Disclaimer: Rock & slash aside, they're owned by the Mouse.
Chapter 7
After they'd perfected the first song to Sparrow's satisfaction, he insisted that they celebrate. However, at his announcement, he had Anamaria at one side arguing deadlines and Norrington on the other speaking of safety percautions. Backing away from them, the guitarist waved vaguely about and hastily settled for a party in the apartment.
"I'll even play the next song for entertainment, luv!" He told Anamaria.
The mocha-skinned woman smirked, content, even as Norrington started to discuss procedure with his subordinates. Behind him on the couch, Lizzy was already ringing up her favorite catering service.
"Order us rum, sweets!" Sparrow cooed. "No party complete without it!"
Some hours later, the enclosed space was a madhouse. Out on the terrace, a few people screamed with each success of a hit. Norrington fervently hoped none of the projectiles were fatal, or hit anyone out to sue. His charge was tucked away in the kitchen nook, attempting to make dessert, boyfriend and bodyguard hovering worriedly in the background. Groves, however, was in the thick of things, listening to Sparrow yammer on with an amused expression. Thankfully, he had not broken procedure and imbided anything, or he'd have to worry about more than a hangover the next morning.
Gibbs was seated on the loveseat opposite them, Anamaria at his side. The drummer was swigging the vile stuff Sparrow loved. His metal case was continually being refilled, each time hands shaking more and spilling more. Norrington wondered why the man didn't just drink it straight from the bottle. Their supposedly conscientious agent, on the other hand, was smoking something which was decidly not the cigarettes from earlier. Her eyes were half-lidded, full lips in a happy, lazy smile.
As usual, Norrington just watched from the edges, people going around and past him as if he wasn't even there. But, he didn't go completely unnoticed as minutes later, Sparrow invaded his personal space. Considering his occupation, Norrington was used to doing the same to his clients, but having the tables turned was more than a tad unsettling. He took a step back and coldly eyed the guitarist. The man reeked of rum and swayed dangerously in place. Yet, looking into those dark eyes, Norrington knew he wasn't drunk.
"Regular calm of the storm, aren't you, luv?" Sparrow grinned.
"Indeed."
"Indeed!" The other parroted back, laughing as if it was a joke.
It probably was to him. Norrington refrained from rolling his eyes.
"You're no fun, you know that?" Sparrow poked his side. "Great stick in the mud."
"Indeed." This time thickly laced with unmistakeable sarcasm. The other laughed.
"Hey, Jack! What happened to the song you promised?" Anamaria shouted.
"Alright, alright!" Sparrow raised his hands in mock-placation. "I'll play it."
"What's it called, Jack?" Gibbs asked with a loud burp.
"Dead Men Do Talk," was the reply, eyes suddenly sharp.
Without another word, he started to strum the intro.
"You thought I wouldn't know,
Thought you could keep it from me.
But, I'm onto you, you see Dead men do talk,
They talk like you and me.
Blood spilt cries and - "
"Fire in the hole!" Turner cried.
A sudden flash of fire from the little nook accompanied his shout. A flour-spotted Lizzy stepped out minutes later into the living room's shocked silence. In her hands was a roaring blaze of burnt cake. Sparrow had put down his guitar by then and looked up distractedly, only to go back to poking through the drinks around the room. His muttering ceased only upon catching sight of the pile of bottles in the kitchen. Pointing at the pile, he spoke up.
"What happened to the rum?"
"Rum cake, anyone?" Lizzy asked brightly.
"You burned the rum?"
"Yes, the rum's gone."
"Why is the rum gone?"
"One, because it is a vile drink that doesn't taste nice. Two...two, I wanted to make cake."
"But, why is the rum gone!?" Sparrow continued to wail.
"You'll never hear the end of that," Anamaria laughed.
Chapter 8
The auditions for the contest were held in an old theater known as the Royal. They'd piled into Sparrow's decrepit van and those who couldn't fit rode with Anamaria. The place was teeming with activity when they arrived and after haphazardly parking the van, Sparrow joined right in. As he and Anamaria spoke to some old friends, Norrington kept a eye on his young charges.
Lizzy was chatting up some pseudo-celebrities who knew her father, while Turner just strummed nervously at his bass. Gibbs took up most of their sofa though, sneaking a sip of the strong stuff before their set. Groves and Gilette just hovered in the periphery as Norrington stood in the shadows of some dusty draperies. Stationed behind the seated trio, he had a good view of the door. So, he saw trouble as soon as it stepped in.
The years that had passed had not changed Barbossa and his crew much. If anything, they had a leaner look to them. They strode in with the bravado of those who thought too highly of themselves. Norrington caught the dark look that flashed in Sparrow's eyes and was already moving before he realized it. There was a subtle exchange with his two subordinates who moved closer to those on the sofa set. He, on the other hand, had come to stand next to Sparrow. He was just in time for Barbossa, who upon catching sight of the familiar head, swooped in decked in red velvet.
"Well, well, if it isn't our old Captain, boys."
"My, my," Sparrow mocked, "if it isn't back-stabbing, murdering, always-second-best Barbossa. Made any hits lately?"
The other man's eyes gleamed dangerously.
"Have you?"
The dark orbs flitted across Sparrow's companions and narrowed when they fell on Norrington.
"Detective Norrington, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here on unofficial business?"
"More like none of your business, Barbossa," he smoothly countered with a cool smile.
"Are you fucking him, like you were Bootstrap, Sparrow?" Barbossa smirked at his former bandmate.
Norrington caught no reaction from Sparrow about his being a former detective, but those expressive eyes did flare angrily at the mention of his old bassist. Behind them, Norrington heard Turner stand from his seat and push towards them at his father's name.
"What are you talking about?" He heatedly interjected.
"Well, if it isn't Bootstrap's boy all grown up," Barbossa noted, clearly caught off-guard though trying to hide it. "Isn't this just a regular family reunion?"
"Black Buccaneers! You're up!" A shout was heard from near the stage.
"Excuse me, I think that's my band being called." Barbossa grinned toothily.
He left, the rest of the band trailing after him with Bo'sun throwing a last warning look at Norrington. The man just looked coolly back. When he turned his attention back to his companions, Turner was angrily confronting Sparrow about knowing Bootstrap.
"How could you not tell me about my father?"
Sparrow shrugged, unable to give an answer.
"And were you really sleeping with him?" Turner hissed. "Is that why he left my mother and me?"
At that, Sparrow's eyes darkened.
"I've done alot of stupid things, but I don't get in between a man and his wife. There's some things even I won't do. Your father loved you and your mother. As to why he left, his reasons were his own."
"...Were you ever going to tell me?"
Another shrug.
"Are we auditioning or not?" Sparrow asked flatly after a long silence.
Turner's knuckles were white, fingers tightly gripping his instrument.
"Ocean-Thief, you're up next!" A voice called out.
"Let's go." Turner finally grated out, still angry.
The youth turned on his heel, headed for the stage. Before Sparrow moved to follow, he looked sharply at Norrington.
"Later," Sparrow simply said.
Then, he was gone as well.
Chapter 9
The audition had gone surprisingly well, feeding on tension and the pure rush of performing. Lizzy collected Turner as soon as he stepped off-stage. The bottle-blonde apparently had a soft spot for Sparrow, something to do with a drinking contest at a bar one night. Or perhaps she'd simply wanted to make up for the burnt rum. In either case, it left Norrington to deal with an oddly subdued guitarist.
Once they'd reached the apartment, everyone immedidately went out again with Gilette and Groves trailing behind. While they celebrated their inclusion in the contest, Norrington was left to deal with the sullen Sparrow. Damage control, he grimaced to himself. Somehow he always seemed to be delegated such tasks. Now, how to handle an egocentric, eccentric musician in a mood...
The man in question was just lighting up a toke when Norrington joined him on the balcony. He'd get an earful when Anamaria returned.
"Didn't know you were into that," Norrington noted casually.
"Didn't know you were a detective," was the sardonic riposte.
"Was."
"Same difference," Sparrow said self-righteously.
"Not like you're the paragon for truth, Sparrow."
"I didn't lie, I abstained."
"Same difference." Norrington parroted with a smirk.
"Hmph."
The guitarist actually stuck out his tongue, mood apparently lightened. Considering the conversation over, Norrington leaned against the railing. But, he had to blink and actually backed away when the joint popped up in front of him.
"Wanna give it a go?"
"I'll pass," he said dryly.
"Hn...bad for you, right?"
Norrington warily watched as the man crushed the toke and tossed it over the ledge.
"She'll kill you."
"Ah, she'll forgive me," that accompanied by one of the man's most charming smiles.
The other was oddly disconcerted and looked away.
"So...didn't know you were into that," he echoed his earlier question.
Distracted, Sparrow also turned from him and frowned into his hands.
"I stopped after Bootstrap died."
"So what Barbossa said was true?"
"Was he...about us?" Sparrow made a bitter sound. "I wasn't lying to the boy. That's shit I wouldn't pull, and definitely not on a friend."
Norrington wondered still if there had been something unrequited there. He shrugged and let it go. There were some lines he didn't cross either.
"And how does Barbossa know you?" Sparrow asked pointedly, not allowing that tidbit to slide by either.
"I was called in to investigate Bootstrap's death."
"The ruling was accidental death. You believe that?"
"Dead men do talk," Norrington mimicked softly.
The sunset was blood red.