reach his bedroom within ten minutes. He then promptly collapsed into bed beside Andrew with a sigh.
Andrew murmured a little and rolled closer to his warmth.
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