Two's Company: Part 2 of 3
The continuing nineteenth-century adventures of two immortal pirate lords, one ex-commodore, and an undead monkey.
See Part 1 for header info.
Warning: reckless deviation from recognised pairings and historical events. NC-17.
Two's Company: Part 2 of 3
Barbossa's fingers clenched around the handle of his suitcase, longing for the hilt of a sword to swing at the intruder. He'd endured the nerve-jangling train journey from Arles to Paris-clanking metal and enforced polite proximity-because he wanted to talk to Jack, needed to tell him about Paul's betrayal: not that he expected sympathy, not with the balance of past betrayals tipped the way it was.
What he had expected, so confidently he he’d not been aware of it, was to find Jack alone, or with some easily disposable floozie. To find him smug, sated, and holed up with an unsuspected survivor from the old days was like losing the wind from the sails with a Navy frigate in full pursuit.
The bloody Navy was overtaking him. Barbossa had spent over a century listening to Jack bemoaning Norrington's untimely death-untimely only in that it had occurred before Jack's ill-conceived lust could run its course. Now signs were he'd have to watch him make calf-eyes at this blasted swab until the novelty wore thin. He’d known bloody Jack Sparrow was the kind to lavish immortality on whoever took his fancy; there’d been arguments enough about that. But how the devil had he smuggled this one to the Fountain without Barbossa’s knowledge, and when? The sight of Jack's open thighs-and open britches-really wasn't making anything easier.
His mind in a whirl, head throbbing, he traded barbed pleasantries with Norrington for a while, pleased to see that little Jack, at least, settled easily back to their old home. Next thing he knew, he was standing over human Jack's chair, stretching out a hand to that quietly curled prick. It was too late to pull back, and too tempting to continue. He reached down carefully with one extended finger, gazed deep into Jack's eyes, and then into Norrington's, as he coated his finger in Jack's seed and slowly licked it clean.
Norrington blanched and gulped. Would he cut and run? No, he drew himself tall and stood to attention beside Jack's chair. It was an intriguing tableau: the guardsman rigid with courage and duty beside the whore of Babylon on a threadbare throne. Toulouse or Edouard would give their eyeteeth to paint that. Barbossa himself should be torn between laughter and arousal, but not today. Today, it provoked only smouldering fury and a crushing despair. Did everything about this century conspire to disappoint him?
He stomped to the cupboard, seized a half-empty bottle of absinthe, and flung himself on the sofa to swig from it, back turned to the others. Let them snigger or bill and coo as they pleased.
After what might have been minutes or hours, he noticed Jack in the chair across from him, britches fastened and shirt more or less tucked in. The new pet bodyguard sat to attention on a wooden stool to one side.
"You might give the rest of us a turn with that," coaxed Jack, leaning forward to place a glass of water in one of Barbossa's hands while easing the bottle from the other. But he took only a sip of absinthe before passing the bottle to Norrington, who set it on the floor out of reach. Jack leaned in close, eyes focussed slightly to Barbossa's left. "Hector," he murmured, "what on earth happened to your head? You look as if someone marooned you."
Barbossa blinked back memories of bruised and bloodstained Jack on a deserted strip of sand, the crew muttering nervously, premonitions of doom… It was so much more real than the washed-out, blurry present.
He raised a hand to the side of his face. Ah, yes: pain, bandages… Something to do with a razor brandished drunkenly in the moonlight… He’d taken the blood-soaked parcel-wrapped in the latest ludicrous headlines-to the rue du Bout and given it to Rachel with some foolish notion of asking her to keep it for him. It had seemed important at the time: his ear, once severed, was surely mortal again, and he’d wanted to entrust it to a mortal who'd been kind to him. That way, when he left her to continue, healed and unchanging, there’d be something left to fade and perish with her.
Stupid, of course. The wench had screamed and fainted in the doorway.
~
"Tis naught-but a scratch-of no consequence," muttered Hector unconvincingly. (Although, obviously-technically-accurately, since, well: immortal. But that was hardly the point, was it?)
Jack leaned forward and removed the broad-brimmed hat. That Hector allowed this without protest was more alarming than the bulge of crusty brown bandages the manoeuvre exposed. Jack pulled open a peephole and peered cautiously in.
"Bloody Hell! You really have gone stark raving bonkers this time," said Jack, but not out loud. He sucked air through his teeth and kept the words where nobody else could hear them. Nice and calm, that was the way.
"Well, I suppose it'll grow back soon enough, so it's no great loss," he chattered. "Um, who was it?"
Just asking out of, you know, casual, friendly curiosity, because the likeliest answer-Paul-would be bad enough, but the answer he really feared was…
"Meself."
Bugger.
"Any particular reason?"
"I know not. I forget…" Hector sank his head into his hands, though he retained enough common sense to clench his fingers high over the crown. Jack waited.
"We'd been drinkin'. I threw a glass of absinthe. Paul had a razor… I were shakin' him by the throat an' callin' him murderer. Poor swab were scared out of his wits by the sight of blood…"
"Not by the shaking him by the throat?"
"Aye, well, that too, no doubt. One way or t’other, he made hisself scarce when I went upstairs for bandages. I've not seen hide nor hair of him since."
Hector drained the tumbler of water, possibly in the mistaken belief it was absinthe, and lay down flat on the sofa, eyes closed, chin pointing to the ceiling, waving a hand to ward off ministrations that were not, in fact, being offered. "Tis naught," he repeated. "I be tired from the journey-ne'er did like blasted railways. I'll be right as rain when I've rested a while."
Jack felt less than convinced. A glance at Norrington confirmed he wasn’t the only one.
"Jamie, love, would you go down to the square? Market'll open soon. We'll need some fresh bread, cheese, an' apples-green ones are his favourite. Maybe some milk… You know, wholesome stuff…"
Jack was a little out of his depth here. His own desultory attempts at shopping tended to begin and end with alcohol, interrupted by brief diversions in the directions of ripe peaches, chocolate, fresh oysters, or anything sold by a girl with the right kind of wink.
"Sorry," he added. It wasn't a word he used often, but then he didn’t often send someone away when the night had begun so promisingly, and Jamie was so chivalrous and concerned (not to mention strong-boned, floppy-haired, and consumed with guilty lust for one Jack Sparrow), while Hector was crumbling inside and out: putrid, raving, untrustworthy, selfish…
But Hector'd saved Jack's skin a time or two (though possibly not as often as he'd endangered it). He was, well, he was Hector and he'd always needed Jack-even when he hadn't known he did. A world without Hector might seem easier to live in, but there'd be a hole in it that Jack'd be forever stumbling over.
"I'm not sure I should leave you alone."
James' eyes added the "with him" he was too tactful to speak aloud.
Jack's eyes replied that was possibly the stupidest thing they'd ever heard. (Though perhaps that should have been seen-except that you couldn't see words, as such, only that foolish, disapproving look on Jamie’s face.).
"In that case, would you prefer me to stay away? I'd quite understand if you…"
Damn James and his bloody chivalry!
"I'd prefer you to stay here. I'd prefer to get you out of those clothes and finish what we started." So what if Hector heard? No-one cared less about chivalry than Hector (except, obviously, Jack). "But I need half an hour alone with him-and we really could use some proper food."
"In that case, I'll be back in forty minutes." James raised an eyebrow towards Hector, now snoring loudly. "I wish you luck."
Right. Forty minutes to make Hector sensible. Damn good thing he was Captain Jack Sparrow, really.
He poked unconscious Hector sharply in the chest, provoking a burbling and flailing of limbs that might have caused a lesser pirate to recall tentacled sea beasties. Jack, undaunted, weaved past kicking, mud-encrusted boots to claim half of the sofa.
"So?" he inquired. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps the reason you were shaking Paul by the throat and accusing him of murder might be that he attacked you with the razor, possibly aiming for your throat rather than your ear, but foiled, no doubt, by one of those famously fast parries you're always boasting about?"
Hector blinked at him.
"What," tried Jack again, slowly, "makes you think you cut it off yourself?"
"Paul told me."
"Getting trusting in your old age, are you? Why didn't Paul help you bandage it? Why's he buggered off now, eh?"
"He left me!"
"Aye, well, people tend to do that when they're scared of gettin’ charged with assault."
Hector lunged across the sofa, seized Jack by both shoulders, and bore him down onto the cushions. This would have been more enjoyable if he hadn't been moistly yelling words like "Nay!" and "Fool!" into Jack's face at the same time. Even so, it wasn't all bad.
"That be what began it. 'Twere why I threw the glass at him."
"I see," stalled Jack, trying to stretch his mind around Hector's implied chronology while wriggling his hips into a more satisfactory position between Hector's knees. "You really must learn not to overreact, mate. A spot of abandonment can be a healthy thing in a relationship. Look at us!"
Oooh, yes, Hector was looking at him, and smouldering with the kind of intensity Jack occasionally glimpsed in James' eyes just before their green gaze slid away. Hector's eyes, on the other hand, stayed right where they belonged, boring deep into Jack's decohering brain. He tipped his hips upwards encouragingly and was rewarded with a growl and rough hands clawing at his shirt. Definitely not all bad.
In fact, Jack noted muzzily as he kicked off his britches and wrapped his legs around Hector, it was pretty much all good-wonderful really.
“Jack, Jack, Jaaack,” Hector rasped, caressing Jack’s face with one long-fingered hand. “What a beauty ye be-lips like summer plums…”
Frank appreciation of Jack’s finer points had been hard to come by lately. His recent acquaintances were lavish with compliments, of course, but they’d met only Parisian Jack. They might fall-who wouldn't?-for the painted eyes, the succulent lips, the quick wit, and sheer sexual charisma, but they couldn’t know him the way Hector did. James knew, but James had an irritating habit of trying to hide how much he was affected by Jack’s allure. Sometimes he hid it so successfully even Jack began to have doubts…
Hector’s other hand was pushing between his legs, coating him with something cool and slippery, soon warm and slippery.
The nineteenth century might have diminished Hector in many ways, but he was as extravagantly proportioned as ever: the mechanics of accommodating him occupied Jack’s full attention for several minutes.
That was one of the things about Hector. By the time he was properly in position, Jack was wholly focused on the physical, his mental voices silenced and absorbed in a world of movement, touch, sight, sound, smell. Hector thrusting and moaning above, the sofa pressing up from below; his own gasps and grunts, and sweat-slick writhing. Heat and friction, tingling, throbbing, pulsing, clutching, sliding…
There was the sound of a very deliberate cough, followed by "I'll leave the groceries on the table," in icy tones that could only belong to James Norrington.
Jack was reasonably sure it hadn’t been forty minutes-Hector being in no shape to last that long-but before he could draw breath to point this out, the door closed again. Ah well, it would be another thing for the indomitable Captain Jack Sparrow to sort out when he had a moment. He’d have plenty of moments, of course: Jack and Hector, and now-gloriously-Jamie had all the moments there’d ever be.
“Jaackjaackjaackjaackjaack…” Hector was chanting his name like an incantation, interspersed with delightful admissions: “Missed ye… Need ye…None to match ye…”
Jack was babbling similar nonsense, but that was alright because he was speaking his mother’s language and Hector wouldn’t understand.
Hector bellowed like a walrus and Jack lost words altogether, screamed and arched just as Hector collapsed onto him, sweating and gasping for breath.
For a long while, nobody moved. Hector was quite a weight, but a pleasant one, and, anyway, Jack had melted, and quite possibly melded, into the sofa cushions.
“Tis true,” whispered Hector into his ear. “I do need ye, Jack.”
Uttered at this point in the proceedings, it was a confession indeed. Jack held Hector close, stroked his scraggly hair, and tried to get his bearings.
“S’alright,” he said at last. “I know you do.” Hector could draw his own conclusions from the absence of argument.
~
Norrington sat in the railway carriage and tried to focus on reading La Gazette. There was an article about the botched guillotining of a murderer (trust the French to build a machine with the sole purpose of making execution quick and efficient, and then use the thing incompetently), but not even this could distract him from Sparrow and Barbossa bickering, or his own unsatisfactory attempts to explain to himself why he'd accompanied them.
He'd tried to convince himself that it was to take care of Sparrow, but really-since it was evidently as impossible to kill the man as to embarrass him-this was a little hard to credit. Curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe he'd wished to keep an eye on Barbossa for his own safety. The man was clearly mad as a hatter: irrational, violent, and wildly jealous of anyone Sparrow so much as winked at, which, inevitably, was most of Paris. Now there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Norrington's presence: he was protecting unsuspecting members of the public from the perilous combination of Barbossa's temper and Sparrow's insouciance. He wasn't sure he believed that rationale either, but there was a chance it'd convince anyone else.
"Right," said Sparrow brightly. "If we could all stop brooding for a moment, I'd like to run through my clever plan for getting everything back to how it ought to be."
"Harrr," barked Barbossa. "Then ye can start out by turnin' this cursed steam train into a respectable coach an' four."
Sparrow sighed and rolled his eyes in Norrington's direction. "As you've no doubt noticed, my esteemed colleague, Captain Barbossa here, has been having a difficult few decades. As a result of which, to borrow a suitably nautical turn of phrase, he no longer dips both oars in the water. Up to now, we've been overcoming this little inconvenience by passing him off as a foreign painter: I've no idea if he's any good. The pictures don't sell, certainly, but they work miracles when it comes to persuading people to indulge odd behaviour."
"Them as wants pretty scenery," Barbossa interrupted, "can buy elsewhere. I've no wish to paint what's in me eyes-what I puts on canvas be what’s inside me head."
Norrington felt certain the contents of Barbossa’s head would be even less attractive than what was currently on it-a bandage and an improbably broad straw hat with a monkey clinging to the brim.
"I can see that would make your work hard to appreciate."
In comparison with what he might have said, this was remarkably restrained, but Sparrow shot him a warning look and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. "However, recent um… contretemps in Arles appear to have gone beyond what can be chalked up to artistic temperament. We need to extricate ourselves and move on. But first, we need to track down and deal with a few compromising loose ends."
This was news to Norrington.
"I thought the trip to Arles was to soothe ruffled feathers, clear up the bloodstains, and provide a story to explain the, er, painter's departure."
"That it be," said Barbossa, sounding most unpainterly, but also uncharacteristically chastened. "An’ to grapple a problem of a different nature."
"A problem named Paul," put in Sparrow. "A nasty little rat, who may or may not also be mad, but definitely paints. Either way, he wormed his way into Hector's affections for reasons that have never been altogether clear. What I didn’t know until this morning, however, was that Hector had seen fit to tell said rat about the Fountain. We need to squash any inconvenient rumours, and, while there’s virtually no chance he can actually find the place, eternity with Hector is quite wearing enough without having bloody Paul along for the ride."
"Why should ye be the only one to invite company?"
"We agreed: no additions without mutual consent. It's hardly my fault if I attract people with the talent to plot their own course to the Fountain."
Norrington was about to object that he’d done nothing of the sort, having merely returned to shore after a hundred year pause, but it seemed wiser not to draw attention to his impermanence in the presence of a jealous madman with a sword and a fresh head wound.
Barbossa, for once, ignored Sparrow's bait, choosing instead to hunch in a dark corner of the carriage and study Norrington intently through narrowed-and suddenly very lucid-eyes. Above him, the monkey swung from the luggage rack and screeched menacingly.
~
The only good thing about arrival in Arles was getting off that cursed train. They weren’t even clear of the stink of coal smoke when he heard the first whispers behind his back. The entrance to the Yellow House, when they reached it, was blocked by a sizeable, but unarmed and disorganised mob.
There was no doubt in Barbossa’s mind that the three of them could seize the place with no losses, but Jack must’ve turned law-abiding from sodomising the Navy, for he insisted on going ahead to negotiate, leaving Barbossa and Norrington in the carriage. Well, Barbossa’d have none of that. He strode after Jack, his naval bodyguard too afraid of a scandal to do more than trail along behind him holding some concealed weapon under his coat-much good that’d do him.
“Ah!” exclaimed Jack, golden smile brittle with deceit. “He’s come out to greet you himself.”
The mob parted cravenly to let him through, though he heard mutterings of discontent at the return of the fou roux, the red-haired madman. Well, if that was how the people of Arles felt, he’d not be lingering. He closed his eyes for a minute, picturing the town crashing down in flames as he gave the signal to fire…
“See?” chirped Jack. “Perfectly harmless. Anyway, he’ll not be staying long. His brother Theo here…” He gestured towards a deliciously startled Norrington. “…has come all the way from Paris to collect his belongings and settle his affairs. Any outstanding accounts will, of course, be paid in full.” Ah, yes, Jack could still play an audience. “All you have to do is present yourselves to me this evening with the relevant paperwork. I’ll be in the rue du Bout d’Arles. First come, first served.”
Most of the crowd having promptly dispersed to hunt out-or more likely create-the necessary paperwork, they entered the house. Seeing the paintings again, Barbossa realised he was fond of most of them-even a few of Paul’s. Perhaps he wouldn’t burn them when he left. They didn’t quite do what he’d wanted, but it was more than he’d hoped.
It was clear that Norrington didn’t understand at all, though Jack stopped in front of one or two, scratching his head.
“I dunno, Hector. It’s got something, but… how can you paint so damn modern when you’re stuck in the eighteenth century? Could you not look at a steam train or a kitchen range-or a bloody newspaper, for fuck’s sake!-the way you looked at those sunflowers? You can’t run away from the present, you know.”
Barbossa knew all too well.
“I ain’t a-runnin’” he growled.
Jack sighed. “Good point,” he said. “You’re single-handedly grappling it, boarding it, and trying to tow it back into the past. Running might be preferable.”
“You be changed, Jack,” said Barbossa. Norrington appeared to be busy elsewhere, so he added in a furtive whisper, “I cain’t be doin' that. I tried.”
“You will,” murmured Jack. “You just need more time.” Then, suddenly brisk again.
“I’ve set you up with a real brother Theo in Paris to sort it all out. Is there anything you want to take with you?”
“Aye, the portrait of little Jack and the Apple Pickers.” It was the only one where you could see the fruit breathe. “An’ I should say me goodbyes to Rachel.”
Jack was giving him one of those looks again, as if he were a child or an imbecile.
“Not entirely a good idea. She’s still recovering from your last visit.” He flapped a finger towards the bandaged ear. “Tell you what: I’ll let her know you send your love. From a safe distance.”
Later in the evening, Jack set off to do that (and settle those damned accounts), leaving Barbossa with strict instructions not to set foot outdoors; Nursemaid Norrington, no doubt with a cosh and some stout rope, stayed behind to see Jack’s orders were followed.
Poor besotted Jack! He’d never stopped to wonder how his latest admirer had found the Fountain, nor taken note of how slowly that scuffed knuckle was healing, and how the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened at the end of each day. Barbossa’d have no trouble dispatching Norrington, fine swordsman or no, armed or unarmed; for the simple truth was that Barbossa couldn’t be killed, but Norrington could.
Tonight, however, it pleased him to let Norrington live. The house, and poor Rachel, had seen enough blood. Tomorrow, they’d go after Paul, but, one day, Jack would find he was alone in the world again-all alone except for his oldest friend, Hector Barbossa. In the meantime, however, it would refresh him to spend a last night in his yellow wooden bed, tucked under the red counterpane and contemplating the portraits on the wall by lamplight like a good little lunatic.
Lulled by these thoughts, Barbossa slept better than he had in years.
~
Jack was not enjoying Arles. Bad enough to be dragged away from Paris to a stuffy provincial town, far worse to spend his time here being sulked at by both James and Hector.
When he finally escaped to the charmingly named maison de tolérance no.1 in the rue du Bout, the girls were in a flurry; the patronne, Suzette (changed from Virginie for professional reasons), was out for payment; and the crowd of creditors took up most of the front parlour. Jack was forced to waste far too much of the night handing out money (an activity he avoided at the best of times, and resented bitterly when he hadn't even had the pleasure of incurring said expenses, most of which he suspected Hector hadn't incurred either).
He did, at least, learn that the rat Paul had passed through shortly after the ear incident, babbling contradictory accounts, especially of his interrogation by Arles police. (Jack spared a very brief stab of pity for whatever poor local constable had landed the job of making sense out of Hector and Paul's shenanigans.)
Apparently, the rat had expressed an intention of going on a long voyage (good: it couldn’t be long enough for Jack) and had made a start by catching the night train to Paris. Better still, Claudette had received a letter from some outlandish place no-one had heard of. This turned out, upon closer scrutiny (three sous for a look at his scratchy handwriting), to be Pont-Aven in Brittany, a mere 600 miles roughly in the direction of-well fancy that!-the Fountain of Youth. What was more, he spoke of finding work in Panama, on some half-baked plan to cut a canal through to the Pacific and take all the fun out of rounding the Horn.
Of course, the rat had no map. (No magical map, specified some seldom-heard, pedantic portion of Jack's consciousness.) Even if he found his way to Florida, it wouldn’t be the right Florida. Hector might be crazy enough to help him, but he'd need Jack's half of the chart, and Jack wouldn’t be playing ball. So no worries.
On the bright and shiny side, going after Paul would keep Hector busy and provide an excuse to spend time at sea. And anyway, when it came to rats and Fountains, you couldn’t be too careful. Clever Jamie’d somehow found the thing without the chart, after all-must ask him how he managed that, but not while Hector was around.
Before heading back to the Yellow House, Jack fooled around for a while with Claudette and ex-Virginie. (They'd been very helpful about tracing the rat-the least he could do was put a little business their way.)
On his return, he found Jamie sitting outside Hector's room and refusing to budge.
Jack tried pointing out that Hector was snoring too resonantly to be getting up to mischief. He tried suggesting different kinds of mischief he and Jamie could get up to without Hector (or with Hector, but he didn't mention that, not being sure how it would go down). But Jamie was obstinate as only the bloody British Navy could be. Jack stomped off to his room, muttering pointedly about the nice warm wenches he'd left behind in the rue du Bout.
~
Barbossa awoke refreshed and with a delightful sense of the tide turning his way once more. His life as a painter was over, but the next would see him once again sailing the seas with Jack-and possibly Paul. Jack’s pet commodore was merely a temporary inconvenience, or perhaps, should things turn out that way, a bargaining chip: the price of his trip to the Fountain being immortality for a companion of Barbossa’s choosing.
In fact, the Navy man looked more than half dead already when he came downstairs just a little too soon after Barbossa to be coincidence. He must have sat up all night keeping watch as Barbossa slept. More fool him! However, it wouldn’t do for Jack to see him looking so mortal.
“Would ye care for some coffee?” Barbossa called, already adding milk to the pan he’d been heating for his chocolate.
Of course, Norrington had to stand in the bloody kitchen doorway to check he wasn’t being poisoned. Barbossa set his face in what he hoped was a domestic smile as he pottered reassuringly. Soon, Norrington was tucking into a bowl of strong coffee as Barbossa laid the table for three with yesterday’s bread, sweet butter, and plum jam. That ought to put a bit of colour back in his cheeks.
By the time Jack put in an appearance, Barbossa was confident Norrington would pass muster. Especially since Jack, for all his immortality, was bleary-eyed and fuzzy from activities that had obviously kept him out late last night. Barbossa smiled and proffered milky coffee, which was guzzled in a single draft.
As Norrington leaned over to refill the bowl, Jack ran buttery fingers through his hair. He froze in mid-caress.
“You’re turning grey!”
“No doubt a consequence of time spent with you.”
“You’re ageing!”
“Ah.” Norrington set down his napkin. “I was going to tell you. Or rather, I’d assumed until yesterday that you knew. Since then, I’ve been waiting for a moment in private.”
“Bugger!” said Jack, turning as pale as his complexion allowed. “You can die!”
“Indeed.”
Even Barbossa had to admit Norrington’s composure was impressive. Anyone else would surely be playing Jack’s terror for all it was worth, angling for a chance at the Fountain. True, Jack's illumination was a setback to Barbossa’s murdering plan, but who'd have thought it'd be so entertaining to watch?
“Hector!” Jack wheeled on him, taut and ashen. “If you so much as think about what I can see you not thinking about, I’ll… I’ll sink you in the Marianas Trench tied to a bloody steam engine-don’t you think I won’t!”
Jack’s face made his point more clearly than his words: if Barbossa killed Norrington now, he’d probably be made to regret it. But that was no problem. He didn’t need to murder the man. All he had to do was keep his hands clean while making sure his rival never reached the Fountain. Time would take care of the rest.
~
Breakfast was never Jack’s best time of day, but this one was distinguished by additional, unanticipated ghastliness. Jamie was dying on him by degrees! And bloody Hector chuckling into his hot chocolate at the prospect of having pretty Jack all to himself for ever and ever. Clearly, action was called for. Also, some nimble negotiation.
"Right!" he said, bright and cheerful as a governess at the door of an art gallery. "All we need to do is get James to the Fountain as quickly as possible. Then we can wait around to see if Paul turns up, or we can go looking for him."
Hector started on all the predictable-predicted-arguments. Jack'd run through them enough in his head: he didn't need to listen again.
"Has it occurred to you that I might not want to live for ever?"
James' question stopped them both in their tracks. Hector harrumphed. Jack tried to think of a clever and persuasive reply. There had to be one, surely!
"Particularly now I've seen how the pair of you react to immortality."
This, thought Jack, was just silly. Everyone wanted to live forever.
"Look,” he said. “We'll just go to the Fountain. We'll have fun on the way and you can make up your mind when we get there. At least you'll know where it is if you ever succumb to temptation-for yourself or somebody else."
That was it! Appeal to the bastard's selfless bloody sense of duty. Jack could see his resolve cracking already.
"Imagine all the good you could do. In fact, now I think about it, it's downright irresponsible of you to leave such a gift in the hands of a scallywag such as myself-and Hector’s definitely-possibly-worse."
"You know, it's just conceivable you have a point."
Ha!
"If I were you, mate, I'd not waste another moment. A steamship from Saint Nazaire or Marseilles could take us most of the way in a fortnight. After that, we use the chart."
"No steamship."
Stubborn, predictable old goat! Honestly, these days, outmanoeuvring Hector was hardly complicated enough to be fun.
"Awright, awright. As long as we're all agreed on the destination, I'm willing to ensure we travel there under our own steam." Hector's mouth opened. Jack held up a hand. "Figure of speech. If it makes you happy, I swear our progress will be achieved entirely by the traditional means of canvas, weather, and rum."
So there it was. All he had to do now was plot a suitably outmoded course and ensure Hector didn’t kill Jamie before they were done. That, and provide Jamie with sufficient incentive to drink the bloody water once they found it, but Jack scarcely counted that as a challenge. Eternal youth in the company of one as charming as himself versus old age, death, and decay: not much of a contest really, was it?
~
Notes
The portrait of Little Jack has sadly never been traced, but you can see Barbossa's bedroom.
For a piratically wild account of Van Gogh, Gauguin, and the night of the ear, see Drama at Arles.
Alternatively, Farewell Van Gogh, is easier to read and has pretty pictures (including the Yellow House), but it’s shorter on scandalous details.
Part 3
See Part 1 for header info.
Warning: reckless deviation from recognised pairings and historical events. NC-17.
Two's Company: Part 2 of 3
Barbossa's fingers clenched around the handle of his suitcase, longing for the hilt of a sword to swing at the intruder. He'd endured the nerve-jangling train journey from Arles to Paris-clanking metal and enforced polite proximity-because he wanted to talk to Jack, needed to tell him about Paul's betrayal: not that he expected sympathy, not with the balance of past betrayals tipped the way it was.
What he had expected, so confidently he he’d not been aware of it, was to find Jack alone, or with some easily disposable floozie. To find him smug, sated, and holed up with an unsuspected survivor from the old days was like losing the wind from the sails with a Navy frigate in full pursuit.
The bloody Navy was overtaking him. Barbossa had spent over a century listening to Jack bemoaning Norrington's untimely death-untimely only in that it had occurred before Jack's ill-conceived lust could run its course. Now signs were he'd have to watch him make calf-eyes at this blasted swab until the novelty wore thin. He’d known bloody Jack Sparrow was the kind to lavish immortality on whoever took his fancy; there’d been arguments enough about that. But how the devil had he smuggled this one to the Fountain without Barbossa’s knowledge, and when? The sight of Jack's open thighs-and open britches-really wasn't making anything easier.
His mind in a whirl, head throbbing, he traded barbed pleasantries with Norrington for a while, pleased to see that little Jack, at least, settled easily back to their old home. Next thing he knew, he was standing over human Jack's chair, stretching out a hand to that quietly curled prick. It was too late to pull back, and too tempting to continue. He reached down carefully with one extended finger, gazed deep into Jack's eyes, and then into Norrington's, as he coated his finger in Jack's seed and slowly licked it clean.
Norrington blanched and gulped. Would he cut and run? No, he drew himself tall and stood to attention beside Jack's chair. It was an intriguing tableau: the guardsman rigid with courage and duty beside the whore of Babylon on a threadbare throne. Toulouse or Edouard would give their eyeteeth to paint that. Barbossa himself should be torn between laughter and arousal, but not today. Today, it provoked only smouldering fury and a crushing despair. Did everything about this century conspire to disappoint him?
He stomped to the cupboard, seized a half-empty bottle of absinthe, and flung himself on the sofa to swig from it, back turned to the others. Let them snigger or bill and coo as they pleased.
After what might have been minutes or hours, he noticed Jack in the chair across from him, britches fastened and shirt more or less tucked in. The new pet bodyguard sat to attention on a wooden stool to one side.
"You might give the rest of us a turn with that," coaxed Jack, leaning forward to place a glass of water in one of Barbossa's hands while easing the bottle from the other. But he took only a sip of absinthe before passing the bottle to Norrington, who set it on the floor out of reach. Jack leaned in close, eyes focussed slightly to Barbossa's left. "Hector," he murmured, "what on earth happened to your head? You look as if someone marooned you."
Barbossa blinked back memories of bruised and bloodstained Jack on a deserted strip of sand, the crew muttering nervously, premonitions of doom… It was so much more real than the washed-out, blurry present.
He raised a hand to the side of his face. Ah, yes: pain, bandages… Something to do with a razor brandished drunkenly in the moonlight… He’d taken the blood-soaked parcel-wrapped in the latest ludicrous headlines-to the rue du Bout and given it to Rachel with some foolish notion of asking her to keep it for him. It had seemed important at the time: his ear, once severed, was surely mortal again, and he’d wanted to entrust it to a mortal who'd been kind to him. That way, when he left her to continue, healed and unchanging, there’d be something left to fade and perish with her.
Stupid, of course. The wench had screamed and fainted in the doorway.
~
"Tis naught-but a scratch-of no consequence," muttered Hector unconvincingly. (Although, obviously-technically-accurately, since, well: immortal. But that was hardly the point, was it?)
Jack leaned forward and removed the broad-brimmed hat. That Hector allowed this without protest was more alarming than the bulge of crusty brown bandages the manoeuvre exposed. Jack pulled open a peephole and peered cautiously in.
"Bloody Hell! You really have gone stark raving bonkers this time," said Jack, but not out loud. He sucked air through his teeth and kept the words where nobody else could hear them. Nice and calm, that was the way.
"Well, I suppose it'll grow back soon enough, so it's no great loss," he chattered. "Um, who was it?"
Just asking out of, you know, casual, friendly curiosity, because the likeliest answer-Paul-would be bad enough, but the answer he really feared was…
"Meself."
Bugger.
"Any particular reason?"
"I know not. I forget…" Hector sank his head into his hands, though he retained enough common sense to clench his fingers high over the crown. Jack waited.
"We'd been drinkin'. I threw a glass of absinthe. Paul had a razor… I were shakin' him by the throat an' callin' him murderer. Poor swab were scared out of his wits by the sight of blood…"
"Not by the shaking him by the throat?"
"Aye, well, that too, no doubt. One way or t’other, he made hisself scarce when I went upstairs for bandages. I've not seen hide nor hair of him since."
Hector drained the tumbler of water, possibly in the mistaken belief it was absinthe, and lay down flat on the sofa, eyes closed, chin pointing to the ceiling, waving a hand to ward off ministrations that were not, in fact, being offered. "Tis naught," he repeated. "I be tired from the journey-ne'er did like blasted railways. I'll be right as rain when I've rested a while."
Jack felt less than convinced. A glance at Norrington confirmed he wasn’t the only one.
"Jamie, love, would you go down to the square? Market'll open soon. We'll need some fresh bread, cheese, an' apples-green ones are his favourite. Maybe some milk… You know, wholesome stuff…"
Jack was a little out of his depth here. His own desultory attempts at shopping tended to begin and end with alcohol, interrupted by brief diversions in the directions of ripe peaches, chocolate, fresh oysters, or anything sold by a girl with the right kind of wink.
"Sorry," he added. It wasn't a word he used often, but then he didn’t often send someone away when the night had begun so promisingly, and Jamie was so chivalrous and concerned (not to mention strong-boned, floppy-haired, and consumed with guilty lust for one Jack Sparrow), while Hector was crumbling inside and out: putrid, raving, untrustworthy, selfish…
But Hector'd saved Jack's skin a time or two (though possibly not as often as he'd endangered it). He was, well, he was Hector and he'd always needed Jack-even when he hadn't known he did. A world without Hector might seem easier to live in, but there'd be a hole in it that Jack'd be forever stumbling over.
"I'm not sure I should leave you alone."
James' eyes added the "with him" he was too tactful to speak aloud.
Jack's eyes replied that was possibly the stupidest thing they'd ever heard. (Though perhaps that should have been seen-except that you couldn't see words, as such, only that foolish, disapproving look on Jamie’s face.).
"In that case, would you prefer me to stay away? I'd quite understand if you…"
Damn James and his bloody chivalry!
"I'd prefer you to stay here. I'd prefer to get you out of those clothes and finish what we started." So what if Hector heard? No-one cared less about chivalry than Hector (except, obviously, Jack). "But I need half an hour alone with him-and we really could use some proper food."
"In that case, I'll be back in forty minutes." James raised an eyebrow towards Hector, now snoring loudly. "I wish you luck."
Right. Forty minutes to make Hector sensible. Damn good thing he was Captain Jack Sparrow, really.
He poked unconscious Hector sharply in the chest, provoking a burbling and flailing of limbs that might have caused a lesser pirate to recall tentacled sea beasties. Jack, undaunted, weaved past kicking, mud-encrusted boots to claim half of the sofa.
"So?" he inquired. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps the reason you were shaking Paul by the throat and accusing him of murder might be that he attacked you with the razor, possibly aiming for your throat rather than your ear, but foiled, no doubt, by one of those famously fast parries you're always boasting about?"
Hector blinked at him.
"What," tried Jack again, slowly, "makes you think you cut it off yourself?"
"Paul told me."
"Getting trusting in your old age, are you? Why didn't Paul help you bandage it? Why's he buggered off now, eh?"
"He left me!"
"Aye, well, people tend to do that when they're scared of gettin’ charged with assault."
Hector lunged across the sofa, seized Jack by both shoulders, and bore him down onto the cushions. This would have been more enjoyable if he hadn't been moistly yelling words like "Nay!" and "Fool!" into Jack's face at the same time. Even so, it wasn't all bad.
"That be what began it. 'Twere why I threw the glass at him."
"I see," stalled Jack, trying to stretch his mind around Hector's implied chronology while wriggling his hips into a more satisfactory position between Hector's knees. "You really must learn not to overreact, mate. A spot of abandonment can be a healthy thing in a relationship. Look at us!"
Oooh, yes, Hector was looking at him, and smouldering with the kind of intensity Jack occasionally glimpsed in James' eyes just before their green gaze slid away. Hector's eyes, on the other hand, stayed right where they belonged, boring deep into Jack's decohering brain. He tipped his hips upwards encouragingly and was rewarded with a growl and rough hands clawing at his shirt. Definitely not all bad.
In fact, Jack noted muzzily as he kicked off his britches and wrapped his legs around Hector, it was pretty much all good-wonderful really.
“Jack, Jack, Jaaack,” Hector rasped, caressing Jack’s face with one long-fingered hand. “What a beauty ye be-lips like summer plums…”
Frank appreciation of Jack’s finer points had been hard to come by lately. His recent acquaintances were lavish with compliments, of course, but they’d met only Parisian Jack. They might fall-who wouldn't?-for the painted eyes, the succulent lips, the quick wit, and sheer sexual charisma, but they couldn’t know him the way Hector did. James knew, but James had an irritating habit of trying to hide how much he was affected by Jack’s allure. Sometimes he hid it so successfully even Jack began to have doubts…
Hector’s other hand was pushing between his legs, coating him with something cool and slippery, soon warm and slippery.
The nineteenth century might have diminished Hector in many ways, but he was as extravagantly proportioned as ever: the mechanics of accommodating him occupied Jack’s full attention for several minutes.
That was one of the things about Hector. By the time he was properly in position, Jack was wholly focused on the physical, his mental voices silenced and absorbed in a world of movement, touch, sight, sound, smell. Hector thrusting and moaning above, the sofa pressing up from below; his own gasps and grunts, and sweat-slick writhing. Heat and friction, tingling, throbbing, pulsing, clutching, sliding…
There was the sound of a very deliberate cough, followed by "I'll leave the groceries on the table," in icy tones that could only belong to James Norrington.
Jack was reasonably sure it hadn’t been forty minutes-Hector being in no shape to last that long-but before he could draw breath to point this out, the door closed again. Ah well, it would be another thing for the indomitable Captain Jack Sparrow to sort out when he had a moment. He’d have plenty of moments, of course: Jack and Hector, and now-gloriously-Jamie had all the moments there’d ever be.
“Jaackjaackjaackjaackjaack…” Hector was chanting his name like an incantation, interspersed with delightful admissions: “Missed ye… Need ye…None to match ye…”
Jack was babbling similar nonsense, but that was alright because he was speaking his mother’s language and Hector wouldn’t understand.
Hector bellowed like a walrus and Jack lost words altogether, screamed and arched just as Hector collapsed onto him, sweating and gasping for breath.
For a long while, nobody moved. Hector was quite a weight, but a pleasant one, and, anyway, Jack had melted, and quite possibly melded, into the sofa cushions.
“Tis true,” whispered Hector into his ear. “I do need ye, Jack.”
Uttered at this point in the proceedings, it was a confession indeed. Jack held Hector close, stroked his scraggly hair, and tried to get his bearings.
“S’alright,” he said at last. “I know you do.” Hector could draw his own conclusions from the absence of argument.
~
Norrington sat in the railway carriage and tried to focus on reading La Gazette. There was an article about the botched guillotining of a murderer (trust the French to build a machine with the sole purpose of making execution quick and efficient, and then use the thing incompetently), but not even this could distract him from Sparrow and Barbossa bickering, or his own unsatisfactory attempts to explain to himself why he'd accompanied them.
He'd tried to convince himself that it was to take care of Sparrow, but really-since it was evidently as impossible to kill the man as to embarrass him-this was a little hard to credit. Curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe he'd wished to keep an eye on Barbossa for his own safety. The man was clearly mad as a hatter: irrational, violent, and wildly jealous of anyone Sparrow so much as winked at, which, inevitably, was most of Paris. Now there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Norrington's presence: he was protecting unsuspecting members of the public from the perilous combination of Barbossa's temper and Sparrow's insouciance. He wasn't sure he believed that rationale either, but there was a chance it'd convince anyone else.
"Right," said Sparrow brightly. "If we could all stop brooding for a moment, I'd like to run through my clever plan for getting everything back to how it ought to be."
"Harrr," barked Barbossa. "Then ye can start out by turnin' this cursed steam train into a respectable coach an' four."
Sparrow sighed and rolled his eyes in Norrington's direction. "As you've no doubt noticed, my esteemed colleague, Captain Barbossa here, has been having a difficult few decades. As a result of which, to borrow a suitably nautical turn of phrase, he no longer dips both oars in the water. Up to now, we've been overcoming this little inconvenience by passing him off as a foreign painter: I've no idea if he's any good. The pictures don't sell, certainly, but they work miracles when it comes to persuading people to indulge odd behaviour."
"Them as wants pretty scenery," Barbossa interrupted, "can buy elsewhere. I've no wish to paint what's in me eyes-what I puts on canvas be what’s inside me head."
Norrington felt certain the contents of Barbossa’s head would be even less attractive than what was currently on it-a bandage and an improbably broad straw hat with a monkey clinging to the brim.
"I can see that would make your work hard to appreciate."
In comparison with what he might have said, this was remarkably restrained, but Sparrow shot him a warning look and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. "However, recent um… contretemps in Arles appear to have gone beyond what can be chalked up to artistic temperament. We need to extricate ourselves and move on. But first, we need to track down and deal with a few compromising loose ends."
This was news to Norrington.
"I thought the trip to Arles was to soothe ruffled feathers, clear up the bloodstains, and provide a story to explain the, er, painter's departure."
"That it be," said Barbossa, sounding most unpainterly, but also uncharacteristically chastened. "An’ to grapple a problem of a different nature."
"A problem named Paul," put in Sparrow. "A nasty little rat, who may or may not also be mad, but definitely paints. Either way, he wormed his way into Hector's affections for reasons that have never been altogether clear. What I didn’t know until this morning, however, was that Hector had seen fit to tell said rat about the Fountain. We need to squash any inconvenient rumours, and, while there’s virtually no chance he can actually find the place, eternity with Hector is quite wearing enough without having bloody Paul along for the ride."
"Why should ye be the only one to invite company?"
"We agreed: no additions without mutual consent. It's hardly my fault if I attract people with the talent to plot their own course to the Fountain."
Norrington was about to object that he’d done nothing of the sort, having merely returned to shore after a hundred year pause, but it seemed wiser not to draw attention to his impermanence in the presence of a jealous madman with a sword and a fresh head wound.
Barbossa, for once, ignored Sparrow's bait, choosing instead to hunch in a dark corner of the carriage and study Norrington intently through narrowed-and suddenly very lucid-eyes. Above him, the monkey swung from the luggage rack and screeched menacingly.
~
The only good thing about arrival in Arles was getting off that cursed train. They weren’t even clear of the stink of coal smoke when he heard the first whispers behind his back. The entrance to the Yellow House, when they reached it, was blocked by a sizeable, but unarmed and disorganised mob.
There was no doubt in Barbossa’s mind that the three of them could seize the place with no losses, but Jack must’ve turned law-abiding from sodomising the Navy, for he insisted on going ahead to negotiate, leaving Barbossa and Norrington in the carriage. Well, Barbossa’d have none of that. He strode after Jack, his naval bodyguard too afraid of a scandal to do more than trail along behind him holding some concealed weapon under his coat-much good that’d do him.
“Ah!” exclaimed Jack, golden smile brittle with deceit. “He’s come out to greet you himself.”
The mob parted cravenly to let him through, though he heard mutterings of discontent at the return of the fou roux, the red-haired madman. Well, if that was how the people of Arles felt, he’d not be lingering. He closed his eyes for a minute, picturing the town crashing down in flames as he gave the signal to fire…
“See?” chirped Jack. “Perfectly harmless. Anyway, he’ll not be staying long. His brother Theo here…” He gestured towards a deliciously startled Norrington. “…has come all the way from Paris to collect his belongings and settle his affairs. Any outstanding accounts will, of course, be paid in full.” Ah, yes, Jack could still play an audience. “All you have to do is present yourselves to me this evening with the relevant paperwork. I’ll be in the rue du Bout d’Arles. First come, first served.”
Most of the crowd having promptly dispersed to hunt out-or more likely create-the necessary paperwork, they entered the house. Seeing the paintings again, Barbossa realised he was fond of most of them-even a few of Paul’s. Perhaps he wouldn’t burn them when he left. They didn’t quite do what he’d wanted, but it was more than he’d hoped.
It was clear that Norrington didn’t understand at all, though Jack stopped in front of one or two, scratching his head.
“I dunno, Hector. It’s got something, but… how can you paint so damn modern when you’re stuck in the eighteenth century? Could you not look at a steam train or a kitchen range-or a bloody newspaper, for fuck’s sake!-the way you looked at those sunflowers? You can’t run away from the present, you know.”
Barbossa knew all too well.
“I ain’t a-runnin’” he growled.
Jack sighed. “Good point,” he said. “You’re single-handedly grappling it, boarding it, and trying to tow it back into the past. Running might be preferable.”
“You be changed, Jack,” said Barbossa. Norrington appeared to be busy elsewhere, so he added in a furtive whisper, “I cain’t be doin' that. I tried.”
“You will,” murmured Jack. “You just need more time.” Then, suddenly brisk again.
“I’ve set you up with a real brother Theo in Paris to sort it all out. Is there anything you want to take with you?”
“Aye, the portrait of little Jack and the Apple Pickers.” It was the only one where you could see the fruit breathe. “An’ I should say me goodbyes to Rachel.”
Jack was giving him one of those looks again, as if he were a child or an imbecile.
“Not entirely a good idea. She’s still recovering from your last visit.” He flapped a finger towards the bandaged ear. “Tell you what: I’ll let her know you send your love. From a safe distance.”
Later in the evening, Jack set off to do that (and settle those damned accounts), leaving Barbossa with strict instructions not to set foot outdoors; Nursemaid Norrington, no doubt with a cosh and some stout rope, stayed behind to see Jack’s orders were followed.
Poor besotted Jack! He’d never stopped to wonder how his latest admirer had found the Fountain, nor taken note of how slowly that scuffed knuckle was healing, and how the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened at the end of each day. Barbossa’d have no trouble dispatching Norrington, fine swordsman or no, armed or unarmed; for the simple truth was that Barbossa couldn’t be killed, but Norrington could.
Tonight, however, it pleased him to let Norrington live. The house, and poor Rachel, had seen enough blood. Tomorrow, they’d go after Paul, but, one day, Jack would find he was alone in the world again-all alone except for his oldest friend, Hector Barbossa. In the meantime, however, it would refresh him to spend a last night in his yellow wooden bed, tucked under the red counterpane and contemplating the portraits on the wall by lamplight like a good little lunatic.
Lulled by these thoughts, Barbossa slept better than he had in years.
~
Jack was not enjoying Arles. Bad enough to be dragged away from Paris to a stuffy provincial town, far worse to spend his time here being sulked at by both James and Hector.
When he finally escaped to the charmingly named maison de tolérance no.1 in the rue du Bout, the girls were in a flurry; the patronne, Suzette (changed from Virginie for professional reasons), was out for payment; and the crowd of creditors took up most of the front parlour. Jack was forced to waste far too much of the night handing out money (an activity he avoided at the best of times, and resented bitterly when he hadn't even had the pleasure of incurring said expenses, most of which he suspected Hector hadn't incurred either).
He did, at least, learn that the rat Paul had passed through shortly after the ear incident, babbling contradictory accounts, especially of his interrogation by Arles police. (Jack spared a very brief stab of pity for whatever poor local constable had landed the job of making sense out of Hector and Paul's shenanigans.)
Apparently, the rat had expressed an intention of going on a long voyage (good: it couldn’t be long enough for Jack) and had made a start by catching the night train to Paris. Better still, Claudette had received a letter from some outlandish place no-one had heard of. This turned out, upon closer scrutiny (three sous for a look at his scratchy handwriting), to be Pont-Aven in Brittany, a mere 600 miles roughly in the direction of-well fancy that!-the Fountain of Youth. What was more, he spoke of finding work in Panama, on some half-baked plan to cut a canal through to the Pacific and take all the fun out of rounding the Horn.
Of course, the rat had no map. (No magical map, specified some seldom-heard, pedantic portion of Jack's consciousness.) Even if he found his way to Florida, it wouldn’t be the right Florida. Hector might be crazy enough to help him, but he'd need Jack's half of the chart, and Jack wouldn’t be playing ball. So no worries.
On the bright and shiny side, going after Paul would keep Hector busy and provide an excuse to spend time at sea. And anyway, when it came to rats and Fountains, you couldn’t be too careful. Clever Jamie’d somehow found the thing without the chart, after all-must ask him how he managed that, but not while Hector was around.
Before heading back to the Yellow House, Jack fooled around for a while with Claudette and ex-Virginie. (They'd been very helpful about tracing the rat-the least he could do was put a little business their way.)
On his return, he found Jamie sitting outside Hector's room and refusing to budge.
Jack tried pointing out that Hector was snoring too resonantly to be getting up to mischief. He tried suggesting different kinds of mischief he and Jamie could get up to without Hector (or with Hector, but he didn't mention that, not being sure how it would go down). But Jamie was obstinate as only the bloody British Navy could be. Jack stomped off to his room, muttering pointedly about the nice warm wenches he'd left behind in the rue du Bout.
~
Barbossa awoke refreshed and with a delightful sense of the tide turning his way once more. His life as a painter was over, but the next would see him once again sailing the seas with Jack-and possibly Paul. Jack’s pet commodore was merely a temporary inconvenience, or perhaps, should things turn out that way, a bargaining chip: the price of his trip to the Fountain being immortality for a companion of Barbossa’s choosing.
In fact, the Navy man looked more than half dead already when he came downstairs just a little too soon after Barbossa to be coincidence. He must have sat up all night keeping watch as Barbossa slept. More fool him! However, it wouldn’t do for Jack to see him looking so mortal.
“Would ye care for some coffee?” Barbossa called, already adding milk to the pan he’d been heating for his chocolate.
Of course, Norrington had to stand in the bloody kitchen doorway to check he wasn’t being poisoned. Barbossa set his face in what he hoped was a domestic smile as he pottered reassuringly. Soon, Norrington was tucking into a bowl of strong coffee as Barbossa laid the table for three with yesterday’s bread, sweet butter, and plum jam. That ought to put a bit of colour back in his cheeks.
By the time Jack put in an appearance, Barbossa was confident Norrington would pass muster. Especially since Jack, for all his immortality, was bleary-eyed and fuzzy from activities that had obviously kept him out late last night. Barbossa smiled and proffered milky coffee, which was guzzled in a single draft.
As Norrington leaned over to refill the bowl, Jack ran buttery fingers through his hair. He froze in mid-caress.
“You’re turning grey!”
“No doubt a consequence of time spent with you.”
“You’re ageing!”
“Ah.” Norrington set down his napkin. “I was going to tell you. Or rather, I’d assumed until yesterday that you knew. Since then, I’ve been waiting for a moment in private.”
“Bugger!” said Jack, turning as pale as his complexion allowed. “You can die!”
“Indeed.”
Even Barbossa had to admit Norrington’s composure was impressive. Anyone else would surely be playing Jack’s terror for all it was worth, angling for a chance at the Fountain. True, Jack's illumination was a setback to Barbossa’s murdering plan, but who'd have thought it'd be so entertaining to watch?
“Hector!” Jack wheeled on him, taut and ashen. “If you so much as think about what I can see you not thinking about, I’ll… I’ll sink you in the Marianas Trench tied to a bloody steam engine-don’t you think I won’t!”
Jack’s face made his point more clearly than his words: if Barbossa killed Norrington now, he’d probably be made to regret it. But that was no problem. He didn’t need to murder the man. All he had to do was keep his hands clean while making sure his rival never reached the Fountain. Time would take care of the rest.
~
Breakfast was never Jack’s best time of day, but this one was distinguished by additional, unanticipated ghastliness. Jamie was dying on him by degrees! And bloody Hector chuckling into his hot chocolate at the prospect of having pretty Jack all to himself for ever and ever. Clearly, action was called for. Also, some nimble negotiation.
"Right!" he said, bright and cheerful as a governess at the door of an art gallery. "All we need to do is get James to the Fountain as quickly as possible. Then we can wait around to see if Paul turns up, or we can go looking for him."
Hector started on all the predictable-predicted-arguments. Jack'd run through them enough in his head: he didn't need to listen again.
"Has it occurred to you that I might not want to live for ever?"
James' question stopped them both in their tracks. Hector harrumphed. Jack tried to think of a clever and persuasive reply. There had to be one, surely!
"Particularly now I've seen how the pair of you react to immortality."
This, thought Jack, was just silly. Everyone wanted to live forever.
"Look,” he said. “We'll just go to the Fountain. We'll have fun on the way and you can make up your mind when we get there. At least you'll know where it is if you ever succumb to temptation-for yourself or somebody else."
That was it! Appeal to the bastard's selfless bloody sense of duty. Jack could see his resolve cracking already.
"Imagine all the good you could do. In fact, now I think about it, it's downright irresponsible of you to leave such a gift in the hands of a scallywag such as myself-and Hector’s definitely-possibly-worse."
"You know, it's just conceivable you have a point."
Ha!
"If I were you, mate, I'd not waste another moment. A steamship from Saint Nazaire or Marseilles could take us most of the way in a fortnight. After that, we use the chart."
"No steamship."
Stubborn, predictable old goat! Honestly, these days, outmanoeuvring Hector was hardly complicated enough to be fun.
"Awright, awright. As long as we're all agreed on the destination, I'm willing to ensure we travel there under our own steam." Hector's mouth opened. Jack held up a hand. "Figure of speech. If it makes you happy, I swear our progress will be achieved entirely by the traditional means of canvas, weather, and rum."
So there it was. All he had to do now was plot a suitably outmoded course and ensure Hector didn’t kill Jamie before they were done. That, and provide Jamie with sufficient incentive to drink the bloody water once they found it, but Jack scarcely counted that as a challenge. Eternal youth in the company of one as charming as himself versus old age, death, and decay: not much of a contest really, was it?
~
Notes
The portrait of Little Jack has sadly never been traced, but you can see Barbossa's bedroom.
For a piratically wild account of Van Gogh, Gauguin, and the night of the ear, see Drama at Arles.
Alternatively, Farewell Van Gogh, is easier to read and has pretty pictures (including the Yellow House), but it’s shorter on scandalous details.
Part 3