Work Text:
Norrington was lost. Not physically lost, no not that.
He knew exactly where his body was located. In a beer house in Tortuga, seedy even by the pirate port’s standards. Precious little light slipping in through narrow slits in the walls, the stray sunbeams reflecting and spilling out on dust motes suspended in the air. The stale smell of old beer and dirty bodies filling his nostrils.
In the dark people could attend to their shady affairs in the relative safety of the gloom. Or simply just disappear in a corner, head buried in drink.
So no, not physically lost.
He was rudderless, keel-less, drifting in the wind. He had nowhere to go.
His career, a closed door.
His commission, lost to him.
Too ashamed to stay in Port Royale, not yet ready to leave a Caribbean that had become his world, and slink back to the Queen’s cool embrace in England.
So here he was.
But as they say, when one door closes. Another one opens.
In this case literally.
The heavy cloths hanging about the door, both to keep some of the heat out and to provide privacy to the patrons, seemed to take on a life of their own as someone tried to push through. Getting stuck on the way. Some undignified flailing later, the new patron stood in the door, glaring indignantly at the curtains.
Norrington followed with passive interest as the newcomer surveyed the interior: the dirt, the shabby furnishings, the hunkered down patrons of questionable repute.
He seemed to find this agreeable because he cleared his throat and began to speak to them all.
“Good patrons of Tortuga”, he proclaimed out loud, an interruption in the previously silent room.
“An opportunity seldom come this way is landed at yer feet teday,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the passive disdain that reeked off the listeners.
It went on for a bit, with much arm flailing and hat waving. The scant light occasionally reflecting on gold in his mouth as he spoke.
Finally, a crescendo seemed to be reached and the pirate ended with, “Join me, fer glory ahead!”
He fell silent, having finished his spiel, stopping in front of the bar with arms held wide in a promise. The trinkets in his dark dreads clinking once before falling silent.
The reception cannot have been what he had expected because when no one paid him any attention, his arms sunk down and Norrington could hear him muttering under his breath about pirates just not being what they had been.
There was only one person James could stand less in this world, and that was himself. So what better punishment?
He ignored the tiny voice in the back of his head that told him it would also mean his feet on a deck, wind in his hair, and the horizon laid out before his feet.
Where do you go when there is nowhere left to go?
“Well, matey, The Black Pearl was made for men like you, like me. Those adrift at sea.”
He resists the idea at first, fighting it, not wanting this ship, this life to be his door.
Mostly not yet ready to give up on his self-hatred, still needing to wallow in it like a pig in a sty.
He still goes wherever they send him, swabbing decks, climbing the rigging, scrubbing pots.
Work is much the same as on any Navy ship, he finds. The ordering less authoritarian, and the level of cleanliness much lower. But still, the actual work is the same. It is work he has always found peace in.
You would think there was nowhere to go on a ship, but slowly he starts to feel like he is no longer standing still in his own accumulated filth.
He might not have a goal in mind but moving feels better than standing still.
His former enemy, the bane of his previous existence, leaves him a wide margin whenever they are on deck at the same time. To James, It does not look like he does it on purpose, his movement sure, direction never changing suddenly. Yet Sparrow must do it consciously, must see him and plan his way around as seldom as they cross paths. The ship is not that large after all.
“Well, I like me hide on me and you and yer ilk, always trying to separate me from it,” he replies one day when James corners him in the galley, “Better safe than sorry, eh?”
He buts past him, fingers twirling the end of his moustache, kohled eyes meeting his straight on as he walks past. Then walking up and away, one hand outstretched and lightly touching the wall, fingers caressing. His back turned to Norrington like a test.
James finds that none of the old hatred, or resentment is left in him.
Washed away.
Clean.
He feels free without it, unburdened, like he has been carrying someone else’s troubles for a long time and only now has set them down.
He walks up on deck, feet light. The sun is coming down, swallowed by the dark blue. A rapidly shrinking blood-red circle mirrored in the sea.
Who do you turn to when there is no one left?
He has no friends left, has made more enemies in his life than friends anyway. He is good at that, pushing away, alienating, angering.
“We pirates look out for our own kind. While I would never turn my back on one, we have a code, savvy?”
Could he trust, could he let go and find a new way, a new life? Is forgiveness something he can have?
He ponders the mystery as he is neatly rolling up a halyard on the deck. Mulls it over as he scrapes barnacles off the water line. Keeps pondering it as he moves to the next task, and the one after.
“Listen to what Jack says, she says, weeks later over drinks he initiated. His former, but never really, bride to be.
“Jack, he knows these things, about second chances and about living on.”
He wonders why, finds himself suddenly consumed by curiosity. Wants to know everything.
How come he never thought to ask before, who his captain is?
They finish their drinks in good companionship, not returning to the subject.
He wants to know he thinks, as he walks back to the Pearl, the night loud and boisterous around him. He wants to learn, to understand. To make it a part of himself, this new life he has embarked upon.
What do you fight for when there is nothing left to believe in?
“How bout love then?” he says, and from anyone else Norrington would have called it insipid, weak. But not from him.
His curiosity is peaked though. The gentle sloshing of waves on the beach sings slowly to him.
“Is that what you fight for?" he asks finally. Taking the bottle back from Jack’s unwilling grip, the glass still warm as he puts it to his lips. So intimate it is, he thinks, sharing a bottle.
Jack lets his hand fall to the side, eyes squinting up at the sky. The velvety black is giving way as the moon rises, almost full and yellow.
“Maybe mate, who knows,” he says at last.
“You don’t know what you fight for?” Norrington adds, willingly offering the rum back as Jack flaps at him.
Jack grabs the bottle, warm, dark fingers lingering on his for a moment. Leaving burning marks behind.
“Say it is love then, but many kinds of love.” He drinks deeply, throat moving as the amber liquid runs through it.
“Love for gold and freedom, love for the sea, for adventure,” he pauses.
“Love for many things mate.” Jack ends. He is on his back now, rum precariously balanced on his chest and his gaze steadily fixed on Norrington.
James looks down at him, so close now, did they always use to sit this close? He can not remember.
He reaches for the bottle but stops himself as his friend continues.
“Love to me always seemed a much better thing to fight for than hate anyways.”
Norrington wonders, did he used to fight for hate? What would the difference be; to fight for love? And which love?
"Never the love for another person?” he asks as he takes the bottle, and he is glad that the moonlight washes away all the colour from the world, leaving it in different shades of grey.
At first, his friend doesn’t reply. Lying so still in the sand, ankles crossed and hat laid to the side. His fingertips dancing along the edge of his sash, playing to a tune only he can hear.
“Occasionally. And who knows, maybe sometimes soon again,” is the ambiguous reply and Norrington finds that he can’t look away from Jack’s eyes, which seem to burn in the dark.
Who are you, when there is no one left to be?
“You can always try yerself. James. Not Commodore, not Captain, not pirate, but Jamie.”
He splutters, “No one calls me Jamie.”
“Well then, Jamie,” he purrs, "try it on for size,” lips curving ever so slightly upwards.
James can’t help but snort, an undignified sound rupturing out of him. A sound he would never have let cross his lips before.
Jack pokes him in his side, finger making a depression in the naked skin. “It’s gaining on you, init?” He asks, eyes playful.
“Please, never call me Jamie where someone can hear it,” he laughs and ineffectually swats Jack's hand away.
He is too late on the uptake, does not realize what he says. His mind still foggy and carnal in the aftermath.
Then Jack is shaking his hand wildly up and down, squeezing it.
“We have an accord Jamie luv.”
“Eh, what?” James adds, mind scrambling to keep up.
“I will never call you Jamie, when someone can hear.”
“That’s, not…” he starts, but does not finish, because he knows by now that it is pointless to argue.
Besides, he is too relaxed to really care and Jack’s calloused hand which has moved on to the soft skin between his thighs is very distracting.
“Again he asks”, lifting one eyebrow.
“Always, luv.” Is the simple reply.