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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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.
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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.
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.'
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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.
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?"
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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?'
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"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?"
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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.
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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?"
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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.'
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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?"
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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.
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What difference it makes to him, Jack can't tell, and his reply to Jack's question isn't at all helpful in lending itself for a clue. When Norrington asks him no new question to change the subject, Jack tries it again.
"You now knowing the date, how long have I been a pirate since you met me, the first time?"
The wording of the position is strange but Jack has no other way of asking it.
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It's strange to be thinking such thoughts about Jack Sparrow, regardless of how old he is, and James takes another drink of rum. He's already dealing with enough confusion for one day, he doesn't have the patience to deal with a crisis of morals concerning Jack bloody Sparrow, of all people.
'The first time? Eleven years.' Yes, that'd be it. He met Sparrow on the day of his promotion, and that was in 1712.
But now it's his turn. He meets Sparrow's eyes shrewdly. 'What were you before you turned pirate?'
It's that crisp, military snap to attention that's piqued his interest. James wants to know what makes a man go from something like that to a pirate of Sparrow's kind.
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Though with a ship, hopefully. Not once has Norrington refered to him as "Captain". A chill settles into his bones and he nearly misses the next question volleyed at him.
Norrington has a sharp look to his eye when he asks it, and Jack narrows his own. So Norrington doesn't know, in the -- four or five, it is? Norrington gave his year as 1716 -- years he has known Jack, he never discovered what Jack once was.
Good, then. His answer won't come as a lie. "Nothing," he says to the mouth of the bottle. "I didn't exist." The words are a bit slurred but it's only half due to the alcohol.
Settled in his answer, Jack lurks around for a question. He has one he wants to ask but the possible answer terrifies him. If he never retrieves the Pearl, if he lands as some mangy crew member aboard a no-name ship, taking orders his whole life. He doesn't have the courage to ask that just yet.
Instead, he runs his mind over what he knows of Norrington, how to repay him for that calculating look. William Turner's father ran him through, he said? Odd. But a good place to begin.
He stares coldly at Norrington. "Where did you die, at sea or on land?"
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His lips thin out when Sparrow asks his own question. Of course he'd go for the one thing he knows James would rather not talk about. This question, though, James wouldn't mind answering; if there's anything he's glad of in his death, it's that he had a chance to spit in Davy Jones's face before he died, and that he died at sea. James is a man of the sea, has always been, and it's only proper that that's where he should have died, his body given up to the sea for its final resting place.
He wouldn't mind answering, but he's not going to. At least, not yet. 'Answer for an answer,' he reminds Sparrow. 'Nobody's nothing.'
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He takes another sip of rum and keeps his stare directed at Norrington. There's no other answer Jack can give him, even if Norrington presses. Jack Sparrow, past last November, did not exist.
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