FIC: Possession
Title: Possession
For: axmxz
The request: "Jack gets sold into slavery for being too pretty. James buys him and becomes smitten."
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: It’s cliché, but god it’s fun to write, it’s the dreaded slave!fic that I’ve been not thinking about writing, at all. Really. Unbetaed. Which was probably a bad idea. It feels like it should be part of something longer. That doesn't mean that more is to come. It also doesn't mean that there won't be, if the mood strikes.
*~*~*~*
It was unseasonably hot out in the courtyard and James was sweating profusely under his wig. His heels, fashionable, if not highly impractical, were making his calves ache and with the added weight of an embroidered frock coat he suddenly had a very good idea of why exactly it was that Miss Swann had fainted that day out on the battlements. There was not a breath of fresh air to be had and he fanned himself with the little pamphlet that he had been given. On the more optimistic side of affairs, he at least had some cover from the direct rays of the sun, unlike the poor wretches being assembled up on the platform.
If you had asked any of his men to name the last place in the world that one might expect to find James Norrington -whilst he was barely ashore on his first day acting as a sort of diplomat - a gentleman’s auction of slaves (including highly skilled, highly prized, or illegal white slaves - not indentured men) might have easily made the list.
James was not a man out to make a political statement at this point in his career. He had the favor of the governor, true, and a promising future ahead of him, but his position was not Admiral, nor was he of an old and noble family. If he wished to keep his place then he would do well not to make overly large waves. Letting Jack Sparrow have that one day’s start (that had turned into one year of being led on a merry chase and ten months of wondering where in Hell Sparrow had vanished to after that) had been enough of a gesture. Not that it had made its way into his reports. In any case, James was content to keep his secret away from the scrutiny of Port Royal and between himself and those who it directly affected.
His estate took very little upkeep. He was a bachelor and he had no dependants. He dined in the barracks more often than not and both he and his housekeeper were skilled enough at mending that he needed a new uniform only rarely. So for the past ten years, James had been saving wisely for his eventual marriage and using what was left to do what he liked to call his little acts of Good Will T’wards Men.
In ten years James had managed to buy and free eighteen slaves overall, including three families. It wasn’t anything like a dent in the slave trade, but he was not a rich man, and James asked nothing in return from the men and women he freed. He would write them letters of reference so they might take jobs as paid domestics or take apprenticeships and become skilled laborers. On one memorable occasion he had paid for one man’s passage back to Africa. His housekeeper was one of the women he had freed and her husband kept his garden for him. They lived on his estate and took a small wage - less than he would have liked to give, but they pressed him to save their wages to free others, as room and board did them just fine.
This particular auction was not yielding the results that James might have hoped. Most of the men being bought and sold were going to skilled positions and James preferred to help those in dire need of it. A man being sold as a manservant didn’t seem to need rescue anywhere near as much as someone to be sent to slave in cotton fields until they dropped from exhaustion.
It was only after one strikingly handsome young man had been sold that James’ suspicion was aroused. The second time another boy of great physical beauty was auctioned off to a man of questionable tastes - to put it delicately - he decided it was no coincidence and this market was a venue not only for men with skills and illegal slaves but also for boys suitable for sodomites to keep as catamites. It was enough to make the headache building behind James’ eyes stab into him with an acute pain.
If you were to ask his men a second time about James Norrington, they might shrug and say that still waters run deep, but it would be a sharp eye indeed that would label him as a lover of men. James could not condemn one man for loving another, since if law and position would not hang him for doing so, James might have easily taken up with some fellow or other, but since the law would indeed see him hung, James kept his desires to himself. The Navy provided him with enough work to keep him distracted from concerning himself with the pleasures of the flesh. Neither could he condemn those who would sell themselves for coin because he wasn’t so foolish as not to know this was the only option for some unfortunates. He did not like it, but he would not damn them for it.
This, however, was something altogether different and it rankled.
Out amongst these gentlemen, no one would question him if he were to purchase one of these boys because so long as one took a wife and made heirs they seemed to care less who one chose to indulge with in their free time. It did cross James’ mind, however, that these noblemen were exactly the same men he might be meeting later on and he did not want to have to suffer their winks and nods. In all probability he would have to keep the boy under a pretense of servitude until they were aboard again and then he would have to suffer the questioning of his men and his secret would be out in the open and…
Christ, James thought, fanning himself with renewed vigor just so he could get some air; it was all such a bloody mess.
James was not an overly religious man. He did not trouble the Lord with the troubles of his daily life but he said his prayers and gave his thanks when they were due and in return he only asked that God guide him to where his help was most needed when he tried to help his fellow man. Mostly, it seemed as though his prayers were being answered in subtle and quiet ways. This time, when he was close to heat exhaustion, at a loss over the course to take and about ready to despair, it seemed like God really had been listening because it was not a quiet and gentle hint that he received as to whom to save, it was like being struck about the ears by a particularity vicious fishwife (an unfortunate experience he’d had when he was young that he’d never quite recovered from and had maintained a distrust of all such women and their surprisingly strong fists).
On the auction block, stripped down to the loincloth worn by all slaves at such actions, was a man being touted as a gypsy prince. This so-called prince was in a poor state compared to the rest of the men; he was favoring his left foot and his posture was poor. When he was prodded into turning about there were lash marks on his back less than a fortnight old. He did not seem to be, as they said, a wild, untamable spirit (which seemed to spark some interest amongst some men that James had picked out as being unsavory); he looked tired and broken. Neither was the man as young as they were claiming, James would have said somewhere in his late thirties but they were boasting he was about the age of twenty. True, his skin was a rich golden color but that looked like a very deep tan to James, and not entirely by virtue of birth. His whipcord muscles were the product of years of hard labor; Keep that man out of the sun and he would pale and weaken. Yes, his hair was thick and longish, but it was not, as they claimed, black as ebony, it had simply been oiled until it was dark with the gloss, and the tattoos the man sported were not barbaric sigils, they were common amongst sailors - though the mermaid with the shark’s teeth and the woman in black who looked half ghost, half widow were very nicely inked. The ship on his back was the masterpiece of the collection, though it had been marred by the lash marks.
All in all, James was about as impressed as he had been the first time he had seen the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow; and that really wasn’t saying much.
This time, however, his emotions were more to do with pity than anger and this time he wasn’t afraid for the bright young woman he’d hoped to marry but for the glittering creature who’d eluded him time and again and brought him much respite from the drudgery of paperwork. Jack Sparrow was not a man made to be obedient and paraded in front of gentlemen like so much chattel in chains and, stripped of his ragged finery and of his barbaric baubles and trinkets that had adorned him, he looked horribly forlorn. He looked a great deal less impressive, or at least less threatening, without the great tangle of hair and the braided beard. James found himself wishing they’d not taken that from Sparrow as well. But this was not Jack Sparrow, simply a ghost of him. This was a man who needed his help, no matter how ill advised it seemed.
Less than five minutes later, and James found himself the questionably proud owner of one gypsy prince, formerly known as one Jack Sparrow, pirate and irritant extraordinaire. He made his way through the crowd to where he could sign the papers, pay his gold and pick up what was left of Sparrow’s effects and what was left of Sparrow.
God, he prayed silently, you’ve shown me what to do today, all I ask is that you show Sparrow that keeping his foolish mouth shut would be the most prudent course of action at this time.
Either James was on a holy mission, Jack Sparrow was smarter than he played himself as, or the pirate was too exhausted and dazzled by the heat to properly notice what was going on, because he made no indication of recognizing James at all. They had none of his old clothing though they had saved the baubles and trinkets that had been woven into his hair. Instead, Sparrow had some sort of elaborate costume that, James supposed, was meant to resemble a gentleman’s romantic ideal of what a gypsy should wear. It involved impractical trews of a baggy, harem nature, a sash not unlike the one Sparrow had owned, except clean and a great deal shorter, a flowing shirt of deep red and knee high boots that were as foolishly designed as Sparrow’s previous pair, only skin tight and designed to show off the curve of Sparrow’s leg. If nothing else, the clothing proved James’ theory right. They were not slave clothing, they were the clothes of a man meant to be kept for ornament.
Sparrow dressed himself as James signed the papers and Sparrow moved slowly and stiffly, like a man who had been working at labors he was unused to.
“Watch yourself with this one,” the man in charge of the contracts said amicably. “He’s a bit of a handful, so don’t be afraid to give him a few licks with the cane. He’s tougher than he looks anyhow, so he can take it just fine.”
James’ naval training was the only thing that kept his lip from curling into a sneer. “Is that so,” he said instead. “I was hoping someone might explain the lashes on his back.”
The man shrugged and took James’ money. “From what I heard, he put up a bit of fuss at being sold. He’s not been in service before, you see. They’ve taken the better part of the year to train him to behave, that’s why the price. That, and though he’s been taught to behave, he’s got no real habits needing to be changed to suit, so it’s a blank slate you’ve just bought yourself.”
“Does he have a name?” James asked quietly, deciding he was going to need a very long bath to rid himself of the dirty feeling he was getting.
“It’s here-” the man pointed at a place on the papers - “says ‘Jack’ but that can be changed, if you like. It’s not a very interesting name, and they might have just picked it if they couldn’t spell his original name. I see a lot of ‘Jack’s, and ‘John’s, and such.”
Next to them, carefully not looking up, Sparrow had gone very quiet and very still. James shook his head. “No, Jack is fine.” It almost hurt to watch the tiny shudder that ran through Sparrow at that; as though keeping his name (or, more likely, the name he’d chosen for himself when embarking upon his ill advised career as a pirate) was either the greatest relief he could have been given, or perhaps the greatest punishment.
“Well, that’s about it then.” He handed over the bill of sale to James and smiled broadly. “Enjoy.”
James carefully folded the papers and put them in his coat. “Thank you,” he said politely, and gave Sparrow a tap on the shoulder with his pamphlet. “Follow me.” To his surprise and sorrow, Sparrow did as he was told. He was definitely limping, though he seemed to be doing his best to hide the problem. James made no comment and Sparrow made no sign that he recognized James and they continued this way until, a few streets away from the auction, James led Sparrow into a small tavern and gestured for him to sit. Sparrow did so, keeping his head down and put his hands in his lap. It was unnerving to see him so still and so quiet.
“Sparrow…” James began.
Sparrow’s head came up so fast that James feared he would have whiplash. His dark eyes were wide and haunted and his mouth hung slightly agape. “Commodore?” he said, sounding confused as he looked. Then he bit down on his bottom lip, cringed, and dropped his gaze again.
James tried not to flinch too. “Sparrow, for God’s sake, man, look at me.” This time Sparrow looked up but not directly at James, more like at his left shoulder. It was irritating and frustrating because it was how high class slaves were trained to look at their masters without actually looking at them. “I’m not going to hit you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” James said tiredly. “I have no interest in owning a slave and less interest in beating men into such an intolerable state of submission.”
Sparrow slowly met his gaze, the corners of his mouth trembling with some suppressed emotion. “If you’re going to hang me, Commodore,” he said quietly, “can it at least be where I can see the water? Consider it a last request.” His shoulders crept up and his head lowered again, as though he were too exhausted to sit upright any longer. “I ain’t seen the sea for so long.” His voice was so quiet that James almost missed it, and then wasn’t so sure that he didn’t wish that he had. He was a sailor first, and a commodore second and he loved the sea like it was in his blood and he could understand all too well the anguish in Sparrow’s voice.
James smiled suddenly, a slight upturn of his lips, and the weight in his heart lifted. “You know, after you disappeared I couldn’t figure out what had happened, especially since the Black Pearl was still causing trouble.” Sparrow cringed like he’d been struck but James continued, in equally good humor and indicated to the serving girl that he’d like two drinks and don’t water them either. “I assumed you’d met some sort of bizarre end and I just hadn’t heard the story yet from Mrs. Turner - I believe you know her better as Miss Swann - then I found out, from a very interesting, and somewhat intimidating young woman that the Black Pearl didn’t know where you’d vanished to either. I found that your AnaMaria is a very reasonable woman. As is that Gibbs fellow, though he is somewhat more prone to lengthy soliloquies than she is.”
The drinks were set before them and James paused to ease his thirst. Sparrow took hold of his own mug, waited, as though unsure of reprisal and then began drinking like a man who’d been in the desert. James watched for a moment until Sparrow, panting, set his mug down. It was empty. He motioned for another to be brought to Sparrow and then continued with his piece of good news;
“There’s likely to be a war. There’s always a war, and the Royal Navy is always in need of privateers even if there isn’t officially anyone to be attacking. A ship as notorious as the Black Pearl could raid whom she wished, when she wished, and it would never be suspected that she is a privateer ship now.” James kept his tone bland.
Sparrow looked up sharply but didn’t say anything.
“I might even make Admiral in a short time, since I’m the man who brought such a notorious ship to heel - or at least that’s the version that the Admiralty in London are getting,” James continued, as though Sparrow had made no indication he was even listening. “That said, I believe it’s Gibbs’ name on the articles as Acting Captain, though AnaMaria is the one who actually commands the crew. We thought it prudent not to announce the fact that there was a woman aboard since the Pearl is now, technically, part of the Navy. Oh, you might appreciate the fact that Anamaria signed on as …Give me a moment, I think it was…something like John Thomas, or Robert Head,” he allowed himself to chuckle a bit at that, as he hadn’t been able to do when he’d first seen the name. “I protested, but your crew thought it hilarious, so who was I to dissuade them?”
“Acting Captain?” Sparrow’s knuckles were white he was gripping the mug so hard.
James nodded, calm as a mill pond. “Well she is your ship.” He gave Sparrow a stern look. “So long as you keep to the privateering business, of course.” The look softened considerably at the pain visible on Sparrow’s face and he said, almost teasing; “Well it would seem a damned shame to have to hang you now after your first mate so cleverly negotiated your pardon.”
It took a long time, but Sparrow slowly unclenched his fingers and gave James a look of utter disbelief. “You don’ want to keep me as a slave, an’ you ain’t going to hang me; rather, I get to go free an’ go home an’ continue with my wicked ways, so long as I don’t attack Ol’ George’s ships. Have I got that right?”
“That’s about the long and the short of it,” James agreed as the second mug was placed in front of Sparrow. “I imagine you’ll be wanting that rot-gut you’ve got in front of you, right about now,” he said dryly.
Sparrow drank reflexively. His hands were shaking. He put the mug down abruptly and started to laugh. His laughing sounded as though it was halfway between sobbing and hysteria and he put his face in his hands, digging unusually clean fingers into his sleek, oiled hair. “I ain’t seen the sea for months, nor had a drop of liquor. I ain’t seen my Pearl…” He looked up at James and his eyes were haunted. “I thought I would die like this. Why did you save me?”
James shrugged one shoulder and sipped at his own drink. The rum, though not his drink of choice when ashore, was strong and sweet. He meant to say something like, ‘a momentary lapse of sanity’ but what came out was the truth; “I do what I can to help others.”
“You’ve done this before,” Sparrow accused and the laughter started up again. “Christ, the scourge of piracy savin’ slaves. Saving a pirate slave…” He calmed himself after a moment or two, enough to take another swallow of the rum, which seemed to calm him a little more. “Those men will ask after me,” he said between wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, cringing and jerking his hand away and then looking embarrassed at doing so. “You’ve bought me fair an’ square an’ they’re going t’ notice if I’m prancing about like a free man.”
The idea of Sparrow’s prancing, as he called it, was enough to make James smile again. “I daresay even I would be pleased to see you…enjoying your freedom, after-” after seeing him flinch like a dog beaten once too many times- “after your ordeal, but you are quite correct. I am here for two weeks and in that time I believe we might come to some arrangement wherein you act as my slave and I don’t abuse your trust.” He lifted his mug with an ironic look. “Do we have an accord?”
“Aye, aye, Commodore, on my honor.” He watched James warily as though James might doubt his word or his honor; two things James had no intention of doing, since a Pirate Sparrow was, and he’d certainly proven himself dishonest enough, but Turner had been right, like any other good man, Sparrow was not a man to take his word lightly.
James reached into his coat and withdrew the little packet of beads and trinkets that had been in Sparrow’s hair. “In that case, I believe these are yours.” He sighed wryly as Sparrow ripped open the packet, eager as a child on his birthday. “I must confess, you look rather different without all your…” he floundered, at a loss for a word to fully encompass the multitude of elements that made up Captain Jack Sparrow.
Sparrow looked up at him with what looked suspiciously like tears in his eyes and grinned, hard and sharp as flint. “Give me time,” he said and blinked; all traces of sadness erased and replaced with the same determination that James had seen on his face that first day on the docks. “Give me time.”
“So long as you continue bathing, Sparrow,” James said primly, “I couldn’t care less what you do with your corpus.”
Sparrow shook his head. “That’s no good. Christ, you’d make a terrible Player, no playhouse in the world would be mad enough t’ put you on the boards.” He stuffed the packet into his sash where it made an unsightly bulge in the smooth line of his waist. “It ain’t ‘Sparrow’-”
“Well I can’t very well call you Captain,” James said, and held out his hand. “You’d best give me back your trinkets, you’ve no pockets to keep them in.”
“Jack,” Sparrow said. “You’ve got to call me Jack, or boy, or ‘oi, you, slave’. Mm, perhaps not ‘boy’ since I’m pretty sure I’ve got a good few years on you. Not Sparrow, at any rate; ain’t no one here that knows my name.” He pulled the packet out of his sash again, but didn’t hand it back. “An’ it’s not, ‘you’d best give me,’ it’s got to be ‘Jack, the packet.’” Sparrow glared down his nose and did a passable impression of James’ voice. “Like you’d never been told no before an’ ‘f I was foolish enough as to say so, you’d have me flogged within an inch of my life for it.”
It was James’ turn to go pale. “I’m a sailor,” he said weakly. “I can’t possibly pull such a ridiculous stunt off.”
Sparrow beamed, looking much restored to his former self already. “Well, mate, it’s a good thing I’m here, eh?” He waggled the packet at James. “Try again. It ain’t so very different from orderin’ all your little soldiers about.”
James went quiet for a moment, trawling through his memories and stumbling across himself, facing Sparrow no less, and telling him to be silent as the grave. Then back, further, to his first Captaincy, telling men twice his age what to do and make it quick. He lifted his chin imperceptibly, held out his hand once more but declined to actually look at Sparrow, choosing instead to examine the décor, as though it had some interest. “Jack,” he said, not sharply, but firmly. “If you please.” His tone made it perfectly clear that it didn’t matter one whit what Jack pleased because if it wasn’t what James pleased, then it was clearly wrong thinking.
The packet was placed into his hand without another word.
He relaxed, looking over at Sparrow to hear his verdict and found himself facing a changed man. Sparrow’s head had bowed again, the line of his shoulders stiffening; all trace of earlier mirth had vanished. James slipped Spar- Jack’s trinkets into his coat and frowned. “All right,” he said, finally. “How did I do?”
Jack’s head came up slowly. “Jus’ like that,” he replied, fingers twisting about each other.
James sighed. “I don’t think I can manage it if you insist on staring at me like I’ve just sunk the Pearl.” He sipped at his drink morosely.
“Don’ say that,” Jack said, but he only sounded weary. “’Sides, I can’t rightly help it anymore. After a year of havin’ such things beat into you, it’s hard to break out of ‘em.” He shrugged one shoulder helplessly. “You say jump, mate, an’ I’ll ask how high.”
“That’s absurd,” James pronounced. “If I told you to kneel on the floor and polish my boots, I imagine you’d do no such thing.”
Jack shook his head and rolled up his right sleeve. Where the P had once been branded an R now showed - runaway - still new enough to be pinkish about the edges. “You own me, Commodore. I ain’t got the stomach for another escape attempt. You tell me t’ lick your boots clean an’ I’ll do it. You tell me t’ stand on one foot an’ recite Homer, I’ll do it. So long as you’ve got my life on your papers, I’ll do as I’m told.”
James went to fish them out of his coat. “Then you may have the damned things and I’ll be glad to be rid of them.”
Jack reached across the table and put a hand over James’. “Not until we’re clear of here. None of that lot back there will respect you ‘f they know what your game is.”
“Well can’t you just take them and pretend you’re a slave?” James asked, but he withdrew his hand from his coat. Jack’s grip tightened and he shook his head. “Why the devil not?”
“Someone’ll want to see ‘em.”
James gave Jack an odd look. “Jack,” he said by way of trial. “Let go.” Jack let go as if James’ skin burned to touch. “So be it,” James said passing a hand over his face to ward off his impending migraine. “So be it.”
For: axmxz
The request: "Jack gets sold into slavery for being too pretty. James buys him and becomes smitten."
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: It’s cliché, but god it’s fun to write, it’s the dreaded slave!fic that I’ve been not thinking about writing, at all. Really. Unbetaed. Which was probably a bad idea. It feels like it should be part of something longer. That doesn't mean that more is to come. It also doesn't mean that there won't be, if the mood strikes.
*~*~*~*
It was unseasonably hot out in the courtyard and James was sweating profusely under his wig. His heels, fashionable, if not highly impractical, were making his calves ache and with the added weight of an embroidered frock coat he suddenly had a very good idea of why exactly it was that Miss Swann had fainted that day out on the battlements. There was not a breath of fresh air to be had and he fanned himself with the little pamphlet that he had been given. On the more optimistic side of affairs, he at least had some cover from the direct rays of the sun, unlike the poor wretches being assembled up on the platform.
If you had asked any of his men to name the last place in the world that one might expect to find James Norrington -whilst he was barely ashore on his first day acting as a sort of diplomat - a gentleman’s auction of slaves (including highly skilled, highly prized, or illegal white slaves - not indentured men) might have easily made the list.
James was not a man out to make a political statement at this point in his career. He had the favor of the governor, true, and a promising future ahead of him, but his position was not Admiral, nor was he of an old and noble family. If he wished to keep his place then he would do well not to make overly large waves. Letting Jack Sparrow have that one day’s start (that had turned into one year of being led on a merry chase and ten months of wondering where in Hell Sparrow had vanished to after that) had been enough of a gesture. Not that it had made its way into his reports. In any case, James was content to keep his secret away from the scrutiny of Port Royal and between himself and those who it directly affected.
His estate took very little upkeep. He was a bachelor and he had no dependants. He dined in the barracks more often than not and both he and his housekeeper were skilled enough at mending that he needed a new uniform only rarely. So for the past ten years, James had been saving wisely for his eventual marriage and using what was left to do what he liked to call his little acts of Good Will T’wards Men.
In ten years James had managed to buy and free eighteen slaves overall, including three families. It wasn’t anything like a dent in the slave trade, but he was not a rich man, and James asked nothing in return from the men and women he freed. He would write them letters of reference so they might take jobs as paid domestics or take apprenticeships and become skilled laborers. On one memorable occasion he had paid for one man’s passage back to Africa. His housekeeper was one of the women he had freed and her husband kept his garden for him. They lived on his estate and took a small wage - less than he would have liked to give, but they pressed him to save their wages to free others, as room and board did them just fine.
This particular auction was not yielding the results that James might have hoped. Most of the men being bought and sold were going to skilled positions and James preferred to help those in dire need of it. A man being sold as a manservant didn’t seem to need rescue anywhere near as much as someone to be sent to slave in cotton fields until they dropped from exhaustion.
It was only after one strikingly handsome young man had been sold that James’ suspicion was aroused. The second time another boy of great physical beauty was auctioned off to a man of questionable tastes - to put it delicately - he decided it was no coincidence and this market was a venue not only for men with skills and illegal slaves but also for boys suitable for sodomites to keep as catamites. It was enough to make the headache building behind James’ eyes stab into him with an acute pain.
If you were to ask his men a second time about James Norrington, they might shrug and say that still waters run deep, but it would be a sharp eye indeed that would label him as a lover of men. James could not condemn one man for loving another, since if law and position would not hang him for doing so, James might have easily taken up with some fellow or other, but since the law would indeed see him hung, James kept his desires to himself. The Navy provided him with enough work to keep him distracted from concerning himself with the pleasures of the flesh. Neither could he condemn those who would sell themselves for coin because he wasn’t so foolish as not to know this was the only option for some unfortunates. He did not like it, but he would not damn them for it.
This, however, was something altogether different and it rankled.
Out amongst these gentlemen, no one would question him if he were to purchase one of these boys because so long as one took a wife and made heirs they seemed to care less who one chose to indulge with in their free time. It did cross James’ mind, however, that these noblemen were exactly the same men he might be meeting later on and he did not want to have to suffer their winks and nods. In all probability he would have to keep the boy under a pretense of servitude until they were aboard again and then he would have to suffer the questioning of his men and his secret would be out in the open and…
Christ, James thought, fanning himself with renewed vigor just so he could get some air; it was all such a bloody mess.
James was not an overly religious man. He did not trouble the Lord with the troubles of his daily life but he said his prayers and gave his thanks when they were due and in return he only asked that God guide him to where his help was most needed when he tried to help his fellow man. Mostly, it seemed as though his prayers were being answered in subtle and quiet ways. This time, when he was close to heat exhaustion, at a loss over the course to take and about ready to despair, it seemed like God really had been listening because it was not a quiet and gentle hint that he received as to whom to save, it was like being struck about the ears by a particularity vicious fishwife (an unfortunate experience he’d had when he was young that he’d never quite recovered from and had maintained a distrust of all such women and their surprisingly strong fists).
On the auction block, stripped down to the loincloth worn by all slaves at such actions, was a man being touted as a gypsy prince. This so-called prince was in a poor state compared to the rest of the men; he was favoring his left foot and his posture was poor. When he was prodded into turning about there were lash marks on his back less than a fortnight old. He did not seem to be, as they said, a wild, untamable spirit (which seemed to spark some interest amongst some men that James had picked out as being unsavory); he looked tired and broken. Neither was the man as young as they were claiming, James would have said somewhere in his late thirties but they were boasting he was about the age of twenty. True, his skin was a rich golden color but that looked like a very deep tan to James, and not entirely by virtue of birth. His whipcord muscles were the product of years of hard labor; Keep that man out of the sun and he would pale and weaken. Yes, his hair was thick and longish, but it was not, as they claimed, black as ebony, it had simply been oiled until it was dark with the gloss, and the tattoos the man sported were not barbaric sigils, they were common amongst sailors - though the mermaid with the shark’s teeth and the woman in black who looked half ghost, half widow were very nicely inked. The ship on his back was the masterpiece of the collection, though it had been marred by the lash marks.
All in all, James was about as impressed as he had been the first time he had seen the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow; and that really wasn’t saying much.
This time, however, his emotions were more to do with pity than anger and this time he wasn’t afraid for the bright young woman he’d hoped to marry but for the glittering creature who’d eluded him time and again and brought him much respite from the drudgery of paperwork. Jack Sparrow was not a man made to be obedient and paraded in front of gentlemen like so much chattel in chains and, stripped of his ragged finery and of his barbaric baubles and trinkets that had adorned him, he looked horribly forlorn. He looked a great deal less impressive, or at least less threatening, without the great tangle of hair and the braided beard. James found himself wishing they’d not taken that from Sparrow as well. But this was not Jack Sparrow, simply a ghost of him. This was a man who needed his help, no matter how ill advised it seemed.
Less than five minutes later, and James found himself the questionably proud owner of one gypsy prince, formerly known as one Jack Sparrow, pirate and irritant extraordinaire. He made his way through the crowd to where he could sign the papers, pay his gold and pick up what was left of Sparrow’s effects and what was left of Sparrow.
God, he prayed silently, you’ve shown me what to do today, all I ask is that you show Sparrow that keeping his foolish mouth shut would be the most prudent course of action at this time.
Either James was on a holy mission, Jack Sparrow was smarter than he played himself as, or the pirate was too exhausted and dazzled by the heat to properly notice what was going on, because he made no indication of recognizing James at all. They had none of his old clothing though they had saved the baubles and trinkets that had been woven into his hair. Instead, Sparrow had some sort of elaborate costume that, James supposed, was meant to resemble a gentleman’s romantic ideal of what a gypsy should wear. It involved impractical trews of a baggy, harem nature, a sash not unlike the one Sparrow had owned, except clean and a great deal shorter, a flowing shirt of deep red and knee high boots that were as foolishly designed as Sparrow’s previous pair, only skin tight and designed to show off the curve of Sparrow’s leg. If nothing else, the clothing proved James’ theory right. They were not slave clothing, they were the clothes of a man meant to be kept for ornament.
Sparrow dressed himself as James signed the papers and Sparrow moved slowly and stiffly, like a man who had been working at labors he was unused to.
“Watch yourself with this one,” the man in charge of the contracts said amicably. “He’s a bit of a handful, so don’t be afraid to give him a few licks with the cane. He’s tougher than he looks anyhow, so he can take it just fine.”
James’ naval training was the only thing that kept his lip from curling into a sneer. “Is that so,” he said instead. “I was hoping someone might explain the lashes on his back.”
The man shrugged and took James’ money. “From what I heard, he put up a bit of fuss at being sold. He’s not been in service before, you see. They’ve taken the better part of the year to train him to behave, that’s why the price. That, and though he’s been taught to behave, he’s got no real habits needing to be changed to suit, so it’s a blank slate you’ve just bought yourself.”
“Does he have a name?” James asked quietly, deciding he was going to need a very long bath to rid himself of the dirty feeling he was getting.
“It’s here-” the man pointed at a place on the papers - “says ‘Jack’ but that can be changed, if you like. It’s not a very interesting name, and they might have just picked it if they couldn’t spell his original name. I see a lot of ‘Jack’s, and ‘John’s, and such.”
Next to them, carefully not looking up, Sparrow had gone very quiet and very still. James shook his head. “No, Jack is fine.” It almost hurt to watch the tiny shudder that ran through Sparrow at that; as though keeping his name (or, more likely, the name he’d chosen for himself when embarking upon his ill advised career as a pirate) was either the greatest relief he could have been given, or perhaps the greatest punishment.
“Well, that’s about it then.” He handed over the bill of sale to James and smiled broadly. “Enjoy.”
James carefully folded the papers and put them in his coat. “Thank you,” he said politely, and gave Sparrow a tap on the shoulder with his pamphlet. “Follow me.” To his surprise and sorrow, Sparrow did as he was told. He was definitely limping, though he seemed to be doing his best to hide the problem. James made no comment and Sparrow made no sign that he recognized James and they continued this way until, a few streets away from the auction, James led Sparrow into a small tavern and gestured for him to sit. Sparrow did so, keeping his head down and put his hands in his lap. It was unnerving to see him so still and so quiet.
“Sparrow…” James began.
Sparrow’s head came up so fast that James feared he would have whiplash. His dark eyes were wide and haunted and his mouth hung slightly agape. “Commodore?” he said, sounding confused as he looked. Then he bit down on his bottom lip, cringed, and dropped his gaze again.
James tried not to flinch too. “Sparrow, for God’s sake, man, look at me.” This time Sparrow looked up but not directly at James, more like at his left shoulder. It was irritating and frustrating because it was how high class slaves were trained to look at their masters without actually looking at them. “I’m not going to hit you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” James said tiredly. “I have no interest in owning a slave and less interest in beating men into such an intolerable state of submission.”
Sparrow slowly met his gaze, the corners of his mouth trembling with some suppressed emotion. “If you’re going to hang me, Commodore,” he said quietly, “can it at least be where I can see the water? Consider it a last request.” His shoulders crept up and his head lowered again, as though he were too exhausted to sit upright any longer. “I ain’t seen the sea for so long.” His voice was so quiet that James almost missed it, and then wasn’t so sure that he didn’t wish that he had. He was a sailor first, and a commodore second and he loved the sea like it was in his blood and he could understand all too well the anguish in Sparrow’s voice.
James smiled suddenly, a slight upturn of his lips, and the weight in his heart lifted. “You know, after you disappeared I couldn’t figure out what had happened, especially since the Black Pearl was still causing trouble.” Sparrow cringed like he’d been struck but James continued, in equally good humor and indicated to the serving girl that he’d like two drinks and don’t water them either. “I assumed you’d met some sort of bizarre end and I just hadn’t heard the story yet from Mrs. Turner - I believe you know her better as Miss Swann - then I found out, from a very interesting, and somewhat intimidating young woman that the Black Pearl didn’t know where you’d vanished to either. I found that your AnaMaria is a very reasonable woman. As is that Gibbs fellow, though he is somewhat more prone to lengthy soliloquies than she is.”
The drinks were set before them and James paused to ease his thirst. Sparrow took hold of his own mug, waited, as though unsure of reprisal and then began drinking like a man who’d been in the desert. James watched for a moment until Sparrow, panting, set his mug down. It was empty. He motioned for another to be brought to Sparrow and then continued with his piece of good news;
“There’s likely to be a war. There’s always a war, and the Royal Navy is always in need of privateers even if there isn’t officially anyone to be attacking. A ship as notorious as the Black Pearl could raid whom she wished, when she wished, and it would never be suspected that she is a privateer ship now.” James kept his tone bland.
Sparrow looked up sharply but didn’t say anything.
“I might even make Admiral in a short time, since I’m the man who brought such a notorious ship to heel - or at least that’s the version that the Admiralty in London are getting,” James continued, as though Sparrow had made no indication he was even listening. “That said, I believe it’s Gibbs’ name on the articles as Acting Captain, though AnaMaria is the one who actually commands the crew. We thought it prudent not to announce the fact that there was a woman aboard since the Pearl is now, technically, part of the Navy. Oh, you might appreciate the fact that Anamaria signed on as …Give me a moment, I think it was…something like John Thomas, or Robert Head,” he allowed himself to chuckle a bit at that, as he hadn’t been able to do when he’d first seen the name. “I protested, but your crew thought it hilarious, so who was I to dissuade them?”
“Acting Captain?” Sparrow’s knuckles were white he was gripping the mug so hard.
James nodded, calm as a mill pond. “Well she is your ship.” He gave Sparrow a stern look. “So long as you keep to the privateering business, of course.” The look softened considerably at the pain visible on Sparrow’s face and he said, almost teasing; “Well it would seem a damned shame to have to hang you now after your first mate so cleverly negotiated your pardon.”
It took a long time, but Sparrow slowly unclenched his fingers and gave James a look of utter disbelief. “You don’ want to keep me as a slave, an’ you ain’t going to hang me; rather, I get to go free an’ go home an’ continue with my wicked ways, so long as I don’t attack Ol’ George’s ships. Have I got that right?”
“That’s about the long and the short of it,” James agreed as the second mug was placed in front of Sparrow. “I imagine you’ll be wanting that rot-gut you’ve got in front of you, right about now,” he said dryly.
Sparrow drank reflexively. His hands were shaking. He put the mug down abruptly and started to laugh. His laughing sounded as though it was halfway between sobbing and hysteria and he put his face in his hands, digging unusually clean fingers into his sleek, oiled hair. “I ain’t seen the sea for months, nor had a drop of liquor. I ain’t seen my Pearl…” He looked up at James and his eyes were haunted. “I thought I would die like this. Why did you save me?”
James shrugged one shoulder and sipped at his own drink. The rum, though not his drink of choice when ashore, was strong and sweet. He meant to say something like, ‘a momentary lapse of sanity’ but what came out was the truth; “I do what I can to help others.”
“You’ve done this before,” Sparrow accused and the laughter started up again. “Christ, the scourge of piracy savin’ slaves. Saving a pirate slave…” He calmed himself after a moment or two, enough to take another swallow of the rum, which seemed to calm him a little more. “Those men will ask after me,” he said between wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, cringing and jerking his hand away and then looking embarrassed at doing so. “You’ve bought me fair an’ square an’ they’re going t’ notice if I’m prancing about like a free man.”
The idea of Sparrow’s prancing, as he called it, was enough to make James smile again. “I daresay even I would be pleased to see you…enjoying your freedom, after-” after seeing him flinch like a dog beaten once too many times- “after your ordeal, but you are quite correct. I am here for two weeks and in that time I believe we might come to some arrangement wherein you act as my slave and I don’t abuse your trust.” He lifted his mug with an ironic look. “Do we have an accord?”
“Aye, aye, Commodore, on my honor.” He watched James warily as though James might doubt his word or his honor; two things James had no intention of doing, since a Pirate Sparrow was, and he’d certainly proven himself dishonest enough, but Turner had been right, like any other good man, Sparrow was not a man to take his word lightly.
James reached into his coat and withdrew the little packet of beads and trinkets that had been in Sparrow’s hair. “In that case, I believe these are yours.” He sighed wryly as Sparrow ripped open the packet, eager as a child on his birthday. “I must confess, you look rather different without all your…” he floundered, at a loss for a word to fully encompass the multitude of elements that made up Captain Jack Sparrow.
Sparrow looked up at him with what looked suspiciously like tears in his eyes and grinned, hard and sharp as flint. “Give me time,” he said and blinked; all traces of sadness erased and replaced with the same determination that James had seen on his face that first day on the docks. “Give me time.”
“So long as you continue bathing, Sparrow,” James said primly, “I couldn’t care less what you do with your corpus.”
Sparrow shook his head. “That’s no good. Christ, you’d make a terrible Player, no playhouse in the world would be mad enough t’ put you on the boards.” He stuffed the packet into his sash where it made an unsightly bulge in the smooth line of his waist. “It ain’t ‘Sparrow’-”
“Well I can’t very well call you Captain,” James said, and held out his hand. “You’d best give me back your trinkets, you’ve no pockets to keep them in.”
“Jack,” Sparrow said. “You’ve got to call me Jack, or boy, or ‘oi, you, slave’. Mm, perhaps not ‘boy’ since I’m pretty sure I’ve got a good few years on you. Not Sparrow, at any rate; ain’t no one here that knows my name.” He pulled the packet out of his sash again, but didn’t hand it back. “An’ it’s not, ‘you’d best give me,’ it’s got to be ‘Jack, the packet.’” Sparrow glared down his nose and did a passable impression of James’ voice. “Like you’d never been told no before an’ ‘f I was foolish enough as to say so, you’d have me flogged within an inch of my life for it.”
It was James’ turn to go pale. “I’m a sailor,” he said weakly. “I can’t possibly pull such a ridiculous stunt off.”
Sparrow beamed, looking much restored to his former self already. “Well, mate, it’s a good thing I’m here, eh?” He waggled the packet at James. “Try again. It ain’t so very different from orderin’ all your little soldiers about.”
James went quiet for a moment, trawling through his memories and stumbling across himself, facing Sparrow no less, and telling him to be silent as the grave. Then back, further, to his first Captaincy, telling men twice his age what to do and make it quick. He lifted his chin imperceptibly, held out his hand once more but declined to actually look at Sparrow, choosing instead to examine the décor, as though it had some interest. “Jack,” he said, not sharply, but firmly. “If you please.” His tone made it perfectly clear that it didn’t matter one whit what Jack pleased because if it wasn’t what James pleased, then it was clearly wrong thinking.
The packet was placed into his hand without another word.
He relaxed, looking over at Sparrow to hear his verdict and found himself facing a changed man. Sparrow’s head had bowed again, the line of his shoulders stiffening; all trace of earlier mirth had vanished. James slipped Spar- Jack’s trinkets into his coat and frowned. “All right,” he said, finally. “How did I do?”
Jack’s head came up slowly. “Jus’ like that,” he replied, fingers twisting about each other.
James sighed. “I don’t think I can manage it if you insist on staring at me like I’ve just sunk the Pearl.” He sipped at his drink morosely.
“Don’ say that,” Jack said, but he only sounded weary. “’Sides, I can’t rightly help it anymore. After a year of havin’ such things beat into you, it’s hard to break out of ‘em.” He shrugged one shoulder helplessly. “You say jump, mate, an’ I’ll ask how high.”
“That’s absurd,” James pronounced. “If I told you to kneel on the floor and polish my boots, I imagine you’d do no such thing.”
Jack shook his head and rolled up his right sleeve. Where the P had once been branded an R now showed - runaway - still new enough to be pinkish about the edges. “You own me, Commodore. I ain’t got the stomach for another escape attempt. You tell me t’ lick your boots clean an’ I’ll do it. You tell me t’ stand on one foot an’ recite Homer, I’ll do it. So long as you’ve got my life on your papers, I’ll do as I’m told.”
James went to fish them out of his coat. “Then you may have the damned things and I’ll be glad to be rid of them.”
Jack reached across the table and put a hand over James’. “Not until we’re clear of here. None of that lot back there will respect you ‘f they know what your game is.”
“Well can’t you just take them and pretend you’re a slave?” James asked, but he withdrew his hand from his coat. Jack’s grip tightened and he shook his head. “Why the devil not?”
“Someone’ll want to see ‘em.”
James gave Jack an odd look. “Jack,” he said by way of trial. “Let go.” Jack let go as if James’ skin burned to touch. “So be it,” James said passing a hand over his face to ward off his impending migraine. “So be it.”