Summary: At the end of the day, what matters the most to the Captain?
Disclaimer: Slash aside, they're owned by the Mouse.
Notes: Written for the contrelamontre "bodyguard" challenge in 2 hours. All done in an hour and seventeen minutes, and it's dedicated to all those who've ever loved a rockstar. Follows a year after Of Rockstars & Revenge.
Norrington grimaced as he stepped out of the stretch limo. Ah, the screaming hordes waiting to catch a glimpse of their idol. Those close enough would want pictures taken, autographs signed...and, of course, a touch from the god among men himself - bloody Captain Jack Sparrow, rockstar extraordinaire.
The grim-faced bodyguard moved aside to let his boss out. With his gold-toothed grin - the rocker loved to attribute it to a bar fight - Sparrow went onto the red carpet with his arms around the two women flanking him. He greeted the crowd with a touch to his jaunty trademark tricorner hat and another flash of teeth. It was followed by a blinding flash of successive camera shots taken from all sides.
Just a few steps behind the trio, Norrington walked at a discreet distance. It was ironic how Sparrow loved to have his fans swarm all over him, yet insisted that his security detail not "invade his personal space". It made the job of his guards all the more difficult. Not for the first time, Norrington wondered why he continued to work in show business. Or if not that, why for an infuriating client such as Sparrow? The man was always going off alone, heedless of his own personal safety.
As he warily checked the sidelines for any sign of a threat, Norrington caught the eye of Sparrow's PR agent, a dark-skinned woman who no one wanted to mess with. Her cool confident gaze lightened with a sympathetic smile for him, before she went back to talking to Gibbs, the drummer. The two were just ahead of them on the carpet, and trailing behind, Norrington could hear the last of the band. The bassist - hot-tempered Turner - just piped in every once in awhile, leaving most of the press smoozing to his wife, starlet Lizzy Swann. She was the daughter of some director or other.
And then, they were in. Sighing softly to himself in relief, Norrington continued to shadow his boss. It was rock music awards night, and the excitement was almost palpable. Of course, Sparrow insisted on being in the thick of things. Always had to be the center of attention. His flamboyant nature demanded it. But, Norrington had eased his guard slightly. Here, in the auditorium, security was tight. With terrorism as practically a staple of life nowadays, the people organizing the event weren't taking any chances in keeping the participants safe. So, no. Norrington wasn't worried much.
It was the after-parties he had to consider.
Sparrow was a man who loved to party. He thrived on that life. But, as much as they made him feel alive, they made his bodyguard nervous as hell. Working for Sparrow was no joke. There was always the under-aged groupie who tried to slip in and lose her virginity, only to stir up trouble about statutory rape later on. Then, there were the drug overdoses, the drunken fights... You name it, Norrington had seen it. His job wasn't just about protecting Sparrow from the outside world, but also protecting the man from himself.
"It's a dirty job, but hell someone's got to do it."
"You say something?" Anamaria, the PR agent, asked.
She'd just popped up beside him. 'Focus,' Norrington reprimanded himself. Even with event security, he couldn't afford to let his guard down completely. Carelessness like that got clients killed. In any case, Anamaria had slipped away, distracted by Gibbs trying to get in an early drink before the ceremony started. Norrington smiled wryly at the tongue-lashing she gave the drummer about staying sober until everything was over.
The ceremony went smoothly enough. Ocean-Thief won for best rock band of the year, along with snagging the best album award with their platinum Carribean Crashers. That was good enough for Turner and Gibbs, but Norrington saw a flicker of disappointment in Sparrow's dark eyes when their single didn't win. The rocker had put alot of soul into Dead Men Do Talk. Then again, he cherished all of his songs like children. The only thing he held to heart more closely was his beloved guitar, Black Pearl. No one else was allowed to touch it. An old bet with rival guitarist Barbossa had caused Sparrow to lose the Pearl for a few years. After fighting tooth and nail to get it back, the rocker had never let anyone touch it again. Damn obsessive he was about that instrument.
Norrington's guard went up as soon as they set out for the night. After making the rounds at other places, Sparrow led everyone to a big celebratory bash at his sprawling mansion. Pretty soon, everyone was carousing on the pool deck, breaking a few laws while they were at it. Norrington ignored them, sticking to the shadows with a watchful eye on Sparrow. He was actually the only band member still around. Turner and his wife had slipped off early on in the night, preferring each other as company. Gibbs, on the other hand, had passed out a scant hour ago, his big bulk sprawled underneath the grand piano inside.
Then, there was Anamaria taking her leave of Sparrow, her latest hot-young-thing joined to her at the hip. She knew where to find Norrington and before going out the door, she gestured towards his charge with a significant look. He just nodded curtly in reply, before resuming his watch. He continued to keep tabs on his boss until the time the two women stopped screaming Sparrow's name from behind the bedroom door. After a few moments of silence, the man himself swaggered out the door, a cigarette between his lips.
"Got a light?" He asked.
Norrington lit the stick.
When the cigarette was finished, Sparrow carelessly stubbed it out in a potted palm. He then leaned bonelessly against Norrington, head on the other's shoulder. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke.
"Put me to bed, Jamie."
After he'd pulled the covers over the other's boxer-clad form, Norrington just sat by his bedside, hand clasped tightly by delicate fingers. The Pearl was in its usual place of honor on the other side of the bed.
For when all was said and done, the fans, accolades, and parties were merely entertainment. Not all that glitters is gold, but then again, not all treasure is gold. And in the end, Jack always went home to what mattered to him the most.