Title: Bruised Ghosts

Author: SkyFire

Email: archivist@melethryn.net

Pairing: Norrington/?, Jack/Norrington

Rating: R (violence)

Summary: A few months after the Dauntless finally lost a fight with pirates and was sunk with no survivors, Jack finds something unexpected In Tortuga
.
Genre: Darkfic.

Warnings: Mentions/aftermath of torture/rape. WIP.

Author's Notes:
1)This is my first attempt at "real" (non-humor) PotC slash.
2)Ideas on how to flesh this out are appreciated. Flames will be laughed at, forwarded to the Gods of Catastrophic Computer Failure, then deleted.
3)Both the "Bloody Keel" and the "Vulture" are mine and come solely from my imagination. They are not copied from anyone/anywhere and have no base in historical fact. Any resemblance to either is purely coincidential. Please do not use them without permission.
4)This is (obviously) post-PotC. It starts out (where else?) in a whorehouse in Tortuga.

Disclaimer: No, I'm not making money, and No, they're not mine. BUT I might just have to borrow them for a while; take them out for a spin, some torture, h/c, rum, angst, and a few laughs. Borrow. Really. With every intention of giving them back.... sooner or later... ;oP


Bruised Ghosts
By SkyFire
******

Part 1: Discovery

"The Dauntless' gone?" Jack said, dark eyes wide in shock as he stared in disbelief at the whore in his arms. "How? When?"

The woman, Elsie ('Sapphire' to paying clients), rolled her eyes. "What rock ha' ye been under, Jack?" she said, even as she decorated his neck and throat with small nips and kisses, her hands roving familiarly over the body before her. "Word's been all over Tortuga for nearly three months now-- some of th' men in 'ere been celebratin' ever since. She was looted an' sunk by th' Bloody Keel."

"Vulture's ship?"

She nodded. "'E came in, wearing some bigshot Navy's hat, Dauntless' colors in hand. 'E wouldn' have 'ose if th' tale weren't true."

"Y' never know, luv, 'e coulda snuck onboard an' stole 'em, without actually *fightin'*--"

"But--"

"Nah, luv, until I see some solid proof -- solid, *unstealable* proof, mind -- with me own eyes, I ain't gonna be believing that Bloody Keel managed to sink 'er. I know the Commodore as sails 'er, an' 'e's a smart one. There's no way the Vulture managed to outfox 'im, not 'nless 'e's come into a fair haul o' smarts since last time I seen 'im."

Elsie paused in her ministrations, leaned back in his lap to eye him speculatively. Apparently, whatever she saw pleased her, for she nodded decisively as she made some unvoiced decision. "Y' need good, solid, inimitable, unstealable proof, Jack? There be such a thing."

"Ah?" he asked, curiosity spiked. "Where?"

She slid off his lap, pulled him to his feet. "I'll show ye. Should be safe 'nough, if we don' linger. Keel's cap'n don' like anyone seein' when 'e ain't there 't see th' reactions."

Curiosity now fully peaked, Jack let himself be led deep into the bowels of the whorehouse, grinning roguishly at those women who greeted him by name, acquiring only a few stinging slaps.

At last, they stopped in front of a door no different than any of the others that lined the second-floor hallway.

"Proof be in there?" he asked, nodding to the door.

Elsie gnawed on her full lower lip, doubts running through her as to the wisdom of bringing Jack there. But though her head was swimming with new doubts, her heart was sure, and her gut told her she was doing right.

"Yes, it be in there," she said at last. A slight hesitation, then "Jack." A small pause. "Ye've always done right by us here. Jus' hope he'll do right by what's in there." Another pause. "An' if ye do, know that none o' us'll see a thing. Jus' be quick, afore th' Vulture comes back."

A last look at the closed door, then Jack, then she left, leaving him standing there, alone in the hallway, confused. Then he shrugged. Just a quick peek, he told himself as he reached for the door's handle. One quick look at Vulture's 'proof' about the Dauntless' demise, then back to the tavern. There was a bottle of half-finished rum down there that was calling for him.

The handle turned easily under his hand. One quick, furtive look up and down the hallway, then he slipped into the room, closing the door easily behind him with a soft click.

He looked around the room, but the thick, dark drapes were drawn across the room's only window and it was dark as Barbossa's black heart in there.

Careful not to bump into anything in the blackness, he eased over to where a tiny portion of light illuminated the edges of the drapes, then pulled them back, flooding the room with light.

A small gasp and choking whimper from behind had him spinning around in alarm, one hand on sword hilt, one on pistol. His hands froze in their actions when his eyes fell on the source of the whimpers.

A man. That much was easy enough to see from the size and shape of him. A man bent facedown over the edge of a solid oak table, arms stretched taut above his head, wrists tied to the far legs. A man bound with his rear in the air, ankles and knees tied wide open to the near legs of the table, leaving him spread open, easily accessible...

...and obviously ill-used.

Not one inch of the man's naked body was not covered by an injury of some sort, Jack saw. Loose, ragged-ended brown hair covered most of the man's face, but what he could see of it was swollen black, blue, purple, and green. The bruising continued down from his face, coating his body in multicolor pain. His back from neck to knee was a mass of welts, the untended cuts oozing and inflamed. Blood, both old and dried and new and wet, coated him like a second skin, the old flaking off in little rust-colored bits with every short, pain-filled breath. The legs were smeared and crusted with blood and fluids new and old, leaving no doubt that he'd been used hard and often. Set between his arms, bare inches above his head -- and as unreachable as if it had been across the room -- was a plate full of cold, congealed food.

It took a colossal effort for Jack to turn his eyes from the sight of the other's suffering. He hated, *hated* leaving anyone in such straits, but what could he do? The man was property of the Vulture, and while said captain was *not* known for his sea-savvy nor savvy of any other sort, he *was* known for his ability to harbor a grudge until it dropped dead of old age, and to make the grudgee's life as miserable and trouble-laden as possible.

He had no intention of being the Vulture's next target.

So.

Find the proof Elsie had mentioned, then leave before he was found out.

He kept up a quiet stream of curses as he quickly searched the room, his conscience kicking him solidly and often at the thought of leaving the man to the Vulture's nonexistant mercies.

In a wardrobe, he found both the Dauntless' colors and the hat Elsie had mentioned. Both were, as far as he could tell as he examined them, disturbingly authentic-looking. Had that incompetent captain actually managed to sneak aboard Dauntless, climb up and steal her colors, then sneak into the Commodore's cabin and steal his hat?!

But Elsie had mentioned even more solid proof, and there was nothing else in the wardrobe that would qualify.

So where was it?

He heard the other man shift slightly, hissing in pain as cracked ribs and torn muscle protested.

Then he heard something that sent his blood pumping through him in icy waves.

"Sss-" the naked, beaten man choked out, voice thick and raspy from earlier screaming, slurred because of the swelling on his face. "Sssp... arrr... ow. Sssparrow."

Sparrow. That man knew who he was.

Jack moved to the table, one hand reaching out to brush back some of the wayward hair that hid the beaten face. He knew that man. He must. For the other knew him, so it followed that he also knew the other. Right? But who was he, and how did he end up tied to the Vulture's table...? He brushed the hair out of the way.

Jack's kohl-rimmed eyes widened impossibly at the sight. He was right. He *did* know the man.

"Not possible," he croaked as he backed away a few shaky steps. "Not possible."

But he knew.

He knew it was possible, and more, that it was right in front of him.

He knew he had found Elsie's proof.

Bloodshot green eyes peered out at him from twin nests of purpled, swollen flesh. "He-lpp... P-ple-please... Help m-me."




Part 2: Decisions

James Norrington, once known as Commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy, now merely the Vulture's pet, lay bound to the table in the Vulture's rented rooms, alone in the dark. He had never truly liked the dark, before. Perhaps it was some remnant of childish fears, but he had always associated the dark with things he couldn't see; things that lurked in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike...

What a fool he had been.

The dark, he now knew, was solace. When he was in the dark, there was no one with him. No one to look, and watch, and mock. No one to beat him, or harm him. In the dark, he was alone. In the dark, he was safe.

It was the light he dreaded now, for always and ever since his capture, the light brought with it only pain, humiliation. His captors liked it to be bright when they hurt him, when they trained him, when they slowly broke him, so that no reaction on his part was lost in shadow. His sobs and screams were illuminated by the light of dozens of lamps.

But it was dark now, and they were gone. He was alone in the darkness, bound and hurt and so very hungry, yet safe until the light returned.

He thought he heard a sound... a soft click, perhaps? The door furtively closing? He kept himself as still and silent as he could. It was dark, and things were hidden in the darkness. Perhaps he could be hidden, too, and remain hidden if he made no movement, no sound. Perhaps he could be safe for yet a little while.

A sense of something he couldn't see, moving in the darkness beyond the table that was his entire world now. Small, muted sounds. He was sure he heard them. A tiny sound of jingling metal. A pleasant sound, really. Not at all like the sound of the chains that had been used to bind or beat him. He smiled faintly, his split lip and bruised face paining him at the barely-noticeable expression, a pain he had learned to push aside as the nothing it was. Yes, it was an altogether pleasant sound. Surely, nothing that sounded like that could hurt him.

The smile faded. He had been mistaken before.

His world of safe darkness was shattered, sundered as the thick drapes were opened, the bright sunlight flooding the room.

He could not stop the gasp that escaped him, nor the whimper. It was all he could do to hold back the pleas for mercy, ineffectual though he knew them to be. His captors were only pleased with his begging when he begged when they *wanted* him to, and what they wanted him to beg *for*. Unsolicited begging brought him only more pain.

But now, the room was bright. Not as bright as it usually was when the Vulture and his cronies were there to 'amuse' themselves with him, but the darkness was well and truly shattered.

He clenched his teeth, tensed unconsciously, waiting for the pain to begin. It was not usually so bad when there was only one. It was when they had an audience, someone to play up to, that they got especially creative and violent in their acts.

But the pain didn't come as expected.

Instead, there was the sound of muted cursing mingled with the soft chiming of jingling metal, moving methodically through the room. He had been a part of enough searches to recognise the actions. This person, this person who had taken the comforting darkness away, was searching the room for something. But what? James knew that the Vulture hadn't brought any of his personal items to the room; they remained aboard the Bloody Keel. None of the other men had brought any belongings to the room, either. He himself was the only belonging of theirs there, besides the hat and colors that they used to taunt him; things that had once been his, a source of pride.

Turning his head slightly, hissing in pain as cracked ribs and torn muscle protested, he caught the upside-down reflection of the interloper in the highly-polished wood of the table.

He blinked. The vision remained the same. A cautious hope sparked to life within him. In all the years he had spent chasing the man, he had come to know a great deal about him. Enough to know that even though he *was* a pirate and thus automatically sentenced to hang, he was also - for the most part - an honorable opponent. Surely, if he knew who it was on the table, he could not but help? Even if he didn't help, surely he would not do him harm, and James would be no worse off than he already was.

He had to try. He could do nothing else.

"Sss-" he choked out, voice thick and raspy from earlier screaming, slurred because of the swelling on his face. "Sssp... arrr... ow. Sssparrow."

A pause, then movement as Sparrow came hesitantly to the table, reached out. He flinched slightly away from the hand, then held himself still as his ragged hair was brushed from his face.

"Not possible," Jack croaked as he backed away. "Not possible."

He turned his eyes to the pirate, staring up into kohl-rimmed eyes, barely able to see through the swelling of his own. Shamelessly, he begged. "He-lpp... P-ple-please... Help m-me."

***

No matter what might have happened between them before, Jack could no longer ignore the kicks from his conscience, let alone the man's despairing plea. A sigh at his own idiocy, then Jack pulled out a small boot-knife and severed the ropes that tied the bloodless hands to the far end of the table, then those on the legs. Bereft of their support, the man slithered from the table to lie crumpled on the floor, a cry of pain escaping him at the movement.

"Shhh," Jack hissed, glancing furtively around the room. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, his back was crawling. The Vulture would be there soon, he knew it, could sense it as he could a coming change in the ocean winds. "Shhh."

He looked around for something with which to cover his companion. No matter that it was a whorehouse, no matter what Elsie said, a man walking around naked *would* be noticed, and word spread far too quickly. He needed something--

Inspiration hit him hard.

Quickly, Jack went over to the wardrobe, opened it, pulled out the flag and hat. Closing it quietly, he then went back over to where the man had managed to push himself into a semi-orderly heap, helped him to stand, leaning heavily against the wall beside him. "Hold this," Jack said, thrusting the hat into one sluggish hand. Then he took the Dauntless' flag and draped it around the thin, battered body.

One bloodstained hand clutching the flag tightly together at his waist, he graced Sparrow with a pain-filled smile. "Th-thank y-you."

"No time for that now, mate," Jack said. As gently -yet quickly- as he could, he guided the other man to the door, one arm about his waist, trying to put as little pressure on the welted back as he could without dropping him. He listened at the door for a long moment before he was satisfied enough to crack the door open and stick his head out. The hall was empty.

Quickly, before anyone chanced by, he got himself and his companion out of that room, the door shut behind them.

//Wherenowwherenowwherenow?// his mind screamed at him. Good enough as that flag might be at the moment, Jack knew that without real clothes the chances of him getting his new companion out of the whorehouse were extremely slim. Even for *Captain* Jack Sparrow.

Inspiration hit him again.

"We need t' get ye some clothes," he said softly as he guided the other down the hall and up a narrow stairway there to the tiny third floor. "Ye might not like 'em much, but the alternative is t' go back to the Vulture, an'--"

"No," Norrington hissed between painful gasps for breath. "N-not g-going b-back there. N-not ever. Rather d-*die*."

"Right, then. Now--"

"P-promise," came the slurred demand. "P-promise me you w-won't l-let h-him g-get me again. D-death first."

"Now really isn't the time t' be--"

"Promise!"

A put-upon sigh. "All right, mate. If it means that much to ye, I promise t' kill ye if there's no other way of keepin' ye out of 'is 'ands. Happy?"

A relieved sigh. "Yes. T-thank you." A shiver as a draft found its way up underneath the thin flag he wore. "C-clothes."

"Now ye've got yer priorities straight. Clothes."

"Y-yes."



END PART 2