Disclaimer: pirates and their environs belong to Disney. Making no profit.
Squick warning: if the idea of three people sharing one bed disturbs you, please read no further. Anybody who reads the summary, reads this warning, and then leaves me a whiny review is a dumbass. Thank you :)
It is a curious thing to lose one's heart twice in a single day. And James, who has always been one to pay attention to detail, remembers not just the day, but the hour as well.
He had been away from Port Royal for the better part of a year. When news of his father's serious fall from his favorite horse reached Caribbean waters, James had feared that he was already too late, but he sailed for England anyway with prayers for time to hold its sway. For the first time since he was a small boy he actually believed someone might have been listening, because Edward Norrington was still alive when his younger son arrived home. Thin and pale and barely aware of his surroundings, yes, but alive nonetheless. He languished for a few months more, seeming to improve before a sudden rapid deterioration, which the doctors claimed was due to his weakening heart.
He died on a rainy April morning, with James' sister Marguerite tending him. She and his brother Peter waited until that day to explain to him the exact state of the family's finances; owing to bills for their father's treatment and a few bad business deals Peter had made before the crisis, they were now seriously in debt. Again the burden of responsibility was placed on James' shoulders when it should have been borne by Peter, and in his grief he told his siblings precisely what he thought of them and stalked out. Funeral arrangements were still necessary, however, so he returned after spending one night at a seedy tavern by the docks. After they laid their father to rest, the three Norrington children sat down and considered their dire situation. They had never been particularly wealthy, but now they faced being thrown from the house in which they'd grown up, in which Marguerite was now raising a family of her own. Peter had wanted to wait for James before he made any decisions, claiming that it would have been unfair to do otherwise but in all probability incapable of swallowing his pride to ask for help. It was James' career that both hindered and assisted them; although he did not have money of his own to spare, he did have contacts with many prominent families. By the time everything was worked out, it was another two months gone. The weather was just starting to clear on the day he left London, accepting farewell kisses from his little nieces and nephews and wishing fervently for hot, clear air and blue seas.
He ended up taking command of a fast new ship called the Interceptor. Unfortunately, the opportunity to test her speed never truly presented itself, as he received orders to escort a handful of heavy, lumbering merchants on their way to the Caribbean. Although his lieutenants casually dropped hints about surging on ahead to determine the safety of their course and then doubling back to their charges, James held to his duty and restricted his new ship to the slower pace of the others.
A skirmish with the French just outside his home bay left James tightly-wound and exhausted by the time he finally stumbled into his own house. The governor wasted no time in sending an invitation to supper, and though James groaned at the prospect, he cleaned himself up and headed to Weatherby Swann's opulent estate, catching a brief nap during the carriage ride.
During the meal itself, he found it surprisingly easy to relax. In the years he had known Weatherby, their relationship had grown beyond mere business until the man was almost a father figure, one whose company was quite welcome following the death of his real father. They were exchanging news from town and from England when a young woman came dashing in, her cheeks flushed and her brown eyes sparkling.
"Terribly sorry to be late, Father, I was down feeding gulls," she said, surreptitiously brushing at the bodice of her dress for the crumbs still clinging to the rich fabric.
James was waiting politely to be introduced when he realized she had called Weatherby 'Father.' No, it couldn't be – surely this was not little Elizabeth?
The last time he'd seen her had also been at dinner, the night before he'd left for England. She'd had leaves in her hair and been sulking over something, sitting at the table all gangly limbs and focused glower. She was still taller than most of the port's women, but now she carried herself straight and proud rather than slouching to disguise her height. And her well-cut dress revealed the curves that had appeared on her figure; she was slender, but no longer a stick. Her hair was pulled back neatly, a few tendrils curled about her heart-shaped face, which she now turned to James with an expression of surprise.
"Captain Norrington," she said, her voice a tad breathless. "I did not realize you had returned."
James realized he was staring and cleared his throat. He managed to tear his eyes away from her, but then found them glued to his own feet instead.
"The captain will be dining with us, my dear," said Weatherby, as much to cover the silence as anything else.
He glanced up again to catch a well-mannered smile on her face. The freckles were hidden, either by more frequent employment of a hat or by powder, but he could see that she still spent more time in the sun than most ladies of her station.
"You must tell us of your travels," said Elizabeth. She came closer to him with a rustle of fabric, bearing a heady scent of rose oil and salt air. There was a pause before James remembered to offer his arm. She took it, her smooth palm resting gently on the back of his. The clock struck six as they entered the parlor.
Eventually he managed to regain some of his composure and actually speak with her. It astonished him to find her so genuinely interested; women were always asking him about sailing, but he was used to their eyes glazing over within seconds. Elizabeth's eyes were keen and intent, and she asked questions which spoke of a theoretical knowledge surpassing that of any lady's he had known. He could not help comparing her to other women, because she had so newly become one and he had limited enough experience as it was. In hindsight he realized his visit back to England would have been the ideal time to find and woo a bride, but there had been too much going on.
Now, with Elizabeth's eyes upon him, he found himself very grateful for that fact.
After dessert, Elizabeth excused herself and Weatherby offered James a brandy. They talked of ordinary things while they drank, but he knew that he was being studied through new eyes, the eyes of a father who wished a suitable match for his beloved only child. When he bid the governor farewell, he thought there was a new note of approval in the man's tone.
He checked his pocketwatch as the carriage rattled through the streets of Port Royal. It was a quarter after nine – old Brown shouldn't be passed out just yet. James had lost his sword in the battle before docking and he was anxious to get a new one. According to Weatherby, Brown had been turning out some beautiful weapons of late. Then, too, a visit to the smithy might clear thoughts of Elizabeth – of Miss Swann, he reminded himself forcefully – from his head.
"I won't be long," he said to his driver, stepping carefully down and over a puddle. A knock at the door got no answer; hearing the roaring of the fires within, he assumed Brown was working and let himself in.
His first instinct upon seeing the man standing in front of the forge was to call for aid. This was not the blacksmith, and neither was it his apprentice. But in his hesitation he learned that the man could surely not have been much of a stranger, for he handled the fire and the instruments with the ease of one born to it. Muscles twisted and corded beneath the pale unmarked skin of his bare back and shoulders and arms. As James watched, still frozen to the spot, partially in surprise and partially from the lean perfection of the body before him, the man raised a hand and pushed back a strand of dark hair that had evidently come loose from its tie.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, only that the hiss of steam as the man lowered whatever he had been working into a bucket of water broke the spell. He cleared his throat to announce his presence.
The man turned, showing off a torso that was equally fine from the front. James hastily raised eyes to his face and caught his breath at a faint flicker of recognition. He felt sure he knew this person, only...
"Captain Norrington, sir," said the man. His hands twisted nervously in front of his waist and James got the second great shock of the night, for he did indeed know the stranger at the forge. He was Will Turner, but not Will Turner as James had known him. Then he had been gracious and kind to a meek, skinny boy who was constantly tripping over his own feet and tugging on his short curls. Now he found himself staring at a man grown tall and proud – not arrogant, no, there he was taking a short, awkward bow – but a year had brought palpable confidence along with growth. His hair was longer now, as befit a gentleman, and there was a couple of days' worth of neatly-trimmed beard and mustache where before his face had been as smooth as a child's.
"William?" said James, still needing confirmation.
Will blushed faintly and grinned, flashing white teeth. "You remembered."
"Well, of course I –" James shook his head, still disbelieving what his eyes were seeing. "You look different," he said, and confusion flitted across Will's open face when he said it like a foreign term.
"Not badly so," he amended quickly, "no, not that at all – different in quite a good way – not that I have..." He cut his words off before he could be made even more of a idiot, cheeks flaming. Might as well have thrown himself at the boy – yes, boy, he thought fiercely. Nineteen by now, but a boy still, with no inkling of the highly improper thoughts James was trying to suppress.
Easily shaking off his puzzlement, probably chalking it up to the oddities of the upper classes, Will shrugged and set his poker aside. "I have grown, sir – faster than it seems possible at times."
"Yes," said James blankly, seeing how Will's breeches were too short by several inches, how they clung to his flesh...The boy pulled his shirt back over his head and James nearly sighed in disappointment, but caught himself just in time.
"You look the same," said Will as he turned back around, eyes drifting to James' hat. The wig beneath it suddenly prickled unbearably, prompting a wish that he could be as unencumbered as Will, wondering if the sight would please Will as much as –
"Sword," he blurted, mentally smacking himself. "I, ah, am in need of a new blade. I lost the last one in a battle. With French privateers. I've brought a new ship back from England – she's a hardy little thing." He bit his tongue, horrified. First he had unnerved Elizabeth with his stunned silence and now he was babbling at the blacksmith's apprentice like a teenager with a fancy.
If Will noticed anything unusual about his too-quick speech, he didn't show it. "Mr. Brown is out at the moment, but I will be sure to pass your order along."
"Thank you," said James with rather more relief than was called for. Business was done and now he could get out of this hellish room –
"Sir?" said Will as he made for the door. James thought about pretending he hadn't heard, but there was an endearing shyness to Will's tone that he was unable to resist. Turning, he found that Will had moved toward him, eyes a shade or two deeper brown than Elizabeth's, wide and sincere.
"I was very sorry to hear about your father, Captain." Will bit his lip and looked down at the dusty floor. "It's – I know how..." He pressed his lips tightly, probably remembering his own losses. "I'm truly sorry, sir."
James forgot his shameful lust for a moment, forgot everything but the softness of the boy's voice and the compassion in his face.
"I – I thank you, Mr. Turner," he said, backing up to the door. "Good evening."
Will looked up and their eyes met, the loneliness of an orphan shared between them even though Will had been a child at the time and James was an adult. At the moment, the difference seemed to matter little, if at all.
"Thank you," he repeating, dropping the attempt at formality and letting the words warm his mouth.
Will smiled, something about him so innocent still, for all that he had clearly left childhood behind. "You're welcome."
James nodded, and left.
During the next few days, he got himself in order again. He avoided going anywhere he might meet Elizabeth, and he sent a servant to pick up his sword when it was finished. It arrived as a rather ugly, ill-made thing, which puzzled James because Weatherby had spoken so highly of Brown's recent work. He thought that perhaps Will had asked to make it for him, and he packed it away, quietly ordering another by way of Groves, the new lieutenant, who had a perfectly serviceable weapon already. The new one was a blade of strength and beauty, and James soon forgot the first one (it was not until much later that he figured out he'd received first a sword from Brown and then one from the true adept). He had a word with Weatherby about proper clothing for the boy, since his master obviously didn't see fit to provide it, and slipped in a mention that he would like Elizabeth to join them for tea. And so it progressed, his slow, mannerly courtship of the governor's daughter, and the careful eye he kept out for Will's well-being, even if he could not bring himself to visit the smithy.
He thinks now, lying in bed with a Turner on either side of him, that the seeds were sown that night; however, it did not truly begin until nearly two years later. He stumbled and fell all at once, but the acknowledgment – the acceptance – surrendering himself fully did not happen until he had lost the one to the other, or so he thought. It was a cool evening; Elizabeth and Will had been married for several months. James was dining at their house for the second time in a week, hoping that giving in to their overtures of friendship might allow him to put other feelings to rest. The three of them talked about sailing and fencing, the maid kept the wine flowing, and somehow they managed to convince him to follow them to the garden for an old game.
"We played it as children," said Will.
"You must have done so as well, James," said Elizabeth.
They each took a hand and dragged him along, giggling. He might have giggled a little himself, from the wine and from the thick scent of bougainvillea and hibiscus, as Elizabeth tied a kerchief over his eyes. When they disappeared, he stretched out his arms and ambled cautiously in circles, listening for a telltale whisper or slippered footfalls. There was only silence. He tripped over a branch and nearly went sprawling into the marble fountain – a wedding gift from the governor, perfectly hideous. Before he could cry out, a warm, solid body intercepted his flight.
"All right, James?" said Will.
"Yes," said James, laughing breathlessly. It occurred to him that Will had not released his arms, but then the scent of Elizabeth's perfume distracted him.
"You've found us," she murmured, her voice low and too close, close enough for her breath to brush his cheek.
"I – I suppose that means I've won," said James uncertainly. One of Will's arms had slipped around him, fingers hand spreading at the small of his back, while the other withdrew to let Elizabeth in next to her husband; he could tell because her small hand was creeping up his chest to his neck.
"Yes," she said as she pulled his head down, "you have." And she kissed him. He thought to pull away, but the too many hands on him anticipated this and held on tightly. When her soft lips left his, she laid her head on his shoulder while Will sought a kiss of his own. They made sure he was not going to bolt before they untied the blindfold and led him upstairs.
A snort interrupts Will's droning snores; he quiets when James pokes him in the ribs. Elizabeth's thigh twitches against his own.
"Not the blue one, it's got saddlebags," she mutters, burying her face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. As if he can hear her, Will moves his hand to pat vaguely at her hip before tucking it between James' side and her belly once more.
He chuckles softly, tightening his arm around Will, kissing Elizabeth's eyelids.
There are many choices he has questioned in his life. He regrets leaving Will to learn the sword on his own, from books and manuals. He wonders how things might have turned out if he'd held Elizabeth to her promise. He wishes he'd had more of a reason to trust Jack Sparrow at Isla de Muerte, so that many lives might have been saved. He feels ashamed that his father died before they could speak once more.
This is the only decision – the only two people –
Elizabeth smiling at him in the dawn light, Will pulling him down onto their wide bed...
In all the world, this is the one thing he will never doubt.