Drabbles

by The Stowaway

Fandom: PoTC    Rating: G    Pairing: Sparrow/Norrington    Full Header     Sparrington Arc - 1     next story in this arc

Courtesy

“Package for you, sir.”

A small box, wrapped in tarred canvas and sealed in wax with a bird in flight.

“From?”

“Sailor, sir. No name.”

“That will do.”

Alone, Norrington carefully broke the seal.  Inside he found a roll of cotton and a scrap of parchment.  Impatient now, he unwound the cotton. A flash of gold: before him lay a pin set with a lustrous black pearl.

He gasped.  A taunt, surely!

The parchment! Unfolding it with shaking fingers; he read, in bold and flourishing script:

 With thanks for your gracious hospitality.

Your humble servant,

Captain Jack Sparrow

 Norrington swore.
 

Knocking. Echoing thunderously in James’s aching skull.

“Come.”

“Drink this, sir. T’will help.”

“It looks vile.”

“Tastes vile. Go on, then. You’ll be better for it.”

“You.”

“No need. T’wasn’t me singing pirate songs ‘til dawn.”

“I never.”

“You did. After the reception. At the tavern. With that ‘stranger’ who came to the wedding.” A tiny smirk. “Drink it.”

“If I drink, do you promise to go away and leave me alone?”

“Word of honour, sir.”

He downed the mixture in one go. “Out. Now. Dismissed.”

His tormentor sketched a salute, smiling; turned to leave.

“And Groves?”

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”
 

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth! Look at me, dearest.”

She winced; thankful at least that he had stopped calling her ‘love’.  Stepping back from the window, she faced him, trusting the bright sea light, now behind her, to blind him to her tears.

There he stood, watching her with baffled yearning and a despairing love in his eyes: her handsome Will, her good man, her husband, her …blacksmith.

Her  father, of all people, had been right.

And yet again the wave of bitter regret rolled over her. All she’d ever wanted was a pirate.

With a sigh, she turned back to the sea.
 

“Hence Janus, the two-faced Roman god come to life.”

“It wasn’t God who gave me this face, it was you; setting me up with that cursed medallion. You thought I wouldn’t survive, didn’t you James? Never come back to reproach you. Or perhaps it was M’s orders? ‘Her Majesty’s Loyal Terrier’ would never have refused an assignment, would you? Mission above friendship, always.”

“Alec, I….”

“Oh, spare me, James. There’s nothing you can say, no excuse you can offer that I’ll believe. Although, if you tell me where to find the rest of the treasure, I might cut you in.”
 

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Orlando laughed and rubbed his wrist. “It’s good as gold.”

Rehearsal went on.
~~~~~~~~~

Later that day, at dinner:

“How’s the wrist?”

“It’s fine, man, really.”

“Let me see.” Johnny reached across the table and pulled back Orlando’s sleeve to expose a bruised blotch across the bone. He rubbed it gently; watched the younger man wince. “Looks sore.”

Orlando gave in. “As fuck,” he admitted.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

Orlando’s antennae twitched and his eyes went wide. “Um, yeah. I mean, Johnny you don’t have to …”

“Orlando.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”
 

Mysterious Slaughter of Flying Monkeys
Dateline: Emerald City

Investigators are stymied by a series of brutal killings of Flying Monkeys that took place last week in Haunted Forest Colony. Thirty-seven of the former minions of the Wicked Witch of the West (deceased) were hacked to death on Tuesday by person or persons unknown.

“We’re clueless,” Chief Inspector Rink-a-tink said at a hastily-called press conference today. “We have no solid leads. The survivors aren’t much help in the investigation. When interviewed, they become agitated and scream ‘Cousin Jack! Cousin Jack! You can’t have it!’”

A tip hotline has been set up.
 

“Bloody hell, Harper. Did you see that?”

“I did, Mr. Sharpe, but I don’t believe my eyes, so I don’t.”

“Harris, did you see it?”

“I did, sir. He dashed right into that troop of cuirassiers, killed the French colonel and got clean away. But how? I am sure he was wounded. Dan, your eye’s the best – what did you see?”

“Oh aye, he were wounded. That captain run ‘im right through the ‘eart. I seen it. Took summat off the colonel. Gold, it were.”

“The oddest thing, sir,” Harris said, “he looked like a pirate from a century ago.”
 

Star-Gazing

Orlando stood on the beach – white sand sugar-fine, still warm –   head back, arms thrown wide for balance.

Johnny looked up at him silhouetted against the river of stars; bided his time, amused and appreciative.

“Johnny”

“Yeah?”

“Just…Johnny.”

Patience, he’s almost there.

“Man, look at them all!”

Johnny watched instead the lovely supple line, the stretch and ripple of Orlando’s throat as he drank still more wine from the bottle in his hand.

Too far away, he thought finally, and tugged at the ankle nearest him.

Orlando, far too drunk to save himself – or want to – collapsed into Johnny’s waiting arms.
 

“Each one a story, love.”

It was late – late – and Jack and the rum were spinning tales.

Honeyed lamplight in the cabin; gilding sweaty limbs entwined, sprawling across the bed; flashing and glittering on beringed fingers flicking; shining on beads, coins, trinkets as Will idly toyed with Jack’s wild mane.

“Like roping sea turtles?” he chuckled.

“Stow that, mate.” A growl, a slap, and muffled laughter.

“Well, then – what of this?” Will held up a pigeon’s blood ruby, glowing like fire.

Jack thought a moment, smiling.

“Ah, love, I shall tell you.  It was in Singapore when first I saw…”
 

Jack stood surrounded by treasure, enveloped by wealth that eased and healed his heart. Treasure hung from his baldric, nestled in his sash, lay spread out beneath him – sun-warm and smooth and responsive to his hand.

 Gold had flowed through his fingers like a river. Silver washed over him like a wave. A gratification and a challenge to acquire and a luxury to spend.  All very well and useful in their way, but they had no hold on his heart. They were not his treasure:

 The compass that led him to her.

The pistol that freed her.

And his Pearl.
 

Who knew, until you literally fell into his lap, that this was what he wanted, what you wanted?

Returning from the kitchen with beers, you tripped over (were tripped by?) his feet. A yelp of dismay, a laughing scramble to right the bottles and somehow you’re pinned to the floor in a pool of beer.

“Johnny, you wanker, let me up.”

“Not yet.”

“It’s cold!”

He fists his hands in your shirt and shifts his hips into alignment with yours. Light dawns as dark heat spreads outward.

“Orlando?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Just close your eyes and pull him down.