Two's Company Part 3 of 3
Concluding the 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.
Hector Barbossa, Self Portrait in a Fairly Big Hat
Two's Company: Part 3 of 3
Norrington blinked, massaged his aching temples, and tried to remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. He’d rather thought that Sparrow, being immortal and seemingly indefatigable, might have relieved him for a couple of hours. But no, not content with staying out all hours at the local house of ill-repute, the selfish reprobate had seen fit to reproach Norrington for standing watch. Then he'd slouched off to his own bed to sleep half the morning away, leaving Norrington to keep a weather eye on Barbossa-alone, except for when the cursed monkey came to spit grape pips on his head.
He’d been on guard for nearly five watches straight now. Perhaps this accounted for the difficulty he was having keeping up with the discussion.
“Could hop straight from Morocco to Cuba,” Sparrow was saying, as if the two countries were adjacent. “Morocco's good. Then pick up a ship in Cuba…”
Surely, thought Norrington, in order to reach Cuba we’d need to “pick up” said ship before rather than after crossing the Atlantic. (Good God! He was beginning to sound like Sparrow.) But before he could point out the logical flaw, or impose conditions on the manner of the picking up, Sparrow was expounding plans for the homeward voyage.
“Quick hop to Florida to take the waters, and back through, um… possibly via World's End and the place with the talking jellyfish.” (Barbossa nodded as though this made perfect sense. Norrington reminded himself that Barbossa was mad.) “Never my favourite, that, but from there we could turn the rings to cross back near the Azores…”
“Rings?”
“Aye! Line up the narwhal with the mermaid’s middle titty an’…”
Norrington had never seen Sparrow taken aback in mid flow before. It was rather sweet.
“Oh, Jamie love! You’ve not seen it.”
Sparrow flapped a hand at Barbossa, who nodded meek as a lamb (albeit a lamb contemplating some future perfidy) and pulled a rolled bamboo chart out of his boot and spread it on the table, where it turned out to be little more than the frame around a ragged circular hole. The chart proper-if Sparrow’s exceptionally smug expression was any guide-must be on the tatty scroll he’d apparently conjured from thin air. Clearly, there was history here, and an act of larceny to put Barbossa’s misappropriation of the Pearl into perspective. Norrington tried to hide his smile.
Sure enough, Sparrow’s chart was a perfect fit. Norrington slid it carefully into position, admiring the delicate workmanship-oriental and ancient, even by the standards of those present-and deploring the barbarity of pirates who’d mutilate such an object for selfish gain. He jumped back, barely stifling a yelp. The thing was coming to life!
Sparrow and Barbossa chuckled as the frayed edges knitted together. The concentric rings that made up the centre of the chart seemed to flow around one another like mating snakes. (He suppressed the image at once: further evidence of Sparrow’s deplorable influence).
At last, having apparently achieved the correct alignment, the thing settled, and Norrington leaned forward to contemplate it more closely. A former commodore-admiral-of the British Royal Navy wasn’t afraid of a magical chart. The rings rotated at the slightest touch, smooth and solid now as the parts of an orrery. Writing and outlines of realms, both alien and tantalisingly familiar, slid past and around one another, every new position seeming to yield a different yet coherent chart.
“There!” Sparrow stabbed a fragile-looking archipelago with his grubby finger, nudging a ring clockwise and smearing butter on a soaring albatross. “There’s Cuba, right? On the circle that shows our world? Line it up with World’s End, which is over on this circle here, because it's in a different world altogether and a bloody good thing too; swivel our world thisaway so… an’ by the time you’ve had a natter with the jellyfish, you come back out here: Bob’s your aunt, you’re in the Azores. Nothing to it, really, provided you’ve got the chart with you whenever you need to cross between rings.”
Cuba and the Azores were indeed recognisable-more or less-once pointed out. World’s End was harder to see because the parchment there was desiccated and salt-stained. Norrington knew how cartographers trying to represent the spherical globe as a flat surface were forced to distort some distances in order to show others with acceptable accuracy. Who knew how much distortion the mapping of multiple realms might entail? It seemed Sparrow was, once again, talking a strange kind of sense, although Norrington was a long way from being able to use the chart himself. From his silent acquiescence, it appeared Barbossa was equally baffled.
“From there, we may as well head eastwards by mundane means to make landfall in any of the obvious places: Spain, Portugal, wherever. At which point, Hector, you may bugger off if you so wish-we’ll even drop you in Cornwall should you wish to revisit old haunts-but James and myself will return to the oasis of civilisation and comfort that is Paris.”
Barbossa sighed. Norrington coughed pointedly.
“Or possibly just myself: I make no assumption regarding James' future plans," claimed Sparrow with outrageous inaccuracy. “Merely about the unrivalled charms of the French capital in this delightful century.” He batted his clogged eyelashes. “You’d be a fool to go anywhere else."
“As a matter of fact,’ said Norrington, unwilling to surrender entirely to Sparrow’s spell, “I might like to see something of America. It sounds interesting.”
He wasn’t expecting the twin intakes of breath and disapproving silences that followed. History again, evidently.
“It was only an idea-a whim, really. I just thought, from Florida…”
“I am not going to America.” Sparrow’s fervour made Barbossa’s rejection of steam look like a mild aversion.
Barbossa leaned over the chart to squeeze Sparrow’s hand. “Fret not, lad. We’ll be in and out of Florida for the Fountain: no more.”
Whatever it was about, even the monkey appeared to be in on it, for it held out its half-eaten apple to Sparrow with every appearance of concern.
To Norrington’s somewhat disgusted amazement, Sparrow bit into the apple, mumbled something about rum (speaking with his mouth full, of course), and patted Barbossa’s shoulder as he headed for the pantry. “Lad” passed either unnoticed or unchallenged.
Barbossa silently mouthed, “He knew it afore.”
Afore what? Norrington was aware, theoretically, that very few men were born vile pirates but he'd generally focused on practical considerations, such as catching and hanging them once they’d turned to piracy. He’d thought himself something of an expert on Jack Sparrow, yet now realised he knew little of the man besides his physical appearance and that extensive list of charges. It didn't seem much to show for over a century of acquaintance.
As they packed their belongings and shut up the Yellow House, Norrington began paying attention to Barbossa as a source of privileged information, someone who'd been part of Sparrow's life longer than anyone else. He became aware of details such as Sparrow squeezing Barbossa’s hand while the maid spread dust sheets over the paintings and snuffed out the candles.
If Norrington were leaving a part of his life behind, would Sparrow offer comfort? What would he do himself when Sparrow had to say farewell to Paris?
~
The first stop after Arles was a little town with a sanatorium and an inn that Sparrow had selected for staging the mad painter’s death. It was sufficiently close to Arles for news to carry, but far enough away that nobody knew them or paid much attention to one more lunatic come for the asylum.
This was lucky since Barbossa made a farcical hash of his own demise. Not content to hang himself in his room, as arranged, so his helpful friends could cut down the body and conveniently remove it for burial, he’d gone walking with a loaded pistol and shot himself in the chest. Furthermore, since he’d neglected to tell anyone where he was going, he’d lain undiscovered ‘til nightfall, at which point he’d got up and staggered home, blood pumping inexhaustibly from the wound and running down his clothes to squelch in his boots at every step.
“Fuck!” hissed Sparrow when the gory apparition made its entrance to the inn’s parlour. “Get him upstairs and stitch him before we’re wading ankle deep! Now where’s that sodding monkey?”
They smothered the visibly healing wound with bandages, dosed Barbossa with enough laudanum to stun an elephant, and persuaded one of the asylum’s less conscientious staff to diagnose a fatal injury from the shape of the bloodstain on the bandages. It took two more days to persuade the monkey to let itself be caught and shut in a valise. When it was finally over, the two of them took the coffin away on a handcart.
When the handcart reached the graveyard, there were three grieving relatives to throw flowers into the mad painter’s grave. The locals doubtless assumed the tall stranger was a close relative of the deceased; not only did he have the same red hair, but he was visibly distraught and quite possibly succumbing to insanity in his turn, for he clutched a valise to his chest and appeared to be muttering endearments to it throughout the service.
~
Sparrow was at pains to set out the practical considerations that prevented him washing his hands of Barbossa’s nonsense. It wouldn’t do to have an undead monkey haunting the woods of southern France: someone would notice and ask awkward questions. Even worse if they noticed an undying madman, liable to shoot his own chest open in public then get up and walk away: any general acknowledgement of immortality could lead only to trouble for both of them-and hence for Norrington too, should he ever decide to partake of the Fountain. Appearances had to be preserved, even if it meant putting up with Barbossa and his pet.
Norrington now knew better. In the coach after the painter’s funeral, he noted the way his companions' heads came up at the same moment and their eyes met when the first lungfuls of salt air gusted through the open windows; how Barbossa offered his spyglass the moment the sea itself came into view.
By the time they alighted in the fishing port of Sète on the Mediterranean coast, Norrington was sure. Whatever the outward show of hostility and resentment, it was Turner and Elizabeth all over again, except that Sparrow needed no permission to follow his heart. (Nor, come to think of it, had Elizabeth, but she'd at least granted him an opportunity to offer it.)
Norrington considered getting back on the coach and leaving them to it, but it was so good to be near the sea again, and really, he didn’t know where else to go. To add to his confusion, Sparrow-or Jack, or whatever Norrington ought to be calling him these days-genuinely seemed to want him around. It would be entirely in character, after all, for a vile pirate’s heart to lie with several different people at once. More confusing still, Norrington suspected his own heart was once again disobeying orders, or at least refusing to listen to common sense.
~
They decided against the smart hotel on the square. Jack said the money was running low, and anyway the doorman was clearly viewing them with suspicion before they’d even approached. The cheap one by the fish market proved much more welcoming-and had rooms overlooking the quay.
Fortified with brandy and a local delicacy consisting mostly of cuttlefish and tomatoes, they set off to find a ship. Much against Norrington’s better judgement, the others decided to split up and enquire separately.
“Are you sure that was wise?” he whispered as soon as Barbossa’s suddenly purposeful stride had carried him out of earshot.
“Wiser than you think.”
“It could scarcely be less so.”
Jack grinned, threaded his arm through Norrington’s, and steered them both towards the bar where they'd agreed to rendezvous in a couple of hours.
“Listen, mate. Hector knows boats, an’ he’s good at scaring people. Let him do the hard work of finding a ship and a crew-he loves that stuff and he’ll do it well. Meanwhile, we can put our feet up and sample the local booze. Very important to know what’s what before we stock the hold, savvy?” He settled himself behind a table in a corner and called for rum, ignoring Norrington's objection that this was unlikely to be local. Paying the girl to leave the bottle, he poured them each a full glass, and downed his in one. “Aye!” he decided. “That’s the stuff. We’ll stock up on that. Drink up and have another.”
Norrington did as he was told. Several times. He was deeply alarmed by Jack’s lackadaisical attitude, but really couldn’t think of anything to do other than stick around to try to get him out of whatever trouble was surely imminent. In the meantime, it was easiest to fall back on old habits: in this case, obedience and alcohol. He wondered which he found most comforting.
He’d lost track of time when Barbossa reappeared, grinning like a shark, and talking excitedly about an old-fashioned cutter he’d found, and some men willing to sail her.
“Excellent!” cried Jack. “That’s the one! Leagues ahead of anything we found, eh James?”
Norrington could only nod.
Jack produced a wad of banknotes out of his hat. “Off you go then, Hector,” he shooed. “Go sort it out. But that’s the very last of the money: if we want more, we’ll have to take the train back to Paris and print it."
“Thank ye, Jack.”
Something about Barbossa’s chuckle prickled the hairs on Norrington’s neck. Jack, however, grinned like a village idiot and poured him more rum. He drank it down, but his unease remained.
“You know, Sparrow,” he said to Jack, enunciating each word precisely to demonstrate that he wasn’t at all drunk. “Your sustained ability to misplace your trust in all the worst people never ceases to astonish.”
Jack looked most inappropriately wistful. “Aye,” he rumbled at last. “Well, you should know, love. At least Hector gets my bloody name right. Now, if you had a monkey-which obviously you wouldn't-would you even name it Sparrow, eh?”
Norrington was still trying to untangle the meaning of that when Barbossa returned, this time minus monkey Jack, allegedly left on board to keep the crew in line. (Perhaps Norrington was a little drunk after all, because this almost seemed to make a kind of sense.) Human Jack was calling for more rum and another glass while waving the three banknotes that were all that remained of the wad.
“Let’s drink to a fine ship and a fine crew! What’d’you say her name was, Hector?”
“I didn't,” said Barbossa. “Tis La Sirène Soûle: the drunken mermaid.”
Norrington sighed and tried not to picture the ship's figurehead because it would have the inevitable enormous breasts and bottle, but also dreadlocks, black eye-paint, a golden smile… He poured himself some more rum.
“I’ll drink to that!”
The houri across the table raised her-his, dammit-glass and tipped it back with exactly the sidelong glance and suggestive curve of the throat Norrington was trying not to picture on that damned figurehead.
"Aye! To our latest joint venture, Cap'n Sparrow!" Barbossa pulled up a chair and proceeded to ingratiate himself.
Norrington hadn't drunk enough to be comfortable around Barbossa but, apparently, he'd had more than enough to impair his judgement. He found himself glowing with secret pride when Jack was complemented on recruiting a fine upstanding Navy officer to look after them all. This must be what Jack meant when he muttered about "Hector and his treacherous bloody charm".
Well, charm or no, it'd take more than Hector Barbossa to make Norrington drop his guard.
"We should get back to the hotel," he told the others, hardly slurring his words at all.
"On the contrary, we should find a house of ill repute and partake of a traditional last night ashore before the long lonely voyage ahead."
Barbossa nodded vigorously, but Norrington was having none of it.
"I assure you I've no wish to partake of any such thing, and still less to watch while the pair of you add to your no doubt extensive collections of venereal diseases. Lonely would be a distinct improvement upon recent prevailing conditions."
"Oh, Admiral Norrington!" Jack was batting those bloody eyelashes again. "With all your romantic talk it's no wonder you were always such a success with the ladies."
"I was?" Norrington had always felt he was more of a dismal failure in that department. "Oh," he said belatedly, wishing he could think of something to wipe the smirk off Barbossa's face.
"Do you remember…" asked Jack, leaning over the table to twirl a strand of Barbossa's hair, "… the three-way wager?"
Barbossa's smirk grew still wider and more aggravating.
"Some tawdry nautical variation on the three card trick?" guessed Norrington. "Designed, no doubt, to relieve unsuspecting participants of their valuables with a semblance of legality."
"Only much more fun." Jack winked lewdly. "And without the semblance."
"In our younger days," explained Barbossa, still chuckling, "my seductive colleague and meself would make a proposal to men in establishments such as this one."
Norrington felt that Jack proposing to men in bars was hardly news. He said as much.
"Ah! But this particular proposal had a charm all of its own," countered Jack with a fond look, allowing the hand that wasn't cradling his drink to drift from Barbossa's hair to Norrington's sleeve. "It started with Hector betting he had the biggest prick in the room. Then, when they were all suitably fired up and competitive, I'd come in and offer my arse to the winner and my mouth to the runner up. Loser-or possibly losers, if we were having a particularly busy day-to pay a suitably princely sum for the privilege of attending the award ceremony, so to speak."
Norrington had to close his eyes for a moment. "In that case, I presume Captain Barbossa must be sufficiently well-endowed to run little risk of coming third."
"Or second," put in Barbossa with a leer.
Jack ignored him.
"That was the beauty of it, Jamie, as you so rightly perceive."
"Quite. Fortunately, as you may have noticed, Captain Sparrow, I am not a betting man."
"Jaaack… Ye've gone and blown the patter. An' anyhow, we be a man short."
"I have not," enunciated Jack with a primness that surely spelled trouble ahead, "blown anything at all… yet." He turned to Norrington. "And the lack of one of the participants is precisely what renders today’s proposal irresistible, my ethically challenged former commodore. It ain't a bet if you can't lose."
Norrington was quite sure he had no interest in comparing anatomy with Barbossa, especially since the very existence of the wager was reason enough to expect defeat.
However, he must have failed to make his feelings clear, for the three of them seemed to be weaving their way back to the hotel, Jack swaying precariously with Norrington's arm around his waist and Barbossa's round his shoulders.
"Anyway, 've always been happy with second place," he heard himself slur as Barbossa fished a key from Jack's pocket and unlocked their room. "Story of my life."
~
"Well, exhibit the evidence then!" Jack was seated regally, if somewhat crookedly, on the lumpy bed.
"Why? Surely you have sufficient previous experience to know the result." He did his best to sound indignant, which of course he was, but knew his efforts were undermined by the rapidity with which he was shedding his clothing.
Jack made a show of inspecting carefully, head on one side, and beckoned them to stand beside the bed while he made adjustments, pinched, prodded and generally disgraced all three of them. Not that there was any room for doubt. Norrington tried not to stare, but…
"Oh dear. I'm afraid Hector wins again."
Barbossa grunted. Jack sighed with mock regret, but it was Norrington he smiled at as he licked his lips.
"Never mind, eh? I like to think my mouth's actually my better end, in a number of ways."
Jack fended off Norrington (he must have lunged out to grasp his prize) and pushed him firmly down on the pillows. "Let me get Hector into place first, love. 'S the only way this'll work. You sit back and enjoy the show. But don't get carried away now. I'll be all yours in a moment, I promise."
Norrington was entirely too confused to do anything but what he was told. It was, indeed, quite a spectacle.
Barbossa produced a flask of oil with which he anointed his monstrous organ and Jack's proffered rear. Then they were kneeling face-to-face on the bed, Jack oiling, pumping, and gasping either in admiration as Barbossa swelled to still greater size, or in response to the oiled fingers probing, twisting, stretching… Norrington felt sure what they were attempting must be impossible, a violation of the laws of physics, or probably biology-but, on the other hand (and both hands were working Jack open now), they'd clearly done this before. Many, many times.
Barbossa gripped Jack's hips from behind as Norrington watched them in profile. Jack tilted his pelvis and reached a hand behind him to guide Barbossa into position, his face blank with concentration. Barbossa bit his lip and moaned as he spread Jack's buttocks wide and pressed his blunt cockhead against the opening. Pressed and pressed.
Both men's faces were set like statues of saints at prayer. Just when Norrington thought they'd concede defeat, Jack gave a little wiggle and pushed back and down. Barbossa whimpered and shuddered. He was in. Only an inch, and clearly frantic for more, but giving Jack time to adjust.
Jack went utterly, uncharacteristically, still. Then he shook his head like a man emerging from icy water, made a pleased little noise, and pushed back as Barbossa thrust forwards. Now fully-astonishingly-impaled, he sucked in his cheeks, widened his eyes, and pulled a breathless Norrington into position.
The room was spinning and it was hard to keep his balance on the mattress, especially once Jack's mouth engulfed him in hot, slippery suction. Swaying dangerously, James clung on to Jack's bowed shoulders. He forced his eyes open only to find himself staring straight into Barbossa's face as the other man grunted, sweated and cursed, eyes thankfully tight shut. Barbossa's lips were moving, muttering some nonsense under his breath, crying out aloud, "Jack! Oh, God, yes, Jack!"
Actually, on second thoughts, that was Norrington's own voice. Barbossa was babbling about ships and keels. There was something about stepping a mighty mainmast deep down in Jack's hull.
Norrington wanted to laugh but Jack did something with his tongue that turned it into a choked scream. At which point, Barbossa's eyes opened and fixed him with a withering glare. Not that he cared, not in the slightest. Jack's mouth-most definitely his better end in more ways than Norrington could possibly enumerate at present-was the only thing he cared about, that and not falling over where it might not be able to reach.
"Masts are obsolete," he whispered, when he could catch his breath. Heaven help him, he could feel Jack snigger.
"Harrrr…" rasped Barbossa. "Tis still better'n bein' naught but a bowsprit, or a… figurehead. Did the good Lord not give ye hands?"
This threw Norrington for a moment, for wasn't he using his hands to the full? He looked down at the flesh of Jack's shoulders, white where his fingers dug into it. Jack grunted and butted, threatening to topple him altogether, so he was forced to clutch at Barbossa's shoulder to brace himself upright.
Barbossa snarled impatiently, seized Norrington's other hand, and crushed it into position around Jack's cock. Norrington was mortified at his own thoughtlessness, but only briefly, for Jack keened and quivered, blotting out coherent thought entirely.
He could never remember what happened next. Or rather, he always remembered, but never found the words for it, not even in his head. It was all-engulfing in a way that went far beyond pleasure, shame, lust or disgust. It was noise and sweat and collapsing on top of one another in a tangle of bodies that seemed to belong to all of them at once.
~
He must have fallen asleep then, for he was snapped instantly awake by the same instinct for danger that warned him to make no move. Keeping his eyes shut and his breathing steady, he felt Barbossa stealthily disentangling himself from the heap and getting to his feet.
While the other man was pulling his clothes on, Norrington risked a look around. Yes, he and Jack had the bed to themselves while Barbossa was clearly making preparations to depart in secret. To his dismay, Norrington could do little to stop him. Jack was still fast asleep across his chest and he had no idea where he’d left his weapons. If he made a move, Barbossa’d have plenty of time to shoot both of them before he could do anything to prevent it. Unless he could wake Jack, the only hope was to lie still and hope Barbossa would leave them alone rather than risk attracting attention with a shot or a struggle.
Norrington tried to give Jack a warning nudge, but the wretch only snored louder and settled himself more heavily, pinning Norrington deeper into the mattress. One slender finger came to rest over Norrington’s lips just as Jack let out a snore that sounded oddly like ssshh.
Barbossa walked back to the bed and leaned over them, close enough for his breath to ruffle the hair on Norrington’s arms. He braced for attack, but Barbossa merely planted a kiss on Jack’s forehead, straightened, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
As soon as he was sure the man was gone, Norrington shook Jack by the shoulder.
"What's the matter with you?" he hissed.
"Nothing that an hour or two's sleep won't fix. An' don't you dare say you must've been drunker'n you thought."
"Are you always so trusting after a night of debauchery? I suppose it would explain a great deal about your career to date. You are aware, I take it, that Barbossa has packed up his things and left? If we hurry, we could still be in time to stop him stealing the ship from under our noses."
Jack opened one eye. "Which is a very good reason why we shouldn't hurry. Unless, of course, you're missing Hector's conversation already, in which case, by all means, run down to the dock and obstruct his departure. You can tell me how it works out later-try not to wake me up."
"You want him to steal the ship."
"Aha! There's the Navy for you. Not the quickest, but they get there in the end. "
Norrington struggled to gather his thoughts. It did make a certain kind of sense but…
"Why not just give him the bloody ship?"
"You never really got to know Hector, did you? He needs to win. Having a nice shiny piece of plunder to sail around the oceans ought to keep him happily occupied for a year or two at least, maybe more if he can find Paul and patch things up between them. And if Hector's happy, then I'm happy because I can get on with enjoying eternity unencumbered by unhinged immortal pirate lords and their undead simians. I tell you, Jamie, if you've got any sense, you'll get back into bed and enjoy it while it lasts."
Having only lately become aware of the closeness between Jack and Barbossa, it had honestly never occurred to Norrington that Jack might wish to spend time alone with him, with James Norrington, ex-commodore, ex-admiral, ex-ferryman, ex-everything. He sat down heavily on the bed, feeling somewhat breathless. As Jack tugged his unbuttoned shirt over his head, he found his voice.
"Won't you tire of being encumbered with unhappy immortal ex-commodores?"
Jack beamed delightedly. "I knew you'd try the Fountain in the end!" Then, changing tack. "Eternity's a long time, mate. I 'xpect I'll tire of you now an' again. But I might be more inclined to tolerate encumbrances if said encumbrances were to stop calling me ‘Sparrow’ and looking as if they're still thinking about hanging me."
"Barbossa's the one who should be bloody well hung," said Norrington, just so Jack could supply the inevitable punch line. Then he remembered, and his feeble joke plummeted like a dropped anchor. "But we can't get to the Fountain with only half the map."
"He is," replied Jack instantly. "And we can. There's a few things ol' Hector don't know. Where to get a decent haircut, for one. For another, that an exceptionally talented navigator-such as the one currently pressed against your fine, manly, ex-naval chest-can cross from one world to another without the map as long as he's learned the route thoroughly beforehand. It so happens, I've memorised two perfectly good approaches to the Fountain from our world. We just need to make our way to a particular, utterly unremarkable pool in the swamps behind New Orleans or a certain ordinary-looking stretch of sea to the south and west of Bermuda, and Fanny's our uncle."
"I'm impressed," said Norrington, which was perfectly true. He should have known Jack wouldn't let Barbossa keep even half the chart if it were as indispensable as he'd said.
Jack preened and snuggled.
Norrington decided A) that he'd rarely paid the man a compliment that wasn't backhanded, and B) that he really should try to do it more often.
"In that case, I presume there's another large wad of forged banknotes somewhere in your belongings that Barbossa also doesn't know about."
"Perish the thought! These ones are real banknotes, because we're going to need to exchange them for foreign currencies and I've no desire to draw official attention to my own productions, exceptionally convincing though they are. And they're in your belongings, where Hector wouldn't think to look."
"I'm beginning to understand why I never caught you."
"Fun's in the chase though, innit? Or so I hear. Maybe Hector'll chase us across the Atlantic… Course, we'll be weeks ahead of him if we travel in modern comfort and convenience. D'you think we could share a cabin without provoking a scandal, or should we go for adjoining?"
Norrington wasn't sure Jack could share a bag of sweets without provoking several scandals, but he was distracted by the sensation of naked pirate pressing against him with what felt distinctly like renewed enthusiasm.
"Well?" asked the naked pirate. "What do you think, commodore-ex-commodore-admiral… whatever you are?"
"I'm James," he said. "Just James, Jack."
Oh yes, enthusiasm was very renewed indeed. Jack was right. If this was defeat, Barbossa was welcome to victory.
~~~
No notes, this time. But feedback is always welcome.
See Part 1 for header info.
Warning: reckless deviation from recognised pairings and historical events. NC-17.
Hector Barbossa, Self Portrait in a Fairly Big Hat
Two's Company: Part 3 of 3
Norrington blinked, massaged his aching temples, and tried to remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. He’d rather thought that Sparrow, being immortal and seemingly indefatigable, might have relieved him for a couple of hours. But no, not content with staying out all hours at the local house of ill-repute, the selfish reprobate had seen fit to reproach Norrington for standing watch. Then he'd slouched off to his own bed to sleep half the morning away, leaving Norrington to keep a weather eye on Barbossa-alone, except for when the cursed monkey came to spit grape pips on his head.
He’d been on guard for nearly five watches straight now. Perhaps this accounted for the difficulty he was having keeping up with the discussion.
“Could hop straight from Morocco to Cuba,” Sparrow was saying, as if the two countries were adjacent. “Morocco's good. Then pick up a ship in Cuba…”
Surely, thought Norrington, in order to reach Cuba we’d need to “pick up” said ship before rather than after crossing the Atlantic. (Good God! He was beginning to sound like Sparrow.) But before he could point out the logical flaw, or impose conditions on the manner of the picking up, Sparrow was expounding plans for the homeward voyage.
“Quick hop to Florida to take the waters, and back through, um… possibly via World's End and the place with the talking jellyfish.” (Barbossa nodded as though this made perfect sense. Norrington reminded himself that Barbossa was mad.) “Never my favourite, that, but from there we could turn the rings to cross back near the Azores…”
“Rings?”
“Aye! Line up the narwhal with the mermaid’s middle titty an’…”
Norrington had never seen Sparrow taken aback in mid flow before. It was rather sweet.
“Oh, Jamie love! You’ve not seen it.”
Sparrow flapped a hand at Barbossa, who nodded meek as a lamb (albeit a lamb contemplating some future perfidy) and pulled a rolled bamboo chart out of his boot and spread it on the table, where it turned out to be little more than the frame around a ragged circular hole. The chart proper-if Sparrow’s exceptionally smug expression was any guide-must be on the tatty scroll he’d apparently conjured from thin air. Clearly, there was history here, and an act of larceny to put Barbossa’s misappropriation of the Pearl into perspective. Norrington tried to hide his smile.
Sure enough, Sparrow’s chart was a perfect fit. Norrington slid it carefully into position, admiring the delicate workmanship-oriental and ancient, even by the standards of those present-and deploring the barbarity of pirates who’d mutilate such an object for selfish gain. He jumped back, barely stifling a yelp. The thing was coming to life!
Sparrow and Barbossa chuckled as the frayed edges knitted together. The concentric rings that made up the centre of the chart seemed to flow around one another like mating snakes. (He suppressed the image at once: further evidence of Sparrow’s deplorable influence).
At last, having apparently achieved the correct alignment, the thing settled, and Norrington leaned forward to contemplate it more closely. A former commodore-admiral-of the British Royal Navy wasn’t afraid of a magical chart. The rings rotated at the slightest touch, smooth and solid now as the parts of an orrery. Writing and outlines of realms, both alien and tantalisingly familiar, slid past and around one another, every new position seeming to yield a different yet coherent chart.
“There!” Sparrow stabbed a fragile-looking archipelago with his grubby finger, nudging a ring clockwise and smearing butter on a soaring albatross. “There’s Cuba, right? On the circle that shows our world? Line it up with World’s End, which is over on this circle here, because it's in a different world altogether and a bloody good thing too; swivel our world thisaway so… an’ by the time you’ve had a natter with the jellyfish, you come back out here: Bob’s your aunt, you’re in the Azores. Nothing to it, really, provided you’ve got the chart with you whenever you need to cross between rings.”
Cuba and the Azores were indeed recognisable-more or less-once pointed out. World’s End was harder to see because the parchment there was desiccated and salt-stained. Norrington knew how cartographers trying to represent the spherical globe as a flat surface were forced to distort some distances in order to show others with acceptable accuracy. Who knew how much distortion the mapping of multiple realms might entail? It seemed Sparrow was, once again, talking a strange kind of sense, although Norrington was a long way from being able to use the chart himself. From his silent acquiescence, it appeared Barbossa was equally baffled.
“From there, we may as well head eastwards by mundane means to make landfall in any of the obvious places: Spain, Portugal, wherever. At which point, Hector, you may bugger off if you so wish-we’ll even drop you in Cornwall should you wish to revisit old haunts-but James and myself will return to the oasis of civilisation and comfort that is Paris.”
Barbossa sighed. Norrington coughed pointedly.
“Or possibly just myself: I make no assumption regarding James' future plans," claimed Sparrow with outrageous inaccuracy. “Merely about the unrivalled charms of the French capital in this delightful century.” He batted his clogged eyelashes. “You’d be a fool to go anywhere else."
“As a matter of fact,’ said Norrington, unwilling to surrender entirely to Sparrow’s spell, “I might like to see something of America. It sounds interesting.”
He wasn’t expecting the twin intakes of breath and disapproving silences that followed. History again, evidently.
“It was only an idea-a whim, really. I just thought, from Florida…”
“I am not going to America.” Sparrow’s fervour made Barbossa’s rejection of steam look like a mild aversion.
Barbossa leaned over the chart to squeeze Sparrow’s hand. “Fret not, lad. We’ll be in and out of Florida for the Fountain: no more.”
Whatever it was about, even the monkey appeared to be in on it, for it held out its half-eaten apple to Sparrow with every appearance of concern.
To Norrington’s somewhat disgusted amazement, Sparrow bit into the apple, mumbled something about rum (speaking with his mouth full, of course), and patted Barbossa’s shoulder as he headed for the pantry. “Lad” passed either unnoticed or unchallenged.
Barbossa silently mouthed, “He knew it afore.”
Afore what? Norrington was aware, theoretically, that very few men were born vile pirates but he'd generally focused on practical considerations, such as catching and hanging them once they’d turned to piracy. He’d thought himself something of an expert on Jack Sparrow, yet now realised he knew little of the man besides his physical appearance and that extensive list of charges. It didn't seem much to show for over a century of acquaintance.
As they packed their belongings and shut up the Yellow House, Norrington began paying attention to Barbossa as a source of privileged information, someone who'd been part of Sparrow's life longer than anyone else. He became aware of details such as Sparrow squeezing Barbossa’s hand while the maid spread dust sheets over the paintings and snuffed out the candles.
If Norrington were leaving a part of his life behind, would Sparrow offer comfort? What would he do himself when Sparrow had to say farewell to Paris?
~
The first stop after Arles was a little town with a sanatorium and an inn that Sparrow had selected for staging the mad painter’s death. It was sufficiently close to Arles for news to carry, but far enough away that nobody knew them or paid much attention to one more lunatic come for the asylum.
This was lucky since Barbossa made a farcical hash of his own demise. Not content to hang himself in his room, as arranged, so his helpful friends could cut down the body and conveniently remove it for burial, he’d gone walking with a loaded pistol and shot himself in the chest. Furthermore, since he’d neglected to tell anyone where he was going, he’d lain undiscovered ‘til nightfall, at which point he’d got up and staggered home, blood pumping inexhaustibly from the wound and running down his clothes to squelch in his boots at every step.
“Fuck!” hissed Sparrow when the gory apparition made its entrance to the inn’s parlour. “Get him upstairs and stitch him before we’re wading ankle deep! Now where’s that sodding monkey?”
They smothered the visibly healing wound with bandages, dosed Barbossa with enough laudanum to stun an elephant, and persuaded one of the asylum’s less conscientious staff to diagnose a fatal injury from the shape of the bloodstain on the bandages. It took two more days to persuade the monkey to let itself be caught and shut in a valise. When it was finally over, the two of them took the coffin away on a handcart.
When the handcart reached the graveyard, there were three grieving relatives to throw flowers into the mad painter’s grave. The locals doubtless assumed the tall stranger was a close relative of the deceased; not only did he have the same red hair, but he was visibly distraught and quite possibly succumbing to insanity in his turn, for he clutched a valise to his chest and appeared to be muttering endearments to it throughout the service.
~
Sparrow was at pains to set out the practical considerations that prevented him washing his hands of Barbossa’s nonsense. It wouldn’t do to have an undead monkey haunting the woods of southern France: someone would notice and ask awkward questions. Even worse if they noticed an undying madman, liable to shoot his own chest open in public then get up and walk away: any general acknowledgement of immortality could lead only to trouble for both of them-and hence for Norrington too, should he ever decide to partake of the Fountain. Appearances had to be preserved, even if it meant putting up with Barbossa and his pet.
Norrington now knew better. In the coach after the painter’s funeral, he noted the way his companions' heads came up at the same moment and their eyes met when the first lungfuls of salt air gusted through the open windows; how Barbossa offered his spyglass the moment the sea itself came into view.
By the time they alighted in the fishing port of Sète on the Mediterranean coast, Norrington was sure. Whatever the outward show of hostility and resentment, it was Turner and Elizabeth all over again, except that Sparrow needed no permission to follow his heart. (Nor, come to think of it, had Elizabeth, but she'd at least granted him an opportunity to offer it.)
Norrington considered getting back on the coach and leaving them to it, but it was so good to be near the sea again, and really, he didn’t know where else to go. To add to his confusion, Sparrow-or Jack, or whatever Norrington ought to be calling him these days-genuinely seemed to want him around. It would be entirely in character, after all, for a vile pirate’s heart to lie with several different people at once. More confusing still, Norrington suspected his own heart was once again disobeying orders, or at least refusing to listen to common sense.
~
They decided against the smart hotel on the square. Jack said the money was running low, and anyway the doorman was clearly viewing them with suspicion before they’d even approached. The cheap one by the fish market proved much more welcoming-and had rooms overlooking the quay.
Fortified with brandy and a local delicacy consisting mostly of cuttlefish and tomatoes, they set off to find a ship. Much against Norrington’s better judgement, the others decided to split up and enquire separately.
“Are you sure that was wise?” he whispered as soon as Barbossa’s suddenly purposeful stride had carried him out of earshot.
“Wiser than you think.”
“It could scarcely be less so.”
Jack grinned, threaded his arm through Norrington’s, and steered them both towards the bar where they'd agreed to rendezvous in a couple of hours.
“Listen, mate. Hector knows boats, an’ he’s good at scaring people. Let him do the hard work of finding a ship and a crew-he loves that stuff and he’ll do it well. Meanwhile, we can put our feet up and sample the local booze. Very important to know what’s what before we stock the hold, savvy?” He settled himself behind a table in a corner and called for rum, ignoring Norrington's objection that this was unlikely to be local. Paying the girl to leave the bottle, he poured them each a full glass, and downed his in one. “Aye!” he decided. “That’s the stuff. We’ll stock up on that. Drink up and have another.”
Norrington did as he was told. Several times. He was deeply alarmed by Jack’s lackadaisical attitude, but really couldn’t think of anything to do other than stick around to try to get him out of whatever trouble was surely imminent. In the meantime, it was easiest to fall back on old habits: in this case, obedience and alcohol. He wondered which he found most comforting.
He’d lost track of time when Barbossa reappeared, grinning like a shark, and talking excitedly about an old-fashioned cutter he’d found, and some men willing to sail her.
“Excellent!” cried Jack. “That’s the one! Leagues ahead of anything we found, eh James?”
Norrington could only nod.
Jack produced a wad of banknotes out of his hat. “Off you go then, Hector,” he shooed. “Go sort it out. But that’s the very last of the money: if we want more, we’ll have to take the train back to Paris and print it."
“Thank ye, Jack.”
Something about Barbossa’s chuckle prickled the hairs on Norrington’s neck. Jack, however, grinned like a village idiot and poured him more rum. He drank it down, but his unease remained.
“You know, Sparrow,” he said to Jack, enunciating each word precisely to demonstrate that he wasn’t at all drunk. “Your sustained ability to misplace your trust in all the worst people never ceases to astonish.”
Jack looked most inappropriately wistful. “Aye,” he rumbled at last. “Well, you should know, love. At least Hector gets my bloody name right. Now, if you had a monkey-which obviously you wouldn't-would you even name it Sparrow, eh?”
Norrington was still trying to untangle the meaning of that when Barbossa returned, this time minus monkey Jack, allegedly left on board to keep the crew in line. (Perhaps Norrington was a little drunk after all, because this almost seemed to make a kind of sense.) Human Jack was calling for more rum and another glass while waving the three banknotes that were all that remained of the wad.
“Let’s drink to a fine ship and a fine crew! What’d’you say her name was, Hector?”
“I didn't,” said Barbossa. “Tis La Sirène Soûle: the drunken mermaid.”
Norrington sighed and tried not to picture the ship's figurehead because it would have the inevitable enormous breasts and bottle, but also dreadlocks, black eye-paint, a golden smile… He poured himself some more rum.
“I’ll drink to that!”
The houri across the table raised her-his, dammit-glass and tipped it back with exactly the sidelong glance and suggestive curve of the throat Norrington was trying not to picture on that damned figurehead.
"Aye! To our latest joint venture, Cap'n Sparrow!" Barbossa pulled up a chair and proceeded to ingratiate himself.
Norrington hadn't drunk enough to be comfortable around Barbossa but, apparently, he'd had more than enough to impair his judgement. He found himself glowing with secret pride when Jack was complemented on recruiting a fine upstanding Navy officer to look after them all. This must be what Jack meant when he muttered about "Hector and his treacherous bloody charm".
Well, charm or no, it'd take more than Hector Barbossa to make Norrington drop his guard.
"We should get back to the hotel," he told the others, hardly slurring his words at all.
"On the contrary, we should find a house of ill repute and partake of a traditional last night ashore before the long lonely voyage ahead."
Barbossa nodded vigorously, but Norrington was having none of it.
"I assure you I've no wish to partake of any such thing, and still less to watch while the pair of you add to your no doubt extensive collections of venereal diseases. Lonely would be a distinct improvement upon recent prevailing conditions."
"Oh, Admiral Norrington!" Jack was batting those bloody eyelashes again. "With all your romantic talk it's no wonder you were always such a success with the ladies."
"I was?" Norrington had always felt he was more of a dismal failure in that department. "Oh," he said belatedly, wishing he could think of something to wipe the smirk off Barbossa's face.
"Do you remember…" asked Jack, leaning over the table to twirl a strand of Barbossa's hair, "… the three-way wager?"
Barbossa's smirk grew still wider and more aggravating.
"Some tawdry nautical variation on the three card trick?" guessed Norrington. "Designed, no doubt, to relieve unsuspecting participants of their valuables with a semblance of legality."
"Only much more fun." Jack winked lewdly. "And without the semblance."
"In our younger days," explained Barbossa, still chuckling, "my seductive colleague and meself would make a proposal to men in establishments such as this one."
Norrington felt that Jack proposing to men in bars was hardly news. He said as much.
"Ah! But this particular proposal had a charm all of its own," countered Jack with a fond look, allowing the hand that wasn't cradling his drink to drift from Barbossa's hair to Norrington's sleeve. "It started with Hector betting he had the biggest prick in the room. Then, when they were all suitably fired up and competitive, I'd come in and offer my arse to the winner and my mouth to the runner up. Loser-or possibly losers, if we were having a particularly busy day-to pay a suitably princely sum for the privilege of attending the award ceremony, so to speak."
Norrington had to close his eyes for a moment. "In that case, I presume Captain Barbossa must be sufficiently well-endowed to run little risk of coming third."
"Or second," put in Barbossa with a leer.
Jack ignored him.
"That was the beauty of it, Jamie, as you so rightly perceive."
"Quite. Fortunately, as you may have noticed, Captain Sparrow, I am not a betting man."
"Jaaack… Ye've gone and blown the patter. An' anyhow, we be a man short."
"I have not," enunciated Jack with a primness that surely spelled trouble ahead, "blown anything at all… yet." He turned to Norrington. "And the lack of one of the participants is precisely what renders today’s proposal irresistible, my ethically challenged former commodore. It ain't a bet if you can't lose."
Norrington was quite sure he had no interest in comparing anatomy with Barbossa, especially since the very existence of the wager was reason enough to expect defeat.
However, he must have failed to make his feelings clear, for the three of them seemed to be weaving their way back to the hotel, Jack swaying precariously with Norrington's arm around his waist and Barbossa's round his shoulders.
"Anyway, 've always been happy with second place," he heard himself slur as Barbossa fished a key from Jack's pocket and unlocked their room. "Story of my life."
~
"Well, exhibit the evidence then!" Jack was seated regally, if somewhat crookedly, on the lumpy bed.
"Why? Surely you have sufficient previous experience to know the result." He did his best to sound indignant, which of course he was, but knew his efforts were undermined by the rapidity with which he was shedding his clothing.
Jack made a show of inspecting carefully, head on one side, and beckoned them to stand beside the bed while he made adjustments, pinched, prodded and generally disgraced all three of them. Not that there was any room for doubt. Norrington tried not to stare, but…
"Oh dear. I'm afraid Hector wins again."
Barbossa grunted. Jack sighed with mock regret, but it was Norrington he smiled at as he licked his lips.
"Never mind, eh? I like to think my mouth's actually my better end, in a number of ways."
Jack fended off Norrington (he must have lunged out to grasp his prize) and pushed him firmly down on the pillows. "Let me get Hector into place first, love. 'S the only way this'll work. You sit back and enjoy the show. But don't get carried away now. I'll be all yours in a moment, I promise."
Norrington was entirely too confused to do anything but what he was told. It was, indeed, quite a spectacle.
Barbossa produced a flask of oil with which he anointed his monstrous organ and Jack's proffered rear. Then they were kneeling face-to-face on the bed, Jack oiling, pumping, and gasping either in admiration as Barbossa swelled to still greater size, or in response to the oiled fingers probing, twisting, stretching… Norrington felt sure what they were attempting must be impossible, a violation of the laws of physics, or probably biology-but, on the other hand (and both hands were working Jack open now), they'd clearly done this before. Many, many times.
Barbossa gripped Jack's hips from behind as Norrington watched them in profile. Jack tilted his pelvis and reached a hand behind him to guide Barbossa into position, his face blank with concentration. Barbossa bit his lip and moaned as he spread Jack's buttocks wide and pressed his blunt cockhead against the opening. Pressed and pressed.
Both men's faces were set like statues of saints at prayer. Just when Norrington thought they'd concede defeat, Jack gave a little wiggle and pushed back and down. Barbossa whimpered and shuddered. He was in. Only an inch, and clearly frantic for more, but giving Jack time to adjust.
Jack went utterly, uncharacteristically, still. Then he shook his head like a man emerging from icy water, made a pleased little noise, and pushed back as Barbossa thrust forwards. Now fully-astonishingly-impaled, he sucked in his cheeks, widened his eyes, and pulled a breathless Norrington into position.
The room was spinning and it was hard to keep his balance on the mattress, especially once Jack's mouth engulfed him in hot, slippery suction. Swaying dangerously, James clung on to Jack's bowed shoulders. He forced his eyes open only to find himself staring straight into Barbossa's face as the other man grunted, sweated and cursed, eyes thankfully tight shut. Barbossa's lips were moving, muttering some nonsense under his breath, crying out aloud, "Jack! Oh, God, yes, Jack!"
Actually, on second thoughts, that was Norrington's own voice. Barbossa was babbling about ships and keels. There was something about stepping a mighty mainmast deep down in Jack's hull.
Norrington wanted to laugh but Jack did something with his tongue that turned it into a choked scream. At which point, Barbossa's eyes opened and fixed him with a withering glare. Not that he cared, not in the slightest. Jack's mouth-most definitely his better end in more ways than Norrington could possibly enumerate at present-was the only thing he cared about, that and not falling over where it might not be able to reach.
"Masts are obsolete," he whispered, when he could catch his breath. Heaven help him, he could feel Jack snigger.
"Harrrr…" rasped Barbossa. "Tis still better'n bein' naught but a bowsprit, or a… figurehead. Did the good Lord not give ye hands?"
This threw Norrington for a moment, for wasn't he using his hands to the full? He looked down at the flesh of Jack's shoulders, white where his fingers dug into it. Jack grunted and butted, threatening to topple him altogether, so he was forced to clutch at Barbossa's shoulder to brace himself upright.
Barbossa snarled impatiently, seized Norrington's other hand, and crushed it into position around Jack's cock. Norrington was mortified at his own thoughtlessness, but only briefly, for Jack keened and quivered, blotting out coherent thought entirely.
He could never remember what happened next. Or rather, he always remembered, but never found the words for it, not even in his head. It was all-engulfing in a way that went far beyond pleasure, shame, lust or disgust. It was noise and sweat and collapsing on top of one another in a tangle of bodies that seemed to belong to all of them at once.
~
He must have fallen asleep then, for he was snapped instantly awake by the same instinct for danger that warned him to make no move. Keeping his eyes shut and his breathing steady, he felt Barbossa stealthily disentangling himself from the heap and getting to his feet.
While the other man was pulling his clothes on, Norrington risked a look around. Yes, he and Jack had the bed to themselves while Barbossa was clearly making preparations to depart in secret. To his dismay, Norrington could do little to stop him. Jack was still fast asleep across his chest and he had no idea where he’d left his weapons. If he made a move, Barbossa’d have plenty of time to shoot both of them before he could do anything to prevent it. Unless he could wake Jack, the only hope was to lie still and hope Barbossa would leave them alone rather than risk attracting attention with a shot or a struggle.
Norrington tried to give Jack a warning nudge, but the wretch only snored louder and settled himself more heavily, pinning Norrington deeper into the mattress. One slender finger came to rest over Norrington’s lips just as Jack let out a snore that sounded oddly like ssshh.
Barbossa walked back to the bed and leaned over them, close enough for his breath to ruffle the hair on Norrington’s arms. He braced for attack, but Barbossa merely planted a kiss on Jack’s forehead, straightened, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
As soon as he was sure the man was gone, Norrington shook Jack by the shoulder.
"What's the matter with you?" he hissed.
"Nothing that an hour or two's sleep won't fix. An' don't you dare say you must've been drunker'n you thought."
"Are you always so trusting after a night of debauchery? I suppose it would explain a great deal about your career to date. You are aware, I take it, that Barbossa has packed up his things and left? If we hurry, we could still be in time to stop him stealing the ship from under our noses."
Jack opened one eye. "Which is a very good reason why we shouldn't hurry. Unless, of course, you're missing Hector's conversation already, in which case, by all means, run down to the dock and obstruct his departure. You can tell me how it works out later-try not to wake me up."
"You want him to steal the ship."
"Aha! There's the Navy for you. Not the quickest, but they get there in the end. "
Norrington struggled to gather his thoughts. It did make a certain kind of sense but…
"Why not just give him the bloody ship?"
"You never really got to know Hector, did you? He needs to win. Having a nice shiny piece of plunder to sail around the oceans ought to keep him happily occupied for a year or two at least, maybe more if he can find Paul and patch things up between them. And if Hector's happy, then I'm happy because I can get on with enjoying eternity unencumbered by unhinged immortal pirate lords and their undead simians. I tell you, Jamie, if you've got any sense, you'll get back into bed and enjoy it while it lasts."
Having only lately become aware of the closeness between Jack and Barbossa, it had honestly never occurred to Norrington that Jack might wish to spend time alone with him, with James Norrington, ex-commodore, ex-admiral, ex-ferryman, ex-everything. He sat down heavily on the bed, feeling somewhat breathless. As Jack tugged his unbuttoned shirt over his head, he found his voice.
"Won't you tire of being encumbered with unhappy immortal ex-commodores?"
Jack beamed delightedly. "I knew you'd try the Fountain in the end!" Then, changing tack. "Eternity's a long time, mate. I 'xpect I'll tire of you now an' again. But I might be more inclined to tolerate encumbrances if said encumbrances were to stop calling me ‘Sparrow’ and looking as if they're still thinking about hanging me."
"Barbossa's the one who should be bloody well hung," said Norrington, just so Jack could supply the inevitable punch line. Then he remembered, and his feeble joke plummeted like a dropped anchor. "But we can't get to the Fountain with only half the map."
"He is," replied Jack instantly. "And we can. There's a few things ol' Hector don't know. Where to get a decent haircut, for one. For another, that an exceptionally talented navigator-such as the one currently pressed against your fine, manly, ex-naval chest-can cross from one world to another without the map as long as he's learned the route thoroughly beforehand. It so happens, I've memorised two perfectly good approaches to the Fountain from our world. We just need to make our way to a particular, utterly unremarkable pool in the swamps behind New Orleans or a certain ordinary-looking stretch of sea to the south and west of Bermuda, and Fanny's our uncle."
"I'm impressed," said Norrington, which was perfectly true. He should have known Jack wouldn't let Barbossa keep even half the chart if it were as indispensable as he'd said.
Jack preened and snuggled.
Norrington decided A) that he'd rarely paid the man a compliment that wasn't backhanded, and B) that he really should try to do it more often.
"In that case, I presume there's another large wad of forged banknotes somewhere in your belongings that Barbossa also doesn't know about."
"Perish the thought! These ones are real banknotes, because we're going to need to exchange them for foreign currencies and I've no desire to draw official attention to my own productions, exceptionally convincing though they are. And they're in your belongings, where Hector wouldn't think to look."
"I'm beginning to understand why I never caught you."
"Fun's in the chase though, innit? Or so I hear. Maybe Hector'll chase us across the Atlantic… Course, we'll be weeks ahead of him if we travel in modern comfort and convenience. D'you think we could share a cabin without provoking a scandal, or should we go for adjoining?"
Norrington wasn't sure Jack could share a bag of sweets without provoking several scandals, but he was distracted by the sensation of naked pirate pressing against him with what felt distinctly like renewed enthusiasm.
"Well?" asked the naked pirate. "What do you think, commodore-ex-commodore-admiral… whatever you are?"
"I'm James," he said. "Just James, Jack."
Oh yes, enthusiasm was very renewed indeed. Jack was right. If this was defeat, Barbossa was welcome to victory.
~~~
No notes, this time. But feedback is always welcome.