To Commodore, With A Promise Renewed - 1/2
Author: Daisy Sparrow
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Summary:
Port Royal wasn't the first time that Jack and Norrington met.
Disclaimer:
Pirates of the Caribbean and all its characters are not mine, Disney owned them. I am making no money off this. I am already poor so don't sue.
Special thanks to Darkdancer for the betaing, thanx ^_^
Archive:
As long as you ask me first.
Warning:
Same as always, English not my first language.
Author's notes:
My cousin used to call me "apple cheeks", which annoyed me to no end. I was looking at some old pictures the other day and the nickname just stuck in my head. I thought the plot is kind of lame, but oh well, as long as I get it out of my system.
I don't know what Norrington's first name is. But I heard it somewhere that it's James, and I like the name James. Anyway, correct me if I am wrong.
So please tell me what you think! Read and review, pleaseeeeeee~~~~~~ ^_^
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time he saw the other boy, he wanted to eat him.
He was still very much a child then, roughened by the life on the street, yet retained just enough innocence to overlook the double entendre.
When he said eat, he had meant... well, eat.
The cerulean eyes had reminded him of the sea in late afternoon, sparkling with a scanty pastel glittering. Dark blond hair, thick and rich, was wind blown like the crops in harvest season. Small lips were supple and full, like the petals of some exotic tropical flower he had glimpsed in the greenhouse where he stayed.
But it was those round cheeks that first captivated his attention. They were flushed like apples, and he had wanted to bite into them.
He had tried to bite into them.
The boy's nanny was horrified when the dirty little beggar lurched himself at them, and caught the well-dressed boy in a headlock. She had screamed in a high pitched voice and hit him rather viciously on the head with her hand bag.
He had wanted to covered his ears to prevent the inflow of verbal abuse, her wailing and crying had reminded him of a dying turkey. However, he hadn't wanted to let go of the other boy, who had took his advances with a remarkably calm demeanor.
The three of them must had made a mightily amusing sight, because in a few minutes the corner of the street was crowded with bystanders. He had recognized some of the cheering faces to be his pauper colleagues.
The police arrived soon afterward. They must had thought that he was trying to rob the other two. Instead of turned tail and ran, he had stood and snarled at them, which was probably not the most sensible course of action at the time. Encouraged by his disobedience, they had whipped him in public.
He had almost had to crawl back to the greenhouse where he made his temporary refugee. The gardener, an elderly gentlemen, had kindly dressed and bandaged his wounds. The old man had also drilled him on the virtue of discretion, which included a long lecture on how borrowing without permission was only forbidden by god when they were discovered.
He hadn't bothered to explain. He didn't mind people's presumption about his retardness, their ignorance gave him an unexpected edge. But honestly, if he had decided on a career path as a lowly criminal, he would first start practicing on the people who couldn't fight back and certainly not in broad day light.
He blamed his misfortunate that day on his half starving status, and pushed it to the back of his mind.
The memory did not resurface until three months later.
~~~*~~~
London was almost bone-deep chilling that winter. The stone pavements on the road would sometimes crack without warning. The wheels of carriage would often sink into the gaps and broke.
In his plentiful spare times, he had entertained himself by covered the cracks with dirt, waited and threw rocks at the wealthy passengers who were marooned in the cold.
The night before Christmas, he went home to an ghostly quiet greenhouse. His first cue that something was amiss was the sturdy lock on the iron gates. He reckoned the owner of the greenhouse had finally came around to block out the stray.
He had yelled at, shook and kicked the steel bars to no avail, while the sound of metal clashing echoed down the street. After a good workout, he finally resigned to the fact that no one was going to acknowledge his presence. As a result, he figured that he might as well let himself in, through the hole on the back wall.
The large complex was devoid of its usual lavish vegetation. The glasses windows were shattered. Broken pieces scattered all over the ground, ironically mirrored the twinkling stars above.
He found the gardener curled in a corner, surrounded by empty bottles. The old man had died with a smile on his face, _expression sincere like in the midst of a blissful dream.
He was ravenously envious of the other. From that moment on, he had promised himself that if he had the choice, he would prefer to die of alcohol poisoning.
A crumpled letter and a five pounds bill was in the man's right hand. He picked up the letter and read it. It was another thing that people had always found surprising about him. He could read because he didn't always live on the street.
The owner had went bankrupt, thus could no longer afford the expensive habit of collecting rare plants. The gardener was out of a job and drank himself to death, while he was out of a place to stay.
He had cursed his rotten luck, but his spirit revived quickly. It was, after all, Christmas and he had five pounds in his pocket to do as he pleased. Life was good so far, and he would just have to deal with the problems of shelter and food as they roused.
He was the kind of person who crossed the bridge only when he came to it. Although he could be quite resourceful if the circumstances pressured him, he did not have any long term plan. He lived each day as his last and to its fullest. Higher hopes and dreams would only bring more crushing disappointments.
So he wandered the street for as long as the five pounds could sustain him. Until he woke up one day buried in snow, and realized that the last coin was gone.
A few days later, he met the other boy for the second time.
~~~*~~~
He first saw the gigantic mansion when he was chased by the baker's bulldogs.
It was actually hard to miss because of its seer size. Its bulk created the illusion of some medieval castle that was looming over the distance, as it surrounded by tall trees that silhouetted against the evening sky. The artistically craved gates were slightly ajar, and the walk way behind it stretched out like a shadowy glade.
The dogs were gaining on him, and in a haste he had dived into the creak between the gates. The gates clicked shut as the dogs lunged against them. He had smirked and stuck out his tongue at them before turned and assessed his new situation.
The inhabitants of this luxurious residence were mostly asleep and he explored the ground to his heart's content. The walk way leaded to a spacious garden on the left side of the main house.
Through the bleak assembly of bushes and trickets, he heard soft weeping. He swaggered on stealthy toes and inched his head out a little. His vision rose just above the fringe of the dwarvy plants and he immediately spotted the other boy.
A twig snapped loudly beneath his feet.
The blonde's head raised sharply in alarm. They stared at each other without blinking. He was contemplating whether he should make a run for it, before the other boy relaxed and patted the space beside him on the bench.
He scratched his head a little, and sat down against his better judgment. They both shifted in their seats uncomfortably.
He cast a sidelong glance at the other boy, who was still staring blankly ahead. He took the chance to observe the pale face unveiled by moonlight. With the other this close, he could identify the fine silk linings on the neatly pressed coat and smelled the fresh apple cinnamon scents lingered on the agile form. He looked down on his toes consciously; he hadn't taken a bath or a change of clothe in... a very long time.
He sighed and took out the bread he stole earlier. He snapped the harden shell of crust in half and offered one piece to the other, who eyed it critically. He shrugged and made as if to rescind the offer, before a small hand snatched it away.
He smiled, and the other boy smiled hesitantly back. They munched their snacks in silence.
"Are you an angel?"
He almost jumped at the sudden voice, as it knifed into the buttery night. The question was uttered in a quite and cultured tone, yet it was roaring as it resounded against the hushed background.
"Eh... no. I am... a thief."
"Oh."
"....." He had not known until then, that he had any self-esteem to deplete and ego to bruise.
"I was praying for an angel."
The boy looked skeptically at him, then smirked. He pouted, torn between the need to make up some plausible excuses in order to justify his presence, and the urge to smack the other's face against the ground for making him think of the former.
"....but since you are here, I guess you will have to do."
"To do what? Listen, brat. I am not doing anything for some rich, snotty..."
The other brushed aside his heated rumbling with ease. "What's your name?"
"Why should I tell ye!"
"Because that's what we have to do if we wanted to be friends. Friends have to introduce themselves to each other first."
"Who said I'd..."
"James."
"What?"
"My name. It's James, James Norrington."
"......"
"You have to tell me yours now. It has to be a fair trade."
"....Jack. Jack Sparrow."
"Well, Jack. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
He shook the other's hand reluctantly. This evening was turning out to be so bizarre. He debated on whether he should pinch himself just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
Happiness and pride stained the round, yet bloodless cheeks with rosy red. He blinked, mouth moved without any conscious thoughts.
"Apple cheeks."
"Eh?" The other boy droned, voice laced with slight indignation and annoyance.
He laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Me: This is another one of my spur of the moment idea.
Zeke: Shouldn't you be working on the other story?
Me: I didn't know you were looking forward to get your ass kicked.... again.
All comments and suggestions will be treasured! They gave me more motivation to hurry up the next part.
^_~
Author: Daisy Sparrow
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Summary:
Port Royal wasn't the first time that Jack and Norrington met.
Disclaimer:
Pirates of the Caribbean and all its characters are not mine, Disney owned them. I am making no money off this. I am already poor so don't sue.
Special thanks to Darkdancer for the betaing, thanx ^_^
Archive:
As long as you ask me first.
Warning:
Same as always, English not my first language.
Author's notes:
My cousin used to call me "apple cheeks", which annoyed me to no end. I was looking at some old pictures the other day and the nickname just stuck in my head. I thought the plot is kind of lame, but oh well, as long as I get it out of my system.
I don't know what Norrington's first name is. But I heard it somewhere that it's James, and I like the name James. Anyway, correct me if I am wrong.
So please tell me what you think! Read and review, pleaseeeeeee~~~~~~ ^_^
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time he saw the other boy, he wanted to eat him.
He was still very much a child then, roughened by the life on the street, yet retained just enough innocence to overlook the double entendre.
When he said eat, he had meant... well, eat.
The cerulean eyes had reminded him of the sea in late afternoon, sparkling with a scanty pastel glittering. Dark blond hair, thick and rich, was wind blown like the crops in harvest season. Small lips were supple and full, like the petals of some exotic tropical flower he had glimpsed in the greenhouse where he stayed.
But it was those round cheeks that first captivated his attention. They were flushed like apples, and he had wanted to bite into them.
He had tried to bite into them.
The boy's nanny was horrified when the dirty little beggar lurched himself at them, and caught the well-dressed boy in a headlock. She had screamed in a high pitched voice and hit him rather viciously on the head with her hand bag.
He had wanted to covered his ears to prevent the inflow of verbal abuse, her wailing and crying had reminded him of a dying turkey. However, he hadn't wanted to let go of the other boy, who had took his advances with a remarkably calm demeanor.
The three of them must had made a mightily amusing sight, because in a few minutes the corner of the street was crowded with bystanders. He had recognized some of the cheering faces to be his pauper colleagues.
The police arrived soon afterward. They must had thought that he was trying to rob the other two. Instead of turned tail and ran, he had stood and snarled at them, which was probably not the most sensible course of action at the time. Encouraged by his disobedience, they had whipped him in public.
He had almost had to crawl back to the greenhouse where he made his temporary refugee. The gardener, an elderly gentlemen, had kindly dressed and bandaged his wounds. The old man had also drilled him on the virtue of discretion, which included a long lecture on how borrowing without permission was only forbidden by god when they were discovered.
He hadn't bothered to explain. He didn't mind people's presumption about his retardness, their ignorance gave him an unexpected edge. But honestly, if he had decided on a career path as a lowly criminal, he would first start practicing on the people who couldn't fight back and certainly not in broad day light.
He blamed his misfortunate that day on his half starving status, and pushed it to the back of his mind.
The memory did not resurface until three months later.
~~~*~~~
London was almost bone-deep chilling that winter. The stone pavements on the road would sometimes crack without warning. The wheels of carriage would often sink into the gaps and broke.
In his plentiful spare times, he had entertained himself by covered the cracks with dirt, waited and threw rocks at the wealthy passengers who were marooned in the cold.
The night before Christmas, he went home to an ghostly quiet greenhouse. His first cue that something was amiss was the sturdy lock on the iron gates. He reckoned the owner of the greenhouse had finally came around to block out the stray.
He had yelled at, shook and kicked the steel bars to no avail, while the sound of metal clashing echoed down the street. After a good workout, he finally resigned to the fact that no one was going to acknowledge his presence. As a result, he figured that he might as well let himself in, through the hole on the back wall.
The large complex was devoid of its usual lavish vegetation. The glasses windows were shattered. Broken pieces scattered all over the ground, ironically mirrored the twinkling stars above.
He found the gardener curled in a corner, surrounded by empty bottles. The old man had died with a smile on his face, _expression sincere like in the midst of a blissful dream.
He was ravenously envious of the other. From that moment on, he had promised himself that if he had the choice, he would prefer to die of alcohol poisoning.
A crumpled letter and a five pounds bill was in the man's right hand. He picked up the letter and read it. It was another thing that people had always found surprising about him. He could read because he didn't always live on the street.
The owner had went bankrupt, thus could no longer afford the expensive habit of collecting rare plants. The gardener was out of a job and drank himself to death, while he was out of a place to stay.
He had cursed his rotten luck, but his spirit revived quickly. It was, after all, Christmas and he had five pounds in his pocket to do as he pleased. Life was good so far, and he would just have to deal with the problems of shelter and food as they roused.
He was the kind of person who crossed the bridge only when he came to it. Although he could be quite resourceful if the circumstances pressured him, he did not have any long term plan. He lived each day as his last and to its fullest. Higher hopes and dreams would only bring more crushing disappointments.
So he wandered the street for as long as the five pounds could sustain him. Until he woke up one day buried in snow, and realized that the last coin was gone.
A few days later, he met the other boy for the second time.
~~~*~~~
He first saw the gigantic mansion when he was chased by the baker's bulldogs.
It was actually hard to miss because of its seer size. Its bulk created the illusion of some medieval castle that was looming over the distance, as it surrounded by tall trees that silhouetted against the evening sky. The artistically craved gates were slightly ajar, and the walk way behind it stretched out like a shadowy glade.
The dogs were gaining on him, and in a haste he had dived into the creak between the gates. The gates clicked shut as the dogs lunged against them. He had smirked and stuck out his tongue at them before turned and assessed his new situation.
The inhabitants of this luxurious residence were mostly asleep and he explored the ground to his heart's content. The walk way leaded to a spacious garden on the left side of the main house.
Through the bleak assembly of bushes and trickets, he heard soft weeping. He swaggered on stealthy toes and inched his head out a little. His vision rose just above the fringe of the dwarvy plants and he immediately spotted the other boy.
A twig snapped loudly beneath his feet.
The blonde's head raised sharply in alarm. They stared at each other without blinking. He was contemplating whether he should make a run for it, before the other boy relaxed and patted the space beside him on the bench.
He scratched his head a little, and sat down against his better judgment. They both shifted in their seats uncomfortably.
He cast a sidelong glance at the other boy, who was still staring blankly ahead. He took the chance to observe the pale face unveiled by moonlight. With the other this close, he could identify the fine silk linings on the neatly pressed coat and smelled the fresh apple cinnamon scents lingered on the agile form. He looked down on his toes consciously; he hadn't taken a bath or a change of clothe in... a very long time.
He sighed and took out the bread he stole earlier. He snapped the harden shell of crust in half and offered one piece to the other, who eyed it critically. He shrugged and made as if to rescind the offer, before a small hand snatched it away.
He smiled, and the other boy smiled hesitantly back. They munched their snacks in silence.
"Are you an angel?"
He almost jumped at the sudden voice, as it knifed into the buttery night. The question was uttered in a quite and cultured tone, yet it was roaring as it resounded against the hushed background.
"Eh... no. I am... a thief."
"Oh."
"....." He had not known until then, that he had any self-esteem to deplete and ego to bruise.
"I was praying for an angel."
The boy looked skeptically at him, then smirked. He pouted, torn between the need to make up some plausible excuses in order to justify his presence, and the urge to smack the other's face against the ground for making him think of the former.
"....but since you are here, I guess you will have to do."
"To do what? Listen, brat. I am not doing anything for some rich, snotty..."
The other brushed aside his heated rumbling with ease. "What's your name?"
"Why should I tell ye!"
"Because that's what we have to do if we wanted to be friends. Friends have to introduce themselves to each other first."
"Who said I'd..."
"James."
"What?"
"My name. It's James, James Norrington."
"......"
"You have to tell me yours now. It has to be a fair trade."
"....Jack. Jack Sparrow."
"Well, Jack. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
He shook the other's hand reluctantly. This evening was turning out to be so bizarre. He debated on whether he should pinch himself just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
Happiness and pride stained the round, yet bloodless cheeks with rosy red. He blinked, mouth moved without any conscious thoughts.
"Apple cheeks."
"Eh?" The other boy droned, voice laced with slight indignation and annoyance.
He laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Me: This is another one of my spur of the moment idea.
Zeke: Shouldn't you be working on the other story?
Me: I didn't know you were looking forward to get your ass kicked.... again.
All comments and suggestions will be treasured! They gave me more motivation to hurry up the next part.
^_~