Day Two: Old friends make the best strangers
The room, when Jack finds it, is no where near the bar. In fact, it's up in the air -- stairs that take far too long to climb for the simple goal of lying horizontal for a bit. The decoration matches the rest of this place -- whatever this place is -- decadent to the point of being nauseous
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The key scrapes dully against the lock when he fits it, and with a click, the door opens. James regards it distastefully for a moment; it's lush and luxurious, even more so than the house he'd kept in Port Royal, and while he's always been a man who appreciates comfort, James is ill at ease with such decadence ( ... )
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The words, though, are curious. Dead, is he? Jack doesn't feel dead. He feels quite awake, the sheets soft beneath him and the cool air of the room circulating over his skin. He also might feel a bit drunk.
Without turning to face the man, Jack replies, "Don't know about that. Dead men, in my experience, aren't the greatest conversationalists."
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Unless one thinks of situations like his father, eternal, neither dead nor living if the stories are to be believed. Jack doesn't give much heed to those stories, to Captain Teague and his book of codes. Only good men follow those rules, and it seems there are even fewer of those in the world than Jack once gave credit.
He stills completely as the man crosses the room, panic freezing his muscles into stone. The man wears the uniform of an officer in the Navy -- Jack knows his rank is higher than Captain but his interaction with the Navy has been limited. Commodore, maybe. And with a sword in plain sight.
The hotel must have a sense of irony. First he met a woman who wouldn't believe him to be a pirate and now he must sleep in the same room with a man who must not find the brand at all costs. Clever, Jack thinks to the room, and begins to slowly ( ... )
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Looking at the man properly, James gets the distinct impression that something is... off, somehow. It's not as if James made a study of Jack Sparrow's appearance, but he spent enough time staring at him during his sojourn as a crewmember aboard the Black Pearl that something about him looks different. Like he's younger, almost, with perhaps less trinkets glittering in his hair. Indeed, he almost looks like he could be younger than James, and that is unsettling. But, James supposes, if he finds himself in his Commodore's uniform with no hole in his belly, there's no reason Sparrow shouldn't look different as well ( ... )
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And maybe that's what's surprising about him knowing Jack's name. If they do know the same people, it must be in London, and if it's in London, the man should know him as Teague, not Sparrow.
Unless he has somehow become legendary already. Not something Jack would quite mind, but he doubts it's true.
"Must be feeling a bit off today. New place. Haven't quite settled in yet," Jack says with a forced smile, then clears his throat.
The man is just staring at him dully, like he expects nothing more than a conversation. He might not want to fight. Then again, it may just be a play. Jack feels comforted to stay hidden behind the bed.
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Sparrow really doesn't recognise him; he honestly doesn't. Playing at it just to toy with James is one thing, and he wouldn't put it past the man, but there's no spark of recognition in his eyes whatsoever, no faint hint that he has any idea who James is. Even his answer to James's words give that away; it's forced, polite almost, no verbal twists and turns. He can't decide quite how he feels about that. This is the man he ruined his life for, the man whom, in the end, he died in order to allow Elizabeth to return to. And he doesn't know who he is.
He almost wonders if, if this is Hell, would it not have been more effective punishment to put him with a Sparrow who knew exactly who he was? After all, Jack Sparrow had delighted in tormenting him in life, he could hardly see why it should be any different in death. Though perhaps not. Perhaps this isn't even the real Sparrow; he's ( ... )
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If this is Hell, Jack may reconsider his fear of dying. "Certainly better than crew aboard the Dutchmen," he murmurs to himself and shivers slightly at the promise he made months ago. This can't be Hell because Jack's soul has already been bartered, and losing the Pearl has now made that deal all the more torturous.
What he needs to do is find a ship, find Barbossa, and reclaim his proper place in the scheme of things. The man in front of him might be able to help with that. Jack narrows his eyes at him, considering how to approach the suggestion.
"For a man so set on his addiction to breathing, I think you should be re-considering your position on remaining one of the dearly departed. Obviously it isn't working out for too well, mate."
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Sparrow himself had made a deal with Jones as a young man, James recalls; his soul in exchange for his ship, or something else similarly idiotic. That was why he'd wanted the heart, why he'd been in Tortuga searching for fools to crew his ship in the first place. Perhaps... But no, surely. That's impossible, not even worth devoting the thought to. As impossible as the suggestion that he isn't dead. That he knows to be true. His heart is beating in his chest, yes; he feels no different than when he was alive, but he remembers dying. After a life of fighting, a life at sea, James knew what pain felt like, but never had he felt anything like that. That was death ( ... )
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His name is said in that same way, a joke that is only funny if you listen well enough, and it sends the same creepy-crawly feeling of unwanted recognition down his spine. There is something to be said about making friends in all the wrong places.
Though perhaps not something negative. This man -- the Commodore, white whig and all -- seems to know him (of him) already, and not once in the past ten minutes has tried to slap the iron cuffs on Jack and haul off to the gallows. He might make a good ally, or at least a better friend than enemy.
Slowly, Jack rises and slinks around the edge of the bed. Swaggering to his full height, he grasps Norrington's out-stretched hand, slurring a slight greeting. "Pleased to meet and or reassociate your acquaintance. Commdore."
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'Indubitably,' he murmurs, in a way which suggests that might not be entirely true. He has to say, though, there's a certain comfort in being referred to as Commodore; it certainly feels like something more his own than 'Admiral' ever did, something he can take pride in.
In a move that exactly mirrors the one he used when he first met Sparrow (and it's another mark that this man has apparently never met him, because he doesn't anticipate it), he jerks him closer, pushing up the cuff of his shirt to expose the brand and tattoo he knows are there on his wrist. James almost drops his hand, though, when he does, because they're different. The pirate brand looks fresh and painful, and the sparrow tattoo is only a sparrow, no waves or setting sun ( ... )
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The smirk immediately disappears when Norrington tugs him off guard, pushes back his shift sleeves to his elbow to reveal the brand. Jack winces. Even if Norrington made as if to know Jack, the brand changes thing. It gives Norrington proof he needed.
Bugger. This is not good ( ... )
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1702But he merely clears his throat lightly, quirking a brow at Sparrow's eye roll. 'Seeing as there is an entirely different king in 1716, I rather doubt he'd appreciate a report ( ... )
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