Admiral James Norrington stood at the window of the captain's quarters on the Endeavor. Growing ever more annoyed, he looked again at the clock on Lord Beckett's desk. The clock was about the only object easily found on the fine mahogany desk. All other materials were nearly completely obscured by pieces of paper and artifacts he had picked up on recent voyages. Letters of business (no doubt dirty business, Norrington assumed) had been (conveniently) banished to a locked draw. People have an uncanny ability to keep me in the dark, the admiral thought. Nevertheless, there sat the clock, its hands indicating the time to be fifteen minutes past three. If Beckett was one thing, he was punctual. However, the same could not be said for his secretary.

At that moment, he heard the not so graceful scuffle of boots, signaling the arrival of said perpetually late aid. Norrington turned to face the man, who was dressed all in black, as was usual.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, giving a stiff bow.

"Admiral Norrington," Mercer replied with an even stiffer bow of his own.

The two turned their attention to the small table between them, set for two. Avoiding eye contact, they sat down, each careful not to show how awkward they felt the situation was. The poor midshipman assigned to the task of serving the gentlemen, poured the tea, his hands shaking slightly. He had no doubt been told that a promotion might be in store if he kept their cups full and his mouth shut about what was about to be said.

"Lord Beckett sends his respects to you, Admiral, and asks if you are well," said Mercer, his accent slipping out as he picked up his teacup.

"Quite well," he responded, his normally flawless veil of civility beginning to disappear. He found that these days, niceties and long, clever strings of redundant words no longer did him any good whatsoever.

Mercer, a little dismayed at having his manners so quickly dismissed, decided it best to get straight to business. "Lord Beckett asked me to come here to, as you are no doubt aware, discuss a certain pirate. Jack Sparrow." He looked, up quirking an eyebrow.

The corner of Norrington's mouth twitched slightly, but he showed no other symptom of discomfort.

"Why would his lordship think I would know anything more about Sparrow than I have already told him?"

"Because the two of you are of the opinion that he is still alive, and his lordship also knows that you have offered him amnesty in the past. I am sure that you have not done so recently, however Lord Beckett does not . . . appreciate being double-crossed," said Mercer." Sugar?"

Norrington's jawed clenched, his mind choosing his words carefully, as he accepted the small bowl.

"Well, you can you can assure his lordship," he bit out," that he should have no such concern. My loyalties are where they have always been. Biscuit?"

It was Mercer's turn to flush, but as always, he had more information at his side than could be assumed. He took the plate of biscuits and throwing one unceremoniously beside his teacup, he said," There's also the matter of another pirate. One that Lord Beckett is particularly troubled by. Elizabeth Swann."

"Miss Swann is not a pirate," Norrington shot back quickly.

Mercer smiled faintly. Struck a nerve, did I?

"And beside the fact, I am convinced that Miss Swann is no longer . . . a threat to anyone." He just couldn't bring himself to say he believed her dead. It felt like giving up on her, like admitting she was not invincible, and that was something he simply could not do.

"Perhaps you've given amnesty to her as well?" Mercer ventured.

"Of course not."

"She broke the law, Admiral."

A ridiculous and unjust law. "Perhaps she did, but she broke it with no intention of doing anything other than what was right."

"Who's to say what's right anymore, Admiral? The world's changing, my friend, and the best a man can do is to do what's best for himself. You'd do well to remember that."

"I do not think myself capable of being that sort of man."

Mercer's eyebrows quirked again. "Capable? Everyone is capable, even your dear Miss Swann. She was once upon a time that sort."

Admiral Norrington rose in his chair, his gaze cooling. "If you are referring to the incident in which she broke off our engagement, then yes, I would say that she was quite selfish. I can hardly blame her, however. She did not love me. She never had."

Mercer drank down the last of his tea. "Allow me to be frank, sir. She lied to you, betrayed your trust, and publicly humiliated you. For that, you must harbor a little resentment toward her."

"I do not," Norrington stated firmly. "It is true. She did publicly humiliate me, but she meant no harm. It could have been worse."

Mercer shrugged. "I suppose so. . . She could have been French."

Norrington's cool gaze wavered, wondering if the man sitting across from him had actually made an attempt at humor. He smiled a bit, just enough to acknowledge that he had thought it amusing. "Yes, I suppose."

Mercer tilted his head slightly, as if to praise Norrington's willingness to be civil. Norrington noted this with some amazement at the fact that there might actually be a shred of humanity in this man.

"Well, I'm afraid we've veered off the subject." Mercer rose, intentionally hitting his knee against the table to wake the midshipman, who had begun to nap long since the tea had been poured.

Norrington rose also, realizing (with pleasure) he was quite a bit taller than the black-clad secretary before him. With another stiff bow, he said," Farewell, then, Mr. Mercer."

Mercer returned the bow, slightly less stiffly than before and said," Farewell, Admiral."

Mercer turned quickly, making the midshipman jump in surprise. Mercer shook his head slightly. It's hard to find good help these days. Without another word, he slipped out the door, leaving the admiral to a full, cold cup of tea.

Norrington looked again to Beckett's desk. It was four o'clock.