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Chapter Text

James Norrington sees the world bathed in a divine light. The edges of this vision, framed by welcoming mist, glow the brightest. It is like a thousand sunsets and sunrises all at once– beautiful in its finality. This is a stark contrast to the world that he’s known recently, which is all fermented, rowdy nights and stabbing, humid noontimes. It has been a long time since James Norrington has seen a light that did not induce a pounding in his skull. 

He assumes that he could be standing on the threshold of heaven. Is he imaging the sudden weightlessness of his limbs? Could it be that the sins of his mortal life are to be lifted from his shoulders and forgiven, so that he might enter the kingdom of God? It has been such a very long time since he considered himself eligible for salvation. Maybe, just maybe, he was right all along, and his wrongdoings will be judged for what he believes they were— the misguided actions of a man who sought only to do the right thing. 

And then there is the mumbling of voices, and the vision dims as a door opens and shuts. Fear not , he tells himself. These might be angels, here to show him the way to those pearly gates that his childhood pastor spoke of with such conviction. 

“He’s over here. We found ‘im behind the stables last night.” 

Yes, thinks James, You found me, blessed angels, and now you’re here to take me to rest…

“I’m not surprised,” says a second angel, and James inclines his head towards them, sure that he’s heard such a voice before. 

“And you’re Swann, are you?” 

“Captain Swann, yes.” 

“Thought he was asking for a bird, a’first. But I s’pose its you he’s asking after. You recognize him?” 

“Yes, m’am, I do.”

James blinks, and the vision waxes and wanes. Yet there is brightness beyond his eyelids, smudged by sleep and wrapped in delirium. He wants to believe that this could still be heaven, and when he sees the face of the familiar angel, he is sure that he is forgiven. A very ethereal version of Elizabeth Swann gazes down at him, her flaxen hair like spun gold in the morning light. 

“He’s gone on to pasture, ain’t he? Didn’t you say he was dead?”

James tries to nod, hoping to corroborate the claim of this third, less-than-angelic voice. He should have died some time ago. In many ways, he did. But it matters not whether he died with the loss of his dignity, or if he waited until just moments ago to succumb to the shame of a ruined life. None of those things matter in heaven. 

But then the third angel interjects himself into James’s field of vision, casting a shadow that reveals his vision to be only the mundane sunlight of another earthly morning. This can’t be heaven, because Jack Sparrow is here. 

“I thought he was dead,” says Elizabeth, “Apparently, I was mistaken.” 

“Wishful thinking will get you nowhere, Lizzie,” quips Jack. 

Blinking sleep from his crusted eyes, James sees that Elizabeth is suppressing a laugh before she looks back down at him, and her expression turns decidedly doting. 

“Are you still with us, James?” she asks, and her hands start to fret with the tattered lapels of what was once his Navy uniform. She presses her mouth into a thin, pitiful smile. 

“Elizabeth, I…” And James tries to sit up, but finds his joints to be rusted and his side aching. What was it that happened to him again? 

“Not the first time I’ve ‘ad him in here,” says the first voice, which belongs to the middle-aged wife of the tavern keeper. Now that’s a face that James is too familiar with. But where is here? The woman goes on to answer the question before he can find a way to ask without sounding like a simpleton— “In and out of this house more often than the tomcat. But at least the tomcat catches rats. Your navy man here hasn’t contributed nothing but a bucket ‘o sick.” 

“He’s not our navy man—” starts Sparrow, but Elizabeth is still focused on James. She’s sat herself on the edge of his cot and given him her arm to brace himself. 

“Is he wounded?” she asks the woman, who clucks and bobs her head like a hen. 

“Aye, madam. I first saw him for that stab he’s got in his gut. I told him, I did— it won’t heal right unless he puts down the bottle. And just look at him, Lord have mercy…” 

Elizabeth sighs and observes the uneven, scabby scruff of his chin with her thumb. She always was so forward, wasn’t she? 

“I won’t be taking ‘im on again, I swear it,” the woman goes on, gathering her apron as she huffs, “I ‘aven’t got charity enough for the likes of ‘im. He’s got debts, you know!” 

“I’ll pay them,” says Elizabeth without so much as a glance at the woman. On the opposite side of the cot, Sparrow goes pfft!  and groans his objection. 

“We haven’t even sold the goods and already you’re window shopping for a washed-up commodore…”

“I said I’ll pay them myself,” Elizabeth insists, stubborn as ever. 

James opens his mouth to protest, but the urge to vomit rears its ugly head, and Elizabeth scrambles for the aforementioned sick bucket in the nick of time. Though his ears are ringing, James can hear Sparrow’s noises of disgust. The tavern woman goes on about how typical this is, and how she’s got much better things to be doing than babysitting , and Elizabeth shoos them from the room. 

“Go on without me,” she orders Sparrow, much to his dismay, “I’ll meet you at the docks once you’re through.” 

Then they are alone, and James may as well still be looking through the frosted glass at the bottom of a bottle. Half-drunk and fully sick with himself, James still isn’t unconvinced that she’s not some kind of angel. 

Elizabeth helps him out of his coat, and she does well at concealing her reaction to the stiff, reeking fabric as she folds it halfheartedly in her lap. He can breathe better in just his shirt. The tropical heat pervades the room, and his skin is coated in a sheen of sweat and grime. He tries to clear his sandpaper throat but only succeeds in reacquainting himself with the taste of sick. 

“I thought you were dead,” says Elizabeth with a mirthless smile. Without asking, she lifts his shirt to look at the layer of bandages around his middle. He shivers but does nothing to stop her from prodding at the wound. “This must be months old now. How have you gotten on like this for so long?” 

He hasn’t an answer for that, and she seems to understand that no answer is an answer. Elizabeth lowers his shirt, and a heavy moment passes, the sun overtaken by a drifting cloud, briefly shadowing the room before the light returns. 

“Well—” says Elizabeth, punctuated by her hands slapping her knees before she stands, “You can’t stay here.” 

It all happens too quickly for James’s constitution. One minute, he is abed, the next he’s on his feet, and before he has time to make any decisions on his own behalf, Elizabeth (or rather, Captain Swann?) has traded a hefty pouch of coins with the tavern-keeper’s wife in exchange for the burden of James Norrington. 

The sun is blinding as he stumbles after her onto the road, exacerbating his hangover tenfold. He stumbles, colliding with passersby, and ruffling feathers both metaphorical and literal as he tries to keep up with Elizabeth’s decisive strides. 

“Where are we going?” he asks once he’s caught up to her on a cobblestone corner, slightly out of breath. 

“Need to pop in to see a friend of mine,” She takes him by the arm, pulling him out of the way of a donkey cart, “She’s got a lead for me, and we can’t afford not to take it.” 

James hasn’t the slightest clue what that refers to. He really should know, given that once upon a time, in a not-so-distant past, his entire life was devoted to tracking the goings-on of pirates such as the ones whose faces frown at him as they bustle past. He catches himself gawking at them, and they seem to gawk back. Though it quickly becomes apparent that they are looking at Elizabeth, not at him, and their expressions moreso mirror the reverence he once received from the good citizens of Port Royal. 

A particularly wizened old man tips his hat to Elizabeth, who smiles and gives his hand a friendly shake. 

“Good-day, yer Majesty! Lovely weather, innit?” 

“Aye, Mister Thompson. Pray you, have we any rain on the horizon?” 

The old man scrunches up the leg of his trousers, and James prepares himself to defend Elizabeth’s honor, but there is only a peg-leg beneath the fabric. The man raps at the wood with his knuckles, frowns thoughtfully, and gives his head a shake. 

“Nay, you can look forward to smooth sailing, Cap’n Swann!” 

Elizabeth thanks the man and bids him goodbye, then continues on up an inclining road towards what appears to be a bawdy house. Stunned, it takes James a moment before he’s at her side again. 

“You don’t actually put any stock in his weather predictions, do you?” 

“Thompson hasn’t been wrong yet,” she replies, treating superstition as science, “They say he even predicted that savage hurricane a while back that…” Elizabeth trails off, flashes James an awkward half-smile, and picks up the pace. 

They arrive at the front door of what is most definitely a bawdy house, judging by the awful racket spilling out of the open windows. James stiffens– not in the way that a man might on these premises. 

“Elizabeth—” he starts, but she’s already let herself in through the front door. Unsure whether or not she want him to follow, he stands half-frozen on the porch until some… patrons… bark at him to stop blocking the damn door . He side-steps to let them pass, only for more folks to shove their way out, and he begrudgingly steps through the entryway. 

The first floor of the house is packed with pirates and their whores, which James finds particularly depraved, considering that it can’t be later than noon . He crinkles his nose as fragmented memories of his weeks on this island flash before his eyes like a very unpleasant shadow play. Yes, this sort of behavior is typical of the degenerates who inhabit this godforsaken place. 

James cranes his neck in search of Elizabeth. He expects to spot her easily, considering she is probably the sole honorable woman in this establishment. But he finds himself caught up in rebuffing the advances of several money-hungry whores, and everyone who doesn’t work here seems to be wearing the same goddamn tricorn! Soon enough, he’s been persuaded to accept a pint of grog that he knows he cannot pay for. The sight and smell of it turns his stomach, but he sips it anyways. He thinks he sees Elizabeth once or twice over the rim of his tankard, but it turns out to just be a very feminine young man. Do men work in this kind of place? James shudders, but supposes that sodomy is not off-limits here. 

A few more agonizing minutes crawl past, during which James is subjected to a piss poor band playing the same five shanties that he recalls from many a drunken evening. Then (at last!) he spots Elizabeth slouching in the stairwell as she chats with a red-headed prostitute. Is this that friend she was referring to? Well, Elizabeth seems entirely unaffected by the general atmosphere she’s subjected herself to. James fears to think how her dear father would react if he ever knew she would end up visiting a pirate brothel…  

Whatever they’re discussing seems to be terribly amusing, for Elizabeth throws back her head and laughs until she’s red in the face. She does not even notice James’s approach until he cups his mouth and hollers her name twice, and then the other woman elbows her. 

“Oh, that’s James,” she says to the redhead, who says something back to her that James can’t hear. “No, he’s not exactly…? Well, I suppose he’s a friend of mine.” 

James frowns, and grips the banister. Elizabeth leans in to whisper something to her friend, who then devolves in a fit of giggles. 

“Him?!” 

“I said, don’t laugh! It was a long time ago!” 

James clears his throat and taps his foot impatiently. Elizabeth acknowledges him with a smile, then turns back to her friend, bidding her farewell and kissing her on the cheek. She hops down the stairs and takes him by the arm, as if she’s aware that he is uncomfortable, yet entirely unconcerned. Still, she ushers him effortlessly out the door, waving goodbye to a few additional admirers. 

“Popular, aren’t you?” James mutters once they’re a few paces from the property.

“I hadn’t noticed,” replies Elizabeth, digging in her pocket for a folded bit of parchment. She opens it and reads it over as they walk. 

“Elizabeth, whatever are you thinking, visiting a place like that?”  

“Oh please, James,” He can hear her roll her eyes before he glances at her, “Don’t be precious, not with the reputation you’ve earned around here.” 

James’s boots scrape gravel. For all that he’s been surprised by this new Elizabeth, he’s baffled by that remark, and he’s frozen for a moment before he realizes that she’s walking on without him. 

“I beg your pardon? My reputation?” Elizabeth doesn’t answer, and when he catches up again, James finds her squinting at that piece of parchment in her hand. “What is that, anyways?”

“Our next prize,” she says, more to herself than to him, “If we aren’t too late to catch her…” 

James chances a glance over her shoulder, but she stuffs the note back into her pocket before he can make any sense of it, and keeps walking at that painfully brisk pace. 

“What does it matter, if I’ve been in a brothel?” Elizabeth continues, “What goes on there pales in comparison to sea monsters and British armadas. And I’ve many friends who work there, so watch your tone.” 

“Friends?” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m married.”

James did not, in fact, mean it like that, but now that he’s confronted with that angle, he worries over other questions. 

“Married? Surely not to…?”

Now it’s Elizabeth’s turn to stop in her tracks. She whirls around, her sun-kissed braid smacking the side of her neck. She looks more offended than James has ever seen her. 

“I am married to Will Turner, for the record.” 

He tries an apologetic shrug and she just shakes her head, leaving him in the dust again. Tortuga chirps and bellows around them like a rainforest of degeneracy, and James walks in double time in spite of his old wound’s protestations. Elizabeth weaves in and out of his sightlines, and it is not until they reach the docks that he can be sure that he won’t lose her again. Still at her heels, James chances a question.

“Are you leaving?” 

“We’ve got to cast off soon, yes. Time is of the essence, James.” 

“By ‘we’ you mean…? You and Sparrow?” 

Before James can get an answer, a ship comes into view, and a pit opens up within James. His hand flits unconsciously to his abdomen, as though the blade is still there, twisting deeper into his gut. At the end of the docks is a tall, Eastern ship. James hears himself whisper her name and he hears the echoes of her muttering crew locked in a brig with their new captain. Elizabeth is halfway up the gangplank now, looking at him expectantly. 

“We. Us. Come now, James. There’s work to be done.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Past Elizabeth, on the decks of the Empress , James spies Sparrow giving orders to a gaggle of crewmen trimming the sales. No. Certainly not. 

“Unless you’ve got enough shiny golds coins in your purse to pay what I’m owed, then I advise you come aboard, Mr. Norrington.” 

Chapter Text

“Lizzie. A word.” 

Not three minutes after Elizabeth has ushered her new recruit into an introduction to the Empress’s bosun, there is already a pesky bug at her ear. Just a few meters down the deck, James meets her eye with an uneasy look over his shoulder. She shoots him an apologetic smile, which drops instantaneously when she pivots to acknowledge the aforementioned pest. Perhaps she ought to be more charitable with her thoughts, given that her quartermaster typically gives valued input. Yet something tells her that this particular input will be too steeped in old grudges to be worthy of any consideration. 

“Certainly, Mr. Sparrow.” 

Jack follows as she meanders a little further toward the bow of her ship, looking forward to when they have gained some distance from this place, when the sea’s wind will spray the shining masts with salt, when they will cut through the waves and towards another prize. She is anxious to get moving, and the crew works with an understanding haste. If Jack slows them down with his objections— she will be none too pleased. 

“Care to explain why you’ve brought him onto our ship?” asks Jack, inclining his head in the general direction of Norrington. 

Elizabeth intentionally stands with her back to the subject of their words , hoping to obscure any potential view of Jack’s disdainful expression. Unfortunately, he’s just a smidge taller than she is.

“I’ve brought Mr. Norrington aboard my ship to pay off his debts.”

“Can’t he get a job? Plenty of openings for fish mongers,” Jack feigns a thoughtful pause, “Or perhaps he would like to scrape the muck out of the pigsty? No? Well, surely he’s got options, given his qualifications.” 

Elizabeth puffs out such a sigh that the hair draping her face rises and falls with her shoulders. She folds her arms. Must they do this? 

“He is a fine sailor.”

“There’s many a fine sailor in a pirate port, Lizzie. Shall I go and put out an inquiry?” Jack holds up his hands in two lopsided L shapes, miming a poster advert, “Help Wanted aboard the finest junk rig in the Caribbean, able-bodied sailors only. Washed-up, treacherous navy maggots need not apply. Must be able to spot a hurricane from at least two leagues away, and act accordingly.” 

Alright, that does get a chuckle out of her, one that she instantly regrets, knowing that any sign of amusement will only valorize his cause. 

“No! We’ve no time for your nonsense. Not while we’ve got a ship to catch.” 

“Oh? Say more.” 

Elizabeth smiles. Redirection proves yet again to be a worthy tactic. Jack watches eagerly as she digs in her pocket and presents him with the note that her informant provided. He holds it close to his nose, his dark eyes flicking back and forth. 

“Well now, isn’t this a shiny little prospect…”

“Indeed. I told you it would be worthwhile to stop by!” 

“It’ll be worthwhile once we’ve got her. I’m guessing you’re overconfident in that regard?” 

“Oh ye of so little faith! My sweet Empress is only a week out from her last polishing,” Elizabeth stretches upward and lays her arms affectionately on the freshly-painted taffrail, “Spick and span, faster than the wind. Almost as fast as—” 

“Don’t say it,” Jack winces, “You know how it pains the heart to even hear her name…” 

Elizabeth takes the note from his fingertips and folds it delicately into her pocket. 

“We’ve got more guns on standby than our prize can even carry. And necessities aside, our holds are all but empty. How did that go, by the way?” 

But Jack is no longer paying any attention. His gaze has wandered elsewhere, and she assumes that he is mourning yet again the loss of his ship, and pouting over her refusal to humor his desire for an all-out manhunt for the pirate Barbossa. Elizabeth snaps her fingers inches from the bridge of his nose. 

“Hello? Focus, Mr. Sparrow. How much did that greedy bastard at the storehouse give us for those crates of wheat?” 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he sneers, using that smidge of height to advance on her, “We haven’t finished talking about that bloody commodore you’ve adopted. You know, if you wanted a pet, Giselle’s cat just had a litter. We could use a ratcatcher.” 

Elizabeth frowns at that, not just for the dig at her decision-making, but at the notion that he has managed to somehow squeeze in a visit to his favorite prostitute, despite the fact that they have had much work to do in the day and a half since they docked in Tortuga. 

“What is your problem with this?” says Elizabeth, and before he has even had a chance to pull that face he makes in response, she realizes how silly a question that is, given the history of it all. She sighs again, turning her head to follow his stare. It appears that the bosun has already put James to work, and he seems as capable as ever, injuries notwithstanding. “He’s an extra pair of hands. Where’s the harm in it?” 

“Where’s the harm?” Jack asks incredulously, and Elizabeth is quick to pull him further out of earshot of the crew as his voice rises, “Where’s the harm? I might’ve asked the same question when he joined us last, but if you recall, my dear Elizabeth, he sold us out!” 

“That was when he had something to gain,” Elizabeth reminds him, “And look at him now. He hasn’t a soul in the world who would trust him with any sort of command, much less an armada.” 

“He’s got one , apparently,” Jack says with another disdainful look, “I would say that your methods of discerning who is and is not worthy of your trust are rather hypocritical, but that might be downplaying it. Just a smidge.” 

Elizabeth decides she has heard enough out of her quartermaster for the time being, and longs again for the open sea. 

“You’ve made yourself quite clear, Mr. Sparrow. And I will keep your objections safely where they belong— at the very bottom of my to-do list.” 

“He’s up to something, I’m sure of it. And you’ll come to me, all contrite– Oh Jack, I could really use some of your evergreen wisdom in my time of need…” 

“If you’re so certain, then fine. It’ll be your job to keep a sharp eye on him. Let me know if he raids the rum supply or whatever. Now will you get back to the crew? We simply must be underway within the hour.” 

For at least a few moments, James believes that he may be off to a good start aboard the Empress . If he can manage to put aside his quarrels with piracy, perhaps he might grow to enjoy being on the sea again. He would certainly be eager for the opportunity to better acquaint himself with workings of a junk rig, which he has little experience with. Elizabeth seems to be running a tight ship, well organized and staffed with able-bodied men (and a few women?) who either do not know of his past, or perhaps cannot be bothered to mention it. That is, until Jack Sparrow saunters over and stomps on what little hope had begun to sprout. 

“Gents and ladies and sailors alike!” 

Those around James look up in attention, but he remains stubbornly fixed on the task at hand, hoping to be neither seen nor heard. 

“I understand we’ve got a new recruit. Fresh meat for the maw of our darling Empress , eh? Well, I figure I might take this opportunity to get us all acquainted. Jimmy! Care to introduce yourself to all your new compatriots? They’re quite the chummy bunch, dirty, rotten pirates though they are.” 

It takes a second for James to realize that he’s the subject of Sparrow’s diatribes, and he throws a look around for this other new recruit called Jimmy.  

“Commodore! Oh yes, I am talking to you, dearie. Everyone— meet Jimmy Norrinston. He’s an old friend of the captains. No, not that kind of friend, you cheeky devils. They go way back. Some of you may recognize the name. Perhaps the prefix, ‘Commodore’ will jog your memory. But not to worry. He’s well good and reformed now. I trust you’ll all give him a very warm welcome. Now, with that out of the way, Captain Swann’s got our heading, so let’s get ready to cast off, eh?” 

The days that follow are almost tolerable. James may as well be back in the days of his youth, scrubbing the heads and swabbing decks. The work is grueling, to be sure, but he reminds himself that it’s nothing he does not deserve, and at night he lays in his hammock too tired to move, and tries to remember his nightly prayers. He might be on his way to finding some kind of enlightenment in being subjected to hard labor, were it not for Sparrow’s near constant buzzing like a mosquito just out of smacking distance. 

“You missed a spot there, Jimmy,” he will say, twirling the toe of his boot over a place that James has just cleaned. Or, “Faster now, Jimothy, we aren’t paying you to pick at your blisters,” and sometimes, “Have you finished that? Good, I’ve got another task for you. Can’t let you have any time to think or we may wake up to find the captain with a knife in her back.” 

James resents the butchering of his name most of all. Berate him for the mistakes of his past, sure. Work him like a dog for fractions of what the tenured crew is being paid, fair enough. But to demean him with a name that isn’t his own, when a name is all he has left? Well, that he cannot stand for long. Several days into their hunt, after he has awoken from an irritating dream involving Jack Sparrow, a rabid sow, and a skeletal crew performing a jig aboard the Dauntless , James decides it has come time to advocate for himself. 

“Elizabeth—?” he calls out, waving a hand in hopes of getting her attention.

“That’s Cap’n Swann to you, navy scum,” interjects a nearby crewman. Several of the others have caught on to Sparrow’s relentless harassment, and have been jumping at the opportunity to join in on the game. 

“Right. Yes,” James mutters. He glances around for any sign of Sparrow, and seeing that the coast is clear, he darts for the stairs that lead to the ship’s helm. Or rather, the tiller, aboard this vessel. 

“Oi there!” barks the bosun, “The likes of you ain’t allowed on the quarterdeck, you know that.” 

“Yes sir, that’s right,” James takes a decisive step back, “But you see, I was only—”

“The only but you ought to be seein’ is the butt of my boot, boy!” snarls the bosun, taking a fistfull of the front of James’s shirt and hoisting him a foot above the deck. James throws up his hands and starts to stammer some explanation about old friends and whatnot, but before he can defend himself, someone else has done it for him, and he goes crashing onto his hands and knees.

“I appreciate your fervor, Bosun. But this won’t be necessary.” 

James looks up to find Elizabeth extending her hand to him, and as he gets to his feet and brushes himself off, he worries that her rescues are becoming a pattern. Elizabeth dismisses the bosun, who grumbles under his breath as he departs. She then turns back to James with a thin, professional smile. 

“Sorry, you wanted to speak with me?” 

“Yes! Yes, I did,” Still massaging his elbow, where surely a bruise is blossoming, James straightens up, “I would like to discuss the behaviour of your quartermaster.” 

He is quite relieved that Elizabeth’s reaction seems thoroughly reasonable. She gives a nod, and guides him onto the quarterdeck with her. From here, there is a sparkling view of the sea before them. He watches the morning sun float gracefully over the waves for a moment before he clears his throat. 

“You see, I understand that, given our…” James can feel his carefully rehearsed lines slipping from his grasp, “Given our past disagreements, there may be a certain…” 

“Resentment?” 

“Precisely! And while I concede that such feelings are only natural, I must make it clear that I believe I am being treated unfairly.” 

“How so?” 

James had expected her to follow his path of thought quite easily, but by the way she shifts her head, he worries that she may be entirely unaware of the situation at hand. He tries to turn a frown into an agreeable smile, and ends up somewhere in between. This is the first time that he has been on the opposite side of a sailor’s grievances, and he’s finding that complaining is not as easy as it looks. 

“To preface, Elizabeth, allow me to express my utmost gratitude. You’ve been exceedingly generous to offer me a position on your crew, and have extended trust that I have done little to earn. Please understand that I fully intended to—” 

Elizabeth raises a hand to halt him mid-sentence, not unkindly. 

“You can speak freely, James. Is Jack bullying you?” 

“I wouldn’t say—” But then James swallows, checks his surroundings, and leans in closer, “I suppose that’s one way to put it. Yes.” 

Elizabeth hums thoughtfully, and then James sees her gaze move past him. She cups her mouth with both hands and hollers at full force, 

“Mr. Sparrow!”   Then she meets James’s horrified expression with a tight-lipped smile and adds, “He’ll be just a moment. There’s no way he didn’t hear that.” 

Sure enough, Sparrow is bounding up the steps within minutes. He greets them with a pleasant look on his face, and doffs his hat. 

“One-hundred and fifteen seconds,” Elizabeth declares upon his arrival. 

“That a new record, is it?” asks Sparrow. 

“You’ve crossed the ship in seventy-five seconds before, so not quite.” 

“Bugger,” tuts Sparrow, seeming genuinely disappointed in himself, “No matter. You wanted to see me, Cap’n?”

“Ah, yes,” nods Elizabeth, as though she only just remembered the issue that has James clenching his fist at his side. She places a friendly hand on James’s shoulder and says matter-of-factly, “Mr. Norrington has brought a certain conflict to my attention.”

“Has he?” Sparrow’s smile deepens in a manner that James can only describe as wicked. Elizabeth does not seem to notice.

“Indeed. I thought it best to call you forth so that you may have a chance to provide an explanation for your actions.” 

“And which actions does he refer to?” asks Sparrow, his dark eyes fixed firmly on James. Possibly an intimidation tactic– one that James refuses to bow to. 

“Would you like to elaborate, James?” prompts Elizabeth. She gives him an encouraging nod in Sparrow’s direction, which does not help in the slightest. James glances between the two of them, and almost decides to call off the whole thing entirely. Clearly, he’s outnumbered here, and pirates will be pirates. 

“He refuses to call me by my God-given name.” 

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh? Is that all?” 

“Is that all?” James repeats, “No, that is not all. He has sabotaged my work on numerous occasions, and—” 

“Have not,” declares Sparrow, puffing up his chest like an over-important cockatoo, “If he’d done it right the first time, I wouldn’t have to be so hard on him.” 

“I know what I’m doing aboard a ship,” says James through gritted teeth, “Must I remind you that–”

“Slow down, gentlemen,” Elizabeth interjects, side-eying Sparrow as she turns toward James, “What is it that he’s been calling you?” 

James exhales a heavy sigh. Is this how she typically handles disagreements among the crew? In the past, he’s dealt with captains who take these manners to more violent extremes, but this method of conflict negotiation is somehow more painful than the cat-o-nine-tails. 

“He has been referring to me as ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Jimothy’ since the very first day that I joined your crew.” 

Elizabeth does a very poor job at suppressing her reaction. Though she covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes betray the laughter that she bites back. She composes herself rather quickly, yet her air of professionalism quavers as she goes on, 

“Mr. Sparrow, what have you to say for yourself?” 

Sparrow, for his part, does not even crack a smile. He keeps his head held high, and folds his hands neatly behind his back. 

“I’ve given the lad a nickname. Is that not allowed, Captain?” 

Lad?!  

“I’ve got nicknames for much of the crew,” Sparrow continues, “It’s my way of showing comradery, even affection, among our ranks. No one has taken issue with it, until now.” 

This is pointless, James realizes, dragging a hand over his face. He would have been better off keeping his grievances to himself, for clearly Elizabeth’s allegiances lie with this scoundrel and not with the side of reason. 

“Well…” says Elizabeth, looking from one man to the other, “It’s only a nickname, James.” 

Is this to be his life now? Should he start plotting to jump ship the next time they make port? He wonders how stringently Elizabeth will handle the matter of his debts… Surely she would not see him hunted down, if he managed to escape? 

“Would you prefer that I address you on a first-name basis?” asks Sparrow, a hint of that mocking wickedness twinkling in his eye, “I could call you James, like she does. If you prefer something more… intimate.” 

“No, the captain is right” says James, “Just a nickname. Forgive me, I don’t know why I bothered. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’d like to return to my duties. Good day.” 

And so James departs in all haste, resigned to at least another week of bowing his head and biting his cheek. From the foot of the stairs, he can hear hushed snickers from the captain.

Chapter Text

Sweat dribbles a persistent trail from the nape of James’s neck into the folds of the bandages round his middle, resulting in a terrible itch squarely in the middle of his back. Even if he were to try and assuage the sensation, he doubts he would be able to reach the itchy spot without twisting in a way that would exacerbate the rather tenuous juncture of half-healed skin. Besides, he needs to keep the longboat moving forward, or else the ship they’re destined for may grow impatient and open fire. And Lord knows Sparrow won’t be of any help.

Sparrow might have brought along another sailor or two for efficiency’s sake, but by now it has been well-established that if there is ever an opportunity to add to James’s discomfort, Sparrow will seize it, even at his own detriment. It does not seem to matter that James is doing both Sparrow and Elizabeth an incredible favor— he’s still been made to row while Sparrow puts his feet up and takes in that dreadfully hot sunshine.

James looks over his shoulder at the warship ahead, which grows larger with each stroke of the oars. From a distance, the vessel was already imposing. Now that they’re closer, the Pussyfoot makes the Empress look recreational in comparison. James was able to count the guns before he climbed into the longboat, so he is well aware of how imperative it is that this goes well, or else Elizabeth will have a very costly list of repairs to complete.

A moment passes wherein James catches Sparrow staring. This is the first time since James has joined the crew that the two of the have been entirely alone together. James narrows his eyes, and Sparrow just smiles and pulls his tricorn over his face as yet another papery cloud parts from the sun. James’s narrowed eyes become a squint. He curses the hat he lost some nights before he awoke in that sickroom, and silently laments the other missing pieces of his old uniform, which used to serve well in keeping the sun off him.

All the foulness of the previous weeks clings to the tatters that remain from his wardrobe, wafting each time he pulls his elbows inward. Anything shiny or non-essential in his possession was sold for drinks and dinners that only left him hungrier than before. He wonders if anyone might recognize him in this state, or if they would assume he is no different than the man sitting across from him.

“If you’re just going to sit there,” huffs James, “You might as well tell me the plan.”

“Weren’t it you with the plan?” Sparrow does not deign to even peek at James from under his hat. “You’re the one with friends in high places, Jimmy. You were the one who offered to negotiate.”

“That’s—” James starts to correct the name, then decides it better to grit his teeth and focus on the task at hand, “That may be true, but I find it hard to believe that you haven’t been plotting something of your own in the meantime.”

“Let’s say I did have a plan, why-ever would I share it with you?”

“Which one of us is captain?”

Sparrow nudges the tip of his tricorn up, just enough to glance at James, but not enough for James to get a full read on Sparrow’s face.

“Neither of us. Which is why we’re in this mess in the first place…”

If James is not mistaken, he hears a hint of… what was that word Elizabeth used the other day? Ah, yes– resentment. Does Sparrow resent his position aboard the Empress? He certainly does not conduct himself that way in front of the crew, James included. Name-calling and nit-picking aside, James has noticed that the man is not a poor quartermaster by any means, even for a pirate. And thus far, James has gotten the impression that Sparrow and Elizabeth are rather… close, for lack of a better word. There’s a thought to keep in one’s pocket, for now…

“For today,” grumbles James, “Insofar as how we shall introduce ourselves aboard the Pussyfoot, which of us shall we name Captain, in Elizabeth’s absence?”

“That’s obvious, innit?” James raises an eyebrow, his movements slowing to delay their arrival until this is sorted. He finds this to be obvious as well, but he waits for Sparrow to go on. “Me, of course.”

“You do have a plan,” says James with a scoff.

“Seeing as I’d be captain were anything to happen to dear Lizzie,” Sparrow explains, “It only stands to reason that I’ll play the part for the time being.”

James has all but given up on rowing, yet the longboat continues to drift.

“What makes you think that they’ll be any more eager to negotiate with notorious pirate Jack Sparrow than they would be with Elizabeth Swann?”

“Why don’t you just leave the plotting to me, former-Commodore?” suggests Sparrow, stretching his arms past his head like a lazy house-cat. Then, seconds later as if he’s only just heard what James said, he adds, “You think I’m notorious?”

James has forgotten that what constitutes an insult in his mind may have the opposite effect on Sparrow. His frown deepens. From beneath the shadow of his tricorn, Sparrow flashes a toothy smile and gestures for James to keep rowing. Once they are close enough to board, James glances at Sparrow, who has barely sat up straight. A crewman appears, hanging over the side of the ship. Sparrow makes a little shooing motion with his hands, which James takes as an order. James stands, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Liaisons from the Empress!” There is a pause. The crewman turns, relaying something to his officers. He then swivels back, and shouts, 

“Captain says– fuck off!” 

James blinks. That’s foul language, even for a sailor, and a strange response, given that the Empress signaled her intent to negotiate. Aren't privateers meant to hold themselves to a higher standard than that of a common pirate? James starts to worry that his eyes deceived him when he surveyed the men aboard this ship through Elizabeth's spyglass. He's under the impression that he may have an ally here, but perhaps hope has blurred his good sense…

“Psst!” James glances down at Sparrow, who is only just getting to his feet as the longboat rocks. “Parlay.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tell them you request a parlay.”

“That’s a pirate term, I highly doubt that they’ll—”

Sparrow scoffs and shouts up at the crewman himself.

“We want a parlay!”

The crewman throws a look back over his shoulder. It sounds like he’s saying something, but it's impossible to hear him clearly while the ocean laps at the side of the warship. Impatient, Sparrow shouts again.

“Par-lay! Savvy? Just tell that to your bloody captain!”

The crewman vanishes from sight, and Sparrow nearly topples the longboat over as he steps up onto the tiny bow, presumably in an effort to get a better view of what’s happening aboard the Pussyfoot. James throws up his arms and attempts to run his hands through his tangled mess of hair that’s fallen loose from where he tied it back.

“Fantastic. We'll be torn asunder. Is this your plan?”

Sparrow regains his balance, then paces a few steps along the edge of their longboat like some sort of acrobat on a high beam.

“Are you listening to me?” James goes on sharply.

All of the sudden, Sparrow makes a leap off the longboat. His body flings up and out like a ragdoll. James is certain that Sparrow is going to collide with the side of the Pussyfoot and fall limp into the water below, but by some miracle, his hands find purchase on the ship’s ladder.

“What are you doing?” hisses James, watching helplessly as Sparrow begins to climb.

“Staying behind, are you?”

James considers the untethered longboat and the ocean currents. Already they have begun to drift. If things go wrong aboard the Pussyfoot, they may not have a means of escape. But if he lets Sparrow go alone, it won’t be a question of if things go wrong, but when. And so James hoists himself up onto the edge of the longboat, takes a deep breath, and flings himself towards the side of the ship with all his might. His arms flail for the ladder and miss. Yet somehow, he doesn’t hit the water, and he realizes seconds later that he’s grasping onto Sparrow’s right leg with both arms.

“Do you mind, Jimmy?” Sparrow shakes his leg. “I’m trying to climb here.”

James can feel his hands getting clammy and he digs his fingers into Sparrow’s trousers, praying that the fabric does not rip, or worse– that the trousers don’t slip off and James with them.

“Give. Me. A. Hand,” says James through gritted teeth, “Please.”

“Let go!” huffs Sparrow, trying to hoist himself up another rung in spite of the added weight. James strains for a hold on a rung, any rung will do. In the process, he digs into Sparrow’s knee, prompting a string of muttered curses and a renewed effort of thrashing. Then, from above—

“Norrington? James Norrington, is that you?”

The sound of his name from a familiar voice imbues James with just the burst of strength he needs. He uses Sparrow’s shoulder first as a means of propping himself up, then as a foothold to overtake him, paying little mind to the pirate’s protestations. Once he’s started climbing, James looks up, momentarily blinded by the sun overhead, and when his vision clears, just a few reaches away, gaping at him over the side of the ship is none other than Theodore Groves.

“By Jove, mate, why didn’t you say so?” Groves calls down, laughing through his disbelief. He offers a hand to bring James up the rest of the way. “Cheers, mate. Knew you’d make it back to sea…” James watches Groves take in his haggard exterior, “...one way or another.”

“Another is right,” mutters James, stepping aboard the Pussyfoot.

“Must be one huge misunderstanding then,” Groves concedes, “If it’s you we’re dealing with, and not…”

James follows Grove’s gaze over his shoulder to Sparrow, who has just come up behind him, looking thoroughly disgruntled at having been used as a step stool. Groves turns back to Norrington and lowers his voice.

“Is that Jack Sparrow?”

James hears the beginnings of the word ‘Captain’ and hastily pulls Groves aside.

“Do pardon our intrusion. My, er– temporary business partner lacks the aptitude for certain pleasantries.”

“Temporary business partner?” echoes Groves, loud enough for Sparrow to hear. James winces, anticipating Sparrow to refute the claim instantly for the sake of his pride.

“Captain Norrington doesn’t like to use the word hostage,” remarks Sparrow, dusting himself off, “Says it gives people the wrong impression of him.”

“So you accepted the letters after all?” says Groves, sounding very pleased as he claps a hand over James’s back, “I told the others you’d come round. I wish I’d had your offer. James Norrington— Privateer in the employ of the Crown. That sounds just as nice as Admiral, if you ask me.”

James grits his teeth, entirely unprepared for this version of events. Somehow, he’s finding the incorrect assumption that he’s not a pirate to be even more humiliating than the truth of the matter. For what sort of captain wears several weeks worth of muck on his boots?

“What are you doing with him?” asks Groves, as if Sparrow cannot hear him, “Shouldn’t he be… locked up somewhere?”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” James grumbles.

“An Admiral might’ve seen me hanged,” Sparrow adds, “But the captain here doesn’t believe in such an easy way out.”

“By the by, how fast does that junk over there sail?” Groves shields his eyes from the sun to stare at the Empress with genuine interest, “You lot have outpaced us on three separate occasions– must be at least half as fast as the bloody Dutchman.” 

James can't help but wince at the mention that condemned ship. His wound twinges.

“You see, our particular rigging actually allows for–” Sparrow begins, but James cuts him off mid-sentence, fearing any ulterior motives that one Sparrow's tangents might contain.

"I’m sorry– we’ve outpaced you?”

"Yes, sir," says Groves, and the manner of address, is nostalgic despite the circumstances. “The last three leads my captain's bought from his informant in Tortuga have been nabbed right under our noses. Fantastic work, I must admit! But I'm afraid Captain Sutton does not see it that way…"

"Captain Sutton?"

"You remember him, then?"

Of course James remembers Sutton! The old man was a delightful curmudgeon back in the day, relentless in his discipline and especially hard on James, which naturally James took in stride with the assumption that he was merely disliked by the officer. Until Sutton's retirement ball, that is, when the old man took him by the shoulders and declared how he would have liked to have had a son as precocious as James Norrington. Lieutenant James Norrington, as he was known then…

"Does he mean to sink us?" James demands. The present circumstances yank him from one string of memories to another— Miss Swann, half-drowned on his watch, her poor father wracked with panic, and James vows to prevent history from repeating itself. She will not lose her ship nor her life whilst he is still indebted.

"He means to succumb to madness," sighs Groves, "If the drink doesn't take him first. You should've seen how he raged this morning when we realized you took the flute we were after. He had our bosun made sure that the helmsman's spine was near to showing through his back."

"Let me speak to him."

"Norrington, I'm not sure that—"

"We shall tell him that I am captain of the Empress, and I wish to make amends."

"Splendid plan," Sparrow interjects, giving James a pointed look, "Given that you are, indeed, the captain of the Empress."

"Right…" Groves nods, sounding anything but certain. He gives James one last perplexed look, then motions for them to follow him. He prompts them to wait outside the captain's cabin, explaining that it is best if he ensures that Captain Sutton is prepared for civil conversation before he makes an introduction. Groves then disappears behind the door.

James folds his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. So long as he is playing Captain, he might as well carry himself as such, even if his disheveled exterior does little to support the lie. 

“So… was this gentleman ever under your command?"

James glances at Sparrow, who has wasted no time getting comfortable. The way he lounges against the railing, one might think that he has just completed a tiresome day's work.

“No." James turns his head, staring decidedly forward so not to be distracted by the enigma of his reluctant comrade. “Captain Sutton retired while I was still a lieutenant.”

“He seems to be doing well for himself, eh? Did you ever consider retiring early and going his way?”

"Will you keep your voice down?" James mutters. From within the cabin, voices are rising, and James would very much like to have an idea of what he's up against, given Groves's brutal recollection.

“Sir, I am certain that we can come to some sort of compromise. If I could explain—” 

Sparrow's various decorations jangle softly as he creeps closer to eavesdrop alongside James.

“Three prizes they've stolen from me. Now you want to make it four?” 

Sparrow clears his throat just loud enough to catch James's attention. He's mimicked James's posture almost entirely, except that he's begun rocking on his heels, as though there is an itch in his boots.

“Time to cut our losses, Jimmy.”

James ignores him. For all the great depths which James has sunk to, he does not think so little of himself to simply give up.

“He’s got an awful lot of guns on this ship…”

“I know that,” James replies coldly, eyes fixed on the door in front of him.

“Aye, I’m sure you do,” Sparrow agrees, “Just thought I’d point that out, considering the risk you're taking by attempting to reason with this supposed madman.” 

“Well, if our captain is willing to risk getting between Sutton and his prey, then can I be blamed for taking a risk to get her out of this mess?” He throws a sharp look at Sparrow, who remains maddeningly nonchalant in spite of his efforts to sway James into a panic. 

“No one said anything about blame, Captain. Merely making an observation…” As Sparrow trails off, Sutton can be heard shouting a string of profanities. Sparrow adds, “We haven’t the manpower to operate our guns at full capacity.” 

James frowns. "I can handle this."

Tutting, Sparrow lays a hand on James's shoulder and turns the both of them away from the booming discussion taking place in the captain's cabin.

“You couldn’t handle a doorknob, Commodore. In my professional opinion–” Sparrow splays his hand out over James’s chest, his other arm wrangling James in the direction of the Empress.  “ –we ought to return to our dearly deceptive demagogue and get ourselves out to kinder waters sooner rather than later.” 

“That’s what you propose?” Wrapping his fingers around Sparrow’s wrist, James removes Sparrow’s hand. “The notorious pirate Jack Sparrow thinks we should just run away?”

“Now you’ve got it.” Jack smiles, and holds out the same hand as if offering a collaborative shake. James does not even consider it.

“And how did that work for you last time?”

“Well this time, former-Commodore, you’ll be running with me, rather than after me. Easier that way, don’t you think?”

James examines the mischievous lilt of Sparrow’s suggestion for another moment, until the conversation within the captain's cabin rises to an alarming volume, and James pulls away from his cowardly quartermaster.

"But you know this man, sir. He was stationed in Port Royal ten years ago with—” 

“He could be the Duke of Glastonbury for all I give a shit! No one takes prizes from me an’ gets away with it.”

Enough of this- James is seconds away from opening the door himself when it swings forward, and both Groves and Sutton try to step out at once. Sutton shoves Groves, who stumbles to the side as his captain marches upon Sparrow and James, the many frills sticking out from his coat flapping in the breeze. Squished between the wrinkled fat of his face is a monocle, made tiny in comparison to his large, sagging jaw. It’s likely that he needs a full pair of spectacles to see properly, for his eyes are squinted so that he appears to be almost winking.

James stands at attention and holds his breath as he smiles. If he’s lucky, and if his memories of Captain Sutton hold true to the privateer that Sutton has become, there is a chance that he can fix this.

“So you’re the maggot that’s been stealing my leads,” huffs Sutton like an agitated bull, his jowls swinging side to side. Without hesitation, James steps forward to make his rebuttal, only to realize that it is Sparrow that Sutton is addressing.

"Honored that you'd think so, mate," Sparrow replies without missing a beat. Doffing his hat, he inches into a bow as he gestures to James. "But it'd be dishonest 'o me to claim responsibility, therefore I must direct you to the indomitable Captain Norrington…"

Sutton swivels. If there were any doubts to Groves's claim that this man is a drunkard, then such doubts hold no water now. Pink in the neck and nose, sweat glistening where his powdered wig is slipping from what's left of his hairline, Sutton reeks of cheap spirits as he advances on James with a most unreadable expression. James steadies himself, prepares himself to swipe Sparrow's pistol if necessary, and attempts an amenable expression.

"Lieutenant Norrington!"

One large, calloused hand slaps onto the back of James's sunburnt neck, and for half a moment he's sure that Sutton is going to start strangling him with his other hand, but instead he pulls him into a very strange and smelly embrace. Over Sutton's shoulder, James seeks an explanation from Groves, who only gives a bewildered shrug in response.

"Cap-Captain Sutton, sir…?" stammers James, grateful when the old man begins to release him.

"Look at ye!" slurs Sutton, "Why, I used to hear the Norrington name called the scourge 'o piracy! And now yer pilferin' with the best of them."

The best of them…? James glances at Sparrow.

"Me, of course!" guffaws Sutton. His laughter splutters into a cough, and when he's caught his breath, he smacks James on the back and guides him away from the others. James is becoming thoroughly fed-up with being directed one way or the other this afternoon, but he isn't in a position to protest.

"Sir, if I might explain—"

"I had my mind made up to blow your little bamboo canoe over there to bits and pieces," chuckles Sutton, patting James on the back. "But now I've seen its only wee little Jamie, still wanting nothing but to be like his elders, eh? I s'pose that's why you've been snatching my goddamn prizes out from under my nose?"

“I understand your frustration completely,” James hurriedly replies, “For I share part of it. I shall certainly be re-examining my source of leads going forward to ensure that myself and my crew need not ever step on your toes."

"Though, of course-" Sutton continues, as if he has not heard James at all, "I will be taking my haul back from you, and I can't have your men taking me for a pushover, eh?"

"And while that is entirely warranted, I’m afraid that your reaction may not have the desired effect…” James sighs, doing his best to appear contrite. He spots his allies inching closer, hopefully to assist in swaying this in their favor. ”I certainly am grateful for the opportunity to observe the efficient work of your guns, but I daresay that to fire upon our— my ship any further would be a terrible waste of resources.” 

“For all intents and purposes, you'd be firing on your own prize, mate,” Sparrow chimes in. The three former navy men turn to stare at him.

“And who the blazes are you?” Sutton splutters. By now he appears quite discombobulated— just as James hoped— and he reaches for a flask tucked into his waistcoat. Groves attempts to bridge the gap, clearly as unwilling to go to battle as James is.

“This is Norrington’s er— ?”

“Temporary business partner,” James reminds him, wishing he had chosen any other explanation.

“Right,” nods Groves. Sutton takes a long pull from his flask, then shakes his head as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve

“You expect me to hand you the prize?” Sutton punctuates his words by spitting onto the deck, a gesture unbefitting any man of service, retired or otherwise, and James fights to conceal his disgust.

“Not at all, sir,” James assures him, keeping his head held high, “I merely maintain that, regardless of intent, we did run upon the prize first. And we mean you no harm.”

“Captain Norrington has a point, sir,” Groves adds, “The Empress has yet to return fire. Perhaps we've already made a fine display of dominance, and would do well to simply…"

"Board us and divvy up the spoils," decides James.

Sutton is surrounded by opposition, and even some of his sailors have started to eavesdrop. James is no mind reader, but he's learned how assess the mood of a crew, and they seem equally as on-edge as Groves. James pities them, really. It isn't fair on them to have a captain as volatile as Sutton, who is unbeholden to any greater power now that he sails independent of the navy, anarchistic and profit-seeking, and gluttonous with his violence. Excessive violence, James knows, is almost always a cover for weakness, and weakness certainly emanates from Sutton— as putrid as the liquor on his breath.

“Very well, Norrington,” grumbles Sutton, red in the face but subdued, nonetheless, “We’ll be taking the larger part of the prize.” 

The compromise comes with the agreement that the Empress shall never challenge the Pussyfoot ever again, and in return, they shall be allowed to be on their way with minimal damage done to the rest of the ship. A signal is given to the Empress, and before long, the four men have boarded the longboat, with the Pussyfoot to follow. This time, it’s Sparrow who is made to row them, alongside Groves. Sutton lights a pipe, and observes James with peculiar interest. 

“Funny thing,” he mutters between puffs of smoke, “I heard that the Empress was captained by a female.” 

James turns a grimace into a smile. This was precisely what he was most worried about. Of the memorable traits he recalls from Captain Sutton’s time in the British Royal Navy, one stands out in particular. Not unlike most of his peers, the man always held a strong distaste for women. However, Sutton always seemed especially inclined to make those opinions known, in a manner that well surpassed general expectations of gender roles. There was a rumor that the captain had once been bested by a woman pirate some years ago, which prompted his regular diatribes on the uselessness of the lesser sex. 

“Did you?” replies James. The difficult part of this is over- he only hopes now that Elizabeth is willing to swallow her pride and remain out of sight when they board, if only to preserve this shaky agreement which he and Groves have forged. 

“Why yes,” Sutton continues, chuckling lightly, “They say the pirates have been calling her their king. Have you ever heard of something so foolish?”

James mutters something agreeable, searching for Sparrow's gaze amid the salty spray. How are they to explain to Elizabeth, in as few inconspicuous words possible, that they have constructed a lie that requires her cooperation?

When Sparrow at last meets James's eye, he makes no attempt to communicate anything, decidedly engrossed in this role he's playing of the subservient… hostage? Business partner? Good Lord, this is ridiculous. Of all the fools to be stuck with, Sparrow is far from James's first choice.

They reach the Empress faster than James would have liked, for he feels woefully unprepared. It's occurred to him that he knows nothing of the general customs of dealings from pirate to pirate. His experience has far more to do with the hunting and apprehending of such criminals. The closest he's ever gotten to truly negotiating with these devils was at the Isla de Muerta, with the very same man sitting across from him now. He had not trusted the man then, and his opinions have not improved much.

The longboat is raised and Sparrow is in no rush to board. James, for his part, stands as soon as it is safe to, shading his brow and scanning the decks for Elizabeth. He must be the subject of her spyglass, for she is standing on the topmost deck, observing their approach. He prays that she understands when he mouths, Stay put.

Much to her credit, Elizabeth gets the message and keeps her distance. James takes the men from the Pussyfoot down into the hold, and Sparrow disappears from James's sight. Given the stupor that his captain is wading in, Groves takes the lead in the negotiations, and he and James carefully divvy up the Empress's haul in a manner that ought to be agreeable to both parties.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to have seen you again," says Groves as the Pussyfoot prepares to depart. He gives James a firm, fond handshake. "I do hope we'll run into one another again, old friend. Hopefully under more amenable circumstances!"

"Indeed," agrees James, "I wish you all the best."

Once the two ships have parted, Sparrow takes up his pulpit as quartermaster so that he might explain the day's events to the crew in that very roundabout, sly speech of his. James hangs back, reluctantly listening as he watches the Pussyfoot's billowing white sails turn to specks the size of seagull feathers on the opposite end of the horizon.

"What did you say to them?"

James turns to see that Elizabeth has joined him on the fringes of the group to assess the effectiveness of Jack's spiel. She folds her arms and speaks only for his ears.

"I simply apologized for the misunderstanding, and proposed fair retribution for their troubles."

"And you made yourself captain?"

James is half-worried that she's taken offense to the tactic, but she's smiling when he glances over at her.

"Only insofar as it would mend your mistakes."

"I appreciate that," she says, humble but not contrite. She leans over and adds, "I can assure you that days like today won't be typical fare on my ship."

James only nods, and Elizabeth heads over to join Sparrow in addressing the crew. He certainly hopes she's right, for if days like today persist, he might have much more to worry about than his monetary debts.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth sips lukewarm grog. She's added the juice from a slice of lemon, and it's done little for the taste. It would be better with more water and less rum. She takes another sip of the grog, for she is too thirsty not to, and tries to imagine the scalding delight of freshly brewed tea in its place.

"…and— lest we forget— that's without considering the limes."

Better yet if she had some cardamon. But spices are expensive, and funds have been low since she took it upon herself to empty her purse in the name of an old friend, including what she had set aside for a box of tea.

"Swann, did you hear what I said about the limes?"

Elizabeth does not bother turning from her place at one of the Empress's wide windows to spare a glance for her quartermaster— he's been jabbering since they finished dinner. She is not ashamed to admit that she has been tuning out the finer details, considering that he has been retreading the same path, literally and figuratively, for the better part of an hour, pacing so that she worries for the well being of her new rug. Luckily she nicked the piece for herself as soon as it was brought over from that fine little flute, and therefore it survived the appropriation of the very haul which Jack is bemoaning.

"He made sure we kept the bulk of the salt."

"Aye, terribly generous of him. Where do you reckon he's keeping that which he set aside for himself?"

Her eyes nearly roll back into her skull. She considers whether or not it will take splashing him with the contents of her cup to effectively communicate how little she cares to continue this one-sided conversation any further.

"You yourself don't even believe that to be true," Elizabeth mutters over the rim of her cup. "Besides, I had the hold searched."

She hears a cork pop free from a bottle, and then a soft thump as Jack plunks himself onto the cushions on the floor. He is well accustomed to making himself at home in her quarters, and normally she appreciates the comradery.

"You trust far too easily."

Elizabeth throws a mildly contemptuous glance over her shoulder at him. By all accounts, that should be an ironic thing for him to say. Yet the truth of the matter is that her trust in him was not won easily. It was forged in the maelstrom, and has only sharpened since.

"You think far too little of people. Norrington got us out of a tight spot."

"Got you out of a tight spot, surely," Jack remarks. His rings resound against the bottle of rum he's cradling.

"Oh, like those fellows wouldn't have sold you for a bounty in an instant, had he not allied himself with you."

"You weren't there, Lizzie." Jack huffs as he slouches, the rum splashing down his throat.

And thank goodness for that… If there is one regret that Elizabeth does have in regards to her spur-of-the-moment rescue of James Norrington, its her willingness to put him in such close proximity to Jack Sparrow. The two of them are maddeningly annoying with their constant bickering. It only does well to have Jack's suspicions funneled into his micro-management of James when they are on the opposite end of the ship from her.

Quiet moments pass as the sun inches further into the horizon, and Elizabeth is hopeful that the rum will pacify Jack for a while. Sunsets are her time, and she does not appreciate that the spectacle of this evening's burning sky has been hampered down by his complaints. A bitter voice from within reminds her that she needn't spend time being friends with Jack if he’s bothering her. Just because he's been of help to her once (or twice) in the past year, that doesn't make her indebted to him. If a peaceful observation of the sunset is what she wants, then she is well within her rights to send him to his own cabin after dinner.

But, of course, another kinder voice has its own echoes in her thoughts— that of Will, and one of the promises he asked of her before departing from her world.

'If you're to wait for me, I should hope you won't be lonely.'

Elizabeth remembers the harsh tug on her heartstrings, how quick she was to assure him that she would be faithful, unendingly so. Will had smiled at that, and explained his meaning— she should not isolate herself in the wake of loss. She ought to keep her heart open to friendships, and not sail into that broad horizon on her own, if she can help it.

"Would you stop your sulking? You're souring my rum.”

The melancholy tends to creep in like the tide, unnoticed until she is underwater. Jack's observation of it only pulls her down deeper.

"What do you think he's doing right now?" Elizabeth lets her forehead rest on the windowpane, her face flattening against the cool glass. The sea has nearly consumed the sun. Already the room is full of shadows that she does not notice until Jack rises to light the lanterns.

"Pulling some poor wretch from the sea, I'd imagine," says Jack, as though he is merely speculating on the weather, "Maybe some pretty young thing such as yourself, though if I were you, I should hope not. That new scar he's got is quite becoming…"

His teasing neither riles her nor garners a smile. There are times when he can make her laugh through her grief, but this evening she is too tired, and the water is too deep.

"Come have a drink. You look miserable."

"In a moment…"

"You know you're not going to see it."

"See what?" sighs Elizabeth, though she knows what Jack's referring to. Only a sliver of sun remains atop the sea. He is right, she knows. This is yet another mundane sunset, just like the one she watched yesterday and the one she will watch tomorrow.

The Empress drops anchor off the coast of a lush, uninhabited island. Captain Swann delegates crewmen to gather supplies, fish for dinner, and get started on the necessary repairs between now and their next stop in Tortuga. James expects to be holding nails in place or baiting hooks, but instead the captain approaches him with something else in mind.

"I've got to find where our partners have placed our cache," she tells him, "In the meantime, we're running low on freshwater."

"Surely there's a spring?"

"To be sure. I'd tell you where if I knew, but we haven't used this island before. You will accompany Mr. Sparrow and report back once you’ve found it."

James glances over his shoulder at the thick greenery just past the island's beaches. "Are you certain I couldn't be more useful here?"

"I think you're up to the task," replies Elizabeth. There's a cheerful spring in her step as she departs.

And so James finds himself slashing his way through the jungle with Jack Sparrow in tow. Were it not for the present company, James might be exceedingly grateful to have been tasked with being in the shade. Though the mosquitoes make a considerable effort into putting a damper on things. He tightens his grip on the machete, which only entices one of the insects toward the veins on the back of his hand. With a huff, he dispels the thing before he ends up with another itchy welt on top of every other irritating thing he is carrying with him as of late.

"Forgotten how to use that blade, have you?" grumbles Sparrow from behind him. In response, James wacks away several branches with added fervor. He pauses to wipe the sweat from his brow, and Sparrow overtakes him, opting to simply shove the foliage out of his way with a sort of flailing motion. When James lifts his head, one of the branches recoils, smacking him directly on the nose.

"Will you get a move on, mate?"

James slashes the offending plant and strides ahead, taking care to step over the various roots and stones in their path. He notes the sunlight that peeks through the forest canopy.

"We've been out here for over an hour," James calls to Sparrow, who seems intent on putting distance between them. "Why aren't we using that damn compass of yours?"

"Oh, the one that doesn't work?" Sparrow swivels to the right, and with an exaggerated stride, he disappears behind a thick tree trunk.

"Yes. That would be the one." James expects more of that venerable snark, but he cannot make out whatever it is that Sparrow says next. He trudges up an incline, and waits for a response that does not come. The jungle hums with life, and in place of Sparrow’s voice a bird caws.

"Fine!" James raises his voice this time, and the aforementioned bird flees its perch. "Let's just keep wandering aimlessly then, shall we?"

Still nothing.

"We're meant to be working together, you know!"

Perhaps Sparrow has wandered considerably further than James expected? Broken out into a sprint? Maybe he’s in the midst of setting a trap for James to wander into. James reaches the large tree where he last saw Sparrow, anticipating a clearer view, but when he turns to the right, the ground drops off abruptly. He stops in his tracks, jostling a small stone free from the earth. Following its descent, James finds Sparrow on the side of the cliff, dangling over a river speckled with sharp rocks.

"Careful," grunts Sparrow, "There's a bit of a drop ahead."

“I can see that, yes.”

James takes a half-step forward to get a better look at his quartermaster’s predicament. The ground beneath him shifts, and bits of dirt and pebbles pellet Sparrow’s face. James leaps back. Spitting into the chasm below, Sparrow tries to hoist himself up, only for his foothold to slip out from under him. He is left dangling by his arms, grasping at the protruding roots of the nearby tree.

“Go on, then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Get it over with.”

James waits a considerable amount of time to respond, given the situation. There is no medal awaiting him, no promotion to be awarded for the disposal of this notorious pirate. There is only a ship anchored offshore, a crew waiting for their quartermaster, and an old friend who is much too fond of this pirate.

“Or just walk away,” Sparrow goes on, straining through his taunts. His thrashing limbs betray a desperation that his voice lacks. “No sense in getting your hands dirty. Just do me a favor, will you? Tell Swann that I said ‘I told you so.’”

“And she’ll know what that means?” James asks, taking a questionable step closer to the ledge.

“Not in the slightest,” replies Sparrow. One of his hands slips, and James drops to his knees without a second thought. “It’ll drive her mad.”

“You’ll have to find some other avenue for being annoying.” James has made his decision now— he extends his arm to Sparrow. “Or just— tell her yourself.”

To any reasonable person on the brink of death, there should be no question of whether or not to accept James’s offer of help. And Sparrow is surely slipping with each passing moment. But naturally, he regards James with pointed skepticism. That is, until the cliff starts to crumble, and he nearly pulls James over the edge with him.

“I’m not going to let you fall,” grunts James, and he means it.

Whether or not Sparrow believes him has become utterly irrelevant, unless he favors the jagged depths of the chasm. Digging his heels into the earth, James throws all his weight into heaving Sparrow upwards. Sparrow finds a foothold as quick as he loses it again, and James catches him with an arm around his waist. For a terrifying moment, time slows, and their eyes meet— one bewildered man to another.

And then, in spite of all James’s efforts, the ground starts to giveaway once more, and he and Sparrow have no choice but to hurl their bodies toward the base of the great tree. The back of James’s head hits the bark with a semi-audible thunk. In his dizziness, it takes James a moment to realize that Jack Sparrow has landed directly on top of him, having caught himself with hands planted on either side of James. He expects a frantic disentanglement, but instead, Sparrow rises slowly, dusts himself off, and wobbles his way into standing upright again.

“Freshwater’s been located,” he remarks, taking a shaky peek over the edge again at the river below. “Brilliant work by yours truly.”

James rubs at the back of his head, where a tender bump is forming. Not a shred of gratitude from Mister Sparrow, then? Perhaps it would have been wiser to give him a little shove, but who’s to say that Elizabeth wouldn’t add funeral arrangements to James’s account?

“You’re bleeding.”

Sparrow turns, his brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

James gestures toward the torn fabric at Sparrow’s left knee. Sparrow glances down at the gash. He must have scraped it against the cliffside, for it oozes fresh blood.

“So I am,” Sparrow mutters, swaying where he stands. He meanders back to the tree and steadies himself against the trunk before turning towards whence they came.

“You ought to sit down for a moment,” says James, his hand still clasped over the back of his head. But Sparrow just waves dismissively and continues his lopsided descent to the path they created in the foliage.

At this rate, he’ll surely topple off another cliff at any moment.

“Mister Sparrow—” James blinks away the spinning in his head and catches up with him easily, given that Sparrow is practically limping. He steps ahead and walks backwards in front of Sparrow to observe the drip of blood now creating a trail. At least we won’t have any trouble finding our way back to the water…

“Out of the way,” orders Sparrow, as if he has any real chance of overtaking James.

James halts Sparrow with a hand on either shoulder. “Allow me to examine your wound.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He swats at James and trudges onward, “Examine me bollocks while you’re at it.”

The inclination to leave Sparrow to suffer is quite strong. James could very well pick up the pace and return to the Empress, proclaim that he found the freshwater all on his own, and respond with only a shrug when Elizabeth asks where Jack Sparrow has gone. It would certainly be far less trouble.

Just the sight of Sparrow stumbling on that torn knee is enough to make James wince. The lengths to which Sparrow will go to be obstinate baffle him. More than anything, it’s insulting, given that he has just gone out of his way to save Sparrow’s life. James steps into Sparrow’s path again.

“I might have let you fall.” At this, Sparrow quirks an eyebrow and leans back. James leans forward. “Yet here you stand. And you don’t trust me?”

“Trust’s got nothing to do with it, Commodore,” declares Sparrow in a deliberate show of nonchalance, but he makes the mistake of putting weight onto his left leg, and even a dishonest fool such as Sparrow cannot convincingly pretend that does not hurt. Blanching by the minute, he holds his head high. With the tips of his splayed fingers, he shoves James at the chest, and takes another one of those ostentatious strides, leading with his good leg, of course.

James snatches Sparrow by the shoulder effortlessly and makes the snap decision to hurl him to the ground.

“Oi!” He lands on his ass, bloodied knee forced to bend as he tries to rise. James lets him do no such thing, and a struggle breaks out between the two of them, with Jack thrashing and James huffing as he tries to overpower him. “Get— off— me— Jimmy!”

“Stop— calling me— Jimmy!”

Sparrow smacks his palm onto James’s forehead, and tries to shove him off by his head, to which James swings at his elbow and tries to pin him. James seems to be the stronger of the two, but Sparrow is quicker to play dirty. His good knee jabs painfully close to James’s side, forcing James to subdue Sparrow with his forearm.

“You’ve seen fit to take every scrap of mercy, every second chance and ounce of goodwill for granted,” says James. His arm has slipped lower, putting pressure on Sparrow’s trachea. He allows him to breathe only once he has gone still. “Not this time. I spared your life. I won’t do it again.”

Kneeling on the forest floor, James takes Sparrow’s leg in both his hands. Tenderness is absent from the way he rolls up the torn fabric for a better look, because at any moment Sparrow might try to wrestle his way free again.

“If you wanted to take my clothes off, you need only ask, Jimmy.” Having accepted defeat, Sparrow resorts to shameless flirtation. James pretends not to notice as he grips the sticky skin around the wound. “It’s only a scrape.”

“Just shut up, will you?”

Much deeper than a scrape, but not deep enough for the humid air to reach the bone. Sparrow ought to count himself lucky for that. Luckier still that he has even survived to have a wound to mend.

James shucks his coat and pulls his shirt over his head. He takes a moment to examine where best to tear it, and settles for the sleeve.

“Hold still.”

Elizabeth finds the cache soon enough, though a part of her wishes that the search would have dragged on a bit longer. With one last fond look at its little red X, she tucks the map back into her pocket and sets about examining the goods. It is all just as she was told it would be— every bottle accounted for and properly sealed, not so much as a scratch on the glass or a chip in the crates. Elizabeth sighs and calls over her men to start unloading the cache.

The quality of this month’s supply will not make up for what was lost to the Pussyfoot. While there is no denying that it is better to lose cargo than to lose a ship, that does not lighten the blow. Anamaria had promised quite a bit extra for a cut of the salt and limes, and Elizabeth had been hoping to set much of that aside. Considering the additional repairs that the Empress will need once they make port, she will be left with very little to skim off the top once the crew has been properly compensated.

Once the cargo is headed in the direction of her ship, Elizabeth takes up the shovel and starts replacing the sand she dug up in her search. She can see the water from where she stands, just beyond the crest of the hill. Squinting into the sunlight, she reckons she spots a pair of dolphins breeching the waves. Or perhaps- she reminds herself— they aren’t dolphins at all.

All manner of sea creatures, formerly-mythical and otherwise, have been making regular appearances ever since the goddess was released from her mortal imprisonment. At first, Elizabeth thought she was the only one noticing this, or that they were drawn to her proximity to the goddess. But she’s heard whispers of sirens and serpents and even sprawling squid (though nothing as fearsome as Jones’s leviathan), of waves taller than church spires, and doldrums that deliver divine punishment.

As she raises yet another shovelful of dirt and sand, Elizabeth hears a faint clicking. She lets the dirt fall, pivots for another scoop, and that is when she spots a tiny claw poking out of the ditch. Elizabeth drops to her knees at once and reaches into the sand to retrieve a white crab.

“Oh!” She dusts the creature off and holds it gently in both hands. “I didn’t see you there.”

When Elizabeth last heard from the goddess- several weeks ago now- she was given an assignment. Or rather, the expectation of a long string of assignments— a partnership, of sorts. So Elizabeth has been on keen alert ever since, awaiting whatever vessel or figment that the goddess may choose to deliver her messages.

“You wouldn’t happen to be one of Hers, would you?” The little crab blinks its black eyes, stretches its bony arms, and says nothing. On account of it being a crab. “Well, either way, I’m quite sorry for nearly burying you. I do hope you’re alright.”

Elizabeth sits for a few moments more, unsure whether a crab is merely a crab, or if she ought to try harder to communicate with the invertebrate. Eventually the creature twitches restlessly. Elizabeth lowers her hand to a patch of grass and the crab disembarks, but does not wander.

“Stay a while,” she offers, taking up her shovel again, “If you like.”

The crab is still keeping her company when the last of the earth has been replaced. Elizabeth musses the sand with the toe of her boot, and everything is just as she found it.

click, click!

“Would you like to come back with me?”

click, click!

Elizabeth smiles. She throws the shovel up onto her shoulder and stoops to invite the crab back onto her palm. It steps aboard without hesitation, and surprises her with a tickling scuttle up her arm and onto her other shoulder. The sensation of a crab clinging onto her clothes is not exactly pleasant (Elizabeth shudders at the memory of Calypso’s release) but she endures it for the company, and out of reverence for the goddess, whether this creature be her emissary or merely a citizen of the sea. Together they head down the hill in the direction of the Empress.

Once she is in view of their camp, the cabin boy comes running to inform her of Mr. Sparrow and Jimmy's return. She follows him up the beach to where the greenery meets the sand, and sure enough, the two of them come shuffling out of the jungle, even more disheveled than when they went in.

“Do I want to know what happened?”

James is carrying his coat, and his shirt is missing half a sleeve. Hobbling a few steps behind him is Jack, wearing the sleeve as a makeshift bandage for a bloodied knee. James halts a few paces before Elizabeth. He has the strangest tendency to hold himself as though he’s standing at attention, and Elizabeth wants to remind him that he’s no longer serving crown and country, and can stand like a normal person if he likes.

“Mr. Sparrow stumbled upon a source of freshwater,” James informs her. She gives a pointed look to his missing sleeve, and he humbly shrugs into his coat.

“Anything else to note?” asks Elizabeth. James sighs as Jack passes them, grumbling something about a flesh wound as he heads for the longboats.

“No, I should think not.”

Chapter Text

James Norrington is touching up the red paint of the Empress’s paneling that evening when he notices, just out of the corner of his eye, that the captain and quartermaster are peering queerly at him, mid-conversation, from the quarterdeck. Whatever they’re discussing is none of his concern, nor does he even want to know. When they catch him looking back at them, they turn away and move closer to the stern. James decides to think nothing of it, and finishes the job.

With a few hours to spare before he’s scheduled to stand watch, he is quick to take his rum ration with him to his hammock, where he tries to think about anything other than his descent into wickedness. The weak rum has barely slipped his lips when his self-loathing musings are interrupted.

"Commodore."

Only one person on this ship (in this life) still calls him that. James rolls over, then goes still. Squeezing his eyes shut, he keeps his ears open to the distinctive saunter of Sparrow's footsteps, made off beat by his injury.

"Oh, Jimmy…?"

James isn't meant to be on duty until after sundown. Can't the man leave him be? The answer to that is a definitive no, because seconds later, the top end of the hammock is given a rough shake.

"Can I help you, Mr. Sparrow?" hisses James, crunching upward and swatting at the hand that assaults his sleeping arrangement.

"The question, for now, is whether or not I might help you," replies Sparrow, folding his hands behind his back. He appears suspiciously congenial. James frowns. "Captain sent me to check on you. She would like to know when you last changed your bandages."

As if on cue, James's side twinges. The wound's pain is fickle. James often forgets it is even there until he's bent over, or twisted the wrong way, or reached for something too far out of arm's length. He really should change the bandages soon, but if that look on Sparrow's face is signaling any intention to assist with the task, then James would sooner let his flesh fester in its filth.

“I might ask you the same,” he replies, and to Sparrow’s doubtful look he adds, “You’ve been limping.”

“Have not.”

“You may tell the captain that I appreciate her concern, but I do not require any help."

"You sure?" Sparrow's voice regains its taunting lilt, "I'm an excellent nurse."

James narrows his eyes and places a hand on his side in an attempt to quell the creaking ache he anticipates once he lies back down.

“Ah, well. Suit yourself,” says Sparrow, and for one glorious moment, it seems that he’s actually going to leave James alone. He turns, as if to leave, then spins round again on his good leg, as if he has just remembered something important. “Regrettably, I’ve a second request of you, Jimmy.”

“Which is?” James sighs, grasping onto the ropes at the top of his hammock to pull himself up again. Much to his chagrin, Sparrow hesitates, twisting those garish rings around his grimy fingers. “Out with it, if you please, Mr. Sparrow.”

Another amenable smile, albeit forced, and Sparrow tilts his head back, and sighs like a discontented child.

“Elizabeth has requested that you join us this evening. We’re going out on the town, as it were,” James opens his mouth to decline, but Sparrow goes on and does it for him. “I gather you’re not interested. I told her you’d say as much. No sense in troubling yourself over it.”

To be sure, James is not interested. At least, not for his own sake. He would much rather take an early night alone, perhaps with a borrowed novel and an extra share of rum, if he can manage it. There is little else he would rather do less than go gallivanting off into the epicenter of all things piratical and degenerate…

“Tell Captain Swann I accept.”

Something in Sparrow’s hasty, reluctant invitation recalls the same wary suspicions that arise whenever James is witness to the strange proximity that Sparrow and Elizabeth keep with one another. Or perhaps, that he keeps with her? Though she would surely insist on her own capacity to fend for herself, James might serve the captain well as a buffer between herself and this pirate, and all his slimy brethren. Or, at the very least, accepting this invitation is worth the current expression on Sparrow’s face.

As expected, very little has changed in the weeks since James departed Tortuga. In accordance with his memories, the main drag of town comes alive at night, for better or for worse. Inebriated hollers accent the music spilling out from every other doorway, and gunpowder muddies the very air they breathe— though James finds it masks the other odors well enough. He trails behind the others, unsure of where exactly they are leading him, and hoping that they are not headed for one of his old haunts, where someone might recognize him as a troublesome drunk, or worse— as James Norrington.

“We’re devils, we’re black sheep, we’re really bad eggs!”

Sparrow and Elizabeth have already begun passing a bottle of rum between the two of them, which James firmly declined, stating that he would much prefer to wait until he’s had dinner before he starts poisoning himself with drink.

“Drink up me hearties!” sings Sparrow, and Elizabeth passes him the bottle.

“Yo-ho!” Elizabeth spins around and grins at James, tilting her head as if trying to figure something out. “Are you in poor spirits, Mr. Norrington?” she asks, and James dreads the similarity in her voice to that of Sparrow’s teasing lilt.

“Nay, Captain, I be not in spirits at all…”

In response, she takes the bottle from Sparrow and offers it to James again, sloshing its contents as she does. A few paces ahead, Sparrow keeps on singing. James holds up his hand and shakes his head.

“No need,” Elizabeth assures him as Sparrow snatches the bottle back before she’s gotten so much as another swig, “I should hope we are spirited enough for the three of us!”

When James struggles to return her cheery smile, she brings the smile to him, looping her arm with his and tugging him along at a more active pace. He is not sure why it is that her manners toward him have gone from little more than amused indifference to such a friendly gesture, but he blames it on the drink. As for why she invited him in the first place? That he has no answer for. Though he cannot deny that it is pleasant to be near someone who is trying so hard to make him smile.

Sparrow stops in front of a tavern and makes a little show of pretending to wipe off his boots on the doorstep, and he opens the front door for the other two with a flourish. Elizabeth curtsies and promptly heads inside. James, however, remains rooted to the spot.

“Something the matter, Commodore?” asks Sparrow, still holding the door open with the toe of his boot.

“I can’t be here,” is all James can manage, for shame hangs a heavy weight around his neck. There are a great many establishments in Tortuga where James has made a complete and utter fool of himself, and he would be hard-pressed to draw up a list of every place (on Tortuga or otherwise) which he’s been banished from.

“Not as difficult as it looks,” says Sparrow, taking a wobbly step across the doorway on his bad knee. He keeps the door open with one hand and inclines his head for James to join him. “One foot in front of the other.”

Taking a step back from the doorstep, James looks up at the sign swinging from the awning— The Stolen Boat. Yes, if he’s not mistaken, it was this very tavern which declined to continue serving him just a day before he awoke to Elizabeth Swann hovering over his sickbed. The tavern-keepers claimed he was starting fights he couldn’t win (or even remember), which James took as a personal insult. He then proceeded to drink like he had something to prove— anything he could find, anywhere else he could find it, with little care for the debts he accrued.

“Or shall I tell dear Lizzie you won’t be joining us?”

Aside from his reputation, there is Jack Sparrow to consider, and the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter from within reminds him why it is he agreed to join her in the first place. If he is spotted and banished a second time, so be it, but he would prefer to remain inconspicuous. James stalks across the doorway, swiping the tricorn from Sparrow’s head as he passes.

Sparrow starts to object, his arm outstretched, but he changes his mind once James has pulled the hat low over his face. “Hm. Give it back by the end of the night, savvy?”

The front room leads into a courtyard glowing with lanterns, where Elizabeth is seated at a stretch of bar, chatting with two women and bouncing someone’s child on her knee. James hesitates, afraid that he recognizes the taller of the two barkeeps, a dark woman garbed like a male pirate. It is lively in here, but not lively enough for a familiar face to go unnoticed. Sparrow seats himself beside Elizabeth, and James takes the barstool beside him, praying that Sparrow’s tricorn casts doubt on any recognition of him.

“Jack Sparrow, what have you to say for yourself?” demands the other barkeep, a short, curly-haired woman who cannot be much older than Elizabeth. The small child on Elizabeth’s knee echoes the woman with an enthusiastic squeal, and James realizes that the baby shares the woman's nose.

“I’ve a myriad of things to say regarding me’self, Juliet,” replies Sparrow, elbows on the bartop, “First of which is that I’d like a drink, if you please.”

Juliet turns to the shelves at her back and reaches for a bottle of rum. Sparrow tuts, the charms in his hair jingling with a disapproving shake of his head. “It’s Tuesday, dearie.”

“Tequila is reserved for paying customers,” interjects the other barkeep. She slams a shot glass in front of Sparrow. “Never heard you complaining about rum before, anyhow.”

“But it’s Tuesday,” repeats Sparrow, raising his pointer finger for emphasis.

“Aye, and you two promised me three crates of limes.”

“We’ve still delivered the salt,” says Elizabeth. She tickles the babe and hoists the giggling child onto the bar. “Give my quartermaster a tequila, won’t you please, Anamaria? It is Tuesday, after all.”

“Aye, and the limes were Jimmy’s fault.”

Four heads turn to look at James at once, excluding the baby, who is already staring at him with round eyes.

“Who’s this?” asks Anamaria, though James suspects she already has some idea.

“This is Norrington,” Elizabeth says matter-of-factly, “James Norrington. He’s sailing on my crew now, and contrary to what Jack says, he played a crucial role in preserving what cargo we did manage to bring you.”

“I know you.” Anamaria slides down the bar, reaches over the top, and knocks the tricorn off James’s head with a flick of a dishrag. Sparrow nearly falls off his barstool in rescue of his hat from the growing crowd of resident ne'er-do-wells.

“I thought you might recognize him,” begins Elizabeth, “He was—” But Anamaria pays her no mind, continuing to glare at James.

“You’re the filthy navy-man what tried to duel my sister’s husband. Last you were in here, we warned you that we’d hook your corpse on the chandelier if we ever saw ye again!”

“Funny, I’ve heard said almost the same thing” Sparrow remarks, dusting off his tricorn. “...’course that was just before they him chucked into a pigsty.”

“Mr. Norrington is a changed man!” Elizabeth declares, to which they all look at her with a range of suspicion to outright disbelief.

“Says who?” Eyeing James warily, Juliet picks up her child and places him on her hip.

“Says she,” grumbles Sparrow, climbing back onto his barstool. He begrudgingly pours himself a rum and swallows it in seconds. “Cap’n Swann is insistent on the former commodore’s rehabilitation.”

"I can understand your hesitation,” Elizabeth says to Anamaria, “But I’ll vouch for his honor.”

“Will you vouch for his debts, too?” Juliet chimes in, as if James isn’t still within swatting distance.

“She already has,” Sparrow says, eyes shifting towards James as he pours a second drink.

“Has she now?” Anamaria frowns. “Is that why half our order’s missing?”

“No!” Elizabeth protests with an embarrassed laugh, “That was entirely unrelated.”

James does not know whether he should speak up for himself, or if he would do better to keep his mouth shut and let Elizabeth carry on with her pathetic defense of him. As it is, he might as well be invisible to everyone but Juliet’s curious baby, who reaches chubby hands out in his direction. The others continue chattering, and James tunes them out for a few moments as he watches Sparrow work his way through the rum he’s been given. Despite himself, James eyes the bottle.

“How much does he owe you?” Elizabeth is asking Anamaria, who then prompts Juliet to come up with a ledger. James tries not to listen.

“May I?” he asks Sparrow, gesturing towards the drink.

“You think that wise, Jimmy?” Sparrow replies, but it is clear he is only teasing, for he hands James the bottle. James tosses back a shot of the rum, finding it much more pleasant than the cheap stuff they keep stocked on the Empress.

“That much?” exclaims Elizabeth, perhaps louder than intended, for she throws an apologetic glance at James before leaning over the bar to continue her discussion in softer tones.

“Would you gents like something to eat?” James looks up to see Juliet opposite him. She glances at Anamaria, still in conversation with Elizabeth, and then slides a bottle of what can only be tequila across the bartop. “I’ve a stew in the back. How’s that sound?”

“You’re a diamond, you are,” says Jack, quick to conceal the bottle from the others.

“Go on then, and keep an eye on this one.” Juliet inclines her head towards James, then passes her child to Anamaria and disappears into the kitchens. Sparrow climbs over the bar whilst the others are distracted, and comes up with a pair of those limes that seem to be in such short supply.

“Come now, Jimmy. Night’s just getting started.” Sparrow throws an arm around James’s shoulders and steers him towards a table in the corner of the courtyard, framed by climbing ivy and mismatched chairs. James might shrug him off, but given that he’s already been recognized once, he’s wise enough to appreciate that proximity to Sparrow may keep him out of trouble, as ironic as that sounds. Sparrow tosses himself into a fraying armchair, tears the cork from the tequila with his teeth, and spits it into the bushes.

After an encouraging gesture from Sparrow, James takes a seat across from him and watches as Sparrow retrieves a pocketknife from his person and begins slicing up his twice-stolen limes.

“So, what’s the significance of Tuesday?” James asks, for lack of anything else to say.

“Tequila Tuesday,” replies Sparrow, as if it should be obvious, “Once a month, we move a cache of this splendid nectar here, and in return, Anamaria and her dearly beloved let us indulge in our bounty.”

“And they pay us for our troubles?” James glances over at the woman in question.

“They pay Elizabeth,” Sparrow confirms, “Who we can only trust to pay us fairly in return. Ever tasted tequila, former-commodore?”

“Can’t say that I have, former-captain.”

The knife slips, only narrowly missing Sparrow’s thumb. He curses under his breath. James smiles to himself. Before Sparrow can spit a proper retort, Juliet arrives with two bowls of stew and a half loaf of bread. James thanks her, much to her surprise.

“How’s it going over there?” asks Sparrow, tearing off a piece of bread and dunking it in his stew. “Still talking business?”

Juliet turns a chair round and takes a seat across from them. “Ana’s offered to find you lot a new source of leads. One less likely to…”

“Get us blasted with cannons,” finishes James, stirring the steam from his stew.

“Right.” Juliet nods. She looks curiously at James, and if he isn’t being too hopeful, there seems to be less judgment in her eyes than before. “So, what is it with you, Mr. Norrington? How’ve you got so lucky to have Captain Swann on your side?”

James makes sure Sparrow is not planning to answer on his behalf (the pirate has already begun to dig into his dinner), and then attempts an amiable expression.

“I was… a friend of her family. Once upon a time.”

“Oh?” Juliet smiles back and tucks her chin into her palm. “Do go on, if you may. Cap’n Swann’s been nothing short of a mystery since she started sailing into our port.”

“What has she told you?” James puts a spoonful into his mouth and nearly spits it out. It’s still burning hot, and he wonders how Sparrow can shovel it in like it’s nothing.

“Very little!” Juliet produces a kerchief from her apron and passes it to James, who uses it to dab away the scalding broth dribbling into the scruff of his chin. “Ana says that she herself sailed with Mr. Sparrow here years ago on a mission to rescue Captain Swann, but after that I know nothing of how she acquired her ship, or how she came to be King of the Brethren Court.”

James nearly spits out a second mouthful of stew. Juliet does not seem to notice his astonishment, for she continues, lowering her voice as if conveying a secret. “But what I’ve heard-” A crew of patrons enters, cutting off whatever it was that Juliet was about to say. She rises, excuses herself, and rushes back to work.

Sparrow waves a dismissive hand and places a shot of tequila in front of James, laying a slice of lime atop the brim. “Go on then, give it a try.”

James looks at him incredulously. “King of the Brethren Court?”

“Terrible gossip, that one.” He pours a second shot for himself and puts a lime wedge between his teeth.

“Oh, and here I was thinking myself a hero.” James looks up to see Elizabeth approaching their table, holding the neck of a second bottle of tequila. She eyes the bottle that Jack’s already opened. “Did you come by that honestly, Jack?”

Sparrow bites down on the lime in the same instant that he downs the shot, rattling his many charms as he throws his head back. “You are a hero, Missus Turner! We’ll be needing that soon ‘nuff.”

Elizabeth takes a seat between the two of them, slouching in a manner so-unladylike that James is somewhat taken aback, even after all he’s seen of the pirate that she has become.

“Have you tried our tequila?” she asks James, reaching for the opened bottle to pour one for herself.

“Your tequila?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Jack mumbles around a lime. He makes a face as the last of the juice is wrung out, and drops the peel directly on the table.

“We have a friendly arrangement with a local distributor.” From Elizabeth’s tone, James gathers that the arrangement is anything but friendly. “Though, I’m thinking of getting into the business myself.” Sparrow snorts, and tries to play it off as a reaction to the alcohol’s burn. “What? Surely, I cannot live on the account forever…”

Elizabeth throws back a shot and realizes she hasn’t a lime on hand until Sparrow helpfully passes her one. She hisses through a smile and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “I mean, god forbid I lose a limb or an eye or something, but it does happen.”

“Glad to know you’re planning for retirement at your age,” says Sparrow, scraping his spoon along the side of his bowl, “Going to abdicate as well?”

Downing her second shot, Elizabeth grins and shakes her head. “Oh, you wish!”

James stares down at his supper. Abdicate? Surely, this is another of their many jests? But the mention of a king where Elizabeth is concerned is familiar in a way he cannot place. He pushes around a chunk of potato until it sinks below the surface of the meaty stew. He wonders if it will hit the bottom of the bowl, much like the Dauntless when faced with the might of the sea…

His spoon clatters on the tabletop. All of the sudden it strikes him— the abrupt assumption of Elizabeth’s captaincy of the Empress, her journey to Shipwreck Cove, the old man with the meteorological peg-leg, and that demeaning remark from Sutton. This is no jest, Elizabeth Swann has gone from the gentle-hearted daughter of an upstanding pillar of society, to a so-called king of thieves and murderers!

“James, won’t you come dance with me?”

He looks up into the kind eyes of the young woman he’s been acquainted with for so many years, yet whom he has never truly known. She stands with her hand outstretched, another friendly invitation which he is reluctant to accept.

“I don’t know this one,” he says, observing the pirates frolicking round the center of the courtyard.

“It isn’t like the dances we’re used to!” Elizabeth laughs, and James finds some semblance of comfort in the recognition that the two of them are different than the rest of these ruffians. “You needn’t worry about the proper steps, it’s just good fun!”

“Yes, Jimmy.” Sparrow mops up what’s left of his stew with an end piece of bread, and goes on dryly, talking with his mouthful, “Let loose, why don’t you?”

Elizabeth throws him a chiding look and then smiles at James again. “Don’t mind him.”

James still is not convinced that this is a good idea. Dancing with the pirates’ so-called monarch may only attract unwanted attention, and perhaps even questions about the nature of their relationship. He does not wish to unpack that, he’s been humiliated enough in recent months. Elizabeth is still giving him an encouraging look, and he has to avert his eyes, just in time to watch Sparrow drink the shot he neglected to accept.

“I’ll dance with you, Lizzie.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

Before James can decide if he should step up and intervene, the pair of them have already made a quick departure to the courtyard, and he left alone with two bottles of tequila. He looks from his stew to the liquor, then makes a solemn choice. Inevitable, really, that his carnal desires would win over his rational self so easily in a place like this. And he really is interested to know what this stuff tastes like.

It burns. Like smoke. The sourness of the citrus compliments it well. Quite well, indeed. So well that he takes another. And then a third. Some bread to ease the blow, and then he migrates to the ragged armchair Sparrow vacated. Still warm— the perfect place to recline while he blends into the background of the party. He sips the tequila from the bottle now, sans limes, and savors the rumbling burn rising from his chest to the base of his throat. He expects that Sparrow and Elizabeth will return soon, but it is only Elizabeth who emerges from the crowd.

Her face is flushed, strands of yellow hair clinging to her forehead. She walks like the room is spinning, and given her energetic dancing, it very well might be.

“Do you like it?” she asks, gesturing to the half-empty bottle of tequila as she plunks herself down in the chair closest to him.

“Far too much,” he admits hoarsely.

“Well then, allow me to assist.” Elizabeth cheerfully takes a swig, makes a face, and searches for the limes, which have long since been squeezed dry. She tears off some bread in its place, and unlike her quartermaster, she remembers to chew her food before making conversation. “Isn’t this so very funny?”

“What?” asks James. He sits up slightly and assesses his surroundings, concerned that he’s done something to make an ass of himself. In doing so, the tricorn slips off his head.

“This, all of this!” Elizabeth places the hat on his head and gives it a pat. “You and I, meeting here again like this, after everything that’s happened.”

“You think this is… funny?”

“No, not really! Just— I mean, who would have thought that we would ever see one another again?”

James certainly would not have thought so. If he had, he never would have kissed her. He considers telling her this, wondering if she would care to know that he thought she was an angel come to lead him to the pearly gates when he awoke from his last awful stupor. But as slow as he is to form words, she is quick to go on. “I’m just so happy that you joined our crew, James.”

Oh, so she is most definitely drunk.

“I, er—” James clears his throat. “I appreciate your charity.”

“Charity?” Elizabeth reaches over the table for another piece of bread. “Nothing charitable about it,I fully expect a return on my investment.”

James picks up the bottle again. ”Right.”

“Besides—” Elizabeth hiccups. “We’re friends, aren’t we, James?”

James swallows yet another gulp of this delightful spirit and attempts the most serious nod of his life. He hasn’t the proper words, but yes, if she considers him a friend, then the feeling is entirely mutual. She tears into the bread and shrugs thoughtfully. “And I am no longer angry with you, by the way.”

That sobers him up, just a tad. He lowers the bottle and waits for her to elaborate. She looks at him as if she should not have to elaborate, yet faced with nothing but guilty silence, she goes on.

“That is to say, I no longer blame you. For the death of my father. Your part in it.”

His mouth goes dry, his skin prickles with a clammy chill, and a glance at his unfinished stew leads to the realization that his near-empty stomach and the greater half of that bottle are going to get the better of him at any moment.

“Please— please excuse me.”

Unsure where else to go, James shoves his way through the crowd with one hand, the other clasped over his mouth. The urgency overpowers any awareness until he is at last on his knees in the dirt, having just missed the alleyway he was aiming for. He has the urge to roll over like a sick dog and just lie beside his puddle of vomit, but unfortunately his presence on the edge of the street has not gone unnoticed.

“Alright there, mister?”

James looks up to see a woman with a heap of shiny blonde curls staring down at him. In her arms she carries a mewling basket. She tilts her rouge-smeared face, and James cannot tell if this lady-of-the-night is disgusted or sympathetic. He knows which he’d choose, in her place.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

She shifts the basket to her hip and offers him a hand, which he unfortunately needs to accept. The lid of the basket lifts, and a fluffy paw peaks out from within.

“Bit too much to drink, yeah?”

“Something like that, yes. Thank you.”

She makes for the tavern entrance and holds open the door. As much as he does not want to make a reappearance, he cannot disappear on Elizabeth just yet, lest she come looking for him. He is surprised she has not come after him already. He follows the bustle of the woman’s dress back inside and swiftly loses her among the increasing number of patrons. Fine by him. What is decidedly less fine is the quick appearance of Sparrow, grasping him by both shoulders.

“That was simple enough.”

“Sorry, what was—?”

“Lizzie sent me to find you,” Sparrow says. He must be in his cups as well, for he places a hand on the side of James’s face, tilting his chin as he looks him over. “Where’s my hat?”

“Uh—”

Sparrow darts off before James can direct him towards the alley and the vomit. Stunned,James lets the room swirl around him a moment before he gives up on finding their table and heads back to the bar.

“How do you fare, Mr. Norrington?” Juliet greets him as she slides a pint of grog across the bartop to a fellow two barstool away. “Cap’n Swann was worried about you. Can I fetch you something? Cup ‘o water, perhaps?”

James accepts a water and finds it lukewarm and gritty, but nonetheless helpful. He slams down the empty cup and leans over the bar.

“Miss Juliet!” Forgetting himself, James tugs on her sleeve before she can wander off. “I must know what you were going to say earlier.”

Startled, Juliet merely blinks at him. He mumbles an apology and relinquishes her shirt, and perhaps his drunkenness is for once doing him a favor, for she seems to deem him too stupid to be any real threat this time.

“Sorry, refresh my memory?”

“About Elizabeth— er, Captain Swann.”

“Ah, yes!” Juliet leans in on her elbows. “I’ve heard strange things about her. Some say that she’s married.”

“Yes?” James urges her on, worried that some other drunken buffoon will request a drink and send her scurrying.

“To the sea.”

James frowns. Maybe he is simply too far gone, but that does not make a lick of sense. To his confusion, Juliet nods several times. “But I don’t see how that can be true. Few months back, when that pretty ship ‘o hers first made port here, she had a crew what wandered in. Defectors, they were. I didn’t speak with them much, but I heard ‘em talking about her. They said she’d gone mad.”

“Mad?” James echoes.

“Aye, sir. They said she’s a widow, see, and she couldn’t bear her grief. She kept insisting that her man was still alive. Tried to get the crew to sail halfway ‘round the world to find him, so most of ‘em jumped ship and joined other crews what come in and out of the island.”

“And what do you think?” asks James. He turns his head to scan the crowd for Elizabeth, as if the mere sight of her could confirm or deny this concerning rumor.

Juliet shrugs a shoulder and picks up a discarded tankard. “She doesn’t seem mad to me. But grief does funny things to a person, don’t it?”

James knows that the grief Juliet speaks of weighs doubly heavy on Elizabeth’s heart. First her father, and then, presumably, Turner? He cannot fathom how she can be content to carry on down the very same path that brought this ruin upon her in the first place.

“Can I get you anything else?” Juliet asks. James accepts a tankard of what she tells him is tequila topped with fresh citrus juice for which she will accept no payment. He thanks her, and heads into the fray in search of his captain.

He finds Elizabeth in the same spirits as before. She has plunked herself down onto the stone floor before a bench where that blonde prostitute from earlier has placed her basket, now overflowing with kittens. Laughing to herself, Elizabeth dangles a bit of twine for a tiny calico kitten to swat at as it toddles between her boots.

“Oh, Giselle, he’s so darling! What’s his name?”

“That’s up to you, love!” she tells Elizabeth, “He’s yours if you want him.”

“He’ll make a fine rat catcher.” Sparrow is sprawled out with his head in the lap of Giselle, who pours rum into his open mouth. Notably, he is wearing his tricorn again. He notices James before the others do. “Don’t you agree, Jimmy?”

“There you are!” Elizabeth turns at the mention of James.

“Here I am,” James agrees bitterly. Elizabeth trails the twine along the stone and the kitten follows with claws bared. James considers joining her on the floor, but he does not trust his ability to get back up again.

“Remind me, Lizzie,” says Sparrow, “To never lend Jimmy my hat again.”

James frowns over the brim of his tankard. Very well, he knows when he isn’t wanted. With his throat warmed and his steps off-kilter, he disappears in search of another spot where he can disguise himself as furniture until the morning brings its rude awakening of blinding sunlight.

When James opens his eyes again, it is not the sunlight which he sees first, but rather it is Jack Sparrow, sideways. This, he realizes, is because he’s nodded off with his head on a table, in a puddle of drool that smells like tequila. And at a distance, Jack Sparrow dances with Elizabeth Swann. James sits up cautiously and uses his shoulder as a kerchief.

Compared to the lantern-light, Elizabeth’s smile might as well be a bonfire, illuminating everything in her vicinity. Were it anyone else twirling her by the arm, James might be grateful that she has found the joy that he was unable to provide.

And yet, this is precisely what he was worried about. He curses his vices for clouding a mind that should have remained sober, for Elizabeth’s sake. He should have danced with her, he should have sat between her and the intentions of one so untrustworthy as Sparrow. Instead, he has proven himself once again to be nothing but a rum-pot deckhand what takes orders from the most irredeemable of pirates.

James searches the cluttered table for a drink, and finds not his own tankard, but a mostly-full tankard nonetheless. Warm grog washes over— no, not grog. He spits onto the stones and picks up a half-empty bottle of what appears to be rum. A quick sniff confirms it, and he drinks without asking whose spirits he is stealing.

The rag-tag buccaneer band transitions to a new song, and James watches Elizabeth pass Sparrow off to that woman (Giselle, was it?) with a sweet wave. But as she turns her back on them, her smile vanishes as though it were never really there at all, and she catches James looking at her. He is too drunk now to pretend he isn’t observing her as if he were her chaperone, and he merely quirks an eyebrow.

Elizabeth makes a detour to the bar, and James thinks she means to avoid him entirely until she sits down beside him. He fears his glance comes off too judgemental, for she sighs as she opens the bottle.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“How… how am I looking at you?” James asks, and he is aware that the words slur together like ink in the rain. Elizabeth narrows her eyes, then shakes her head.

“Nevermind it. Are you well?”

“Haven’t been sick in hours.”

“I suppose that’s all one can ask for,” she mutters, hunching over the tabletop. She does not offer him any of the rum, instead keeping it in the crook of her left arm. He watches her trace the grain of the table, and then the grain of her palm, where a long, pink scar stretches across her skin.

“Elizabeth,” he says, unintentionally drawing out the e of her name as he swallows back an unpleasant taste in his mouth. She looks up at him, and he asks himself if she has always looked this miserable. Has he only just noticed?

“Yes?”

“If— If you need anything. Anything at all. ‘m here for you.”

Elizabeth attempts a smile. Perhaps the drink has brought with it a strange, new wisdom, for James can see right through her efforts. A smile like hers is not falsely made, and its replicas are poor comparisons at best.

“Thank you, James.” Her gaze wanders back to the dance floor, where Sparrow pulls his partner close, kissing her mouth as he dips her. “But what I need is, regrettably, too far out of reach.”

Even worse than he feared! James feels a rush of panic that does not sober him, but rather reminds him that is is in no state to remedy this situation. Still, he knows he must offer some sage advice. Something to turn her heart away from that vile degenerate, something to keep her from stumbling further down a path that can only lead to heartbreak. Words turn over in his head, refusing to be strung into sentences by a mind as inebriated as his. Just as he thinks has put together a scrap of good guidance, her chair scrapes the stones and Elizabeth rises from the table. He thinks he hears her mumble something about the beach, the sea, and before he can stop her, she is gone. Hiccuping, James slumps over the table again.

“Jimmy! Jimmy, wake up, you measly cod-piece.”

James awakes to Sparrow standing over the table, snapping his fingers just inches from James’s nose. He is still at the same table, it is still (hopefully) the same Tuesday night, and he is still drunk.

“Whahappen’d?” he asks through the sourness of his dry mouth. He looks around for something to sip, only for Sparrow to grab him by the skull and force him to look at him head-on.

“Where is Lizzie?”

“Eliza- hiccup- beth?”

“Yes, my blithering former-commodore, where is our captain?”

“Left,” James mumbles, and Sparrow releases him with a huff.

“Left to where?”

James shrugs. Unable to locate a familiar beverage, James ducks under the table where he finds a bottle that is, sadly, empty. He turns it over just to be sure, and the dregs drip out. He casts the bottle aside and notices that Sparrow is nibbling on his fingernails, his sun-beaten brow creased.

“Did you ask them?” James indicates toward the bar, where Anamaria and Juliet are fussing over their baby as patrons holler shanties.

“Haven’t see her. She didn’t tell you anything before running off?”

“She said something about the beach?” James offers, though he is unsure if he is remembering something that actually happened, or if he dreamt that part. Sparrow curses and drags a hand down his face.

“Cinch up, Jimmy. Might need your help.”

James has barely gotten to his feet, and already Sparrow is making his way across the tavern. He does not look back to see if James is following until they are both out the door.

“What for?” James asks. He wills his sea-legs to keep up with Sparrow’s purposeful strides.

“What?”

“What do you need my help for?”

“Oh you know—” Sparrow turns to the side to allow a gaggle of livestock to pass them on the crowded street. James does not react quick enough and gets butted by an impatient goat, right in his sore gut. “In case of the worst.”

“The worst?” James’s voice strains as he attempts to right himself again. He grits his teeth, clutching his side as he trails Sparrow. Naturally, Sparrow ignores his question and whistles instead— one of those obnoxious shanties that James had the displeasure of being subjected to all evening. “Could you at least do me the favor of explaining your concern?”

Sparrow throws a disdainful look over his shoulder. “Pardon me, Jimmy. I’d forgotten that you are irreparably dense, so I’ll make it simple for you. The captain is sailing through what one such as yourself might call an emotional… hurricane of sorts. And taking into consideration the sheer volume of tequila in her- almost half as much as you’ve glugged- it doesn’t bode well for our monarch to be wandering off on her lonesome, now does it?”

"I beg your pardon?”

“Meaning that it wouldn’t reflect well on her quartermaster— meself, in case you’ve forgotten- if she’s gone and drowned.” Sparrow continues onward with none of the urgency that his assumptions should warrant, and a burst of burning anger supersedes James’s stupor. “Bloody hell, you rescue a drowning lass one time—”

Without so much as a first or second thought on the matter, James grabs Sparrow by the back of his shirt, drags him into the nearest alley, and slams him up against the closest wall, successfully pinning him much as he did in the jungle. Sparrow only has time to make a choked sound of surprise.

“You think this is funny?” He demands. Sparrow wheezes, which James interprets as some manner of snark. “Have you no pity? Or do you take joy in toying with people’s emotions?”

Sparrow wheezes a second time, and James releases him. He steps back as Sparrow sinks to the ground and catches his breath over his bent knees. It does not feel good to be violent, despite his historic inclination towards fighting when he is deep in his cups. For though his knuckles itch for a blow, he does not care for the aftermath.

“You don’t have to lead her on,” James continues, trying to reel in his rage, “I’m sure that to you, she’s just another woman. But I will not allow you to—”

“Hold on.”

“What? Do you deny it?”

Jack Sparrow looks up at him, and his smirk glints in the moonlight. His dark eyes are crinkled, almost in laughter, but not quite. He shakes his head, gets back on his feet, and dusts himself off before laying a hand on James’s shoulder.

“I’m telling her you said that.”

“What?” asks James, finding his voice shrunken. Sparrow’s smirk becomes a grin and he pats James’s shoulder once more before he returns to the street. James steadies himself against the alley, reeling from the sudden realization that he might be wrong, combined with the fear of losing his only friend. He stands still for a moment, jaw slack.

“Jack, wait!”

James stumbles and almost falls in his chase. Sparrow does not wait, nor does he even slow down. In fact, he moves quicker, and James cannot keep up without first stepping off the street to be sick once more. He never wants to drink again.

Elizabeth is on the beach, right where she said she would be. Scattered bonfires have cropped up here and there, parties of lovers and parties of crewmates. Set against the darkest fringe of the revelers is Elizabeth. She sits where the sea meets the shore, where the tide washes over her boots and wraps around the bottle she anchors in the sand. The ebb and flow that one might play chase with passes over her, undisputed.

In her posture, James sees a pain that is not displayed in howls or bloodshed, though equally felt. He wants to go to her, but he knows not why or how. He must be acting on this impulse, for Sparrow throws out an arm to prevent him from rushing towards a rescue that he is entirely unprepared for.

“Wait here.”

For a moment, James obeys. He watches Sparrow approach casually, as though there is nothing wrong, and he briefly entertains the idea that Sparrow knows better than he does.

And then James thinks better of that, and follows after, decidedly less casual than Sparrow.

“Where’s your hat?” Sparrow asks Elizabeth, crouching at her side. She points at the receding sea, and if James squints, he can just make out the shape of that weathered tricorn she wears, bobbing on the seafoam. Neither pirate acknowledges James, but Sparrow must know that he's standing over them, because he inclines his head toward the water and says, “Go on then, commodore.”

James doesn’t move, doesn't want to take his eyes off the pair of them out of concern for whatever it is that Sparrow is doing.

“Fetch the lady's hat, Jimmy.” An order this time, one that James is trained to respond to. He may not know what might remedy this situation, but he'll be damned if he has forgotten how to act the gentleman. So he walks into the waves, dark as pitch, and searches for her hat.

The water fights against him, seeping into his bandages to sting his wound, yet he emerges triumphant in his drunken quest, only to be sobered when he places the hat at Elizabeth’s side, and realizes that his chivalry has no purpose here.

“…and that won’t bring him any closer,” Sparrow is saying, softer than James has ever heard him speak. “We’ll be underway soon enough.”

Elizabeth raises the bottle to drink, only for Sparrow to take it from her as though he is too thirsty to ask. “Mind if I keep this?” He takes a hearty gulp.

“I could go to every corner of the map and I wouldn’t reach him,” says Elizabeth, her voice thick and her motions slowed. She rests her chin on her knee. “It’s not his sea, it’s hers.”

“Put that away until tomorrow. It'll do you no good.” Sparrow braces himself on her shoulder and gets to his feet. He does not offer her a hand, instead turning in the general direction of the docks. “Night’s at an end,” he says to James as he walks past. “Time we head back.”

Elizabeth makes no move to get up, and Sparrow does not look back, meaning that the responsibility has fallen to James. He owes it to her, after all, in more ways than one. Stumbling over the sand, he kneels between Elizabeth and the waves.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, willing his voice to sound even and assuring. She meets his eyes only for a fleeting second, then looks right through him. “We’re friends, remember?”

“Leave her, Commodore,” Sparrow says at last, calling to them as he strolls down the beach, “Let the captain wallow in self-pity, since that’s what she wants.”

James sets his jaw. Sparrow’s callousness makes him wish he had not held back in the alley. He attempts a comforting smile, hoping that even in the dark, Elizabeth might see that, unlike Jack Sparrow, James does care for her, truly. Condolences swim through his mind, words he might have said at her father’s funeral, had there been one. Kindnesses he might have offered when her Mr. Turner met the grim fate which must have come to pass while James was too cowardly to take a stand against the evils what made it so.

“Don’t listen to him.” James tries to take her hand, but she does not allow it. He glances at Jack, who is pretending that he is still walking away, though his pace says otherwise. Elizabeth continues to look toward the dark, shapeless horizon. “You… you’re entitled to your grief.”

The tide is rising, James notices. Foamy waves wash over them both. He offers his hand to Elizabeth, and she only accepts insofar as she needs to stand. Once on her feet, she does not retreat from the oncoming waves— much to the contrary.

“Jack!” James calls, not for the first time this evening. His wound burns at the thought of diving into the saltwater again, but he may find it necessary. Elizabeth is knee-deep now, and the clouds have gathered over the moon. Swaying as he stands, he pounds his chest in an attempt to relieve his heartburn. He does not dare turn away from the sea, for fear of losing sight of Elizabeth.

“Weren’t you s’posed to be handling this?” comes Sparrows voice from over his shoulder. James startles in spite of himself. This is all too much. Were it not for Elizabeth, he might envy the men sleeping off their liquor among Tortuga’s livestock. Sparrow takes a seat on the sand with the bottle of rum he took from Elizabeth. James looks down at him incredulously.

“She’ll be right. Just… keep a sharp eye.”

James does as he says, and for one chilling moment, he can no longer see Elizabeth. Seconds later— thank the Lord— she surfaces, having dove under a wave. Sparrow holds up the bottle to James, an invitation. For some reason, James joins him on the sand, his plain curiosity coexisting with his open resentment.

“Can I ask what happened?” The question sounds stupid, but James cannot phrase it any other way.

“In all of human history, or just in the past four hours?”

“After… after Isla Cruces.”

“You can ask.”

“And will you give me-” James stifles a burp mid sentence, passing Sparrow the bottle. “-a proper answer, or will you tell me a story?”

It could be a trick of his eyes in the sparse moonlight, but James thinks he sees Sparrow smile at that as he raises the bottle again. They both know what the answer is without putting it to words. Strangely, this does not upset James as it might have weeks ago. A quiet moment passes, underscored by the neighboring revelries and the soft, even roar of the sea. They watch the shadow of Elizabeth make her way to shallower waters with an unspoken relief. As they wait for her return, Sparrow picks up Elizabeth’s tricorn and places it lopsided on James’s head. He gestures toward James’s wet clothes.

“Be sure to change those bandages when we get back to the ship, Jimmy.”

Chapter Text

A life spent at sea, in battle or in a bottle, has long since steeled James Norrington against all manner of putrid smells. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the stench that rouses him this morning. He swallows acid as he lifts his head, and realizes with a fresh surge of disgust that the source of the nastiness lies baked onto his chest under the unforgiving midday sun. He does not remember being sick all over his waistcoat, nor does he remember the walk back to the Empress. What he does remember is sharing one last bottle of rum with Sparrow on the beach, and from there on everything is colored by the strange blur of a dream— Sparrow’s arm around his shoulders, Elizabeth’s chiding voice, another round of shanties to lift her spirits…

The first of his attempts to sit upright is thwarted by a drumbeat of a headache, amplified by a blinding ray of sun. The second attempt sends a lightning rod of pain down his middle, and only on the third attempt is he able to fight his way through it. Why is his wound fighting him more than usual? He tugs at his vomit-crusted shirt for a better look, but the ship rolls and he is overcome by an involuntary dry heave. Nothing left to be sick on, it seems.

Are they already at sea?

When his stomach relents, James cranes his neck to look out over the taffrail against which he’s been slumped. Yes, they are at sea, and it seems that they have been for several hours. Tortuga has already shrunk into nothingness and the seas are rough. Gripping himself around his middle, James puts all his strength into standing and he creeps along the taffrail, only for one of his passing crewmates to stick a foot out and trip him. James keeps his head down and his eyes open for the boots that stomp past him.

“Slugabed prick!”

“Damn your limey blood, Jimothy!”

When he thinks the coast is clear, it isn’t. He is immediately pelted with apple skins. The cook, tossing the dishwater over the side, sees fit to throw the last of his bucket on James as well. Were he still invigorated by that wicked tequila from the night gone by, he would clammer to his feet and swing on these bastards— his debts be damned. But there is not a shred of vigor within him that has not been sapped by the sun and the drink and emptiness of his belly. He has been in these depths of humility before, he reminds himself, and puts his remaining efforts into biting his tongue. His bitter crewmates do not get their desired reaction, yet they do seem satisfied by the image they have created.

“Now, now, gentlemen… Haven’t we got bigger fish to fry than this sorry little flounder?”

James yearns for the strength to throw himself overboard.

“Aye, Mr. Sparrow.”

Jack Sparrow blocks the sun from view, and James squints up at him.

“Then hop-to, lads. This junk shan’t sail herself.”

The men shuffle off, dragging their grumbled complaints along behind them. James is not sure if he will ever be used to the level of acceptable insubordination aboard this ship. He is sure that this is not an inherent trait of piracy, but perhaps a distortion of their crude forms of democracy.

“Have we a heading?” asks James, picking a fish bone from his hair.

“Have you a heading?” Sparrow counters with what sternness he ought to have reserved for the bullies on his crew. James scowls at the soreness of his elbows as he rises to his knees, and maintains the expression as he meet’s Sparrow’s contemplative gaze. “Genuine question, mate.” Sparrow shrugs a shoulder and rolls a hand as he adds, “If you must know, we’re simply trailing the usual trade routes, on account of it being Wednesday.”

The sun runs suds from the cook’s bucket into the corner of James’s eyes. Rubbing at it does no good, so he bears it and climbs to his feet again. The ship jostles, but he has a better hold on the taffrail now, and in keeping his head down to watch his step, he notices that Sparrow is putting weight on his knee again. Damn him for having wounds that heal.

“Does Captain Swann condone childish attacks from one crewmate to another?” He asks, for Sparrow’s mouth twitches with poorly contained humor.

“So— first, you accuse the poor thing of infidelity, and now you assume she does not keep order on her ship.” Sparrow tuts and shakes his head. “You’ll want to improve your attitude, Mr. Commodore, and you might smell better in the mornings. Helps to wake up in time for cast-off, too.”

“Forgive me for not anticipating a full day of sailing to follow last night’s excursion.” James can hear a dry, hissing quality to his voice. Swallowing saliva only relays the taste of vomit. He watches Sparrow sip from a palm-sized flask. “Why are you well? I can’t have had more than you.”

“Aye, but a slow and steady current crashes softer on the shore, savvy?” Sparrow tucks the flask into his sleeve.

“And Elizabeth?” asks James, “Is she well?”

“Downright spritely. Don’t think she gets hungover. Then again, she’s still in her twenties.”

James starts to voice his doubts, but his hum turns into a groan, and he clutches one hand to the site of his wound. The pain is so striking that he casts dignity aside and reaches under his shirt to find that the bandages have dried stiff, having been soaked through with saltwater.

“I don’t speak for me own health, you know—”

“Is that so?” hisses James.

“— I’ve got the crew’s best interests at heart, I do.” Sparrow taps a soft fist on his chest. “And due to circumstances much too far beyond my control… that includes you, Jimmy.”

“Are you ever going to thank me?” James retorts, “For what transpired in the jungle?” Sparrow merely cocks his head to the side, eyes askance as if trying to conjure a memory that- for James- is all too vivid. “Sorry, am I not being specific enough?”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Admiral,” Sticking his hands in his coat pockets, Sparrow’s shoulders rise and fall with a performative sigh. “You must speak plainly with me. I’m afraid I lack the same formal education afforded to yourself and Cap’n Swann.”

James seethes forward and Sparrow crinkles his nose at the smell, reeling back as though James is some loopy, uncouth creature of which he must be cautious.

“I saved your life.”

“And I let you join us for Tequila Tuesday.”

The urge to lunge at Sparrow is delayed only by another jolt of the sea. James keeps his one-armed hold on the taffrail and breathes out through his teeth. Sparrow holds up his palms, feigning peace.

“The way I see it, mate…” He leans in and now it is James who draws back. “With all the time you spent failing to kill me, it only stands to reason that you’d need to try the other way round, at least once. We’ll call it even, and you can keep your debts confined to what’s missing from the Captain’s purse.”

Sparrow takes one long stride backwards and tucks into his usual brand of eccentric professionalism, eyeing the hand that James still has clasped over his wound. “I trust you can find your way to the infirmary.”

James has no choice but to follow the quartermaster’s suggestion, for he has not been in this much pain since the sunrise of his first day on the Empress. The ship’s surgeon scolds him for the drink on his breath, and James is almost nostalgic for the harsh-tempered old woman who tended to him in Tortuga. He dares not look at the hole in his gut as it is cleaned, though he would find it difficult if he tried, for he has put all his focus into remaining stoic through the alcohol’s sting and the tug of another round of sutures. When that’s done, the surgeon hands him the roll of bandages and dismisses him, pinching his nose shut.

He returns to his hammock. There is a fresh set of clothes waiting for him. There is nothing special about the shirt, or the trousers, or the simple, sleeveless waistcoat. They are not nearly long enough for him, but to one as downtrodden as James, ill-fitting clothes are hardly a concern. Just to have clean linen touch his skin feels positively luxurious. Dressing quickly, he finds himself the means to freshen up by way of a bucket and cloth provided by the owner of a neighboring hammock with a vested interest in improving the air quality in their sleeping quarters. James appreciates the gesture nonetheless, and decides to extend his gratitude to Captain Swann.

“Mister Sparrow says no one’s to see the captain today.”

James frowns at the cabin boy, a sorry sentinel posted at the bottom of the Empress’s staircase.

“And why not?”

“It’s Wednesday,” says the boy, shrugging one shoulder.

James glances around for anyone in the vicinity who might be able to confirm that this is a bizarre trail of reasoning. There’s a man swabbing the decks, another taking a break to puff a pipe, and a pair of women tending the sails. Not one of them seems to be put off, assuming that they are even listening in the first place. The cabin boy looks past James’s shoulder, and James need not turn around to know who has snuck up on him yet again. 

“Aye, and the captain is not to be trifled with on Wednesday. Good work, lad.” The cabin boy stands a little straighter, looking quite proud of himself.

“Fine,” grunts James, “I’ll bite. What is the significance of Wednesday?” 

“Will Turner Wednesday,” declares Sparrow. The cabin boy nods. James reluctantly turns to find Sparrow already reaching to guide him wherever he damn pleases, and James is not in the mood. He swats Sparrow’s hand off his shoulder. 

“Will Turner Wednesday. Also known as Whelp Wednesday. Weeping Wednesday. Or… erm— what was that old governor’s name?” 

“Weatherby.” 

“Ah, yes! Knew there was another bit of alliteration to be had.” 

“Dare I ask you to elaborate?” 

“No need to ask, Jimmy,” Sparrow replies amiably. He strolls past the cabin boy and up the steps. Hoping for an exception to this policy, James follows after, only for Sparrow to lead him past the door to the captain’s cabin and onto the topmost deck. “Commodore, what do gentlemen such as you and I do when presented with a problem of the cerebral, nay— psychological nature?” 

He pauses to give James an opportunity to answer, and is unoffended when James gives a blank stare in return. James is still struggling to comprehend the notion of gentlemen such as you and I…

“Indeed, we bury it! Does us no good above ground. If it cannot be solved, then it must be done away with, what with all the other things that are to be taken care of around here. A great captain— a smart captain, is well practiced in this art. Now, our dear friend Elizabeth— some may call her a good captain, ey?” 

“Yes…” 

“Aye. A bit green, but seaworthy even on her worst days.” James recalls a fuzzy memory of last night, of that barkeep who was so willing to gossip about Elizabeth. Rumors of madness, she spoke of. Are these the worst days which Sparrow refers to? “Now, last night you had the misfortune of being made privy to what one might call her fatal flaw— the Achilles heel of her captaincy. That is, if you can even remember last night…”

Unwilling to admit that there might be a smidge of accuracy to that statement, James holds back on asking for further clarification. He remembers enough.

“The long and short of it,” Sparrow continues, squinting a frown into the sun, “Is that dear Lizzie has been know to let the matters of her heart muddle the affairs of her ship.” He glances at James and tilts his head. “Where was I going with this?”

James still has a battle drum rat-a-tat-tatting behind his forehead. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Will Turner Wednesday…?”

Sparrow takes out his flask again and shoves it into James’s hands with an encouraging hum. James takes it only to stop it falling onto the deck, but refuses.

“You want your head to stop hurting? Wet your whistle.”

“I do not intend to repeat my mistakes, Mr. Sparrow.” James pushes the vile thing back into Sparrow’s hands.

“Intention’s only one half of the equation, innit?” Sparrow offers the flask once more, then shrugs and puts it away, not bothering to take a sip himself. “As I was saying… Will Turner Wednesday is just what we call Wednesday, which is the day that Lizzie picked.”

“Do you go into every conversation intending to be as incomprehensible as possible?” Perhaps that came out sharper than intended, for Sparrow pauses as if genuinely confused. James sighs. “What do you mean—the day she picked?”

Sparrow stares at him just long enough for James to doubt his own sanity. Then, just as Sparrow opens his mouth to elaborate—

‘Sail on the horizon!’

The crew clammers toward the bow, eager for something more exciting to do. Even the cabin boy abandons his post on the steps, scooting up one of the masts to see over the heads of those taller than him. Terribly undisciplined, but convenient enough for James. With Sparrow distracted by his spyglass and his crewmen, James slips through the door to the captain’s quarters.

Turning the corner and passing through a beaded curtain, he intends to rap lightly on the archway before he steps into her space. Yet he is preceded by another sound— a loud crash and a shatter. His concern takes precedence over his manners and he thrusts his head into the room immediately. He spots a porcelain saucer in pieces on the floor, and just as he is about to take a step into the room, a tea cup collides with the wall to his right and shatters. James ducks on instinct, then makes eye contact with Elizabeth, frozen mid-throw with another saucer in her hand.

“Forgive my intrusion.”

Elizabeth slowly lowers the saucer. “Who let you in?”

“No one.” James hovers in the threshold. “I saw myself in. My apologies, I only wanted to…” James steps into the room and his gaze trails along the rug, where half a dozen items of what looks to have been a very fine tea set sit broken, their fragments pushed together like some kind of miserable puzzle. “Are you quite alright?”

"It’s Wednesday.”

James fears that if he is reminded of the day of the week one more time, he will genuinely lose it. “Yes, I know,” he says, as gently as he can manage. Elizabeth is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and she has this wild look in her eyes that would frighten James if he did not know her. “I don’t— I don’t understand what that means.”

“The— the day of the week?”

“I know what Wednesday is,” James shakes his head, again trying to push the headache from his skull through his temples. “Jack told me that no one was to see you today because it’s… William Wednesday…?”

He might as well have picked up one of the porcelain shards and ran it through her heart, it seems. Elizabeth looks as though the very words pain her to say. She could be swallowing glass before she speaks.

“Will Turner Wednesday. It’s Will Turner Wednesday.”

James tries to make himself appear smaller as he steps further into the room, but his head nearly brushes one of the lanterns. Elizabeth sits on the rug, at the foot of her chaise lounge. The calico kitten from the night before sleeps peacefully on a cushion, undisturbed by the ruckus.

“It was Jack’s idea,” she explains. James is mindful of the jagged bits of the tea set as he joins her on the rug. She picks up what appears to be the handle of a broken teacup and turns it over in her hands, brushing her thumb over the sharp edges. “The crew was going to mutiny, you see. They did not think I was… fit to be captain. And maybe at the time, I wasn’t.”

Elizabeth sets the handle next to its broken counterparts. James scans the mess for another piece that might match. “We decided that I would pick one day out of the week, and that would be a day to… dwell on it all.”

“And does that work?” asks James, turning over Sparrow’s words in his head.

Indeed, we bury it!

Elizabeth shrugs one shoulder. He watches her melancholic eyes fix on the broken tea set, looking but not quite seeing. He should not be here. He ought to have listened to Sparrow, just this once. For as much as he wants to help his friend, he carries far too much responsibility for her grief. What would her father say, if he were here? How James wishes that they both still had Governor Swann’s guidance…

The two of them sit in mournful silence. Elizabeth pushes more pieces together, James helps, and if they only had some paste, maybe the tea set would be reassembled. But even if it were, James realizes, there would be too many cracks for it to ever be the same as it was before it went crashing into the walls of this ship.

“Forgive me, for disturbing you…” James says, keeping his gaze low, “I only wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

James gestures to his ill-fitting waistcoat. “I appreciate the clean clothes.”

Elizabeth looks him over and frowns slightly. “I’ve been here all day, I did not—”

A rapping at one of the great windows cuts her off before James has time to think about what that means. They turn heads at the same time to spot a seabird flapping its wings on the other side of the glass, the black tip of its yellow beak tapping, entreating entrance. James rises to shoo it away, but Elizabeth rushes past him and opens the window.

“It’s a tern,” states James dumbly as the bird hops into the room. Elizabeth kneels before the bird and James hovers over her shoulder. Strange behavior for a bird— he wonders if the creature is sick. He hears the calico kitten rise from the chaise and hiss.

“Did She send you?”

James is about to ask who She refers to, only to realize that Elizabeth is talking to the bird. Stranger still, the tern bobs its head— nodding a yes to the question. James blinks. No, the bird is not communicating— that is not possible.

“What does She need?” asks Elizabeth. The bird clicks its beak and pushes its head into the palm of Elizabeth’s hand. Instantly, Elizabeth’s eyes go wider than James has ever seen, and she stares ahead at nothing in particular.

“Elizabeth…?” James ventures after a moment has passed. She says nothing. She does not move. The bird adjusts its feathers, pushes its head further into Elizabeth’s cupped hand. James bends down and makes sure that Elizabeth is still breathing, for this sudden, unresponsive stillness is unnerving, to say the least. He tries her name once more, and then—

knock-knock-knock

“Cap’n!”

James hesitates and waits for Sparrow to call again before he treads down the hall, throwing a worried glance at Elizabeth over his shoulder as he crosses under the archway. “Lizzie, you don’t have to come out, I just wanted to inform you that— Oh. Thought I made it clear you’re not supposed to be here, Jimmy.”

“Yes, I know. Please come in,” says James, stepping aside. Sparrow scoffs.

“I actually respect the sanctity of Will Turner Wednesday, and you ought to as well. But before you clear out, give the captain a message for me, will you?”

James knows not how to explain what’s happening, but he knows how incredibly stupid it would sound to say that a strange tern has flown in through the window and hypnotized the captain. So for the sake of time, he simply yanks Sparrow by the front of his shirt, slams the door behind them, and gives him a head start towards the captain’s quarters by way of a friendly shove. The beaded curtain catches on the bit of bone tied into his hair, and clinks the beads woven onto his braids.

“Oi, what’s the meaning of—?” But James stalks past him, and Sparrow has no choice but to untangle himself and follow James to where Elizabeth is still kneeling, statuesque with her feathered intruder. Sparrow squints at the scene, then turns to James. “The bird is new, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s always been there,” huffs James, massaging his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger.

“Lizzie?” James looks up to see Sparrow waving a hand in front of Elizabeth’s glazed expression.

“Stop that!” he hisses, but he cannot bring himself to stop Sparrow himself, for he hasn’t any better ideas for breaking Elizabeth’s trance. Sparrow attempts to poke Elizabeth right between the eyebrows, but the tern takes offense at that and flutters after him to bite his knuckles. The instant that the tern removes its head from Elizabeth’s hand, the spell is broken.

“Bugger,” curses Jack, among other profanities. He jumps to his feet, trying to shoo the bird away. James goes to Elizabeth at once, forgets himself, and takes her by the shoulders.

“Elizabeth, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replies, almost irritable as she rises and pushes past him. “Leave it!” she cries to Sparrow, who has all but forced the tern out the window from whence it came.

“It bit me,” grumbles Sparrow. He shoves his bloodied knuckle into his mouth, and James hopes that shuts him up for at least a few moments.

Elizabeth rushes to the window, nimble as if she has never sat still in her life, and reaches out a gentle hand to the tern. James fears that she will freeze up again, but she merely pets the bird on the head, whispers a sincere thank you, and waves goodbye as the strange creature steps onto the windowsill, and takes off.

“What was that?” asks James, watching the bird shrink into the late afternoon sun.

“I believe that was a tern,” Sparrow mumbles from behind him.

Elizabeth pulls the window shut and smiles at them both.

“An emissary. From the goddess, Calypso.”