Author's note: Plotbunny born after the song 'You're Beautiful' got lodged in my head, after writing previous sparrington fic. Apologies for inconsistent accents and, well, other inconsistencies. :3 Chess scene entirely thanks to roommate, who is a fantastic player (dialogue went something like "If you were an evil member of the East India Company what sort of opener to a chess game would you use? Would you be black or white?"). Falconry will be a short piece, perhaps in 3 parts.

Chapter 1

Manning

Manning: The first step of falconry – getting the bird in question used to its handler, via patience and feeding, until it is willing to eat from the handler's fist.

"The heart of Davy Jones."

Lord Cutler Beckett's expression of surprise was fleeting – quickly shuttered under a mask of aristocratic disdain, his lips pressing into a flat line, as if annoyed at possible resulting stains on his mahogany desk. Cold eyes studied the pulsing bag, then the man who had brought it. Filthy, bone-weary, and wild now, his walk a swagger, James Norrington was a far cry from the Commodore he had been, and he knew it – there was something of self-mockery in the way he wore that pitiful version of his brocade coat.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

Norrington smirked, and inclined his head in a gesture of mock-acknowledgment. Mercer glanced at his master, in a silent question – then relaxed a little when Beckett gave a slight shake of his head.

"Take this man away," he instructed the guard, "And have him cleaned up before showing him into my presence again." Distaste. "And get the butler to do something about the mud he's tracked all over the rug."

Irritatingly, the other man didn't even protest as he was taken by the arm and pulled out of the room. Beckett waited until the footsteps had died down, before delicately picking up the bag, and studying the heartbeat with scientific curiosity. "Fascinating."

"Aye, not natural, that, sir," Mercer glanced at the bag, even as Beckett settled back in his plush chair.

"I didn't mean this fine example of the paranormal," Beckett arched an eyebrow. "I meant the estimable James Norrington."

"Ah," Mercer's emotionless, almost reptilian eyes turned down towards the heavy door. "Want me to take care of things, sir?"

Beckett smiled again, though this time the quirk to his lips suggested at a certain (battered, but still surviving) sort of dry humor. "Have you ever indulged in falconry, Mister Mercer?"

"No sir. Lord's sport, that." Mercer said, the tone of his voice implying that he didn't exactly follow Beckett's apparent non sequitur, but was too used to the other man's occasional odd moods to be surprised by it.

"There's a certain sort of… pleasure in hunting, with a trained raptor," Beckett took a ring of keys from one heavily brocaded pocket, and opened a drawer at the desk, where he deposited the heart, then locked it again. "But there is also as much pleasure, in my opinion, in taming one to hunt from one's arm."

"Can't say I'd know, sir," Mercer's reply was diplomatic. Stabbing merchant captains, small talk, escorting inconvenient marriageable young ladies out of the offices, to informing the butler that Lord Beckett did not enjoy eating pheasant and would definitely not appreciate any more dinners of said fowl, were all the same to him, and he apparently decided that acquiring exotic birds could fall under the wide umbrella of his undefined job. "Perhaps we can order one from the next ship headed to England, sir."

Beckett blinked, and then he chuckled softly. "Good man. But you need not trouble yourself as to that matter, Mister Mercer." Slender hands steepled in front of his nose, and his eyes became faraway, calculating. "Don't you think that Mister Norrington rather reminds one of a hawk?"

It was Mercer's turn to blink, but the man was typically unflappable. Possibly confidence born of how he didn't need to resort to guns to efficiently and quickly end one's life in the space of time another person could comment on the balmy Caribbean weather. "Couldn't say, sir. But he is called the 'Pirate Hunter', around these parts."

"Quite." Beckett said thoughtfully. "A hunter." A smirk. "Perhaps my time in this terribly backward little port so far from England can be better spent, after all."

--

"Better." Beckett barely gave Norrington a glance when the man was shown into his office again, turning back to his correspondence. The ex-Commodore, though not re-introduced to his old dress uniform, cut a striking figure in respectable clothing – dark brown coat with silver-embroidered cuffs, cravat, pale gray-blue vest, light brown breeches and fine leather boots, washed, tangled-hair combed back and caught by a black ribbon, shaved.

A wry grin. "Thanks."

Silence, while Beckett continued going through his correspondence. The (now permanent) office that the East India Company had appropriated was in the form of a mansion with a fine view of the harbor and the sea, which also housed staff and guards. The wood-paneled ground was intermittently decorated by Persian carpets, the walls with framed oil paintings of England and her territories – the furniture was expensive, dark mahogany. There was even the odd suit of full armor now and there, a nightmare to polish and dust, embossed with the logo of the East India Company. All calculated to give the image of English global trade dominance. Power, influence, wealth.

Norrington didn't seem impressed, or even put out by the fairly rude way in which Beckett was making him wait – green eyes flickered out to the harbor, looking over the docked ships. A faint twitch at his jaw, as he studied the ones outfitted for Naval use. Mercer stood behind Beckett's chair, apparently studying the large map of the world painstakingly painted on the wall.

"I'm afraid that until your pardon can be properly processed over in England, you can't officially return to your position," Beckett commented finally, as he signed yet another set of dispatches. There was a soft intake of breath before him, but he was careful not to look up.

"Naturally." Norrington said, his voice neutral.

"And, as you know, the East India Company is not, precisely, affiliated with the King's Navy, and so technically has no influence over the reappointment of, say, resigned Commodores."

No intake of breath this time, only a dry, "No technical influence, or no real influence?"

"Technical," Beckett agreed. "But it is an important distinction."

"What can you do, then?" Blunt. Just the faintest edge of impatience.

"Exercising our real influence must always be done with care and much forethought," Beckett set the papers aside, and started on the next set of forms. "As we do have our enemies in Parliament."

Norrington was silent, coldly indicating that he knew that hadn't been an answer to his question, per se.

"And as such, I will need proof that you are still of good and decent character, and still possess the requisite ability, to fulfill your previous vocation," Quill into inkbottle, delicate script in a curt reply to a missive.

"Proof," Norrington repeated, rolling the word in his mouth. "And how would you suggest I go about providing this… proof?"

Another long silence, marked only by the sound of the quill nib over paper. "By reassuming, though in an unofficial manner, some of your previous responsibilities," Beckett said mildly. "I have received word that your work in the fort is currently handled by one Lieutenant Forscythe, transferred here temporarily from Kingston, and he is quite overwhelmed."

There was a barely perceptible wince. Apparently Norrington was also familiar with the name. "Unofficial until you are satisfied that I am… capable?" a drawl. Didn't miss much, this hawk.

"Capable as a Commodore, and as a gentleman of society," Beckett smiled, catlike. "At the moment, Mister Norrington, your very mannerisms and posture remind one of a pirate." More writing. "Of course, if you so choose, you could instead become, immediately, a captain of your own ship, as a privateer for King and Country, and a free man – but not, precisely, part of the Navy."

That earned a scowl. Norrington didn't straighten. "When do I start with this… proof?"

"Unfortunately, your original residence has been seized by the Crown, and sold," Beckett said, as if he hadn't heard the question. "Therefore, at the moment, you would have to take rooms in these offices." A glance at Mercer, who inclined his head, glanced at Norrington, and then left the room to make arrangements.

A frown, then a tight nod. Sarcasm. "Thanks."

"Bought and paid for," Beckett replied, not even needing to look at the drawer.

Another nod, with no comment.

Letter finished, Beckett asked, almost as an afterthought, "By the way, what happened to Sparrow?"

"Dead," Norrington supplied. No expression, either. "Went down with his ship."

Next missive, new letter. Beckett concealed the twinge of disappointment that the news brought. He had rather been looking forward to being the ruin of Jack Sparrow, personally, after the humiliation that had been visited upon him so many years ago. And now that infuriating creature did not even have the good grace to survive his encounter with the Flying Dutchman with his legendary luck and wit. Disappointing, Sparrow, very disappointing. "The compass?"

A blink. "You have the heart."

"An admirable item of curiosity. But not precisely what the Letter of Marque and the pardon were worth."

"What did you want the compass for?" Curiosity that overwhelmed caution.

Beckett smirked, allowing himself a sidelong glance at the other man. "Now that information, was not bought and paid for."

Norrington glanced back at the harbor, at the fort, then back at Beckett. "You didn't say when I had to start."

"Patience, Mister Norrington," Beckett drawled, enjoying the faint grimace that this reminder of his status brought the proud man. Definitely a bird of prey – perhaps even a true hawk, the Earl of birds. But not an eagle. "Take a day off. Talk to your friends – you do have friends around Port Royal, don't you? Your work will commence tomorrow."

Norrington narrowed his eyes, then he smirked, and bowed. "By your leave, Lord Beckett."

"Mister Mercer will no doubt inform you later as to your newest living arrangements," Beckett said dismissively, waving his quill vaguely in Norrington's direction. Receding footfalls informed him that the man had managed to take the hint, with amusing and surprising dignity.

--

Governor Swann was an exceedingly tiresome man, especially where it concerned his precious daughter, but he was surprisingly perceptive under all the layers of brocade finery. He frowned when Beckett had him brought to the office to discuss the matter of Norrington's semi-reinstatement to his Royal Navy responsibilities. "It's somewhat irregular. But there's no need for this whole business of my approval for this… this matter. I can give you my assurance that James is fully capable, despite his recent trials. I'd even be willing to take responsibility for a recommendation to England."

"Very noble," Beckett said, now studying the map – not so much a work of art but as a constant reminder to himself. Principles, scale, power. "But unnecessary."

A snort – Governor Swann's aforementioned perceptiveness coming into play. "It is difficult, Lord Beckett, to toy with that sort of man. Especially for sport. And no doubt he knows what you are doing."

"It wouldn't be any sort of sport at all if he did not," Beckett observed, his eyes seeking out England, on the map, then Bombay. Places of power.

A sigh. "You have my approval, then."

"That goes without saying."

"Then what did you call me here for? Formality?" A faint hint of irritation now despite the practiced façade of someone versed in politics.

"How long have you known Mister Norrington?" Beckett asked, turning around to look at Governor Swann. Who didn't look the least bit surprised at the question. Politician.

"All his life. I knew his father, over in England – our wives were close friends. James grew up with my daughter. Why?"

"Information," Beckett replied, mildly. "To be bought and paid for." He picked a dispatch off his desk, and handed it to Governor Swann. He looked at it, and then glanced sharply back up. Information about the lovely Miss Elizabeth Swann, and her current whereabouts.

"What do you want to know?"

--

"What's this?" Norrington frowned.

The mahogany desk had been cleared of inkbottle, dispatches, paperweights and quills. There was a simple chess set wrought of fine oak – paler wood made up the white side, and the details of each piece had been lovingly picked out, down to the strands on the manes of the knights. Another cushioned chair had been added to the desk, facing Beckett.

"Chess," Beckett said dryly. "Care to choose a side?"

Norrington gave him a Look that said he didn't particularly understand Beckett's motivations, he was busy, and he was getting tired of incomprehensible little English Lords, but he sat down in the chair indicated. "You choose."

"White." Beckett decided, after only a moment's hesitation. Fingers delicately picked up the third pawn, and moved it up two squares. Norrington arched an eyebrow, and moved a black pawn, mirroring it from his side.

A second white pawn, from before the Queen. The black pawn, before the King, one square. Beckett smirked. "Anglo-Dutch defense."

"English opening," Norrington shrugged. The pawn before the rightmost white knight was moved a square. The black knight shifted behind the two black pawns. Time passed, unnoticed, the game only briefly interrupted by Mercer with a tray of tea and biscuits. At one point there was a hastily stifled oath outside, as somebody collided into somebody else – unnoticed, ignored, like the stiflingly hot costume of a Lord of the East India Company, and the cooling tea. Bishops, Knights, pawns.

His hands clasped before his lips, brow drawn in a frown of concentration, Norrington was, for the lack of a better word, entrancing. An offending lock of brown hair that kept falling over his eyes was absently pushed back, after the third time, blown at, then ignored. A rare man, Beckett decided, hiding his smirk. A fine hawk. The occasional hesitation and little scowl at perceived mistakes told of a lack of practice at a game that had been his childhood passion. Beckett, however, was not exactly in his best form, either, having only played casually in various gentlemen's clubs, back in London.

It was no surprise when they drew, at least to him. Norrington leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, exhaling. Lips twitched into a smile, and then the man froze for a moment as he remembered himself. Suspicion in the green eyes, and no smile now. "How did you know?"

"What do you think?" Beckett countered, as he reached in a drawer and picked up the engraved lacquer box that housed the pieces. Mercer had outdone himself, somehow finding such a beautiful set in Port Royal.

"You asked Governor Swann."

A slight nod, as pieces were placed into their velvet beds. Norrington watched him quietly for a moment, then helped, picking up pieces lined on the side of the wooden board.

When the box was clicked shut, Norrington asked, more softly, "Why?"

Beckett shrugged. "I used to play in London. Nobody here seems to."

The ex-Commodore snorted, showing he didn't believe (and rightfully so) that Beckett's motives were that simple. "And I'm to accept that that's all?"

Becket smirked. "It's up to you, Mister Norrington. Same time again, tomorrow?"

"Some of us have work to do," Norrington replied dryly. "Work which, I do believe, was supposed to 'prove' my capability."

"Do tell me that you are familiar with the concept of time management," Beckett placed the box on the playing board, neatly, for Mercer to collect afterwards.

A thin smile. Acknowledgment, of leashes.

--

By all reports, the administrative disaster in the fort was admirably sorted out in less than a week, though Mercer occasionally reported seeing candles lit in Norrington's room at the East India Company mansion late into the night. Diligent even in the face of charity, it seemed. Norrington also made no mention whatsoever of what he had done after being picked up by the Black Pearl, and Beckett didn't ask. They were careful with titles – Lord Beckett, Mister Norrington – and did not keep score for the chess games. Sometimes Beckett chose black. Sometimes Norrington played aggressively. Beckett often opted for central control, with pawns. Norrington preferred developing knights.

Mercer found, through some stroke of genius, a game clock, and the games became shorter, more controlled, and more frequent. Two, three games a day, instead of one. Beckett found that he was enjoying them far more than he should – they made his mind work, and he could, if briefly, forget about the requirements of his occupation.

"Check."

Beckett moved a bishop.

Mercer reported that Norrington still had nightmares. Where he would murmur the names of his now-deceased subordinates. Sometimes he would sob. The ex-Commodore avoided the daytime bustle of Port Royal streets, and especially the districts where the relatives of his men lived – willing, if need be, to walk a large detour, even to be late for his next appointment

Trapped, by the white Queen. A smirk. Green eyes gleamed. Beckett took the loss with good grace. "Another?"

--

Another week and even Lieutenant Forscythe was addressing Norrington as 'Commodore'. There had been a few half-hearted attempts by the man in question at correcting this incorrect perception of his status – and he still carefully wore civilian clothing (provided for by the East India Company), but eventually he stopped, and even acknowledged the title. Matters of patrol schedules, relations with the Naval presence at Kingston, and complaints of piracy were now all referred to the Commodore's office, which was slowly filling up with paperwork, if still in a Spartan version of its former dignity – not much more than a desk, three chairs (one stacked full of dispatches, the other holding books of Naval guidelines) and several cabinets.

They now played three games a day, except for Fridays, where they played blitz chess – fifteen minute, frenetic games. Mercer no longer brought tea and biscuits on Fridays, after the offerings were always summarily ignored. Exhausting ends to the week.

Norrington tended to forget himself more and more often in the flush of triumph. Faint smiles.

Beckett noticed that sometimes they would be watched, with bemusement, by passers-by at the door. The very formally dressed Lord Beckett, dueling the Commodore in civilian clothing, at a gentleman's game.

Norrington's posture improved.

--

Often, Beckett would unlock his drawer and look at the pulsing bag, when he was alone. He hadn't exactly formulated a good plan of what to do with it – he knew what it was for, of course, after the outlandish reports from the men assigned to following the legendary and now deceased Captain Jack Sparrow. But it wasn't really what he had been looking for.

Still, that damned compass was likely now in the maw of a giant sea-monster, along with its equally damnable owner, and Lord Beckett was no stranger to disappointment, or indeed, to contingency plans.

And the heart was, actually, a decent enough replacement for his purposes. Doing something about the regrettable piracy about the region would be predictable, but too mundane. Perhaps something about the furtherance of East India Company interests, via only protecting their ships? No, still too predictable. Definitely something that he would be assumed to do.

Even if there was to be profit, Beckett detested being seen as conventional. Perhaps it was pride.

--

"What now?" Governor Swann asked, his tone long-suffering. In his hands he held a missive, which reported that his daughter had last been seen in Jamestown, in the company of her fiancé and a man who should have been long dead. His face was drawn with a father's worry.

Beckett told him. Information, bought and paid for.

--

Norrington arched an eyebrow when Beckett indicated that he close the door. The chessboard was not set, and sat in a corner of the desk, the box atop it. Instead, there was a white bone-china bowl that held a number of ripe grapes, wine-dark against the porcelain. He sat down in his usual seat, hands on the rests, and waited.

Beckett watched him for a while, his expression unreadable, then he got to his feet, all fluid grace, and stalked over to Norrington's side of the table, green eyes following his movements without comment. He leaned against the edge of the table, crinkling his brocade coat, and picked up a grape.

Norrington smirked as the fruit was held before his lips, and ate delicately, bitter seeds and all. A warm tongue flicked juice off Beckett's fingers.