Pirate Vindaloo, Chapter 1

An Unwelcome Awakening

by

Hippediva & Elessil

One eye opened and he sneezed. He picked up a fistful of moldy hay and stared. Straw? On his Pearl? He pushed himself upright, his head spinning.

Damn it, couldn't he have one blessed night of properly piratical shore leave these days? He arched an eyebrow, taking in his surroundings; a worn deck, flat bars. Most definitely a brig and that did not make Jack's head ache any less. He peered into the darkness, rubbed the lump under his headscarf and settled back against the bulwark, scowling.

Wherever in hell he was, he'd find out soon enough.

He chewed on his thumb and tried to remember the night's activities, screwing his brow into a knot when the memories became unfocused. Navy? It could be, and wouldn't that be a foul turn of the wind?

He slouched a little further into the straw.

There was a noise, the narrow stairs creaking under the clumsy steps of two men. His eyes bored into the darkness to make out the stumbling shapes in the swaying lantern light. They carried a tall man, clearly unconscious.

One of them threw open cell door open, brandishing a knife, while the skinny one dumped the senseless man inside with a grunt of relief.

"There, company."

Jack's lip lifted, half his questions answered by the look of them. He gave no response, one birdbright eye darting around the hold as the door slammed shut and the lantern swung wildly as the skinny sailor hung and secured it. He eyed the unconscious man, his face drifting in and out of the pale light.

He sat bolt upright, his sore head forgotten. He knew that face, would recognise it in hell itself.

Scuttling closer, he poked at one shoulder. "Commodore? Norrington? Oh hell."

Jack sat back on his heels and thought for a moment. Pirates? No, he knew that any of the captains in the area of Tortuga would know better than to try and take him captive. Somehow, it always ended up a nightmare for them. Jack called them adventures. His fingers hovered over the bloodstained forehead. "Norrington? Wake up?"

The Commodore wasn't moving. Jack heaved a great sigh and quickly checked for broken bones and filled pockets. Disappointed and sulking, he shifted back to his corner, crossed his arms and frowned.

Norrington's eyelids tensed, squeezed shut. With a hiss, he hoisted himself upright. He gasped and curled forward, breathing hard as he fought nausea.

His head hung limp as he wheezed for air, but when he held still, he could make out a faint sound. Carefully, he lifted his head and blinked. Blinked again. And he had so hoped that the voice had been a nightmare. "Sparrow? What have I done to deserve everything leading back to you?"

"Could ask you the same, Commodore, " The pirate's teeth flashed in the moving light. "Don't think this is any pleasure voyage, mate. Although I mus' say how glad I am that they ain't Navy. Present comp'ny excepted and all." Jack's grin was weird in the shadows, his face chiseled and dug into black hollows and spikes of sharp bone.

Norrington groaned softly. He reached to probe the back of his head, finding wetness and his vision went black for a second. Biting back another gasp, he sat up again, letting his gaze wander.

Where was he? Pirates? Why would Sparrow be here as well? And how in hell had he ended up here? He stared blankly, then closed his eyes. Groves. Yes, he had been at the man's lodgings, enjoying an evening of cards with the Dauntless' officers. It had been a fine evening, as fine as Groves' best brandy, in which he had indulged rather more than was his habit.

"I assume that this being merely a fantasy brought on by too much brandy is a vain hope?"

It was fitting, he presumed, that he would imagine his personal thorn in his side as a punishment for overindulging. However, the pain in his head, the stench of sweat and waste in the narrow hold was too real, and he had not even imbibed rum to justify the appearance of Jack Sparrow. "So what is the reason for your presence here? Or do you merely enjoy spending time in brigs, seeing how often you can be found in them?"

"You've got yourself some mighty strange fantasies, luv." Jack pushed his pain away, covering a wince with a short laugh. "I don't know where in hell I am or how long I've been here. Kipped outside ah-a favoured establishment in Tortuga, last thing I remember. Bloody hell!"

He crept to the door, clinging to the bars and staring beyond them into the hold. "And judging from the looks of them crates o' cannonballs, and the gentlemen who escorted you here, I'd say merchant, maybe a privateer. Where in hell were you?"

Norrington stared blankly ahead, searching the answer for his own sake rather than Sparrow's. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he coughed violently. "After a card game at one of my officers' lodgings, I walked home, past the docks. I could hear something and tried to fight..." he croaked, searching vainly for his sword. "I do not know what happened after that."

Jack's face fell. "Pressgang. It's gotta be." For a moment, he was silent, then grinned. "Nice little recruitin' method, perfected by His Majesty's Navy." The grin did not meet his eyes.

"What a pity we have to put up with a meagre substitute of perfection," Norrington snarled.

Sparrow's assumption made sense, unfortunately. Why could it not be the man's usual inane blather? But then, the pirate's stupidity seemed to fade at any threat to his precious freedom. "So we are both kept here against our will," he observed, a strange note to his voice, as if he were offering a truce.

"If wot you mean by 'against our will' is that we've been tossed down here until we get well clear of land an' have no choice but to slave away until we make port, yer right." Jack retorted.

He crept a little closer and watched Norrington with bleary eyes. "Wotever they're up to, we'll find out soon enough." For a moment, his face was very still, so strange on his normally animated features. "Listen t'me, Commodore. I'm layin' bets they don't know who we are. Don't go tellin'. If they do, they'll be holdin' us fer ransom. If not, they'll cut yer throat and dump you overboard sure as hurricanes in August. Try not t'do anything stupid, eh?"

"Such as listening to you?" Norrington half-smiled, letting the words hang between them. "Although I do suppose you are the voice of experience concerning captivity." His head was a sluggish mess of pain, but he realized that again, Sparrow was right. Was right, and with that, held Norrington's life in his filthy hands. He gulped and added quietly, "I know. I am not naive."

Jack laughed softly. "Well then that's settled. You don't tell 'em 'bout me and I won't 'bout you. We'll find out what they've got planned in good time. Meanwhile, how's yer head? Mine hurts like the devil." He settled himself on the straw. "No sense in worryin' until we know where we are, is there?

His eyes seemed to become darker, as if it were possible, huge above the arc of his cheekbones. "If they're kidnapping, they're woefully ill-informed." His sly grin caught the light. "Or someone's been slandering us in the broadsides, luv."

"My heads feels as though I had spent a decade in this cell with you." The words dripped sarcasm, but it was dulled, by pain or by Norrington's realisation that the question was an olive branch; that Sparrow was, despite everything, his only potential ally aboard this ship.

He shifted a little, then, rose on shaky legs and stepped over to the corner opposite Sparrow, sitting down on the straw to rest his head against the bulwark. He contemplated the pirate with steady eyes and a grim smile. "And I do believe that any mention of your name with mine is already slander."

Jack made a face. "Slander bein' entirely on th' side of your aristocratic self?" He dug one hand into his boot and uncapped a long leather flask. "Here. It'll help your head."

"Thank you." Norrington accepted the flask and sniffed at it. His face contorted and he winced before he steadied himself , took a careful sip, then another, finally, letting the flask hang in hand, staring at it.

The situation was miserable. No one knew where he was, no shipmate in sight to help in a helpless situation. Only Sparrow. He looked up and offered the flask. "As they should not find out our identities, I had better call you Jack. You may call me James."

Sparrow's throat moved as he gulped and nodded. When he looked back up, he was grinning mischievously. "Well, James sounds so awfully formal. Wot say you t'Jamie? More like shipmates. " His mouth twisted as he gnawed on the side of his lip. "Must be a way t' get a better look 'round." He shimmied towards the bars of their cage, squinting. "Bugger."

"James will do." Norrington watched Sparrow gulp from the rum flask. Why had they left the pirate any possessions? His own were all gone. Had they not searched Sparrow as thoroughly? He crawled over to press his ear against the bulwark. "We are fast. Very fast. More than ten knots."

Jack crouched so close their noses almost touched. The pitch of the vessel changed and he stiffened, plopping on his backside in the dirty straw. "All sails. We're headin' to open sea." He scrabbled across the small space to the door again. "Lots of munitions. A helluva lot. Warship, it's gotta be. A bark, a snow, mebbe even a frigate."

Norrington stared ahead, brows narrowed, concentrating. Something was supposed to make sense about this. His eyes went wide, his face white. "Bloody hell!"

Jack scooted back to huddle in the shadows with him. "Wot? Wot?" Norrington was pale, his eyes scared. He swallowed hard and reflexively, treated the Commodore to his brightest smile. "Wot is it, then?"

Norrington looked up and wordlessly plucked the flask from his hands, tossing back a swallow. "We are aboard the Chimaera. She is bound towards the Indian Ocean."

"Oh. The Indies? Damn an' blast, whose colours is she flyin'?" Jack's eyes moved restlessly. "She stocked up in Port Royal?"

"Obviously, at least on crewmen." Norrington frowned, leaning back. "She is a privateer. Letter of Marque from the Governor of Nassau.... Hamilton. She sails under Captain Hamilton. An Irishman, as far as I know."

"Irish? Oh Lord!" Jack's shoulders slumped. "They aren't much fun shipboard as a rule. All that Catholic guilt. An' they don't much like the English, do they? Come t'think of it, they don't much like anyone, especially each other. Hope you're not Irish?" His eyes danced.

Behind their teasing, he was racing ahead, plotting a course, but he had no bearings. He needed more information and it wasn't going to walk up and lay itself in his lap.

"No, I just do not like you." Norrington shook his head and Sparrow blurred in front of his eyes.

Sparrow's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer. "James, you're in bad shape if ya can't laugh at a joke. Lemme take a look at that. You're still bleeding." He reached up to feel the lump on Norrington's head with gentle fingers. "Damn! They clobbered you!" He dabbed at the bloodstained hair with his sleeve.

Norrington winced and every touch made his sight swim into blackness. He bit the inside of his cheek and straightened. "I merely think that there are times when laughter is appropriate, and times when it is not." He batted Sparrow's hands away. "I will live," he hissed.

"Hold still, willya!" Jack's hands were surprisingly strong and he held Norrington still by the shoulder with one, rising to his knees to probe at the wound. "You need a few stitches, mate."

If he called for help, he could get some idea of the kind of crew this Hamilton fellow recruited. It would at least give him a polestar. "I said hold still!" His thumb pressed hard near the oozing gash.

Norrington whimpered and curled forward, his hand scrabbling at the straw. "I'm fine," he managed, strained as he fought nausea. "I'll be fine."

Jack shook his head. "This needs lookin' after, mate. HEY YA SCURVY BASTARDS! GET DOWN HERE!"

"What this needs is rest and less of your shouting," Norrington muttered.

The shouting had its effect. There were steps from the hatchway, the swaying light of another lantern. "Y'need your tongue cut off, mate?"

"You wanna stiff on yer hands, ya maggot?" Jack dragged Norrington towards the bars on his knees. "He's bleedin' like a stuck pig. You gonna do aught about it?"

The skinny sailor poked the lantern into his face, making him blink. He snarled and pulled Norrington into the light. "Ya knocked the bloody brains outta him. If you want 'im alive, matey, I'd get on it right quick." His tone was brisk, coax and command mingled in it as he eyed the sailor's ragged clothes and walnut skin.

The sailor pulled back, staring at Jack for a moment before the authority in that voice made him turn. The hatch remained open, light pouring like mercury over the pitted deck, illuminating the rows of boxes and barrels, lashed together.

"I know what you're doing," Norrington hissed, unable to focus or fight.

Sparrow didn't admit anything, but soon a small blond boy climbed down into the hold, precariously balancing a tray cluttered with a basin of fresh water, an almost clean bandage, thread and needle and a small cup of brandy. "The surgeon is busy." The boy was looking at Jack shyly. "But I watched him stitch a head-wound once."

Jack grinned at him. "It's awright, lad. I can do it. Would ya hold the basin for me?" He had one eye on Norrington's white face, the other on the boy, then the sailor. " Need a razor, mate. I can't bloody stitch this wifout one!"

The man looked down at him doubtfully, then disappeared up the hatch. Jack arched an eyebrow at the boy and winked. "He'll be fine. But it don't do t'let 'em fester."

The boy seemed undecided whether to take the closest look he could get, or to run back topside and hide. He settled for staring at Jack's hands instead, always a bit too fast to truly observe them, watching the lantern-light catch in the single ring. "Are you a surgeon?"

Jack soaked Norrington's hair and carefully parted it along the gash. "Me? Nay, but I've seen me share of wounds." He glanced at the small face and swallowed a smile. "Don't get inta firefights without 'em, aye?"

The bony sailor clattered back down the hatch and glared at them. "You try a bloody thing an' I'll cut yer throat."

Jack rolled his eyes and took the razor. "Thank you. Don't you worry, Jamie. Won't even notice this."

He sliced off as much hair as he could around the split skin without soap. Norrington really did need the stitches, although Jack had been quite prepared to do a bit of sleight of hand or stab one or two through healthy tissue if necessary.

"Don't call me Jamie." Norrington's voice was raspy. "Go on," he hissed. Every touch hurt and sent him reeling, and, if it wouldn't have been too humiliating, he would have vomited into Sparrow's lap.

The boy grinned. "Looks like one of them monastery-men."

"Hand me the brandy, son. Monks, y'mean?" Jack eased Norrington down, watching his colour come and go. "Aw, ain't but a tiny bit. And his hair so thick no one'll ever notice. Jamie? Jamie luv, you ready?"

"Get on with it." The boy pressed the cup into Jack's hands and watched as he slopped brandy over the wound. Norrington hissed and his face contorted into a grimace that made the boy look away.

"So lad, where're we off to that makes you fidget so much. An' where'd you hear tell of monks? Must be a well-traveled sort o' young fella t'know such things," Jack asked, calmly stabbing the needle in and out as if he were mending a sail. He could feel Norrington shudder and tense. "There!" He cut the thread with the razor. "All done." His eyes slid sideways to the boy's. "Give 'im the rest o' the brandy, willya?"

The boy was staring in open adoration and fumbled with the tray as he hastened to hand over the cup. "Haven't been out far at all, sir! Berks does keep tellin' stories, least when ol' Deacon isn't 'round." He giggled. "But we're going to Bombay now! You know were that is?"

Norrington accepted the cup with shaky hands.

"Bombay! Now that's a great port, lad. First voyage across?" Jack took hold of Norrington's hand before he let the cup slip and held it to his lips. "Don't be so bloody noble." He winked at the boy. "Could ya help t'hold him fer a bit?"

The boy crawled closer and shoved his shoulder against Norrington's, clumsily steadying him. "Yes, sir. Never been out further than the Lesser Antilles before!"

Jack yanked his shirt out of his breeches and sliced off four inches of the hem with the razor. He saw the boy's brow furrow and snapped it shut, laying it carefully on the tray with a bright smile. "Oh laddie, you're in for a treat! Once we catch them currents and the trades--how far out we be, anyway? It's wonderful, open horizon everywhere ya look. Nothin' like it."

His fingers were gentle as he bound the bandage around Norrington's head and secured it with the strip from his shirt. Jack was quite sure the Commodore would disapprove of using the boy for information, so he'd better keep still and drink his bloody brandy. He smiled at the child. "Yer a good lad."

The boy practically beamed. "Thank you, Sir! This morning, we sailed outta Port Royal, eastward. The Cap'n even let me take the helm for a moment. It was wonderful!" He was shuffling with the tray and looked nervously at Jack and the open hatch, then at Norrington. "Will he be all right? They said they'd throw him overboard if he couldn't work his keep. He don't seem that hurt at all."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "They did? Well, we'll just have to make sure he is, won't we? After all, to take a man aboard simply to throw him to the depths? Dreadful bad luck! Seen the worst gales come up..." He was prepared to elbow Norrington in the ribs if he had to do it. "But a Cap'n that would let ya take the helm sounds like a rum kinda man. Wouldn't want him to be courtin' ill fortune."

It was the most fiendishly accurate impression of former Able-Bodied Seaman Gibbs that James Norrington had ever heard.

Norrington barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he saw the boy's grow wide, doubt and fear warring in them. "You've really seen this, Sir? Never been-,"

The skinny sailor's head peered through the hatch again.

"Matthew! Belay that chatter and get yer arse topside where it belongs."

Matthew shrugged, put the water down on the ground and grabbed the tray. "I gotta go." He spared a last wide-eyed glance at Jack and Norrington before he scrambled topside.

Jack nodded solemnly after him and, moving like a silent shadow across the cell, pulled the open door closed, but not locked, hiding a grin.

"Tortuga, musta been two days, this mornin' Jamaica....mornin' Well, it's daylight." He glanced sharply at the Commodore. "I really hate t'be the bearer of ill-tidings but we're well past Cuba."

"Your sheer presence is an ill-tiding of its own." Norrington crawled into a corner of the cell and bunched his coat under his head. He considered Sparrow's bleak assessment. "Which means the ship will not dock until....bloody hell. We won't dock until we're well across the Atlantic."

"No!" The word was whispered, so faint it could barely be heard but the echo was deafening. Jack gulped, slumping against the bars. "We're stuck."

The green eyes looked strange and he blinked, creeping closer. The left was pale jade, shuttered and resentful; the right black as night, ringed in emerald like a Gaelic curse. "Jamie? James, stay awake." Jack looked down at him, suddenly serious.

"What is it now? I do not care if you were passed out for two days, I am tired and want to sleep, if you would kindly let me." Norrington groaned and rolled to his side, curling into the corner.

Jack followed, poking at his arm. "Ya can't. James, listen t' me. Do not sleep." He grunted in frustration and hauled Norrington upright, careful not to upset the bandage. "Sit up an' talk t'me. Ye're not gonna sleep if I have t' sing for an hour. 'O Come O Come Emmanuel, And rescue captive Israel. Who dwells in lonely exile here...' " he bawled, peeking to gauge its effect. " I'm not stoppin', luv."

"Spa- Jack, I am reasonably certain I could, in fact, sleep, if you would let me. And unless you want a head-injury yourself, I suggest you do. Oh, I forgot, you already have at least one." That all this was a demented Sparrow-plan to drive him insane seemed more likely every second.

Jack sniggered. "I don't know 'bout you, luv, but I'm not gonna let some third-rate freeboater with a streak of luck take the likes of us. Not t'be done, mate. I've got a reputation an' it don't depend on Navy braid."

"The likes of us? I must admit I never thought of you and me in a common cause." Norrington pushed himself up, then slumped. "Very well then. You would do well to have an excellent plan or a reason to keep me awake," he growled. "One that isn't linked to your enjoyment in tormenting all that does relate to Navy braid."

"A Common Cause? Isn't that more slander?" Jack mocked. Those weirdly dilated eyes worried him, a drop in the enormous bucket of worry that threatened to drench him. He didn't let himself think about the Pearl. "Well, Commodore, I dunno 'bout you, but I am not lettin' some sheeny get one up on me. But if you English just don't have t'stomach fer it..." He shook his head, jingling faintly.

"Keep me awake for a while longer and you will make closer acquaintance with an English stomach, Sparrow." Norrington head kept drooping against the bulwark, until he left it there, closing his eyes. "I will have a much better chance of escape once my sight does not blur with every second step. Of course, that is likely your constant state of being, but personally I believe I can counter it by sleeping."

"Ha! I can jus' see you playin' the tar. Bet ye've never even climbed aloft in them fine fancy britches." Jack watched him from behind a mask of arrogant nonchalance.

"No, because, unlike you, I possess more than one pair." Norrington's eyes barely opened, thin slits of green and black glaring at Sparrow.

"Oh this will be fine, won't it? They'll know yer a bleedin' officer in a heartbeat." Jack snorted a laugh. "Well, don't blame me if they name ya cabin boy. Bloody Navy." He grumbled to himself, loud enough to keep Norrington's lashes fluttering, then wrinkled his nose. "So one little game of cards and you get yerself shanghaied. Not much in the way of luck with cards or women, I'd say."

"Says the one who was picked up in the streets of Tortuga. Obviously your...company for the night did not quite enjoy your presence. Did the pigs toss you out of the sty? And do not worry. Even if they realise that I am an officer, they would never think that you have any semblance of breeding."

"Least I'm not purely decorative shipboard!" Jack snarled, withdrawing into his corner and sulking. "You do realise that yer gonna get yerself killed an' I'm not goin' with you. I swear, Norrington, I'll kick yer arse from stem t'stern if you blab."

Norrington's mouth narrowed into a thin line. "I gave you my word on it, filth. That you would doubt it shows how foreign the concept of honour is to you." His eyes were completely open again, still weirdly dilated, gleaming with the same fire. "And I bet you are more than decorative. After all, such a decoration would only be a testimonial to very poor taste."

"Oh, very bloody funny! Like any ship needs a second figurehead with a belayin' pin up its arse. How in hell are you gonna manage? I'll take a wager they'll cut yer throat and toss ya to the sharks." Jack slouched in his corner, trying to ignore the cold in his bones. "Why in hell did you ever go t'sea?"

"That, Mr. Sparrow, need not concern you." Norrington eased himself down into the straw again. He was hurting, he was exhausted, and he really did not need Sparrow on top of it all. "But if it helps your peace of mind, I am quite capable of climbing to the foretop. Rejoice all you will about my impending demise, but at least grant me one favour and let me sleep."

"Your funeral, mate."

"And why, pray tell, would that be? If you intend to kill me during my sleep, you can just as well do it now, or are you too much of a coward for that?"

"And why should I wanna kill you? Never even been properly introduced t'you! Now, t'be sure, I was wounded by all your accusations. And I never gave any reason why y'should have treated me so shabbily when I risked life an' limb fer the Swann chit." He sprawled and resumed picking at the straw. "I thought meself rather tender-hearted in the matter."

"You have my most profound pity, Mr. Sparrow. The world is extraordinarily cruel to you, what with your drunken carousing heartlessly interrupted by men of despicable profession...oh, I forgot, that is the main profession of Tortuga's inhabitants." Norrington had curled into the corner. He was wide awake, staring at the damp wood until it swam before his eyes. He was tired. And he was scared.

Jack glared at him. "There ya go, castin' aspersions on me again. I believe we were spendin' the respective evenings in the same manner, James. Drink an' cards. Doesn't support the accusation that I'd murder you in yer sleep."

"Then share with me what other conclusion could be drawn from your threat that my sleep would be my funeral." Norrington looked up, and it was strange how Sparrow's body blocked all the light but for what glinted in his eyes.

"Because, you fool, haven't you ever seen head-wounds? You, the great Pirate-Hunter?" Jack's eyes narrowed and he was of half a mind to pummel the Commodore to consciousness. The rest of his brain caught up with him in time. "They're funny. Seen a man get knocked on the noggin' with a yardarm, get himself up and work fer three days, then drop dead."

Norrington blinked. Now that Sparrow said it, he recalled how the Defiant's surgeon had kept him awake, way back then when the boom of a captured sloop had smashed against his head during a jibe. He had always thought it had just been a punishment for being so careless. He blinked again, then wordlessly pushed himself to recline against the bulwark.

Jack heaved a sigh of relief, had a brief moment of inner conflict and resorted to his tried and true defense; dithering. He cocked his had to one side and smiled. "So why did you go t'sea? You seem t'me a proper gentleman who'd never soil his gloves with labour and even an officer gets a few rough spots." He spoke as though they were sitting in a tavern, Norrington's office, the Leaning Tower; anywhere but where they both languished.

"If I needed to explain why I went, then you could not understand it." Norrington leaned against the wood, the dark eye thrown into further shadow, the green one bright in the flickering lanternlight. "I went because I had to do something. And better at sea than ashore."

Jack sat up straighter. "Ahh. So you do know." He fooled with one of his absurd lovelocks, eyes darting; listening with his entire body. "Good speed. Shite."

"So," he continued, "it follows plainly you've never been in a brig before." He looked around and sniffed. "Not very effective, stuffed down here in the hold. Makes a body feel more like a parcel than a prisoner."

Norrington laughed wearily. "I may not smell like one, but I am a sailor. And as a military sailor, I have made my acquaintance with brigs, although I have little doubt that your knowledge of such lodgings runs far deeper than mine."

Jack slung on his coat of tatters and barreled ahead on a tangent. "Hmmm. Well, Spanish brigs are dead bad. Don't even wanna think about 'em. The French aren't so clean, but the food's good. Dutch brigs are the best. Always tidy." He kept praying that they weren't going so fast, that the Caribbean wasn't behind them, that the Pearl wasn't further away with every heartbeat.

"It was French. But I did not linger to sample the cooking. Yet, I will trust your opinion as an expert on brigs. I have no doubt that you have evaluated them all. I assume British brigs rank very highly on your list, seeing you frequent them so very often?"

Jack was about to respond with some clever quip about British brigs when light flooded the narrow path carved between secured cargo and the cage. The little boy, Matthew, descended a few steps, was handed down a tray and trudged to the cell.

He manoeuvered the contents through the bars, two trenchers of thin stew and two mugs of grog. Norrington gave him an encouraging smile and he was about to speak when there was another voice from topside. "Matthew!"

The boy grinned. "Wouldn't eat it too fast if I were you," he burst out before bouncing up the stairs again.

Norrington tapped the biscuit against the tray, an habitual weevil-shake. It was blessedly free of infestation, so he sopped it in the stew, for the first time glad of the lack of light. "This borders on torture."

Jack gulped and poked at the mess in the trencher with one finger, sucked it dry and groaned. "Oh Lord, save us." He took refuge in the grog for a moment, then sighed deeply and forced his way through the stew with the air of a martyr. "I'm beginnin' t'think Irish privateer brigs might be worst of all, mate."

He watched Norrington with an appraising eye. "I'd eat it all. Don't know when we're gonna get more."

"Worse than the French," Norrington muttered, choking it down. "You know what is worse? I doubt they cooked that specially for us."

Jack belched his agreement and went back to his grog. "So when were you in a French brig, Jamie?"

"Before I came to the Caribbean. More than ten years ago." Norrington seemed more companionable when eating, picking delicately at the hardtack, then settling to wolf it down, relishing the grog to soothe his parched throat. "That ship was my first prize."

Jack focused on his companion, terrified at the thought of months of such fare. "Really? How'd ya manage that?" He had to admit that while Norrington might look like he needed a lace napkin, he didn't stick out his little finger or eat like a ponce.

"We were crossing the Channel, perhaps 20 miles south of Portsmouth. Then, I was second Lieutenant aboard the Defiant, a 24-gun brig. The ship was already damaged by a storm and we were limping back to England when the Neptune set upon us." Norrington's face softened in recollection, smiling at his mug of grog.

Jack automatically drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. "You musta been a lad then!"

"As I said, I was second Lieutenant. I led the boarding party." Norrington's face fell a little. "Our captain was killed by a lucky shot, his first by a fallen yardarm."

He swallowed hard. "The crew... they were not used to it. The Midshipmen had barely joined up and were afraid, with nowhere to look for guidance." His eyes focused on some point in the distance, maybe a scratch on the iron bars. "They disengaged from battle. They left us...the whole boarding crew...aboard the Neptune."

"They left ya there?" Jack swallowed another gulp of grog.

Norrington nodded. He still remembered the creak with which Defiant had disengaged, the shudder as she tacked and her sails bellied in the wind again. He remembered he had been afraid, but, to his relief, could not recollect his utter dread at that moment. "I gave the order to stand down. We surrendered. That was how we ended up in the brig. Fortunately."

Jack leaned forward like a conspirator in the flickering lamplight, his face a golden mask through which two dark eyes peeked. "From the brig to a prize?" His lips curved maliciously. "Now that is a story. How'd you turn those tables?"

"The French were not particularly, shall we say... savvy. Nor did they speak much English. They did not ask my parole, and left me my uniform." Norrington laughed softly as he remembered himself, pacing in that brig, ripping his wig off in an uncontrolled fit of temper, then his cravat, sending the elegant pin flying. "I had never before realised that cravat-pins do make excellent lockpicks." For just a moment, the grin on his face was wide and pleased as a schoolboy's.

Jack's face split into a delighted smile and he clapped his hands. "Bravo! I would never have guessed it of ya, Jamie! So what happened?"

Norrington was caught up in the story, a small part of him insanely pleased that he had Jack Bloody Sparrow listening so attentively. "The Neptune had taken severe damage, and her firepower was no match for the Defiant. The crew were afraid that she would return, and so they focused on their repairs rather than guarding us." It had been a hard wait, straining on his patience when he had held the means of escape in his hands.

"At night, we escaped. Half of us secured the watch crew topside while the rest cornered the Captain in his cabin. I dare say he was quite surprised to find his own sword at his throat, and consequently, quite willing to surrender it."

"And wot a grand heroic tale it is! So it was all because o' yer cravat. I like that. Bet it was somethin' tasteful and aristocratic." Sparrow's black eyes twinkled. "I'm surprised it weren't a wig pin."

"I don't use wig pins, Sparrow. Not everyone appreciates sharp things on their scalp." Norrington pointedly stared at the strange bit of bone.

Jack grinned at him. "So, if I'm t'understand yer story correctly, Commodore, you picked th' lock of yer cell, stormed the deck and captured th' Captain with his own sword. Very impressive. Most piratical." His hands moved like waves as he babbled. "Had no idea about th' wig pins, mate. Never felt the need t' replace me own locks." He preened over one shoulder.

"Yes, no wig could ever be as hospitable to a colony of vermin as your mop indubitably is." Norrington drained the last swallow of his grog and put down the mug, stifling a yawn. The meal and the narration had briefly invigorated him, but now exhaustion crept back into his limbs and his head sagged.

"Vermin!" Jack blurted, his beard waggling with outrage. He poked Norrington's shoulder. "James? James? Norrington, wake up."

"For God's sake, how bad can it be? I want to sleep," Norrington muttered.

His face was ashen, the wide mouth paling, and Jack grimaced. "Had a devil of a head wound once---bullet grazed me---an' twas pure Bedlam fer days. Listen, Norrington, we might be able t'make off with one o' the jollyboats, but I am not countin' on it. The opportune moment, aye?"

Norrington snored an answer.

Jack leaned down and pressed a sloppy, rummy kiss to his lips.

Norrington reached up as if to wipe his own mouth, then felt the beard tickle against his palm. His eyes shot wide. Very wide. He scrambled on his arse, cowering in the corner. "What on earth was that? A demonstration that the head wound still has lasting effects on you?"

Jack's grin seemed to float three feet above the deck with a life of its own. "Yer awake, aren't you?" His black eyes challenged a response.

Congenitally incapable of resisting the absurd, Jack could not help enjoying Norrington's startled look. He smiled. "It's called a kiss. Surely, ye've heard of 'em before."

Norrington frowned and pressed into his corner. "I did, Jack. Which is why I am certain that they are not to be bestowed upon me by you. At least not if you want to keep your teeth."

"Now, that's dead cruel, luv. I've been told I don't kiss half-bad. But, wantin' to keep wot teeth I have, them not being all my own as you well know, you're not a bad-lookin' sort, even with a rag around yer head." He watched Norrington try to keep up with his cat's-cradle logic. The green eyes were a little more even and perhaps he should get some sleep.

Then again, it was much too much fun to tease him.

"I do believe that was a compliment, Sparrow. Either my head-injury is worse than I thought, or yours is. Either way, kindly keep your exceptional kisses to yourself." Norrington's eyes were narrowed at Sparrow, exhaustion still written in his face, but no longer any trace of sleep. All his blissful lethargy was gone. "Better yet, if your kisses are that excellent, why don't you make your way topside and kiss the whole crew senseless so we can make our escape?"

Jack head tilted to one side, his ridiculous hair clanking over his face. "Well, I suppose I could, but I don't fancy them. Wot of that?"

"You did not even look at most of them," Norrington argued sensibly. "Besides, you do not fancy me either. Or was that just a little revenge for my trying to hang you?"

"I fail to understand the connection between hangin' me and kissin' you." Jack retorted cheerfully. "Or maybe I just rather like the idea of kissin' you. You're very kissable."

"First, Sparrow, that is not a word. Secondly, my head injury has not served to make me so gullible as to believe that you would enjoy kissing me." Norrington tilted his head, eyebrows arching and lips widening into that disdainful smirk they must have taught him somewhere at officer classes. "Or is that the effect brigs have on you? Is that why you are always out to get yourself captured again?

Jack's lower lip thrust out along with his chin and its wagging braids. "Yer castin' aspersions on me again. So French brigs mustn't have been much fun, were they? I suppose not, all buttoned up and braided into a knot." Jack smiled, his eyes narrowed. "Doesn't anythin' make your blood jump---no, not that way, th' way it does when yer aloft and feelin' right with the world?"

"I thought you did not trust me to even make the climb aloft." Norrington's lips curled into a sneer. "But I cannot say that I find any perverse pleasure in finding myself locked up, least of all with a filthy pirate."

"That's pure evasion and you know it." Jack observed dryly.

"That is what a sane man does with undesirable things, such as bullets, or your words." Norrington's fingers tapped out a rhythm against the wooden deck, his eyes distant.

"And your words are always so very desirable, aren't they, Commodore Short Drop an' Sudden Stop?" Jack drawled.

"Not for miscreants such as you, but for law-abiding people when I announce your hanging, Captain Never Stops," Norrington snarled.

"And it was such a successful hanging. Brass band, drums, even the Governor there t'see me not hang."

"And you are complaining about what, precisely?"

Jack grinned. "Tell me, Norrington. Are all yer executions as effective as yer weddin' plans?"

Norrington's tone went from heated to icy. "If you pity the failure, I am certain I could correct the mistake by strangling you here and now."

"Without a proper audience? How depressingly banal. Besides, then you'd get to hang fer murder. Might be worth the risk t'see that."

"Sparrow, the point of doing that would be your death. I doubt the view from the bottom of the ocean would be that clear."

"Well, luv, there's one tiny flaw in yer logistics, as it were. Yer assumin' that I'll be a good lad and sit still while you get yer mitts around me throat, which, temptin' as it might be, isn't my mug of grog. So ye'll just have to settle fer dreamin' about the hanging that never was and wait fer the opportune moment, won't you?" Sparrow's tone was reasonable and infuriatingly calm. "Right now, you wouldn't scare a flea!"

"You do not seem to frighten them either. On the contrary, they have chosen you as their habitat." A shudder went through Norrington and his eyelashes fluttered. "Truth be told, I would put up with nightmares of you if it meant you finally deigned to let me sleep."

Jack shrugged. All this talk of hangings and stranglings was making the bad meal churn in his gut. "I don't give a pinpaper fer yer nightmares, mate. Look at me, bloody fool." He squinted at Norrington's eyes and threw himself down onto the straw, pillowing his head on his arms. "Go t'sleep, then, and dream wotever ya bleedin' like."

He pulled out the flask, offering it with unsteady hands.

The next retort was on Norrington's lips, but he swallowed it with a sip of rum. He eased himself onto the straw, sighing in relief. He stared at the flask for another second, then handed it back. "My thanks." His voice sounded strained.

"From one corpse to another. Don't mention it." Sparrow was silent for a heartbeat or two. "Wot makes you glad to be alive, James?"

Norrington stared up at the dark rafters and shrugged. "A stiff breeze, the Dauntless cutting through the waves at well over ten knots. A midshipman who passed his Lieutenancy and thanks me. The relief on a man's face when the Navy's presence makes him feel safer. A laugh, a friend." He peered at Sparrow and laughed bitterly. "Did you think I would say hangings?"

Jack's lips lifted in a sour smile. "I was countin' on it. For me, 'tis freedom The horizon in front of ya, the one behind. The wide ocean beckonin', callin'..." He didn't say it, couldn't. The Pearl was out there somewhere near Tortuga, calling him. If he could have gone on his knees and had her magically appear, guns blazing, her flag flying free, he would have promised almost anything.

He focused back on Norrington and held out the flask. "One fer dreams, mate? Just think of throttling me and you'll sleep like a babe."

"Would that mean that you will finally let me sleep?" Norrington's smirk almost approached a smile. He truly needed the rest; he had spoken several whole sentences to Sparrow without a trace of insult.

Jack took the flask back and drained it, pouting and snapping it shut. He padded, half-upright, to the corner where his coat was bundled and crouched for a moment, staring at Norrington with those foreign eyes. He rolled it up and tossed it across the bare two feet that separated them. "G'wan. Could use a bit o' sleep meself."

Norrington acknowledged it with another nod, arranging himself as best he could between straw, their coats and hard wood. He had barely muttered a reluctant, "Good night," before falling fast asleep.

Jack listened to his breathing ebb into faint snores before he crept to the door, pushed it open and set about exploring the hold. "One distracted brat can be just as effective as a cravat-pin, Commodore, " he muttered, grabbing the lantern and poking through the stacks of roped crates and barrels like a will o' the wisp.

He spent a long while in one corner, against the bulwark where he found a full cask of good Cuban rum with a loose bung. He refilled his flask after lying under it with his mouth open, soaking his face and hair.

Anything to drown what he felt, hearing the Pearl so clearly in his heart.

He busied himself for another hour, returning to the flask at distinct quarter-hour intervals to refresh himself, then went back to the cell and pulled the door closed behind him. No ports, true, but he'd a good look at a bit of the cargo. Whatever came next was in the hands of Fortune.

Fortune, of course, would be much aided by the canister shot he shoved into the lock and the handy little blade someone had been careless enough to leave next to a crate of brandy, mostly watered. He turned on his side, the knife secure in his boot and let the rum take him sailing.

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