Wish 1

So, this is me, mate: Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service. You may be wonderin' what it is I am doing at this stage in me life. I know you saw me there just dive right off that Navy vessel and save that girl without a thought of profit. Her peril could have been the perfect distraction for me to make off with that lovely little ship.

Aye, what was I thinkin'? I'll tell you what I wasn't thinkin', mate. I wasn't thinkin' the whole deal would end with a sword in my face and an angry, puffed-up bit of navy ponce in brocade tryin' to steal my precious freedom to further his already over-rated career.

So what's my problem? I'll tell you what my problem is: altruism; a vicious bout of it. Believe me, it is an odd habit for a pirate. The code is quite specific on it: Those that fall behind are left behind. In short, your neck first, mate. What was I thinking, indeed?

Well, back to the matter. There I was, staring up the length of a rather shiny, impressive blade at a pair of blazing eyes, green as the bright and beautiful sea. Scowlin' becomes him actually. But I had no time to think of it. My thoughts should have been solely on surviving the mess that my vicious bout of altruism had led me to. I was thinkin', but my mouth was flirting all the same. He told me that I am possibly the worst pirate he has ever heard of. I replied:

"Ah, but you have heard of me."

No profit in all this, mate. I was caught... until the lovely lass recovered her wits and stood between me and certain doom. Now there is a bit o' luck. Not only did she provide distraction to the now angry mob of navy men, but she gave me moments behind the shield of her person to recover from my bedazzlement from those beautiful green eyes.

Silly, innit? Are ye prepared for a touch of irony now? As beauteous as the fair Miss Swann is, m'eyes and heart had settled on yon fair commodore who was even at that moment contemplating my imminent demise. As he would put it, I later learned: short drop; sudden stop. But, alas, I have a reputation and all, and besides, I enjoy what meager life I possess; thus I took the opportunity to quit the scene as Miss Swann provided ample protection. Simple self-preservation, mate, and yet they call me a cad and brigand. And which of them, if they were in my shoes, surrounded by enemies prepared to merrily stretch my neck for doing no more than saving a young lass from a watery grave, would do any better?

Not a one, I'll warrant.

Let me make this long and somewhat complicated and very disturbing story short: It were all fate, matey. I was meant to come to Port Royal and save Elizabeth Swann, who was, in turn, meant to be grateful enough for me to afford a temporary escape so that I could then encounter Bootstrap Bill's son. All of this tying together neatly with me very own Black Pearl with her mutinous, undead pirate crew sailing into the harbor that evening to spirit away Miss Swann, and thus galvanizin' young Will into rash action to retrieve her... which was only to my benefit, as she were being held on the Pearl, and I wasn't about to gain me freedom from the Commodore's clean little gaol without the help. And I had thought my luck had run dry. No, it were all fate. Young Will freed me and off we set together to commandeer one of the Commodore's fine little boats.

That worked out well and I was able to get me revenge and me Black Pearl from Hector Barbossa, Will got his lady love, and the Commodore... well at least he got the very lovely sword and all. I did feel sorry for the lad. I was rootin' for him, handsome young gent that he is. No one that pretty should lose the girl. Alas, he did. Perhaps that was only to my benefit as well. I tell you, it were fate.

Now, where was I? Ah, so the Commodore loses the lovely Miss Swann, Bootstrap's boy wins the same, and I fall off the parapet of Fort Charles and go free from a very close encounter with the hangman's noose as I ever wished to have. I half expected the Commodore to fish me from the bay before I could reach me ship. Imagine my surprise when I made it to the Pearl's deck and there wasn't even the half appearance of a pursuit launched on my behalf. I could have been hurt by his apparent lack of interest, but I took it as a sign of good will instead.

Silly me. It t'weren't long before the Commodore was out in his heavy lady, the Dauntless, firing upon me at every occasion, making it hard for an honest pirate to make his way in the world.

Frustrating as all that was, a part of me was sort of slightly glad for the Commodore's attention. This is where you think me daft, and you wouldn't be the only soul on that count, to be sure. I must confess that I mayhap longed to look into those lovely green eyes again. But this was hardly the way to go about a proper courtship.

A true buccaneer can find his love in man or woman. It's told that the first of the brethren swore off woman completely as cursed creatures of ill fortune. I, for one, cannot see the profit in this line of thought. I find women quite pleasant companions. Certainly I've had more to converse with among women than with most men of my acquaintance. They are interesting, logical creatures that other men overlook as beneath notice. Take a moment, mate, to really talk with a woman, and you'll not find a brainless, helpless chit, but a wily creature using her wit to the advantage to plunder most men of their intent better than any pirate. They are the masterminds of life, mate, and make no mistake.

I prefer a lovely woman when she is accommodating, and wooing is a pleasant but tiring game that I have learned to enjoy for the game's sake. But there is nothing finer than a beautiful man, mate. Made of muscle and flesh, a flash of spirit in the eyes, and a heart that beats untamed is what can turn me head. Wooing a man is a different game all together there; even more so exhausting, but the rewards.... Aye, the rewards!

Commodore James Norrington of His Majesty's fleet in Jamaica, the most beautiful man I have yet to encounter is still ridin' me tail, and not in a good way.

This has got to change soon.

~*~

So here I am again, mate. I'm a dreadful fright; willing to sell me own crew to the devil himself to save me own skin. Double-crossed by people I thought I knew. Brought back into the very fray I left because they couldn't go on without me. I come back to find the very last face in the world I ever wanted to see again, staring at me with that smirk, and that monkey.

Then me very own Da tells me that in the end, it's livin' with yer own self that matters. I've spent too much time in me own company. That, my friend, is hell.

One last bout of altruism to help seal my fate, aye? What do I get for it? Barbossa took my ship again, Elizabeth and Will have to endure the Dutchman's curse, and to top off all that, Elizabeth tells me that the lovely James Norrington died saving her. His actions were probably motivated from love, the unrequited form.

She said he wore the uniform of an admiral. I liked him far best as a commodore. That defeated, rum-soaked sot did not become him. I almost detested what he let himself turn into. But, I must admit, I still admired the smoldering fire in his eyes. I hated that it burned only for Elizabeth. The man needed to let that bird fly. She was long and gone over young William.

It's all over now, and I only have me own company again. Not so bad now. I have goals that should not cause me to cross paths with any one in need of one pathetic pirate, prone to vicious bouts of altruism.

The open sea and freedom is all I've ever wished for. Right?

"Pathetic pirate," he muttered out loud. Normally, Jack would rarely allow himself to indulge in self-pity, but being all alone on an open, calm sea in a little one-man dinghy seemed an appropriate place to indulge for a short while. But only a short while. It wasn't as if he was sitting in the gaol waiting for his dawn appointment with a noose.

Nay, he had his rum and his compass, and he had Sao Feng's chart. He had fair winds and a calm sea. He had a boat with only a minor leak. He was in much better shape than he was last time he was all alone.

"Gonna need a provision stop soon, however," he reminded himself then grimaced when he noticed how low the first of five rum bottles was getting.

A little fresh water and some food, of course he'd have to ration the rum unless he planned to aim for a civilized port. At the moment, it didn't seem necessary, and the nearest civilized port was further off course than the next convenient little island. No natives on this one, he was almost sure. It did have a spring, and there was game in the way of wild fowl that could be caught and cooked, with luck. Fortunately, he had more than one shot. As much as he would have liked to pump multiple balls into Barbossa's black heart, he had to thank the man for a less violent mutiny. Stranding him in Tortuga was probably the highest point of mercy from Barbossa. It was practically kissing him on the cheek before casting off.

Five full jugs of rum, and he was already concerned enough that he was considering rationing? Mayhaps he should consider swearing off the stuff?

Jack paused thoughtfully. "Bloody no!" he guffawed as a thousand images of him as a balmy teetotaler came to his mind. And he could quit any time he wanted. He went without for longer than ever while in Davy Jones' Locker.... Not that that was particularly fun. The lack of rum had seemed part and parcel to the rest of the torment.

He reefed the sails as he neared the shallows, not wanting too much speed. The island had a lovely white sand beach that would be easy on the boat's keel. A nice place to haul out and dry-dock for a day or two.

Pulling the boat ashore, he noted how much unlike this activity was from trying to pull the Pearl off of the largest sandbar know to this world and the next. And Jack smiled as he pulled the little boat the rest of the way, its shallow keel scraping a rut in the surf-wet sand. He pulled it until he was certain it would be safe from a normal high tide. He then tied a line off to the nearest tree at the vegetation's edge. With that done, he set off further inland for water and firewood, taking the one, now empty, rum jug along.

That took him far longer than he thought it would, and so he returned to the beach just after the last of the sun sank beyond the horizon. Thus he missed that sudden, small flash of light that signified that a soul was free to return from beyond.

By dark, Jack had a nice fire on the beach, some hardtack and salty broth for supper and one full bottle of rum to keep him company.

"We're rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho. "

Jack smiled as he murmured the verse to the stars. It was a fairly good description of most of the brethren, after all. And Jack liked to think he could fit most of it. Certainly he had been a rascal and a scoundrel. Villainy was in the eye of the beholder, and being knavish was often a matter of breeding. He was one of the pirate lords, and like almost all of them, he was more than just literate; he was well-read. Jack Sparrow was an accomplished pirate, mostly because Teague Sparrow wanted the little blighter out of his hair and occupied with useful pursuits. Learning helped ensure that a man couldn't be duped by his supposed betters.

The rest of the verse didn't matter other than Jack loved the idea of being a "bad egg." It made him giggle.

"I'm a bad egg," he said with a smile, resting his lips again on the onyx warmed by his breath. But the smile faded as he realized that he was merely a lonely egg. Will and Elizabeth had proven to even him, that he wasn't all bad.

A shooting star caught his eye, and he watched as it streaked along the sky in a long green thread of light. It had lasted longer than most shooting stars, and its color and brilliance were nothing new to Jack. He had seen such before. His mother had told him the old fishwife tale that a boy could get his wish if he told it to the star.

"I could tell you my wish," Jack began. "But then you would be, 'Jack, ol' boy- firstly: that's more than any man could wish... I mean the sheer volume of that wish would take up all the magical inclinations left in the universe, and that would not be fair to the kiddies, aye? Secondly: you are not a boy anymore...'" He paused gazing at his fingers that he had been ticking off points with. Somehow he had four fingers raised and felt a little disorientated. Nevertheless he forged ahead, changing tactics. "'C: when's it ever been that you've had a wish granted that didn't go south on you?'."

Jack lifted a finger with a triumphant smile. "Aye, there's the rub! And you would be very correct to point all this out to me, Mr. Star. I am obliged."

"Wishes don't come true just as you like them. Ask Will and Elizabeth Turner if you need proof." Jack took a deep drink. The night was young, the stars were bright, and he was still Captain Jack Sparrow.

Years of drinking and drinking deeply had minimized the severity of hangover in Jack. A weaker soul would have been weeping in his own filth; Jack rose and went to a quiet spot to purge. He then drank as much water as his roiling stomach could bear. After a moment, once his stomach settled a little more around a breakfast of hardtack, he would go get the ol' "hair of the dog" remedy that would make his head worth working with.

He returned to the beach, squinting into the bright new day. The sea looked bright and calm all the way to the horizon, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Returning to the smoldering remains of his fire, he added fuel to the few hot coals that were left. Soon he coaxed enough flame to put his little tin cup on for tea.

His head turned sharply, and perhaps a mite too sharply at that as he clutched his aching skull in both hands and squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the pain. But he forced them open again quickly. There was no sense missing what he turned his sore head to see. Something had to make it worth the effort. His eyes widened as he beheld what movement attracted his eye.

"Curious," he said, his head cocking to the side as he watched the small, white crab shuffle just beyond the reach of the gently rolling surf. It stopped for a moment and half turned in his direction. Jack felt his eyes widen yet more so.

"Alarming," he changed his assessment. He had seen these types of crabs before, and why their ilk had taken such an interest in him, he could only guess. Jack knew, somehow, that the crab was beckoning him to follow.

"Still being followed by rock-shaped crabs, I see," he murmured as he pulled his tea water back from the hot spot in the fire and rose to his feet. "Well, now I cannot call it a first."

The crab shuffled faster than Jack imagined it could as he scuffled along in its tracks.

"Oh, that's how we play it then? If I catch you, it'll be crab stew tonight." Well, there was no reason not to, and it seemed as fair as any game on the island. But the little devil proved to be elusive and quick. Soon Jack was caught up in the chase, weaving after it, up and down the long stretch of dunes, heading for the shoreline and then away, and then back again. He kept he eyes on the scuttling little creature, muttering curses at it as he went.

He was upon it and he slowed, watching it. It had frozen in its tracks as small creatures often do. He knew if he was patient and didn't move a muscle, and dove into its path just right, he would have it. Jack was good at patience... most times. The crab moved a claw a fraction of an inch and Jack knew it was now or never. With a long growl he threw himself down at the creature, landing with a thud on the fine sand, sending grit up to his mouth and nose. Jack sputtered, spat, and blinked. The crab was gone.

He looked up. On the beach, just yards away at the edge of the surf lay a still form. It was just large enough to be a body. Jack rose to investigate. The body was wearing clothes and clothes had pockets and pockets had coins and other useful items.

As he approached, more than a few more of the curious white crabs scuttled away from the body, heading back to the sea. Jack grimaced, hoping the little monsters had not chewed too much of the poor soul off to make him a gruesome mess. Robbing the dead was grisly enough without the unpleasant aspect of mutilation.

The man, for it appeared to be a man, wore the coat of a British naval officer. It was hemmed and decorated with heavy brocade that could not have been very buoyant once soaked through. But this one didn't die of drowning. More than likely, he was dead before he went to the deep. The back of his coat had a long, single tear, the edges ragged and slightly stained dark. Probably before he hit the water, the dark stain had been red and soaked through and through.

The man's arms were flung up over his head almost protectively and Jack wondered about that. Dead bodies that were up on shore usually came with arms at the side and sometimes akimbo. Rarely did they take such an active, defensive posture.

"Apparently you were not all dead when you arrived here," Jack murmured to his new companion. He knelt by his side and reached a hand into the wide pocket of the fancy coat.

He took hold of the sodden body and pulled it towards him to flip him to his back. Jack grimaced and turned partially away, prepared for a singularly gruesome sight. Instead, what his eyes caught sight of made his breath catch.

His face was just as Jack remembered. His mouth that could produce such a stern line when angered was also soft and near innocent when taken by gentle surprise, just as it was that day on the Dauntless when Elizabeth offhandedly accepted his proposal of marriage. His eyes were closed, but Jack remembered how green they were. Now his long lashes lay tender against high cheekbones. He had lost his wig, probably to the sea, but his dark brown hair was still neatly tied back, mostly.

A flush of color rose to the Admiral's cheeks and Jack startled, pulling back in shock. James Norrington took in a great breath and coughed.

"Why I should do this, show you mercy, bewilders me to no end," Jack complained as he pulled Norrington free of coat, and started on the buttons of his fine waistcoat. "For when have you ever showed me mercy, except to impress a woman whose love you would never have? I may be a pathetic pirate, but you, sir, are a pathetic navy man."

Norrington's eyes did not open, but there was a look of pain about his face. He coughed weakly once again.

"I can't even call us square on any account. You tried to hang me, but you did let me get back to me ship. Then after that, you chased me like your tail was on fire and I was a bucket of water. You nearly drowned my ship and crew, forcing us into that blasted storm. Then I take you on me ship and give you a berth among me crew, and you thieve from me. You took the heart and left me and Will and Elizabeth to Jones' mercies... and that's what grieves me most, mate." Jack stopped what he was doing and took Norrington by the lapels and shook him.

Jack pushed Norrington back to the ground and rose. "You gave it to that feculent popinjay Beckett and sealed all our fates." Jack rose, looking down at the man in disgust.

Norrington moved feebly where he lay on the ground. His eyes still did not open, but his lips moved. A weak whisper barely reached Jack's ears.

Jack's expression softened. He knelt back down. "Aye, you are not alone, mate," Jack replied softly. With a short sigh, he then reapplied himself to the task of helping the man.

The hole in the back of Norrington's coat had a twin in the front of his waistcoat. Beneath the waistcoat, the white shirt was rent in a spot just below the heart. Jack carefully removed that. The skin was healed over, but there was a place where a rather impressive hole had once been.

"Elizabeth said you were dead," Jack said in a flat tone as he wrapped the man in the first blanket. "I take it you were, for a while."

Norrington coughed and his eyelids twitched, then blinked. Then Jack was staring into jade green eyes. For a moment, Jack's heart reacted, but he squelched the feeling quickly enough, reminding himself that the man could not be trusted.

Norrington coughed again and began to struggle in Jack's grasp. Jack sat him up.

"Elizabeth?" And the man looked up into Jack's face with a pleading look that both pulled at and broke his heart all at once.

"She's well. Back in Port Royal I think. She really didn't tell me where she would be off to when she left after the Dutchman and Will..."

Norrington gripped Jack's arms hard. "On the Dutchman?" The edge of panic was written all over his face.

"Will Turner," Norrington said in a defeated tone as if he already knew what Jack would say. His hands fell from Jack's shoulders as his eyes closed slowly. Norrington looked away from Jack.

"Yes," Norrington replied very softly. His head dropped slightly, and again Jack's heart was assaulted.

Jack sat back in the sand, looking out over his fire towards where his little boat sat on the sand, waiting.

Norrington did not reply. He didn't even look up. There was silence between them, and Jack listened to the soothing sounds of the waves, and the breeze in the palms.

"Yes, Sparrow." Norrington's voice sounded so small against the fresh breeze. "I am very aware of how pathetic I am."

Jack looked over to find Norrington looking at him steadily, his face blank as he must have been fighting his emotions back down. Jack guessed that Norrington was like a very well-contained volcano. He held the lot in, but from time to time, you might glimpse a little steam. It chilled Jack how cheerful he had seemed about his hatred for Jack back in Tortuga. Drunk and used up, he had seemed next to lunacy, yet Jack took him aboard against his better judgment, and not just because Elizabeth wanted it.

Jack opened his mouth to answer then closed it as he realized he didn't really know. He had raised a finger to stress his point, but he curled it back into his fist as he faltered for something to tell the man.

"Tia said that souls at peace cannot be called back...." Jack murmured. "Clearly," he said with authority, looking back at Norrington, "you were not at peace."

Norrington only sighed and looked away. Jack looked away as well, sketching patterns in the sand at his feet.

After a while, Norrington spoke again. His voice was a little more firm and sure. "That does not explain how I came to be here, in this place, with you."

"Now that, mate, is hard to rightly explain, as I, myself, have only a vague notion of what came about."

Norrington turned to look at him with that old familiar sarcasm and disdain in his eyes. "Pray do enlighten me, Sparrow. Any explanation, even one of yours, would be more than I have now. "

Jack frowned. "When you place it to me in that tone, I feel disinclined to share." He folded his arms over his chest and stuck his tongue out at Norrington.

Norrington looked away again. "Nevertheless, Sparrow, I thank you for the fire and the blanket."

Jack took the edge of his sash and retrieved the tin cup from the edge of the fire. "No sugar or honey. I take mine with rum. How about you?"

Jack leaned forward passing the cup Norrington's way so that the steam wafted under his nose. Norrington sniffed it briefly then sat back with a sigh.

"No, Sparrow. I do not wish to have rum in my tea. I am not quite the lush you are."

"You were well on your way not long back," Jack shrugged and sat the cup before Norrington. "Fine, then. More rum for me."

Jack pulled the new bottle of rum close but he did not uncork it yet. He looked thoughtfully out to the clear sky.

"My best guess, Commodore... or, excuse me, Admiral, is that I tried not to make a wish on a falling star. Said star found it humorous to grant me the thing I was trying hardest not to wish for. Being totally hoodwinked by a silly notion of charms and magic in the night sky, I fell into the trap of a wicked wish granter. I suppose you can see the irony in all this?"

"Come now, Comm... Admiral. After all the things we have seen: undead pirates, men that are half fish, a beating heart outside of a man's body...Can you honestly discount what I've said to you?"

"Did you miss the part where I said wicked wish granter? I don't know. I wished for someone... anyone."

Norrington looked around, scanning the horizon. "And where is the Black Pearl? You lost her again, didn't you?"

The smirk on Norrington's face was like a kidney punch. Jack decided to pay him back in kind. "At least she's still in one piece. I heard the Dauntless' mizzen mast washed up somewhere near Kingston harbor."

Norrington's eyes darkened ominously and he turned away from Jack. "Pirate bastard!"

Jack could clearly see the man was shaking with barely contained rage. Well, it served him right. "Sticks 'n stones," Jack replied.

They were silent again. After a moment, Norrington lifted the cup of tea and took a cautious sip.

Jack pulled the cork on the rum with his teeth. He spat it aside and took a deep swallow. "Fine way to start a resurrection."

Please note how far I have chosen to place myself from my new companion. Did I not tell you about wishes, mate? They don't come true just as you like them. Indeed, that would make the whole wishing process less interesting and more pedantic, which is to say, less magical and more boring. Savvy?

Certainly, I can merit better company than Norrington. Yes, he is easy on the eye, but he is the worst kind of treacherous. He's honorable.

Now you see, when such as myself commits acts of treachery, it is only as most expect of me. I am, as you well know, a pirate. Therefore my enemies expect me to double-cross my friends, my friends take what I tell them as suspect at best, and those who just have a passing acquaintance try to keep it at that. It makes it easier for me to manipulate friends and enemies alike. If they expect you to lie and to sell them down the river, you should do so with a will... just don't do it in a manner that they expect and that sells them down the river too much. It works wonders on those bastards who think they are smarter than you, like Beckett.

Now someone like Will Turner is far too honest to maneuver with such flexible cunning. He is either honest or treacherous. There is no gray area. If he cannot be honest, he will be honestly treacherous, which is a dangerous thing. His type is not well suited to treachery.

Norrington is a different sort of animal all together. Not honestly treacherous, he is treacherous for honor. He will do whatever it takes to save face. It's a little different than what I will do to save me own neck. Saving one's own neck is a straightforward endeavor; almost predictable. Honor is a bit more ill-defined. It's that which can drive treachery beyond the reasonable to the excessive. Steer clear of his ilk, mate.

And this is the companion of my wishes?

Norrington had tended the flames, apparently, and the fire crackled heartily. He continued to sit wrapped in the dingy gray blanket that Jack had given to him. His coat, however, now hung spread on a bush at the tree line, as did his waistcoat and shirt.

Jack marveled at how the man could look down his nose at him from a seated position.

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not a rum-soaked imbecile, nor am I insane. Yes, Admiral Norrington, I have provisions."

Jack reached for his satchel that he brought from the boat. In the leather pack was a jar with a thick, gray viscous fluid inside.

"On tonight's menu is broth and biscuits." Jack opened the glass container and sampled the contents with a dirty finger.

"Of course it's slush, Admiral. Add a dollop to water and let boil, it makes a rather nice broth... a bit salty, but it does satisfy."

Jack sat down next to him at the fire taking the tin cup that had held Norrington's tea. He empted the dregs into the ash and rinsed it only once. He then filled it all the way with fresh water.

"You're my guest so the first cup is for you," he said with exaggerated care. He then let a rather large plop of the gray grease fall into the cup of water. The water sloshed over on the coals, making copious amounts of steam and smoke. Norrington coughed once.

"Salty is not necessarily a word I would use for this, Sparrow. Briny and foul seem much more appropriate."

"Aye, it's strong at first. Best to dunk the biscuit in and eat it that way," Jack said as he crunched on another piece of hardtack himself and took a large swig of rum to wash it down. "We have plenty of biscuit."

Jack regarded the man coolly. "No. I stopped here to hunt and stock. You just happened to interrupt my restocking schedule."

"My apologies for the inconvenience," Norrington replied dryly. "I'll see to it that any future resurrections I have comply with your routine."

Norrington frowned at the cup and briefly made a face that Jack found both amusing and endearing. Oh, he had forgotten how endearing the dear Admiral could be, especially when he was put-out. Nevertheless, with only a brief hesitation, Norrington downed the rest of the broth, which only gave testimony to Jack to the man's state. Jack knew he should hunt or fish come morn to give them something more substantial to put in their stomachs.

"Here," he said while trying to smooth the grimace his face was currently expressing. "Your turn."

Jack took the cup back, looking it over with interest. "Just biscuit for me tonight. Had the broth yesterday. I dislike having the same supper the next evening."

Jack's eyebrows rose slightly. "Thought, mayhaps, you'd sworn off the drink... being an admiral and all now."

"I'm not an admiral," Norrington sighed, looking into the fire. "Least not any longer... So you may stop addressing me as such."

Jack said nothing to this but just passed the rum. He watched as Norrington took a substantial swig and did not hand the jug back right away. Jack watched him warily.

"I chose a side," Norrington responded softly as his eyes looked into the heart of the fire. "It was the correct side, but it cost me my commission... and my life."

Jack thought this over for a moment. Norrington seemed very resigned to his fate and yet, here he was: not at peace. "Seems to me, mate, your commission was tied to Beckett. Not your life."

"No one said anything about chances." Jack turned a brief smile at him. "And it was you who spoke of choices."

"Aye, you didn't," Jack replied brightly. "And yet here you are, all contrite and melancholy. Quite gloomy, in fact."

"I was dead, Sparrow. And perhaps that would have been a mercy if I could have stayed such. What do I have left? No honor. No duty. No love... no one...." Norrington's voice trailed off.

"For a man fresh from the grave, I find your will to live lacking." With that, Jack pulled the jug from Norrington's fingers. "Surrounded, as always, by people teeming with regrets. I imagine I am the only person I know who has yet to regret a single action I have taken... er... maybe that time in Singapore, but that was hardly my fault...."

"Do you lie to yourself as well, Sparrow, or is lying such a habit that you hardly realize when you do so?" Norrington looked at him once more. "Every man has regrets."

Norrington smiled, and it was a sad sort of smile that made Jack stop. In fact, it made Jack regret.

"Alive again and still not wanted," Norrington said softly. He then settled back on the sand, pulling the blanket close about his shoulder. "Goodnight, Sparrow. Kill me in my sleep or abandon me if you please. Perhaps, if we are both lucky, I am only a phantom and will be gone come morn."

Jack took a deep drink and sighed. "And only I can be granted the wish of a morose..."

"...rum-pot deckhand that takes orders from pirates?" Norrington supplied from where he lay despondently on the sand.

Jack shrugged and took another drink, content to allow the man the last word. Norrington was quiet now; his eyes slowly closed. There was no profit in taking up a contrary position with him while he seemed well set to wallow in his own self-pity. However, as the light faded from the sky and the nighttime sky grew to that deep indigo that Jack so enjoyed, Jack watched the way the fire made shadows play across Norrington's proud and perfect features.

"No one that pretty should lose the girl," he muttered to himself again. He watched the slight jump of flesh at the pulse point on Norrington's neck and wondered again about how fragile life was.

Norrington was right. Jack had regrets. He had had a chance to review each of them as he spent time in the Locker. He had had the chance to examine his life from his first memory unto his last, and what he found was life full of adventure but lacking in something essential. It was elusive, this something. It wasn't love. Jack could have had love if he had wanted it.

No love. That was Norrington's regret? Well, love was a waste of effort. He was yet to see how anyone ever profited from it. Certainly it had driven both Will and Elizabeth to some pretty disastrous decisions. He had even watched as so-called love had twisted Norrington away from his duty. In the grand scheme of looking out for one's own neck, love was the great foil.

There was no one that Jack Sparrow would die for. He looked over Norrington's peaceful face. The man wasn't asleep yet; he couldn't be. James Norrington had died for someone. She had chosen a man of lesser means and certainly more humble origins and yet he had died for her. Or perhaps he had died for her cause, because he had realized too late that what he wanted had not been what Lord Cutler Beckett had wanted.

Norrington's eyes opened slowly and focused on Jack's face from where he lay. "Being run through... was much like I imagined. It stole my breath. The pain was short; then I was numb. It was as if I had no body below where I'd been pierced. I had so many words, and no breath to express them... and I knew that those moments were my very last. I had no breath for words to spit back at Jones. I did the only thing I could do to express my sentiments."

"Of course not, Sparrow." Norrington glared up at him. "I'm not so crass, even at my end. I ran him through with my own blade."

"But why would you need telling of how death feels if you had tasted it yourself?"

"Ah, but my death wasn't of the normal violent, or even un-violent type. Jones claimed me body and soul, and after his rather impressive beastie swallowed me and the Pearl whole, I don't remember aught else other than being in the Locker."

"I recall nothing else after stabbing Jones," Norrington said, laying back and closing his eyes once more.

Norrington did not open his eyes but only smiled with a sad sigh. "No, I lived for love. I died for absolution."

Jack took another deep drink and left Norrington to his sleeping. He continued to watch his handsome face reflected soft in the firelight until drink and exhaustion claimed his attention too.

Jack then stood and walked off towards his waiting boat without a backwards glance. He had a plan in place for today: hunt for food and then finish the project he started the day before. Jack checked the condition of his pistol before he pulled his small sack of extra powder and shot. Jack was a very good shot and knew he wouldn't need much if he found something worth shooting. It was only the very edge of the migratory season, so there may not be much more than doves and gulls.

He supposed he could fish. He had tackle in the boat and it would be easier to set off a line and then get back to his other chores. He reached into the dinghy and pulled out his line and tackle.

"Efficiency is at the heart of any successful venture, my dear Jackie." Jack muttered to himself as he carefully prepared the line. "Beginning to sound like ol' Teague." He giggled to himself.

Jack looked back towards the small camp. The fire was ash and hot coals again, and James sat where he had left him, applying shaving lather to his chin. Jack smiled.

But he did manage to make some decent oakum that he used on a fourth of the boat's planking. He would go over the rest the next morning. It was afternoon now and he went down to the surf to wash his fingers and check his line. James was no longer next to the fire. He hadn't seen the man leave the camp, but his large, brocade coat and bright yellow waistcoat still hung from the bush near by. The white shirt was gone.

Jack snorted as he considered where the man had gone, but turned back to pull in his line. He had had luck and a rather nice size crab had taken hold of the bug he had used for bait.

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the same crab as the white crab he had chased along the sand a full day before. It was not the crab that had led him to Norrington. The crab made a furtive attempt to pinch him and Jack shook it with a small cry of dismay. He then looked back over at the camp to see if anyone witnessed his embarrassing outburst. Norrington was still missing.

Jack's face drew into a frown as he wondered where the dear ex-admiral could be.

"Hope he hasn't gone far. He still has me boot knife," Jack snarled to himself as he reached into the boat and pulled out a small battered pot and a fresh jug of rum.

Back at the fire, he found his cup and brush clean, sitting on the blanket that James had been wrapped in the night before. The knife was conspicuously missing, as was Norrington.

At this point, Jack was starting to feel concerned, which made him feel more than a little annoyed. He swore to himself, after the Locker, that he would never allow himself to care for another's welfare again, and what had he done since? To date, he had given Elizabeth the benefit of the doubt, given Barbossa a chance, and given up immortality to save Will's life. Now he was concerned about the welfare of the freshly resurrected James Norrington who had tried to hang him, chased him about the Caribbean during hurricane season, and repaid his generosity by stealing the heart of Davy Jones and giving it to Beckett, of all people.

Pretty or not, Norrington was a bastard that was more trouble than he was worth. Yet Jack stood looking towards the tree line, considering looking for him. He reasoned that he at least needed his boot knife back. Nevertheless, before Jack could take step one, he saw a shadow moving among the thicker foliage. Then Norrington stepped out from the trees carrying deadfall and something small and bright.

Norrington arrived at the camp dropping the deadfall near but not too close to the fire. The other item he pitched at Jack. Jack caught it, surprised to find it was a dove. There was a long cut in its chest just the right size for his boot knife. Jack looked at the bird, and then back up at Norrington, raising an eyebrow.

Norrington held out the knife to Jack, handle first. "I earn my keep, as you will recall."

Norrington's head lifted in defiance, and Jack was struck by how beautiful he became when he was being bloody proud and brazen. "You have let me share your fire. You have shared your meager provisions."

Jack shrugged, turning to the small pile of deadfall. He walked past Norrington to take up a few pieces to stir the fire back to life.

"I'll not be beholden to a pirate," Norrington added in an angry hiss as Jack's back was to him. Jack straightened and turned.

"You already are, mate," Jack said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. In fact, his eyes burned with a fury held in check. Jack swaggered back towards Norrington slowly, looking him up and down.

"Pirates made you, Norrington. And pirates were your undoing. You rose up the ranks on the bones of pirates. You fell in love with a pirate. You took the side of a pirate. You died at the hand of a pirate. And now, you are alive... because of a pirate. So how are you going to validate yourself now? For all you have done, and been through, one might even say, you are a pirate now, savvy?"

Norrington turned his head slowly to look at Jack, his cheeks stained with color. "So be it," was all he said.

"Dress that. I'll tend the fire." He started back to the wood but stopped suddenly and turned again. "I wonder why they call it dressing a bird. You are undressing it after all."

One Silly, Bloody Wish Later

Part 1