built over me a worry as big as a shipyard

Word Count: 742
Characters: James, Zyphire
Notes: This takes place in an AU fusion with His Dark Materials.  Zyphire is James's daemon, an osprey, and this fic takes place during DMC, after Jack has pestered her into attacking him. This AU is also one in which Jack and James knew each other and were lovers as young men, before Jack was branded. There is perforce a metric fucktonne of history and tension and grief and blame flying around.

They are both enough shaken by it that after her attack on Jack, Zyphire gives up her enforced aloofness and allows James to come to her.  More than allows, she doesn’t say, though they both know, and as they sit, she sidesteps over to her accustomed place on his shoulder, and begins to pick apart the strands of his hair.  It’s tangled, crusted with salt and neglect, in need of a comb and a dousing in clean water; unpicking it is as much a kindness on her part as it is a way for her to avoid the necessity of speech.  It is good to be close.

‘Why did you do that?’

James speaks first, as Zyphire had known he would, though it’s a silly question for a man to ask his own daemon.  She breaks off her work, and presses the crown of her head against his ear.

( 'I was angry.' )

It's more an effort to escape Sparrow than anything else that prompts James to push back his chair and shuffle his papers in order, quite ready to leave.  He won't take Beckett's coin, but it wouldn't do to do him the discourtesy of refusing his summons entirely; James may dislike the man, but he is a Commodore; he represents not only His Majesty's Royal Navy, but the entire settlement of Port Royal.  Propriety is key in these sorts of dealings.   So, tucking his chair back into its place, he gives Captain Sparrow a curt nod towards the door, a clear signal to him that leaving would be a good idea. 

Sparrow, however, seems to have other ideas.  'Best go with you, mate.'  He knocks back the remainder of his brandy, booted feet hooking off James's desk to land on the floor with a thump.  'Only polite thing to do, you know; wouldn't want you to get misplaced on your way there, eh?'  He gestures vaguely, bejewelled fingers fluttering.  'Corridors being what they are.'

James manfully refrains from commenting that they are, as it happens, in his fort, and that it is therefore exceedingly unlikely that he'd manage to get lost.  If Sparrow wants to follow him around, so be it; James isn't going to give him the satisfaction of arguing about it. 

'Very well,' he says crisply, and heads out the door.  He waits for Sparrow to follow before locking the door behind him, and setting off down the corridor to Lord Beckett's temporary office.  It's not much of a distance, and James with his long legs walks quickly.  Much more so than Sparrow, he notes with petty satisfaction, who has to hurry to keep up with him, or else lag behind.  Either way, it's not long before he reaches the office.  A lean, pockmarked man is stationed outside the door, leaning against the jamb, and he looks up idly when the click of James's heels echoes down the hallway.  Mr. Mercer, Lord Beckett's... well, James isn't precisely sure what he is to Beckett.  People seem to call him his man, if they call him anything, and that's vague enough that it could mean anything.  A crooked smile twists its way across his face as he takes James in.

'Ah, Commodore.  'Is Lordship's been expecting you.'

Mercer manages to make this sound entirely unsavoury, but James merely gives him a nod.  'So I have been informed.'

Mercer's eyes flick to where Sparrow must surely be standing behind him, and he exhales a faint laugh.  The sound has little enough mirth in it.  'So I see,' he drawls.  'Go on, then.'

'Thank you,' James gives the man a perfunctory little inclination of his head before entering the room.  Lord Beckett is seated at his desk, looking very much the king in charge of his kingdom, and James comes to a heel-clicking halt before him.

'Lord Beckett.  I was told you wished to speak to me.'

James shut his computer with a click, exhaling thoughtfully through his nose.  He had not entirely intended to volunteer himself to be this goddess's 'company,' whatever that meant, but that was what had happened.  Not that he had any objections, really.  She was a fine lady, he was sure, and goddess or no, she comported herself with all the grace of any of London's high society ladies; one of the few sensible people he'd encountered on that blasted community.   He'd not been lying when he said he was looking forward to meeting her, but the feeling was tempered by a good deal of wariness.  It was not every day one was in the presence of a deity, after all, and James knew enough of the old stories to know that it was best to be canny.

He straightened his jacket, making sure the brocade aligned properly upon his chest.  It never hurt to look one's best, after all.

A shore leave, Sparrow had decided, was in order, and so when he had gone off to do... whatever it was he was doing, James had set about helping the crew to unload the necessities, and he himself had gone belowdecks to make sure that all the supplies and victuals housed therein had not been upset by the storm.  One of the barrels of fresh water had sprung a leak, but it was quickly sealed, and since they were anchored, it had caused no worry.  Now the work has finally finished and the men gone ashore, James leans back and passes a hand over his brow, breathing in the scent of vegetation and dark, wet earth that hangs heavy upon the air.  The air is cool and James finds his ire at Sparrow melting away with every breath he takes. 

His momentary  feelings of restfulness, however, are soon cut short as a shrill voice cuts through the slapping of waves against the walls of the cove and the strangely loud rustling of the heavy, wet leaves of the trees which grow all about them.  James sighs.  Already he is getting tired of that voice.

'Hey! Navy man!'

He turns, twisting his mouth into a pained smile.  The woman (he realises suddenly that he has no idea what her name is) is soaked through and looking positively vicious, her white teeth bared in a sneer James does not like at all.  He suddenly wonders if she really does live in a state of perpetual fury, or if it's just something about him that so riles her.  He is equal to that, however, and he raises an eyebrow at her. 'Miss?' He says, the epitome of restrained politeness

She scoffs.  'Don' take that tone with me, Norrington.  Mebbe you're Commodore, yeah, but that doesn' mean you don' have to do what the rest of us do.  We're to gather supplies- water, fruit.'  She jerks her head in the general direction of the jungle and sets off without bothering to see if James is following her or not.  He sighs, but follows after her anyway.  She makes her way smoothly through the dripping foliage, slapping branches and massive leaves out of her way as she goes.  No-matter how he tries, James seems always to be a good few metres behind her.  After about ten minutes of walking (and it's more like jogging, James has to admit), and no sign of any gathering of supplies, he calls up to her.

'Where exactly are we going?'

She does not turn, just calls: 'To meet the Captain.'

James groans audibly, gritting his teeth when suddenly they do come to a halt and there before the pair of them stand Jack Sparrow- looking rather dementedly cheerful- and Mr. Gibbs.  He runs a hand through his wet hair, droplets of water flying from his fingertips.  Lovely, he thinks, how really bloody wonderful. 

What he says is: 'Captain.  Mr. Gibbs.'

Well, well, well... that insolent wretch Sparrow has taken one of my men hostage.   Not a surprise, I suppose, as I practically told the pirate where to find him.  Damn him!  It's the letter-writing, I suppose.  One would never say such things to another's face as one writes in a letter, and it's easy to forget who precisely you are writing to.  Well, never again, I can say that much.  We shall conduct our exchange of prisoners and then I shall clap the man in irons and not be bothered by him again.  He is far more trouble than he is worth.