Day Two: Old friends make the best strangers

[captjacksparrow]

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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[captjacksparrow]

The comment on dead men catches Jack off guard. That is ridiculous, and to hear a man like this stranger profess as much is even more ridiculous. Dead is dead. There is no in-between.

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 slide off the side of the bed, prepared to use it as leverage if needed before he can reach the door.

Then the man speaks and Jack gets distracted. William Turner? Bootstrap's father? Ran him through? William spoke to Jack about his wife and child in England, how he missed them, how he would send them his part of the treasure once they found it. William who stood in the shadows saying nothing as Jack flailed against the arms pinning him down.

If William's father ran this Navy officer through in England, Jack has no interest in that. William made his choice that night on the Pearl and Jack wouldn't blame him. But he wouldn't defend his father's name if this man wanted to fight over it.

Sinking to his knees behind the bed, Jack watches the man, to see if he would say anything more.

[commodore_jln]

Sparrow's silence is unnerving, if only for the fact that, in all the time James has known the pirate, he has very rarely kept quiet. He does not trust Sparrow talking, and even less so when he's not, and he shoots him a wry look as he turns, taking a seat on his bed because he sees nothing else to do. Besides, he is bone-tired.

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.

The most disconcerting thing, he realises, is the fact that the pirate has shown no sign of recognising him; no lewd jibes or mockery such as James had come to expect from him.

'Nothing to say, Sparrow?' He drawls. 'Unlike you.'

[captjacksparrow]

That the man knows Jack's name probably shouldn't come as such a surprise if he knows William (or William's father at the least) or believes that Jack knows a woman named Elizabeth. The stranger's been acting like they've been acquainted since he entered the room, Jack realizes. As if they know the same people, and so they must know each other.

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.

[commodore_jln]

'Settled in?' He says with a dry laugh. 'I hardly think whatever higher power's in charge of this place cares much for the ease of the dead.'

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 probably still gallivanting about the Caribbean, half drunk and sun-mad as always, and the man sitting across from him is just a... construct, designed for his eternal torture. Though given the way Sparrow's looking at him at the moment, he doesn't look particularly ready to engage in any amount of Hellish tormenting.

Well, whoever's running this place has a strange idea of what Hell is, that's all he can say.

[captjacksparrow]

This Navy man has a strange obsession with death. The Navy can have that effect, of course, Jack reckons, but this is a new and interesting extent of that affliction. He believes himself to be dead and seated in Hell. A hell that comes with a pianoforte, rum bottles, and Jack.

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."

[commodore_jln]

James's ears prick up when he hears Sparrow mention the Flying Dutchman in a low murmur. That is true. Jones offered him that fate as he lay dying against the rail of the Dutchman, and James spat in his face. Whatever he is- or was- James Norrington is no coward, to take that impermanent, torturous way out of death.

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.

In a way, there's a certain comfort to it. If he's dead, he can tell the world to go bugger itself if he so chooses. If he's dead, he can sit in a hotel and converse with Jack Sparrow without attempting to hang him. Not that he's even sure any more if he would.

But that's something to think on another time.

'Apparently not,' he says dryly. If Sparrow wants to think him alive, so be it. Far from James to disillusion him in that respect. He cocks an eyebrow at Sparrow, sitting across from him.

'Since you seem not to recognise me, Jack Sparrow; Ad-' He cuts himself off. He isn't proud of the deeds he did under that title, nor of the circumstances under which he became Admiral. Admiral Norrington, Cutler Beckett's trained dog. No. If he's dead, he doesn't have to be the Admiral, either. 'Commodore James Norrington.'

He holds out his hand, ironically remembering the first time he met the pirate.

[captjacksparrow]

Jack can't help the twitch of his lips at the dry reply. There's something funny in the way the man turns his words over, making the statement at once both serious yet still a quip.

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."

[commodore_jln]

He walks the same way Sparrow always walked, that combination of a drunkard and some kind of cat, and James rises to meet him, taking his hand when it's offered.

'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.

He stares for a moment, taken aback, before schooling his face into something bland and unsurprised. Perhaps that mad, earlier thought of his was closer to the truth than he'd allowed himself to imagine. He can't see how it could be true, but it seems... He lets Sparrow's hand go, shaking himself slightly.

Meeting the pirate's eyes, he purses his lips faintly. 'Tell me, Sparrow; what year is it? Humour me, if you would.'

[captjacksparrow]

Norrington meets Jack's eyes squarely as he stands and shakes Jack's hand. He has that tone again, but amplified, humoured buried beneath a frozen exterior, and Jack curls his lip in the beginning of a grin. Aren't they just the pair, play-acting as proper gentlemen.

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.

Jack tries to pull his hand away but Norrington's grip is secure but for a moment, when Jack's hand slips ever slightly through his fingers. Jack's eyes fly to Norrington's face, to the expression that must be maddening, but all he can read there is pure, blank shock: Norrington's eyes wide and his lips limp rather than set in a firm line of disapproval.

Interesting. And it keeps growing more interesting when Norrington all but throws Jack's hand back, taking a step back to shake himself. It's like watching someone wake up from a nightmare and wanting reminding for where they are, if they really are in the belly of a whale or if it's just their cabin again with their mates and their rum.

"2007," Jack says, warily eyeing Norrington. Years, he's finding out, are a funny thing here. That would be Amber's year, far from his own. Or what he guesses is Norrington's. He adds, after Norrington has the proper response, "According to some. If you're asking me..."

It was in November 1701 when Cutler decided to fulfill his role of spoilt, rich boy. Months have past since then, a full winter and sumnmer. The tides have not yet changed for autumn again.

Jack deflates when Norrington doesn't back off the question, the look on his face that of a man who want a truthful answer, however simplistic. "Year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and two, dawn of the modern century." He gives a little roll of his eyes. "Do you need to write a report on it for His Majesty?"

[commodore_jln]

1702. James was twenty three in 1702. All reason tells him that it cannot be true, that Sparrow is lying, but the proof is there, in the brand and the tattoo, and, now that he has a chance to look closer, in Sparrow's face. He's clearly younger than when James knew him, could almost be baby-faced, but for the goatee and moustache; the hair's shorter, too, and that absurd bone woven into the mop of braids and dreadlocks conspicuously absent.

1702.

But 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.'

There. Sarcasm to hide his confusion, that works. He honestly doesn't know what to make of this. He's dead, and here's a Jack Sparrow- apparently- from 14 years into his past, and what on earth did he mean by 2007? Three hundred-odd years into the future, an inconceivable date. James steels himself against the strange feeling of shakiness he feels coming over him. No; if he dealt with undead pirates and disembodied hearts and Krakens, he can deal with this.

So, 'Where are we?' He asks simply. 'If it's not Hell, then what is this place?'

[captjacksparrow]

Right. 1716. Not as large a gap as 2007, but somehow that makes it all the worse. Three hundred years was so impossible as to be imaginable; fourteen is too small, easily catching in Jack's throat as he tries to swallow it.

"No more King Billy?" is all he can manage, looking after Norrington for explaination. If Norrington knew Jack sometime in the future, well. Well that meant Jack lived, for one. That he managed a life as a pirate. Manages. Will manage. Or maybe not, if a Commodore in the Navy respects him enough not to shoot him on first sight.

He attempts to read Norrington's face, if there are any answers written there, but the man is good at keeping it bare, unreadable. Though he does seem paler than he was a moment ago.

Jack needs to turn the tables, feed Norrington questions instead of answering them.

Shrugging his shoulders, Jack begins to wander aimlessly about the room. "A hotel, by the look of it," he says, then studies the walls as if to be sure, then glances out the window. "Apparently in a desert."

Norrington doesn't seem pleased with that, so Jack switches tactics. "Honestly? You're guess is as good as mine. What's needed is a conbination of the events to discover the truth hidden underneath. So." He lifts up a bottle of rum, shaking its contents at Norrington. "What's say you tell me the little tale of how you came to be here, I'll do the same for myself, and we'll see what we can find out, eh?"

[commodore_jln]

One eyebrow drifts delicately upwards as Sparrow refers to King William as Billy. 'Quite,' he says. 'Not much longer for you, either, if you're... in 1702. The throne was taken by Anne after he died- apologies for breaking the news so roughly, but I trust you weren't particularly attached to him- and then King George.'

Not that Sparrow appears particularly interested in his little political lesson. Well, he'll find out soon enough for himself, James supposes. Or... well, yes, he supposes he will. Because even if he's dead, Jack Sparrow did not die in 1702; he lived on to meet James in 1712, and then again several times over the following years; James knows this. But then what the devil is he doing here? It's all far too confusing.

His answer to James's question is typically useless, and he gives Sparrow his best 'the Commodore is not amused' look, until he amends his words somewhat. Though that answer is almost as unwanted as the first. Rum. Of course, rum. What else would he have expected? He's half tempted to accede; sitting around drinking and swapping tales with Jack Sparrow- it's an absurd idea, but God knows James needs to relax. On the other hand, though, James hasn't drunk rum since he left the Pearl. He dislikes the lack of control that alcohol produces in him, and certainly he spent far too much time after handing in his notice sunk deep in a bottle of rum. Quite enough to put him off the stuff for the rest of his life.

... Though to be fair, he's already gone through the rest of his life. He's dead now, he can do whatever he bloody well likes. And Sparrow's suggestion of working out what this place is seems to make as much sense as any.

So he shrugs, sinking back down to his bed. 'Fair enough,' he says mildly, and then shoots Sparrow a look. 'Let's hear your tale first, hmm?' It is perhaps more an order than it is a suggestion. After all, James is not particularly keen to discuss the circumstances of his own death. At least, he considers, without some of that rum in him.

[captjacksparrow]

Jack wasn't attached -- at least not as much as most of the English people seemed determined to be to King and Country. That devotion quickly had become something he could never understand. But he had respected the King, especially when his first mate was a wirey Scotsman. Jack learned quickly with him not to throw words around he didn't necessarily mean. That just meant Jack needed to change his defintion of meaning.

That isn't Norrington's point, though. Two monarchs stand between them -- Anne and... George? King George? King Billy sounds better and Jack pulls a face for a moment.

The rum sloshes in its bottle as he waits for Norrington to chew Jack's suggestion enough to swallow it. It takes some time and Jack slumps a little in his stance, boredom lurking into the corners of his mind. How did he manage to become friends with this man? Apart from their... violently differing career choices, the man takes too damn long to arrive at an answer.

And when he does, it's abosolutely the wrong one. It sounds like an order and Jack's back straightens automatically, chest broadening in the way he was taught to respond to superiors. It's with a miserable pout that he corrects his stance, backing up to land in a plush chair next to the piano. He tosses the bottle to Norrington, pretending to consider his counter-offer.

"Tell the tale to myself? But I already know it." He gives a sharp smile. "Tell the tale to you... what do you say to a trade? You drink, I drink. You get a question, I get a question. Fair's fair, after all, aye?"

[commodore_jln]

Sparrow's response to his words shocks James to his very core. It's clear he hears the order in his voice, and he responds like a military man, his posture suddenly ramrod straight, chest out and chin down. It's the same way any of his Marines might have reacted to an order from their commanding officer. The crisp 'at attention' stance disappears in a moment with a thoroughly displeased look on Sparrow's face, and James stares at him incredulously, catching the bottle tossed to him more out of reflex than anything else.

Well. Now that is something new. Was Sparrow a Navy man before he turned pirate? Apparently so. Or at least, something like. He'd call it a reflex Sparrow was trying to train himself out of, given the miserable look on his face as he collapsed back into the chair, so perhaps not even that long ago.

He nods acceptance to Sparrow's words. After all, that would seem to be the easiest way to find out where precisely the pirate was coming from. 'Indeed,' he agrees wryly, 'fairness being something we both strive for.' Sparrow won't understand their shared past that James is referring to, but no matter.

Uncorking the bottle, he takes a generous sip, gritting his teeth slightly against the alcoholic burn and the memories it stirs up. 'So, I get a question,' he reiterates. 'Tell me, then, when did you get that brand?' He nods slightly in its direction. 'It's new, yet.'

[captjacksparrow]

Jack inclines his head to the fairness comment. There's still that quality to Norrington's words, but this time Jack can't understand the joke, no matter how much he tries to suss it out.

As Norrington drinks, he leans over to the cabinet near by and plucks another bottle for himself, uncorking it and sipping. The sip turns into a few great gulps when he hears the question, surprise throwing his balance with the bottle off and making more rum all the more necessary.

The brand. Jack didn't expect to discuss that. He doesn't particulary want to discuss how he came to be here, either, but at least that he can avoid answering directly. Norrington is meant to be the one supply answers about the past -- Jack's future -- not the other way around.

He wipes his mouth with his wrist, lips pressed against the scar. It still aches on same days, a residual burn within in the skin that Jack can't shake no matter how hard he tries. Consciously lowering his arm, he glares at Norrington.

A deal's a deal, though. So Jack answers, voice grainy from the liquor and nothing else.

"A year or so ago, in November. Why should a Commodore in the Navy want to know the past of a pirate?"

[commodore_jln]

Only a year. So, despite Sparrow's pride in his chosen vocation, he only really became a pirate at, what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? And now, given that snap to attention and the way Sparrow's glaring at him now, James would guess that he was forced into it as well. That is interesting.

Sparrow's own question is vague, and James smirks faintly, realising that in this particular situation, he has the upper hand. He knows Sparrow, at least to some degree, while to the pirate, he's a complete stranger, and as off-putting as that is in some respects, in others it's a comfort. James is a man used to being in control, after all, and he's had so little of it over the past two years that any little measure now is something to relish.

'I've had... quite a few dealings with you in the past,' he says, taking another sip. 'And I prefer the truth to mad hearsay.' A vague question deserves a vague answer, after all.