stem_the_tide | Rp for captjacksparrow

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Rp for captjacksparrow

As is his wont, James wakens just after sunrise. This is normal for him, as is the sight of the half-hearted sunlight streaming in through the windows, the smell of the sea in the morning. What is not normal, however, is the bed he's lying in- deep and soft- the plush blankets covering him. As his sleep-grimed eyes blink further, he notes that nothing in this room is at all normal, and for a moment he cannot recall where he is nor how he's got here. But then his eyes alight upon the chair he had sat in the night before and there, sprawled in drunken sleep is Captain Jack Sparrow, and with a rush, James remembers all the tumultuous events of the previous day, down to his unaccountable worry about Sparrow before he fell asleep the night before.

Somewhat comforted by this memory (but not much), he slides out of the bed, stretching and yawning cavernously. He can hear his spine crack loudly and winces slightly. It is still fairly quiet aboard the ship, and as James begins to get dressed, he regards the sleeping pirate across from him. The chair is closer to the bed than it was before, as though Sparrow had been watching him before he fell asleep (a notion which could be either disturbing or endearing- he cannot decide which), and Sparrow seems to have melted into it like a liquid; he's clad only in shirt and breeches, and James's eyes rest for a moment on the gaping V of golden skin exposed by the shirt before he looks away. The pirate's head rests on his shoulder, and a nearly-empty bottle of rum dangles loosely from his fingers, cradled in the crook of his elbow; his mouth moves slightly in nonsense syllables. He's as sloppy as ever sleeping, but the light of the rising sun on those high cheekbones and the black-painted eyes now closed give him a strangely feminine air. James shakes his head; he's not usually prone to such poetic rubbish- it must be prolonged exposure to Sparrow, he decides.

Once fully dressed, he ties his hair back in a queue (no reason to wear the wig now, and privately he rejoices that he needn't wear the itchy, hot thing) and seats himself on the bed once again, his legs crossed under him. He keeps his voice soft as he calls out.

'Sparrow...' it's almost sing-song, the way he says it, and he wrinkles his nose. 'Sparrow! Wake up, man. A captain should rise before his crew, should he not?'

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Sparrow's stare is cold and hard, but James does not flinch. He had expected as much: Sparrow was forced into it, then, he did not choose piracy of his own volition, or if he did, he was motivated by forces outside his control. There is pain in his gaze, and James cannot help but wonder what it was happened to make a young Jack Sparrow turn brigand- for he was a man who could have had a place in the world, James is sure, perhaps he once did. Perhaps his pain is regret that he lost that, or perhaps it is simple anger, a desire for revenge still with him. He looks at him for a moment, his gaze steady.

'I think, perhaps, that I have about the same chance of understanding your reasoning as you do of understanding mine, Captain. But then, since you are so sure that I will confess to you my reason for hating pirates, mayhap when I do so- if I do so- you will be able to answer me in turn, mmm?'

It's a neutral statement, though Sparrow may not take it as such, and James retracts his hand, joining its fellow clasped on the table in front of him.

'Surely,' he says absently, 'you have work to be going about, do you not? As Captain of this ship. I'll not be your first mate until I know why I ought to be, so I'll make myself comfortable in here until you decide to tell me, shall I?'

Jack laughs at that, when Norrington says that he can understand Jack's reasoning. I bloody well doubt it, he thinks to say but keeps it to himself, smirking as he looks back at his map. He tugs another one towards him, one of the Lesser Antilles this time, not far from their current course and where merchant vessles run trade between the mainland of Europe and the colonies. He absently flicks his eyes over it, disregarding Norrington.

"That not be part of our accord," he reminds him. "You'll get the answer to the question you asked and no other 'til a new accord is made. But suit yourself with how you fill your hours until then."

He studies the map a moment longer, before the desire to say something more takes over. "And you're to be forgetting, mate." He returns his gaze back to Norrington, flashing the brand and the sparrow tattoo as he rolls his wrist on the table. "I've lived both sides, in your world and in mine. Seen more coast and water than I fancy you have in all your days as Commodore. And I still chose which side it is I'd be wanting. You've never made such choice."

That tone of self-righteousness in Sparrow's voice is almost more than James can stand- no matter whether he's right or not (and he most likely is, says that damned irritating corner of James's brain)- and he can feel his proverbial hackles rising.

'I don't recall that mattering much to you before,' he mutters, fairly sure he's referring to the comment about keeping to their accord, though not entirely, which is unnerving. He tries not to think about Sparrow's comment about choosing sides. He had made his choice, sure enough, as a young man, though the choice between the clergy, a trade, or the military was not a difficult one, and certainly not the sort of choice Sparrow is referring to. Watching Sparrow, he cannot help but wonder what the other choice had been for him- he's lived on both sides, he said; who was he on the other side? Well, it's clear that Sparrow is in no mood to talk now, and neither is James, when it comes down to it, so instead he watches the other man steadily, settling back in his chair, even going so far as to prop his boots up on the table before him. Finally, he speaks.

'Am I to understand that you're to be sitting here all day, supervising me, Sparrow? Surely you're needed in some capacity out on deck.'

"And deprive myself of your such pleasurable company?" Jack returns, downplaying the sarcasm behind the words with a tilted smile to the maps in front of him. "They're only hoisting sail out there. No need for me yet."

Unfortunately, the maps are not providing a suitable distraction from Norrington. Or more so, Norrington is providing a suitable distraction from the maps. With his boots on the table -- which Jack smirked at before returning to his navigation -- and him staring so, Jack can't find it in himself to give the Lesser Antilles their due consideration. His orders to Gibbs earlier that morning when he went to fetch food were simply to head out into open water. Get away from the cove and disappear before the Dauntless decided to give chase. But at some point soon he'll need to give a more specific heading. And for once in all the years he's defended his obsession with gaining back the Pearl and the open horizon from her decks, Jack has no clue where it is he wants to go.

He doesn't trust Norrington and his strict honour code to allow for any decent pirating, and with a storm coming, to head too far away from the safe refuge of land is a poor plan. Which leaves him only with a scant few places to go if they are to stay in the Caribbean.

But why stay here then? What they need is neutral territory where the Navy isn't likely to go and where a speck of gold could still be made. As well getting fresh supplies.

"Shove off," Jack commands and pushes at Norrington's boots, freeing an edge of map from beneath them. He studies it for a moment, before finally looking up at Norrington with a grin.

"Tell me. In all your sailing as Commodore, have you happened to have chance to go here?" Jack stabs a finger onto the coast line of the new map.

A cool eyebrow raises when Sparrow pushes at his boots (though propping them on the table as he did was certainly an impudent move, so he can't really be blamed). However, he lifts his legs off the table and leans forward with curiosity when Sparrow presents him with a map. Curiously, he leans forward and inspects it: a ragged coastline, edged in green and yellow dyes, along a blue ocean labelled Oceanus Æthiopicus. Various names of places are inked in along the map, and a small drawing of a barque being pulled down by a Kraken graces the water. James looks up with incredulity, and then looks back down at the chart, surveying the location in quesiton.

'The Côte d'Ivoire?' He speaks absently, half to Sparrow, half to himself. 'I have passed it before, on journeys, but the Navy never makes port there- it's under French rule, though they hardly protect it at all. It's said to be full of savage, cannibal Negroes; not fit for human habitation.'

He looks up at Sparrow, his brow furrowed. 'What could you want there?'

What indeed? James cannot fathom Sparrow's purpose in this; if he wants to escape the Navy (as well he should), the Côte d'Ivoire would be ideal, but it's hardly the sort of place a pirate would want to go: there are no fat-bellied merchant ships to raid, no real settlements either. So there must be some other purpose he has in mind, and that unsettles James greatly. So, tearing his gaze away from Sparrow's, he transfers it back to the map and continues his study, seeing if he can glean any clue of the pirate's intent from it.

Jack catches the doubtful look Norrington sends his way as he puruses the map but doesn't know what it is in response to, so he says nothing. Only continues to watch Norrington read the map with an enigmatic look on his face.

"Nothing by your interpretation, it would seem."

He almost wants to laugh at the description Norrington gives of the inhabitants, a chuckle mixed between being bitter and amused at how little the Commodore really does know of all the places and people to be found on this earth, but for once Jack keeps it to himself. He is less prone to openly share his thoughts since the question as to why he turned pirate -- the answer being something he is certain Norrington would not understand. James might understand, if Jack can ever find the way to seperate him from the Commodore, but now is not the time.

"It plays a might strange to the ear that a place not fit for human habitation would have so many living and breathing on its soil." There is some mockery in his tone, a small note of distaste that he can't quite hide. So he turns it into a joke. "As for the cannibals, I don't know about you, but I were never one to turn down a free meal when it were offered to me." He flashes one of his gold teeth to imprint the suggestion further into Norrington's mind.

Turning his attention back to the map, Jack places the rum bottle on a corner to keep it from rolling up on him when he moves his hand. He plants a finger into the middle of the map where wavy lines depict the currents. "There. Only way to travel East." He traces the line of the current from the south-east end of the islands straight across the ocean to align exactly with a port just north of the Côte d'Ivoire.

A thought strikes him, a way to keep their game of 'fair trade' running. Jack is aware that he avoided Norrington's last few questions with curved answers instead of straight. But he did answer. He figures the Commodore owes him one now.

His finger dances up and around the coast of Africa, following the currents he knows run there by memory straight up to where the tip of England just about fall off the top of the map.

"That's home for you, in'it. How long's it been?"

James bristles at the tone of Sparrow's voice as he answers- there is contempt there, and distaste, and perhaps something like pity, and he likes it not at all. He follows the finger as Sparrow traces a route East, but does not really pay attention to it; it's easy enough to see, at least on a map.

'If,' he says, his tone icy, 'I am mistaken about the inhabitants of the Côte d'Ivoire, then I shall surely learn better if we go there. As I say, I have never made port there, and rely solely on what I have been told by others.'

I should thank you to consider that before passing judgement on me, he wants to say, but bites back the words. It will not do, after all, to let Sparrow think that James cares what he says of him, though it rankles that the pirate should think of him as a bigot.

When Sparrow's finger lands on the small green blot that is England, he wrinkles his nose. Thoughts of home have no place here in the middle of the Caribbean, in the stifling heat and palm trees and bright blue waters, and he twists his mouth in a grimace. It's something of a sore point, England, for he misses her deeply. Serving King and Country is one thing, but living there is infinitely better; he is made for the wet, green hills and the dank, busy city streets of England, and the tempestuous black seas that surround the island. So he shakes his head.

'Eight years,' he says, gazing absently at the map, 'But that was only a brief stop, to bring to Port Royal the man who was to be governor. And his daughter.' A brief smile. 'Before that... too long.'

But he will say no more on the subject, and turns his eyes on Sparrow. 'But you have not answered my question; what is it you want there?' His finger passes over the map, past Sparrow's hand and down, and lands once again on the coastline of the Côte d'Ivoire.

'I must admit, I am... most curious.'

"Ah, and curiosity is a most curious thing." Jack flickers a little smile, more meaning behind his words than only the subject at hand.

He is still being evasive, he knows, but he is tired of answering only the Commodore's questions and not getting much in the way of return answers. Norrington replied to his question about England but Jack isn't going to inform him too much of his plans for cause of their trip. To do some trade, and mainly to get out of the Caribbean with the Commodore on board -- that is what Jack wants at the moment. And the Côte d'Ivoire would provide a nice resting spot in case the urge to travel farther north suddenly took over.

And where better to avoid the British Navy but take up in their own backyard?

"Eight years be a long time. No inclination to ever up and go back? See the ol' homestead as it were? Fancy thing about having your very own ship, you know. Can go anywhere."

Jack tilts his head imploringly, curious to know Norrington's response. He tugs the map towards him in preparation to roll it up. Removes Norrington's hand by daintily clasping it around the wrist and placing it to the side. His fingers linger there, subconscious tapping a random staccato.

"Given freedom, a man can go wherever he wants to go. Do whatever he wants to do." He leans with his free hand, the one not touching Norrington, to reach for the rum bottle across the table, bringing his face in front of Norrington's. His words still carry a double meaning. "What would that be for you, hm?"

Well, if Sparrow doesn't want to answer his question, he supposes he'll find out in time; patience has paid off for him more than once in the past, and he is well used to waiting. The suggestion of returning to England, though... oh, how he would leap at it, given the chance, but he doesn't trust Sparrow, and it feels more like a bribe than anything else, so he merely smiles wanly.

'Many times have I wished I could return,' he says, 'but my duty forbids it, as I'm sure you know. I'd make a poor Commodore of the Caribbean Fleet indeed were I in England.'

His fingers twitch when Sparrow takes hold of his wrist, and he forces the muscles there to relax as the pirate begins to beat a lazy tattoo on the skin there. And then... freedom, again, and Sparrow leans in- not close enough to invade his space, yes, but enough so that their faces are on a level. Why must the vexatious bastard keep bringing up the subject of freedom? Is he trying to glean some sort of confession from James, trying to make him turn pirate, or does he merely enjoy niggling at what he imagines to be (and what is, truth be told) a sore spot? Or perhaps, like James himself, is he desperately curious to find out what drives him, to try and understand him.

Though of course the words carry a flirtation with them that James cannot ignore as well, and he lifts an eyebrow at Sparrow. 'Many things, Mister Sparrow,' he murmurs lowly, 'As all men have myriad desires.'

It's not coy or teasing, and he does not return the heat of the gaze Sparrow is currently directing at him, but it's ambiguous enough that the other man may read it as he will. And, James is sure, he will read it many ways indeed. Now, though, he'd like to study the chart of their apparent location, if he can get away with it, and see if he can glean any more information from it. If he cannot work up on deck, then he will do work below. He cocks his head at the half-rolled map, gesturing lazily with one hand.

'May I?'

His first response to Norrington asking to see the map is "no". Giving out bearings, headings, the direction to which they're headed and where they are -- that information is dangerous when placed in the hands of anyone but hisself Jack has learned. Besides, they're his maps. He aqcuired them through his own mannered contribuatory tribulations. Not for sharing, by any means.

Unless Norrington feels fit to share something with him in return. Though Jack isn't sure what equates access to maps. Nothing Norrington can provide him at this moment, he's sure.

"That would be entirely unfitting for a man of your placement on board my ship," Jack answers, keeping his tone as consoling as possible. "What with you being Commodore of the Caribbean Fleet and all."

The maps get slid further away from Norrington on the table, threatening to teeter off the edge. Jack slaps a quick hand over the top pile to keep it stationary.

"Though I must say, you're rather lacking in much Commodorial equivilencies stuck here on the Pearl. Almost make a trip to England bearable, eh? 'Less you just like to keep your fine self away from that what you claim to make you happy."

Jack doesn't mean that as an insult or really even anything more than a passing comment. His attention is more focused on keeping Norrington's thoughts away from looking at his maps and somehow persuading him to suggest they be bound for England. Jack suddenly finds himself infatuated with the idea of bopping around ol' London town with Norrington in tow, away from the clutches of the Navy. He's sure he could show Norrington more sides to that city than he ever dreamed.

He is unsurprised when Sparrow refuses to show him the map in question. Indeed, judging from the look the pirate is currently shooting him, he may as well have asked him to lend James his firstborn son. It's merely common sense, however, that a ship's captain doesn't go bandying headings and intents to all and sundry, least of all to an enemy said ship's captain is keeping in his cabin, and Sparrow, he is sure, is more cautious than most in that regard, if what he's heard about the decade-old mutiny is true. So, instead of protesting further, he merely shrugs laconically, a raising and lowering of the shoulders which suggests a fair defeat by a good man.

He'll get a look at those maps eventually anyway, James is sure, whether Sparrow shows them to him of his own volition (and seeing as he's already allowed James a look once, that's likely enough) or not. Not, of course, that he would steal them or anything of that nature, but a quick look while Sparrow was out of the cabin seemed not at all out of order.

However, and James can not deny this, what he was most curious about was Sparrow's insistant bringing up of England. James does not trust him, not in the slightest; Sparrow knows he missed England, and seeks to manipulate that, yes, but why? What in God's name could a pirate such as Sparrow want in England? Oh, there was more there than in the Côte d'Ivoire, certainly, but unlike the remote Africk country, it was swarming with Royal Navy.

Therefore, James summons all his Commodorial poise and draws himself up in his chair, directing at Sparrow a gaze which would chill the hearts of lesser men. Sparrow, he is sure, will not be affected by it in the slightest, but a bit of performance cannot hurt.

'If that is your bearing, Sparrow, I cannot see how my opinion should effect you in the slightest. Surely you would not allow the whim of a prisoner- or a guest, if you like- aboard your ship to dictate the Pearl's heading?'

He pauses and raises an eyebrow then, allowing a touch of humour into his expression. 'And I must say, I've no idea how you've got it into your head that I shy away from those things which might make me happy. I am a military man, yes, but that does not mean I have no concept of self-gratification.'

Jack backs away from the glare Norrington shoots him. Not because he's unnerved by it. Jack Sparrow isn't unnerved by anything, except for those few things what do unnerve him but they can remain unmentioned for the time being. The point is, Norrington's gaze isn't one of them. He's just... uncomfortable to look at when he makes his face go like that. All cold and haunty.

It makes Jack kind of want to laugh for no real reason. The bollacks of the man, even in the most strange of situation: sitting at a pirate's table in a pirate's cabin -- Jack's table and Jack's cabin -- and trying to look hard to impress. Completely mad, that one.

And Jack doesn't at all pay attention to the irony of that thought.

"Never said your opinion mattered to me at all, mate," he says as easy as he can. He slides his chair back and crosses his ankles. Finds a more comfortable position for the time being. The Pearl rocks soothingly beneath him as they pick up speed and he'll be needed out on deck in a small enough time. "There's only one whim that I hold to and that's none other but me own."

Jack flashes a grin, proud to be able to say such a thing and truly mean it, and then settles his hands to lay clasped against his stomach.

"But seems to me as if you're not interested in sharing any whims of yours with me anyway. No risking even the chance to take them. I've offered you nothing but the ability to choose your own fate since setting foot on my vessel, and you've not taken one glimpse of it. If that's not shying away from what could make you happy, I don't know what is."

He offers a slight full body shrug, a kind of apathetic half slump with the left side of his body. Leans his head back to stare at the planks above and enjoys the moment of feeling the Pearl shift beneath him.

James can feel his mouth twitch, a poor attempt to restrain the grimace which wants to break free.

'Well, Sparrow,' he says, his voice colder than he perhaps intended, 'that is the difference between us, is it not? Your... freedom is the freedom to be completely and utterly selfish. You can dress it up, make it seem great and noble, but that's all you are, when it comes down to it, and if I refrain from falling into that pattern myself, surely you cannot blame me.'

His voice had descended into a hiss, and he can feel his teeth clenched, grinding against each other. Why the sudden display of temper he cannot say; perhaps it's the sheer hypocrisy of Sparrow's ridiculous, self-aggrandising statements, perhaps it's irritation with the pirate attempting to blackmail him with rubbish about 'glimpsing his own fate.' He does not know, but he does know that such emotion will not do. He takes a deep breath, drawing in calming oxygen, closing his eyes momentarily.

'I have perhaps learned,' he says after a silence, his voice quiet and strained, 'that it is less profitable to go haring off after one's dreams and ambitions than to take the sensible road. That is all.'

The near pain in Norrington's voice tugs at something in Jack. Something he'd rather leave undefined, unnamed. Something perhaps like sympathy and understanding, but that goes completely against Jack's code of conduct. Sensibility is a thing what he never should have had dealings with. He shouldn't know how hard it can be to make such a choice. For him, it should always appear to have been any easy choice. A simple one. Not one that riles up anger and sadness, and is that even some regret in Norrington's tone? Jack Sparrow shouldn't know any of that.

Yet he does, deep down somewhere. From some long ago time that doesn't normally matter anymore. So he figures he ought to set Norrington straight on a few things, at least as he sees them. It makes some of that hardship disappear.

"All depends on what you consider profit."

Jack leans forward to prop his elbows on the table. Moves in close again to Norrington, but he doesn't mean this to be flirting, to be provocative. He just wants to catch Norrington's eye and make him listen to him.

"That's the greatest misconception of our days, by my reckoning," he says, an oddly gentle quality to his voice. "That being selfish is a bad thing. To me, it seems, it's the being selfless that causes the trouble. Makes people expect things from you. Makes you expect things from other people. And folks just don't work like that, not really, not when it comes down to it. Most everyone does, at the end, what they feel fit to do. And those who get slighted in the process, well..."

Jack offers up a hand in leiu of words, unable to finish the phrase accordingly. He smiles sadly at Norrington. "That just happens to be the way of things. So I think -- " He scrapes his chair closer to Norrington and begins illustrating his point with his hands. " -- I think why let them do it that way, if you know that's how it's going to go? Be selfish. Nothing wrong with it. Do what you want to do, what tickles your fancy, and they'll do what they do. Works out better for everyone in the end. There's no disappointments that way."

He finishes his little speech with a twirl of his fingers, and leans back once more in his chair, to give Norrington some space.

James listens to Sparrow tiredly, and shakes his head. What he says makes sense, in a way, but it's the sort of sense that only works for men like Sparrow. When James had been courting Elizabeth, for example- if he had gone up to her and caught her up in his arms and kissed her until she was breathless- there would have been consequences for both of them, none of them pleasant. And yet that was what James had longed to do every time he had seen her. A moment's pleasure and a lifetime's guilt. That was what selfishness meant for James.

'I'm afraid, Sparrow, that such a philosophy works only if you believe yourself to be outside the constraints of society, as you clearly do. A Commodore cannot do what he pleases and damn the consequences, no-matter whether he would or no.'

He looks at Sparrow, seeing perhaps the faintest glimmer of understanding there. 'Surely, Sparrow, you have known something for which you have forsaken your own whims. It's not-' he breaks off, unsure how precisely to articulate what he's trying to say, 'A man is not selfless because he is afraid of what will happen if he is not,' though he often is, of course- not that he'd say that to Sparrow. 'He is selfless because he cares for other people. He serves other people. That is what I do; it is my duty to serve.'

A sigh fights its way up out of his chest as he looks at Sparrow, and suddenly he remembers. 'Are you ever going to tell me why you want me as first mate aboard your ship, Sparrow, or am I simply to languish in your cabin for an indeterminate length of time?'

It's a ploy to get Sparrow off this topic, he will admit. But surely he cannot be blamed; this is not the sort of thing he wants to discuss with anyway, much less Jack bloody Sparrow. It's personal, and it's painful. Besides, he really does want to know.

"Maybe duty is not what truly fits your purposes best," Jack says before he can stop himself, though Norrington didn't really give enough of a pause for him to respond in due time. It's more muttered under his question about first why Jack wants him as first mate but he is sure Norrington heard it anyway.

What Jack really wants to do it talk Norrington around to see his side of coin. To see how easier and less complicated life is without holding to duty or service or titles. A Commodore cannot do what he pleases. That is exactly what Jack does not want, does not and cannot understand. Why someone would choose that life over a life like his own. Placing restrictions on things for no reason. For no profit. A life lived like that, sounding painful, where as if Jack talked about his life he'd steer it away from all the pain. He'd run from it. That's what he does. Why anyone would want to live any other way he cannot fathom.

But Norrington changes the topic to something different. To the question Jack will most happily answer if he can have his question answered in return. Perhaps that is part of the reason Norrington lives his life the way he does. Perhaps he unconsciously steered the coversation to a place Jack could find his answers.

"I'll answer you as soon as you answer me." He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "Why pirates? What'd they do to you?"

He keeps the space between them this time, not wanting to push Norrington in this matter. Somehow pressured force and uncomfortableness isn't going to get him his answer, Jack knows. And he does want this question answered.

The more he talks to Norrington, the more he wants to understand him. Or rather, have Norrington understand himself through Jack's eyes. What the world sees when they look at Commodore James Norrington. And what James Norrington sees when he looks at the world.

Sparrow gives him a pause, looks at him steadily, unflinchingly. He does not understand, James can see; in his eyes is the look of a man trying to understand a language he cannot speak- an Englishman in Italy or France. For his part, James cannot decide whether he wants Sparrow to understand him or not. He can see nothing else for it, though, and so, after a sigh, he begins to speak, his voice strangely toneless

'When I was a lad aboard the Empire Gull, there was a man- one of her crew. He was a fine sailor and a fine soldier; a better man you couldn't ask to find. Everybody loved him, even the captain. He was the sort of man who was everyone's friend; he... would tell stories belowdecks, the most outrageous tales to make us all laugh, and on cold nights he could manage to get us all another half-ration of grog. He was friendly to me, a boy still freshly come from England- helped me... find my sea-legs, as it were. But great sailor though he was, he was not suited to military life, and one night, he... disappeared. We had been on shore leave, and were still near port, so it was thought that perhaps he had returned for one last go at a wench he favoured or some such, maybe he'd been molested by brigands, perhaps he'd had too much to drink, and had fallen over the rail. We were disheartened by his loss, but there were plenty of explanations for it, so we were fine. Some months after his disappearence... we were attacked by pirates. The Jade Rebellion was the name of the ship. We boarded her, and as we fought, I heard someone call my name. It was him. I barely recognised him, kitted out in pirate rags, but it was him. He smiled at me, as if I should be glad to see him.'

He paused and swallowed, hard, not looking at Sparrow. 'We won the battle. Every man left alive was hanged, their corpses hung up in the quay as a warning. I never forgave him. He'd been my friend, and because he decided to turn pirate, he was dead, feeding the ravens like any common brigand.'

His fingers twisted on the tabletop, fingernails catching on the rough wood, and he looked up, meeting the eyes of the man across from him. 'That, Sparrow, is why I hate pirates.'

He's never spoken that aloud, never, not even to any of the men he crewed the Empire Gull with. It was meant to be a secret pain, the bitter cup you had to drink from. But now... he doesn't feel light, as one is supposed to feel after the telling of a great secret. No, his burden had not been lifted, but he does feel different somehow, though he cannot describe how. He sees for a moment the line of hanged pirates, swinging in the sea-gale outside port and clenches his fist on the table.

'You have your answer. May I have mine?'

Jack listens like any soul accostumed to the hearing of tales. Eyes trained on Norrington but growing unfocused as the story progresses. Painting the images into his mind's eye and allowing himself to be swept along with the words and Norrington's voice, hollow sounding as it is.

He picks up on what intonations there are, the pauses that result. His mind latches onto the strange phrasing of helped me... find my sea-legs, as it were and wonders briefly if there is something more to that than Norrington admits; but doesn't visibly or aurally react through the telling. Stays, for once, silent and calm and lets the tale wash over him. It is not until the end, the reason as to why Norrington hates pirates, that Jack reacts.

With a bow of his head paying respect to good men and good pirates what face the gallows does he feel his blood run cold. For the first time, Jack begins to wonder if he misjudged Norrington. Gravely misjudged what he could hope to accomplish by keeping the Commodore on board. He once thought it might be possible to take Norrington as a bedmate, as a friend maybe, and in doing so complicate his mind as to whether or not hang Jack. Eliminate a threat. Have a little fun in the doing. But now -- oh now. Jack is beginning to rethink his brilliant plan. He never once stopped to consider that even if Norrington cosidered him a good man, a worthy man; if James considered him a bedmate -- he never considered that the Commodore would still hang him. Out of a damn sense of duty.

Jack feels like spitting on such a disgusting realisation. Feels a deep sadness seep through his bones. Such a waste of valuable life to live in such a society where duty and honour cause the death of good friends. Instead he looks up to catch Norrington's eye and sees the anger still there, the hatred.

He says quietly, "All pirates with a portion of wit allowed to them know that the noose stretching their necks is a likely future for them. Will die not as lubbers die but with blade or pistol or rope." Jack folds himself in half and props his elbows up on his knees. "Know it just as well as you do, if not better. Just decide that it's worth it. Worth living and dying a free man than the other alternative."

He tries to keep his voice even but it hardens of it's own accord when he says other alternative. An obvious disapproval of what Norrington did, and how little he truly understands.

Jack stands, unable to keep sitting there, staring into the face of a blind man, a prejudice man any longer, and walks the length of the cabin to where he keeps a ration of rum. He pulls the bottle from the cupboard and stands there with his back to Norrington before speaking.

"As to your question." Which Jack doesn't want to answer anymore. Doesn't want to give away how stupid he can be, how gullible. But in the name of fair trade feels in necessary to reply anyhow. "I asked you to be first mate... I asked you. Because I thought mates don't hang mates. Even Commodore James Norrington could learn to get on with a pirate and then have no ability to see him swing. Proved me wrong on that."

He uncorks the bottle and takes a long swig, keeping his back to Norrington.

No. No, no, no, no, no. He feels a panic rising in him, choking him; that was not what he meant, never was what he meant. And the tone in Sparrow's voice stings, stings more than he would like to admit. He rises from the table, almost knocking his chair over in his haste, feeling a sick sort of fear behind his eyes, pressing at his temples. Why does he care so much what Sparrow thinks of him, after all? Why should it matter?

Because he's a good man, that little voice in the back of his head pipes up again, sounding smug, And you want him to think of you as a good man as well, don't you?

'Sparrow,' he says, and his voice shakes, 'Jack. That is not what I meant- I did not hang him! I was a boy of fifteen; I had to watch him hang, I could do nothing- I stood and watched a good man dance with Jack Ketch. And I hate watching anyone hang, be he a pirate or no.'

He stopped, struck by a sudden inspiration. 'Sparrow; they call me Commodore Death, pirates and corsairs- do you know why?'

The use of his given name catches Jack's attention. The way Norrington says it. How... fearful he sounds. And Jack doesn't know what to do with that. Feels something like hope rising up in him that he was right about Norrington. That his plan will work. Has already begun to work if Norrington cares that much to defend himself.

But he still doesn't know. Whatever faith he wished to place with what kind of man Norrington could be was just rattled by his story. Shaken and almost cast off to leave Jack beginning to think about whether or not he should be keeping the Commodore in his cabin. Should let him off at the next port and leave the Caribbean without him. Or if he should never let him loose again, and have him stay from now 'til eternity aboard where he can't be a threat to Jack.

Still, Jack cosiders himself to be a fair man when he's given the occassion to be so, and if Norrington wants to explain himself Jack should let him. Even if he does want to argue back that hating a once friend for being simply what he was, for making a different choice (the right choice, the sane choice in Jack's mind), that it does not allow for much in the way of trustng James to do right by Jack now. That duty still means more to him than what kind of man Jack is, what kind of mate, could ever mean.

So he turns slightly, taking another sip from the bottle to hide whatever look he wears on his face. He has the suspicion it reveals too much of where his thoughts wander.

"I would be assuming it has something to do with the death of said pirates and corsairs?" he answers glibly, buoying away from the intenisity of Norrington's tone with a playful one of his own. He raises an eyebrow at Norrington and lowers to bottle, compelling himself to remain in the room even though such quantities of tortured revelations make him itch to flee to safer ground. "Lest you plan to prove me wrong again."

James's breath catches in his throat when Sparrow pauses; thank you he thinks desperately, though he's not entirely sure who it is he's thanking.

'They call me Commodore Death, S- Jack, because I give men a chance to die fairly; quick and clean. I do not kill in cold blood if I have any other choice; I know the sword is preferable to the noose. If,' he draws in another deep breath, 'If you were to look at the records kept at Fort Charles you would see that less men have been hanged during my time at Port Royal than under any other commander.'

He stares at Sparrow, willing him to understand, knowing that he probably won't and hating it. 'This man,' he says suddenly, 'The one in my story- his name was Twynam, Oliver Twynam- I did not hate him.' He shakes his head, wondering suddenly what Sparrow must think of him, 'I never hated him. If I had, do you think it would have caused me any pain to watch him swing? He was a friend- a shipmate- I respected him. Do you know what unbearable pain it is to have to hang someone you respect?'

He falls silent, transfers his gaze to a point over Sparrow's shoulder. 'Why did you think I have you one day's head start?' He asks, and his voice is very quiet indeed.

He does not know what it is like to hang someone he respects. He has never been put in that position, because he has never been in control of which neck the noose touches. And if he can, and oh he will damn try to make sure that he can, the noose at Fort Charles will never touch his neck again.

There are still pieces of James's tale that Jack does not comprehend. Why the man hates pirates yet feels remorse over the death of a friend that were a pirate. The emotions behind such a thing too convoluted for his mind to wrap 'round as it stands presently. But he believes James. (And it is James as long as he is Jack; he will give the man that honour.) Believes him when he says he kills fairly when possible. That still doesn't do Jack much good, because he refuses to distinguish between a fair death and an unfair death when it is his own.

But he believes the man when he implies that respects Jack. And that makes him falter even more. He drops his eyes to the floor.

"The only thing I know is what it's like to be headed for the noose under the orders of someone who once claimed to treat me fair." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. But once they're out, Jack sees no point in stopping, if he can make him understand. "Mates don't hang mates, James," he says, catching Norrington's eye. "Except when it is more profittable to do so."

Jack wants to ask something more. Wants to ask If I let you go, will you still try to capture and hang me? but shies away from the answer he'd receive. Now is not the time to ask that. Not yet.

James stops dead when Jack calls him by his Christian name (Doesn't notice, though, when in his own mind he suddenly thinks of him as 'Jack' instead of 'Sparrow').

They are equal now, in their misunderstanding. Jack cannot know what it is to order the death of a mate, as he would say, and James cannot know how it feels to be in the position of that mate, to face the gallows under the command of a friend. He is curious now, though, what Jack is referring to; it is not his near-hanging at Port Royal, for James had never at that point made any claim of treating him with fairness. Clearly, however, it's something significant, something that's made an impact and stuck with the pirate as much as his own experience with Twynam.

Curiously he looks at Jack, cocks his head to one side. He wants to ask, but he's not sure if it's really entirely wise to do so. He wavers for a moment, studying Sparrow, before deciding that wisdom wasn't really going to get him anywhere anyway.

'Who?' He asks, gesturing vaguely, referring to Sparrow's comment. 'I mean, who... ordered the noose for you?'

It's awkward, the way he asks it, but he knows no other, more delicate way to phrase the question, especially considering that they were only moments ago discussing James himself almost hanging the man. He wants to know, however; it's part of this insane curiosity, this desperation to understand Sparrow, Jack, whoever he is. It might help, he thinks, if he could understand himself why he cares so much.

"Doesn't matter. A name that will most likely mean nothing to you."

He doesn't say such harshly. Just states the fact. Jack doesn't know how high up James has dealing with East Indian Trading Company. If he would have ever met Cutler Beckett. Heard his name, surely, as all who concern themselves with English trade do. But to hear stories of a man and know the man himself are two completely seperate things. Jack knows this better than anyone.

And he is tiring of this sober coversation. Takes another long drink of rum and ambles back towards the table, to have something else to do and look at apart from James. Apart from the still frazzled look that mars his features. Jack prefers him teasing, jibing than brunt openess. May even prefer the cold exterior of the Commodore to this, as little fun as he is that way. But like this, it causes Jack to feel unbalanced. Doesn't know where to place his next footfall. Doesn't know the terms of the trade they are actually doing right now.

It makes him feel like telling the man. Confiding in him. And what a dangerous thing that may prove to be, with Norrington being as honest and open as he is right now. Jack feels like he owes him and he doesn't know. He's sure he doesn't.

And yet...

Setting the rum on the table, Jack stares at the array of maps before him. Studies the outlined coast of Africa and tries hard not to remember.

"It weren't the noose, exactly," he murmurs. "And it weren't exactly me either what was condemned. Not as I am now."

He rolls his arms until his sleeve falls back enough that he can make out the pirate brand. The bottom, tip of his sparrow tattoo. He isn't sure if James can see it or not, or will possibly understand what Jack is almost, sort of, telling him. Jack doesn't understand quite himself why he should feel obliged to tell him such a thing in the first place.

James follows Sparrow's eyes down to the inside of his wrist. He cannot see, for the pirate's arm is turned in, but he knows that on that arm is the puffy, white scarring of the pirate brand Sparrow bears. Not the noose then, but the label of pirate? The eternal threat of the noose hanging over his head? But if that's the case, then that would mean that Sparrow had not chosen piracy, as he so proudly claimed, that he had indeed been forced into the life he now led.

But by whom? That's easy enough to guess- some high-ranking officer in either the Navy or the East India Trading Company, for it is they who carry the political weight in the Caribbean, and they who have the power to brand a man a pirate. And if the man in question had promised to treat Sparrow fairly... a superior then, perhaps. Had Sparrow been in the Navy? That was an unnerving thought indeed, but it made sense, in a way James was not entirely willing to contemplate.

Sparrow, of course, has not told him this much; James doubts that he will- at least not now- but it would explain quite a bit about the pirate. Betrayed by society, he leaps into his new role as pirate, uses it to spite the people who had made him such... it works, and James looks at Sparrow in- if not quite a new light, than at least an altered one.

'I see,' he says, and leaves it to Sparrow to work out whether he actually does or not.

But perhaps a change of subject is in order now. This seriousness of conversation with Sparrow is no end of unnerving- to speak so honestly with a man who boasts about his own dishonesty is unsettling; it throws him off balance.

'So,' he murmurs after a moment, 'Is the offer of first mate still valid, Sparrow?'

Gone is the sobre, serious note in his voice. He hopes Sparrow will take note of it and follow his lead.

Rp for captjacksparrow

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