Title: Desperate Measures
Summary: Commodore Norrington haunts the Black Pearl. Governor Swann is without his wig. Captain Sparrow reckons with fate, or death, or something big like that. These are desperate times for all, and we know just what sort of measures are called for…
Warnings: Supernatural occurrences (such as Commodore-ghosts), some violent situations, language.
Pairing: light Sparrow/Norrington a possibility.
Note 1: as far as I'm concerned, there was only one movie. This fic will take CotBP as canon, nothing else, although I'll feel free to plunder bits from the two (nonexistent) sequels at will. I'm a pirate that way.
Note 2: I hate havin' ta wri' een people's accents, and I don't expect that Jack's will be any exception. For this fic, I'll write the words as I think he'd say them, but I draw the line at spelling out his pronunciations in apostrophes and dropped letters. Maybe once in a while.
The snare drums tap out an unsettling rhythm, each beat as precise as a footstep in the march of military men. Rather than fade to silence, the drumming rises to a sharp crescendo and then cuts off as sharply as it started, so that the air still rings with the echoes of sound.
The abbreviated list of crimes has been already read (again – with some rather intriguing additions since last year), and he recognizes that this is his cue. Still, he stays his hand: there's something missing yet.
Ah, yes.
Normally Lieutenant Groves wouldn't ask, but for the best pirate he's ever seen, it doesn't seem right of him not to. So he offers, solicitously, "Any last words, Captain?"
Not for the first time, he observes that Captain Jack Sparrow is full of nerves today, edgy and distracted. And why shouldn't he be? The pirate shoots him a startled look, jerking backwards as though the question had been a physical shove. This proves problematic with the rope around his neck and all, but after a moment, he manages to straighten himself out, feet dancing nervously over the hatch they stand upon as though expecting it to swing open under his weight alone.
"Captain?" Groves prompts again.
Sparrow purses his lips in concentration, casting his expressive gaze first down, then up, eyebrows wriggling alarmingly as he seeks divine inspiration, or just an elusive memory. "Last words, any last words," he mutters to himself. "Well, Parley's good, but everyone says that one. Ooh, Discretion, there's a good word, really like the sound of it. Or Parsnip, that's great too. Did you say one word, by the way, Lieutenant? Or," he brightens here, as though overjoyed at the prospect, "was that words that you offered? Because I'm having trouble deciding on just the one."
Surely the man wouldn't joke at his own execution? But surely he can't be serious either— Groves shakes his head. "I meant, Captain, is there anything you'd like to say before it's too late? Maybe to everyone gathered here today?" And there are such a lot of people in the crowd, faces turned up eagerly towards the last moments of the condemned man. "Or maybe to someone in particular? This is your last chance, after all."
"Ahh," says Sparrow. "Yes." And just like that, his face smoothes over completely, settling into an utterly serene smile. It is an expression that Groves has never witnessed upon any man with a noose around his neck—and as a Lieutenant of the British Royal Navy, Groves has certainly seen his fair share.
"Pearl, m'love, this'll be the fourth time," Sparrow proclaims, lifting his manacled hands to gesture grandly with his words. He seems to be speaking not to the crowd, but over the crowd, pitching his voice to a place higher than the reaches of the mortal realm. "Twice marooned on an island—the same island, I might point out. Twice abandoned to the mercies of these fine Naval gentlemen and their very fine gallows. That's four times I've watched you sail away from me—and this last time, where you've gone, I can't be following. Four times, love, that you've left me to die."
Sparrow pauses a moment, eyes holding the distance, before he relaxes into a loose shrug, a golden grin full of rare self-deprecation. "Fair enough, I suppose. Ol' Jack knows how to take a hint."
He concludes with an abortive half-bow, managing to turn a choke into a flourish when he's brought up short by the rope. Then he straightens, waits. Frowns, when nothing happens.
He makes a half turn, eyebrows quirking in puzzlement. "Lieutenant," he urges, motioning with both wrists to the lever. "If you'd be so kind?"
"Oh. Er, yes, of course," Groves murmurs, hands tightening reflexively. "I'm sorry about the Black Pearl, Captain. My condolences."
Up to that moment, Groves realizes suddenly, he has almost been expecting Sparrow to execute another astonishing escape, add yet another legend to his not unimpressive repertoire. In fact, he's been rather looking forward to it. But he supposes that even legends must reach their end eventually. Regretfully, he gives up that last, childish hope, which is of course the moment that the order comes:
"Hold!"
It is roared imperatively from beyond the crowd, in a voice that Groves has grown conditioned always to obey. He goes to do just that, but is surprised to find that it has come too late. The lever groans, the trap door clunks, and Captain Jack Sparrow swings—never letting go of that peaceful, gold-toothed grin, even as the ropes tighten around his neck.
Commodore James Norrington woke up dead.
This was every bit as bizarre an experience as it sounded, and to make matters even worse, Norrington had not a clue as to how he'd died, or why he was here of all places. He wasn't so assured of his own goodness that he'd presumed to expect a place in Heaven when the inevitable came, but neither had he, in all his ponderings, ever imagined that Hell would turn out to be the Black Pearl.
Perhaps God tailored one's eternal torment for each individual. This was very thoughtful of Him, Norrington had to concede, but also exceedingly cruel.
With a sigh, Norrington sat up, preparing to do what he had done best in life: keep a stiff upper lip regardless of what spiteful ironies fate chose to visit upon him next, and endeavor to rise to each challenge to the best of his abilities and training. Which was a load of tosh, even he recognized that much, but it was official tosh, useful tosh, tosh that could keep him moving against all odds. The best sort of tosh, really.
First things first. He scanned his surroundings, on the valid concern that, should Sparrow's men come upon him, they might take the logical action (for pirates) and hang him before he could attempt the same on them. His lack of a corporeal neck notwithstanding, Norrington knew Sparrow's crew to be exceptionally resourceful and sometimes dangerously inventive, and he had no desire to find out the hard way if death could possibly get any worse.
Fortunately, it was a quiet night. There was no moon, just a handful of pinprick stars dotting out faint constellations overhead. The Black Pearl rested on an equally black sea, barely rocking over waves as tranquil and smooth as obsidian. The sound of sails fluttering in a gentle breeze was as familiar and soothing a lullaby to Norrington as his own mother's voice, and perhaps he could be excused if, on waking, he had at first assumed that he'd been delivered unto eternal bliss after all.
"Accord," came a voice from below: unmistakably Sparrow's, loud and arrogant as the man himself. Norrington looked over with interest. Perhaps, being dead, he was in an unparalleled position to gather some enemy intelligence. He wasn't sure what he would do with this information once he had it, but he'd tackle each obstacle as it came.
"Accord," a second voice reluctantly agreed, so foreign to the tone of hesitation that it took Norrington a moment to place it.
If he'd had any reservations about investigating before, they were gone in an instant. "Governor Swann??" he demanded incredulously as he leapt to his feet, caution be damned. That blasted pirate wasn't going to coerce the governor into one of his twisted accords, not under Norrington's watch. Dead commodores were still commodores—or weren't they? No matter.
He reached Sparrow's cabin in record time, grabbed the doorknob, and found it unyielding. Locked, he concluded, though that didn't stop him from rattling it in frustration. From within, he heard the infuriatingly smug sound of Sparrow chuckling.
"Have to say, mate, never thought you for the type who'd stoop to deal with lowly scum such as myself," he commented, a deliberate jibe.
Governor Swann, to his credit, appeared to take this with grace. "Under normal circumstances, I would never have considered it," he stated calmly. "Now then, I shall have the documents made out in the next few days. They will be posted to your tavern in Tortuga, The…"
"The Saucy Wench," Sparrow supplied helpfully. Norrington could hear the grin, the glint of gold sparkling in every syllable.
"Hmm," the governor agreed, somehow managing to maintain his dignified air. Norrington awarded him another point, which made him feel a little like a cheering fan at a cricket match. If so, he certainly knew which batsman he supported.
"What, no reaction?" Sparrow sounded petulant. "Should I have suggested The Ripped Bodice?"
"Considering how we met, Captain Sparrow, and the liberties you were taking with my daughter's person at the time—"
"Saving her life, you mean? I appreciate your remembering the title, by the way, really means a lot."
"—I'd suggest that you be less flippant in my presence about such matters."
"But we have an accord," Sparrow whined, and yes, that was unmistakably a whine in his voice. Norrington gave the doorknob a few more futile wrenches, briefly fantasizing over how much he'd like to have it be Sparrow's neck under his crushing grip instead.
"And I will keep to my terms of our agreement, so long as you keep to yours. You're sure that you can find…" the governor indulged in an unusually long pause, "…the mark we agreed upon?"
The sound of footsteps gave Norrington just enough warning to duck into the shadows before a pirate appeared around the corner, carrying something grey and distinctly… fluffy. With his empty hand, the pirate knocked on the door.
"Come in," Sparrow called.
Aha, thought Norrington, you forget that the door is locked—but the knob that had resisted Norrington's best efforts turned smoothly under the pirate's hand. Lantern light spilled out into the corridor, yellow as butter, illuminating that the thing in the pirate's hands was none other than the governor's wig.
"Ah, you've dried it," said Governor Swann. He appeared at the doorway to take the wig, and after some inspection, settled it onto his head with no little relief. Perhaps now was the time to make his presence known? Norrington stepped into the light.
"Governor," he began.
Without sparing him a glance, Governor Swann turned to walk back into the room, taking his seat once more at a sizeable desk, not unlike the one Norrington used for his paperwork back at his station in Port Royal. Unlike Norrington's, which could possibly have defined the word 'orderliness,' this desk was covered with bizarre odds and ends, the most recognizable of which included several empty rum bottles, a knife, and two or three very large maps, stacked on top of each other, their corners weighted with apples, a book of some sort, and another bottle of rum, this one full.
Sparrow himself sat across from Governor Swann, boots propped up on what little surface remained of his desk, apparently oblivious to the dangers of balancing so precariously in his chair while aboard a moving ship. He had yet another bottle in his hands—as Norrington watched, Sparrow tilted his head back to down the last of it, let out a satisfied sigh, and swapped it for the full one holding down his charts.
"Thank you, Mr. Cotton," he said to the pirate at the doorway. "We'll just be a bit longer here, got some more stuff to wrap up. You can go get the governor's chariot ready for his departure."
Mr. Cotton nodded solemnly, as though he knew perfectly well what Sparrow was on about. He moved away silently, leaving the door ajar.
"Governor Swann," Norrington protested, offended at being so ignored, "Sparrow. I know it's not my business, but I ask that you include me in this discussion." So saying, he approached the cabin, intending to push the door open further to make his way unimpeded into the room.
The door wouldn't budge.
Norrington gaped. He gave the door several perplexed prods (and one kick) before giving up and squeezing his way in between door and doorframe, glaring at Sparrow in case he thought this was funny. Once inside, he tried pushing and pulling the door either way, to no avail. He checked the doorknob again, but though it wouldn't turn, he could find no lock. A sinking suspicion was starting to gather in his chest, but he glanced behind him to make sure. In the rectangle of light cast by the door, there was no Norrington-shaped shadow to indicate his presence.
Desperately, Norrington marched up to the desk, grabbing at the fruits, the bottles, the papers in turn. They might as well have been glued to the table—he couldn't budge a single one.
A question he'd had earlier about death getting worse suddenly came back to haunt him. He swore in a very unbecoming way. "I hate being dead," he announced to the world in general. As expected, the world ignored him.
"As we were saying, Governor. You had a question about whether Ol' Jack would deliver, yes?" Sparrow shook his head, as though marveling at how some people never learned. "You're forgetting one thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"
"That may hold in the world of pirates," said the Governor stiffly, "but I'll need further assurance than that."
"Ah, well, I'll be honest with you here." As though to demonstrate his seriousness in the face of this absurd announcement, Sparrow actually swung his feet to the ground, knocking over a few empty bottles, and leaned forward over the table. Governor Swann wordlessly leaned back to preserve their distance. "I'm a pirate—it all depends on the take, savvy? If I bring your 'mark' back to Port Royal, as agreed upon, me and my crew get a full pardon for past crimes, along with the agreed upon fee, yes?"
"As agreed," Governor Swann said, with a terse nod.
"Then no worries: I can find what you're looking for," Sparrow announced, spreading his hands and giving his cocky grin. "I can find anything, so long as I've got a proper incentive."
"And a halfway decent compass," Norrington muttered to himself, noticing that Sparrow's gaze sidled meaningfully over to his broken compass as he said this. "Governor, this man can't even locate North, much less whatever it is you hope to find. I suggest that you leave his company immediately. There's no telling what he might be planning."
Governor Swann didn't even spare a glance for the poor, frustrated ghost. "I trust that the necessity of discretion goes without saying?"
"Oh, I love discretion! Discretion is my favorite word," Sparrow assured the governor. "Well, that and Pearl. Parley. I like Parsnip too, you ever wonder what exactly is getting snipped there—"
"This is a very serious matter, Captain," Governor Swann said severely. "If word ever got out that you—"
"Aye, aye, I got it. It might not be my absolute favorite word, but discretion is definitely up there. Top ten, I'd say. I won't tell a soul."
"Then I can only hope that your word is good." Governor Swann sighed, and for a moment Norrington saw the lines of exhaustion that ghosted the governor's face. Even Sparrow seemed to notice. He offered the governor a drink of his precious rum, which was probably his best take on what concern looked like.
"No, thank you," said the governor firmly, standing. "My men will row me back to the Dauntless, then. Assuming that they remain yet unharmed?"
Hearing the name was like a blow to Norrington's gut. She sailed on without him, that was to be expected. The Navy needed her more than a dead man did, after all. But that she was so close…
"What can I say. I was thinking of making them walk the plank, but it's just not entertaining at this time of night. And then I'd have to row you back myself." Sparrow shook his head, beads chattering quiet rhythms against each other. "I'll not be leaving the Pearl to bump heads with the Dauntless in a little rowboat, beauty though she is. You learn respect for a ship when it's chased you across the ocean, I'll tell you that."
Governor Swann merely nodded tiredly as he headed for the door. For a moment, Norrington contemplated letting the governor walk right through him. It seemed a rude way to treat the King's own representative in Port Royal, though, and Norrington stepped aside at the last minute, executing a graceful bow though he knew it would be unheeded.
"Safe travels, Governor," he said politely. The governor paused, to Norrington's mounting delight. Had an echo of his ghostly voice reached the governor's ear? Did he still have some connection remaining to the living world, however tenuous?
These brief hopes were dashed when the governor said, without turning, "Sparrow?"
"Aye, mate," responded Sparrow, dropping the title in turn, to the governor's clear dismay.
"Bring him back safely, would you?"
Sparrow had propped his feet back up on the desk again. He knocked back another nonchalant swig of his rum and swallowed it leisurely. "Count on it," he answered airily, before returning to his bottle.
As soon as the governor had left the room, Sparrow sobered, sitting up straight once more. He pulled the compass towards him and looked heavenwards, as though in brief prayer, before flicking the lid open. Bracing both hands on the table, he leaned in close, scrutinizing the spinning compass as intently as children watch beetle fights. The needle flickered around erratically, flighty with indecision, before finally slowing to a rest. Norrington realized suddenly that it was pointing directly at him, and took an involuntary step back, which caused the needle to give another quiver. Sparrow glanced in his direction dismissively, then glared back down at the compass. "No, I do not want the complete works of Gottfried Leibniz, clever fellow though he is." Norrington turned to see that he was standing in front of an impressively well-stocked bookshelf. For a pirate, that was.
Sparrow closed the lid, and picked the compass up between both hands and began to shake it, as though casting dice. "Think about the gold, the full pardon," he told himself. "That's a lot of treasure, right, and in order to get it, I just need to run one little errand for the good governor. Which is why… what I want… most… is…"
He opened the compass again, expression all hope. This turned into a grimace as the needle spun around wildly once more.
"HOLD ON," Sparrow roared, staggering to his feet. He glanced at the compass one last time, winced, and tore after Governor Swann. Norrington followed, just managing to get out of the room before Sparrow swung the door shut behind him.
Up on the main deck, Governor Swann paused. As Sparrow burst out on deck, a hint of fear touched the governor's face, but that too was quickly erased. "Yes?" he asked, all politeness.
"I was just thinking," said Sparrow, out of breath as he gesticulated with waggling fingers. "I don't suppose you could add a little something to our accord? Such as oh, perhaps, a nice bottle of rum?"
"We've already negotiated an agreement," said the governor. "Or so I thought."
"We have, of course we have," Sparrow placated, fingers spreading wide. "But I'm bound to be awfully thirsty after I successfully return the, ah, mark you want to your fine port city. Surely it'd be a nice gesture on your part to include a spot of rum? Just to sweeten the deal?"
"Very well then," Governor Swann agreed. "As long as you don't think that this means you can alter our agreement at will—"
"No, no, no, far from it," Sparrow shook his head rapidly, "wouldn't dream of it, mate."
He turned, snuck a quick peek at his compass, and his expression fairly lit up at what he saw. He snapped the compass closed again.
"Quality rum, mind you," he told the governor, arrogance instantly restored to his posture and speech. "Like they serve at The Tipsy Squid. Ripped Bodice is great for getting a rise out of fancy governors and all, but honestly, what passes for drink there…"
"Enough." Governor Swann held up a dignified hand. "I cherish my ignorance on the subject." He nodded once and then gingerly climbed down the ladder, to the rowboat that bobbed in wait. Towards the horizon, Norrington could just make out the lights of the Dauntless—odd, that he had never seen it from this distance at sea, and yet he recognized her without a doubt.
"For once, I hope that you are successful in your endeavors," Governor Swann called up, as his men picked up their oars.
"Same to you!" Sparrow called overboard. He checked his compass again, as though to make sure. Grinned. "Tell Lizzie that Captain Jack Sparrow sends his regards!"
His only reply was the silence of a quiet ocean, and faintly, in the distance, the splash of oars.
"Ha," said Norrington smugly, "see how you like being ignored." And with that, he strode back across the deck, intent on finding a more productive way to spend his afterlife.