It was useless trying to sleep again.
Even if there had been a decent space of time until the morning bell rang, the remnants of his hangover, the din of the snoring crew, and the newfound knowledge of Sparrow's intentions would have kept him awake. As it were, he stayed on deck, alone at the forecastle, as he watched the horizon grow bright in the east.
When the sun finally broke and the call went out to start the day, he did his best to avoid the others. He took their vicious glares and jibes in silence, biting his tongue to refrain from shooting back some sarcastic remark that might provoke a fight, but with every cut and dig they threw at him, the more his self-loathing grew. This was what his life had come to, then: he had fallen so low as to be the subject of ridicule even amongst pirates. The thought made him want to retch again. And worst of all was that he didn't even have to wonder at how drastically things had changed in the past few months, because he, sober for the first time in weeks, could clearly see the path that had led him here. In his mind, no longer dulled by alcohol, every mistake he had made was outlined with extraordinary clarity, and he knew why he had turned to the rum in the first place.
God, he needed a drink...
When a bucket of water and a filthy rag were shoved into his arms and he was ordered to swab, he didn't complain. He only scowled, dropping to his knees and beginning to scrub, but hating it nonetheless. He knew that he had been given this detail for the sole enjoyment of the rest of the crew, so that they could revel in the sight of their nemesis crawling about on the deck, but that wasn't why he detested it. Instead, it was because of the sheer banality of the thing. He needed something to occupy his mind, and such a menial task decidedly did not do that. In fact, it only left him with more time to dwell on the many things wrong with his life.
Namely, the dilemma he now faced.
He had known that Sparrow was up to something, but he hadn't expected to find himself in a position to be farmed out to Davy Jones. Of course, according to the conversation that he had overhead, he wouldn't be alone. The other four miserable souls they had picked up in Tortuga would be joining him. It made sense, of course. He had heard the tales of Jones and the Dutchman, of how certain unfortunates came to be indebted to the mythical captain, and it was no stretch of the imagination to see how Jack Sparrow, of all people, might have become one of these unfortunates. And it was an even smaller stretch, Jack Sparrow simply being who he was, always at the ready to worm his way out of death, to see that he would sacrifice other souls to save his own.
At the very least, it explained why Sparrow had allowed four completely inept sailors and a former Navy man anywhere near the Pearl. It also explained why he was in such a desperate hurry to locate the fabled heart. It would have been terribly surprising to find that he was after the artifact without some ulterior motive, only looking out of altruism to free William Turner from an unsavory fate.
The thought of the blacksmith suffering aboard the Dutchman nearly put a smile on James's face, and he wondered for an instant when he had become a cruel enough man to revel in the pain of another. But it was Turner... Turner who had thrown his lot in with pirates and been rewarded for it, Turner who had instigated the escape of Sparrow, Turner who had swept Elizabeth Swann off her feet. The darker side of him wished he had left the boy to drown in the midst of the Atlantic nine years ago. How different his own life would have been if he had.
But these thoughts were all trivial in comparison to the troubling fact that this morning's conversation had brought to light.
If Sparrow's plan to retrieve the heart fell through, then he had to have a bargaining chip, lest he spend the rest of his life in the service of Davy Jones. Yet, to possess such a bargaining chip was to forfeit Elizabeth.
He was being forced into an impossible choice.
A year ago, had he been made to decide between himself and Miss Swann, he wouldn't have hesitated to save the woman he loved. But now... now, he had tasted her deceit, and Tortuga had taught him to put his own concerns before the concerns of others. As it were, his own selfishness and whatever it was that he felt for Elizabeth were hung equally in the balance.
And even if they did find the heart in time? What then? Was he to simply take it then and there and abandon the Pearl and everyone aboard, leaving them either to remain marooned on an island or suffer the wrath of the Flying Dutchman? Or was he meant to bide his time and wrench it from Sparrow at a later date? Surely the pirate would keep it under close watch, in which case James knew he would have to fight for it. He wondered how many of the crew he could kill before they overwhelmed him...
The more he thought the harder he scrubbed, and soon the rag began to disintegrate against the boards of the deck. He picked it up and looked at it in disgust, before tightly balling the remnants in his fist and going back to work, but he had barely started when a pair of boots stopped just at the edge of his vision.
"I do trust that this bonnie vessel and her humble crew are living up to your lofty standards, eh, former commodore?" asked Sparrow, and it was impossible to ignore the derision in his voice.
James's knuckles whitened around the rag, and when he looked up, he poured every ounce of his hatred into a seething glare.
Jack bared his teeth in a grimace. "I'll take that as a no, then," he grunted, before swaggering off towards the stern. James watched him go, and thought for a moment that it would almost be worth it to kill him right here and now, compass and heart be damned.
It wasn't yet noon when he heard Elizabeth's voice somewhere close by. He glanced towards the sound, seeing her standing next to Gibbs and Sparrow with the compass in hand, and he knew that they were getting another heading. With a resigned sigh, he went back to scrubbing.
Ten minutes more had gone by when her voice cut through the air again.
"Yes, they're signed. Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company."
His head shot up and he stared across the deck, looking on as Jack held up a sheaf of paper backed with leather. It was the sort of leather used for official documents– official documents such as Letters of Marque.
That duplicitous little siren... She'd had them with her the entire time and never said a word.
The rest of the conversation was a blur. He simply watched in horror as Jack folded up the sheaf and tucked it inside his jacket before starting to walk away. Apparently Elizabeth felt rather the same way about it, because he vaguely heard her demand them back.
He squinted as he watched the exchange, trying to comprehend exactly what was happening between them. Sparrow said something that sounded very much like "persuade me," and Elizabeth drew terribly close to him... And when he turned around to face her, there was something in the way that both of them were looking at one another...
To James's surprise, something fiercely protective sprang to life inside of him– as well as something fiercely jealous. Jack Sparrow had a ship, a crew, a life; he had the compass, he had the Letters; and now he was after Elizabeth. Was there anything he wouldn't have before the end?
Elizabeth turned away from the pirate, who made no effort to follow her, and on her way to the railing she walked right past James without even noticing. His lip curled in annoyance and he dropped the rag onto the deck, pushing himself up and grimacing at the ache in his joints. Two months of lying drunk in the streets of Tortuga had done him no favors. He made his way over to her slowly, and as he approached he could see that she was absently smiling as she stared at the sea. The jealous thing in him coiled. She had rejected him for another, and now it looked very much as though she were preparing to do the same thing to Turner... and for Jack Sparrow, no less. He wondered why he was doomed to love such a woman, but he knew there was no logical explanation. There was nothing at all logical about love.
"It's a curious thing," he began, wheeling around and taking the spot next to her, propping his elbows against the railing with his back to the ocean, "There was a time when I would've given anything for you to look like that while thinking about me."
His grimace faded into a wry smile, and she turned around, flustered.
"I don't know what you mean," she insisted, but the words came just a bit too quickly.
He looked at her, feeling his lips twist in distaste again. "Oh I think you do," he said darkly, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.
"Oh, don't be absurd!" she replied in exasperation, rolling her eyes, "I trust him, that's all."
When he began to snicker at her she looked genuinely offended, but that didn't stop him from raising his brows and shooting her a pitying glance. Was she really so naive as to believe that Sparrow didn't have a self-serving interest in everything he did? They all fit into his plans somehow, of that much James was certain.
He pushed himself away from the railing, unable to keep himself from smirking at her childish behavior, but he had barely gone ten feet when the darker side of him began to prod, insisting he goad her with one final remark. Suddenly the thought of her having the last word seemed unbearable, so he stopped and spun round on his heel to face her.
"So you never wondered how your latest fiancé ended up on the Flying Dutchman in the first place?" he asked, and when he saw the look on her face he knew he had won. She stared back at him, opening her mouth to say something but then thinking better of it, and he shook his head at her as if she were something particularly pathetic before he turned and walked away.
He still couldn't recall becoming a cruel man.
"James!" she called, and he heard her footsteps start after him. He didn't stop, thudding down the stairs to the gun deck and finding it deserted, but he knew that Elizabeth was not far behind.
"James!" she snapped, this time with considerably more force, and he turned slowly around.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, hands on her hips, and he could see that she was doing her best to be confident, but worry still seeped through the facade.
He regarded her sourly. Could she really not make the leap of logic herself? Or did she just want to hear it straight from him?
"James, what did you mean?" she repeated impatiently, an edge in her voice. She was glaring at him now.
"You really believe that Sparrow had absolutely nothing to do with the unfortunate fate of your dearly beloved?" he asked with a sneer, "That he's helping you to find the chest out of the goodness of his heart?"
The worry on her face multiplied. "Well, no, but–"
"I'm afraid that the good captain has incurred the wrath of Davy Jones, and handed over Mister Turner to save his own skin."
"You're lying," she whispered, now looking truly horrified.
A vicious smile broke across his features. "Oh I assure you, it's very much the truth," he replied wryly, "Though I suppose I can hardly blame you for defending him, considering you seem to share the same opinion of honesty."
The harshness of the remark surprised even him.
"What on earth are you talking about?" she exclaimed, gaping.
"So you simply forgot to mention that you were carrying the Letters with you, then?" he concluded sarcastically.
"I had no reason to advertise the fact!" she shot back, nearly yelling as she took a confrontational step forward, "And now I can see that I was obviously right not to tell you!"
He snorted in laughter. "I imagine if you knew the things I've done you would hardly trust me enough to tell me anything."
"Oh yes," she hissed, her voice now holding just as much venom as his own, "I do recall you mentioning last night, despite being so drunk you could hardly stand, why the Dauntless sank in the first place."
Just like it had in the Tortugan alleyway, his anger finally tore loose.
"I was chasing down Sparrow in an attempt to right your mistake!" he spat, stepping towards her and closing the gap between them, "If you and Turner hadn't helped the bastard escape he'd be dead and none of us would be here!" They had both resorted to shouting now, and it was a miracle that none of the crew had come to see what the matter was.
She flushed in indignation. "Don't you dare blame me for your own misfortune!" she snarled, and he suddenly thought that she seemed terribly attractive when she was furious.
He leaned forward and kissed her.
He didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was because she was standing so very close, or because he knew that no matter what he did now he couldn't possibly damage their relationship any further. Maybe it was because he knew that none of it would matter soon, because one of them was doomed anyway. He just hadn't decided who.
She didn't try to pull away at first, instead freezing on the spot, and he savored the moment before it ended. She tasted like sea salt and ship's grog, and he knew that he could have enjoyed this a long time ago if he hadn't insisted on bottling his feelings so completely.
When she finally jerked backwards and she stared at him in shock, he utterly failed to hold back the thoroughly amused and self-satisfied smirk that spread across his face, and for an instant he was sure that she was going to slap him. Instead, she took a step back, her lips curling in disgust.
"You're nothing but a rum-soaked blackguard, James Norrington," she hissed quietly through bared teeth, and she gave him one final reproachful look before turning towards the stairs.
"And I thought you rather liked those," he called after her, and she stopped halfway up the steps to glare at him, open-mouthed, but he wheeled around and walked away.
And as he went, he couldn't help but wonder where Sparrow kept the rum.
Author's Note:
I had a hard time with the dialogue on this chapter. I hope it doesn't show too much. Also, thanks to everyone who has favorited/followed/reviewed! The continued support is very appreciated!