PotC, Norrington, Slash.
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Norrington is dying – a horrid, undignified, wholly undeserving death.
He is being choked, smothered, incapacitated by a thick mass of vines, twisting securely round his neck, round his face, his chest – ugly, ropelike tentacles constricting his passageway. "A short drop, a sudden stop," the vines whisper softly as they strangle him, tighter and tighter, more and more, as bright stars burst forth behind his eyes. If only he could reach for his sword, if only he could move his arms. If only he – but he can't. Can't see, can't move, can't BREATHE! And his life fleets before him – joyous and sad and warm and cold and every colour of the rainbow.
A moment of silent contemplation before the end, then a tinkling clink from above, like a shattered piece of glass goblet, and darkness consumes him forever…
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"Fuh." Norrington spits out a sizeable tangle of Jack Sparrow's hair and looks down crossly at the curious lump who had recently taken over the bed and simultaneously decided that Norrington's chest was as convenient and comfortable a pillow as any.