Jjail

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The burly guards (and did he really warrant two entire brutes all by
his little lonesome?) flung him into the cell with enough force to dash him
against the far wall for all his quick-footed efforts to stop his plunge. Ears
ringing, he barely heard the jarring squeal of hinges and clank of the latch
being shot home by that heavy skeleton key.

His head kept spinning for a little while after he slid to the floor. Probably
the mescal. Nasty stuff, that. Were it not for the dusky beauty with the hair
down to her backside pouring him mug after mug after mug...

Bah. Women. Trouble on legs, the lot of them.

Not that men actually had all that much going for them either.


Blinking blearily, he finally thought to survey the interior of this
straw-strewn cell, lit now by late afternoon sunlight trickling in through the
barred window. Depressingly dank, but he'd expected that. No sleeping pallet in
sight -- again no surprise. And look there: he wasn't alone. Someone whose
fortunes looked to be even worse than his was currently huddled in apparent
misery in the darkest corner available. He blinked a few more times, trying to
clear his vision. Squinted. Peered. Otherwise made efforts to resolve a face
from the pale blotch in the shadows.

"Yes, Sparrow," a dry voice finally said, drawling out the
words, "it's me."

He'd actually gotten nowhere close to guessing an identity, but that heavy
sarcasm couched in velvet clinched it immediately. He wavered to sit up
straighter, eyes widening, and pointed a finger in accusation. "You.
You're..." The finger stabbed furiously. "You're you."


"Indeed."

"How much d'I have to drink?"

"Too much, I'm sure."

Jack looked at the bars imprisoning them. Thought longingly of rum. Had he been
drinking rum, none of this would've happened. He'd put money on it. Rum
just wouldn't do this to a man.

It occurred to him after a moment that there was something very fundamentally
wrong with this scenario. He glanced sidelong. "An' just what did you--"

and he stabbed that finger again in indication "--do to get here,
eh?" His eyes were adjusting to the gloom now. He could easily make out
the aristocratic scowl twisting Norrington's features all out of symmetry.

"It's a misunderstanding," the commodore snapped. "And it will
be settled soon." Or else, his steely voice promised.


Suddenly Jack was catching the whiff of Opportunity. He couldn't pinpoint it
just yet, but that part of him that always watched, even when thoroughly
fuddled, started tickling at an edge of his thoughts.

He settled down a bit. Tipped his hat forward to shadow his eyes, then crossed
his arms comfortably. Eased into patient stillness and prepared to wait.

"What are you doing?"

An eye cracked open. "Eh?"

"What," Norrington said again, irritably, "are you doing?"


"Why?"

"You look as though you're planning to take a nap."

"Good eye," Jack said approvingly. "You notice things. I like
that in a cellmate."

"I'm not your cellmate."

"Oh no?"


"This is just a misunderstanding."

A sage nod. "I know exactly what you mean." He laid a finger
alongside his nose. "I'm here 'cause of a misunderstanding m'self."

"Is that so?" With enough supercilious doubt to sink a ship.

"Aye," Jack said, graciously ignoring his tone. "I misunderstood

that a certain comely lass was in fact not a lass at all, but was in
actuality the daughter of a very rich man with a very poor opinion of pirates,
and most particularly pirates named Sparrow. Of which I am one. Of both. At
once. Conjointly, as it were."

Norrington rolled his eyes. Managed to look rather haughty even huddled in a
filthy corner, wigless, in civilian clothing. "That's called idiocy,
Sparrow, not a misunderstanding."

Jack turned then, pulling his feet in to sit cross-legged, facing the man
squarely in open challenge. "What's your story then?"


"They believe I'm Sad Man Samuel."

"The assassin?"

"One and the same."

A lengthy stare. Norrington met him look for look, a surprisingly calm
expression of victory on his face.

"Well?" Jack prodded at last.


"Well what?"

"Are you?"

Comprehension together with exasperation. "No, Sparrow, I am not
an assassin."


Thoughtfully, Jack stroked his beaded chin braids. "But then you'd have to
say that, would you not?"

Norrington tipped his head back with a drawn-out sigh, staring upwards, arms
dangling over his upraised knees. "That's what they said."

"Ahhh." One by one, Jack twisted his rings, thoughts turning with
equal idleness. "Seems you're in a bit of a spot, mate. They don't wait so
long to kill English assassins 'round here."


"Yes, thank you, I'm quite aware of that."

"Now if you were Spanish, mind, you'd have a couple of days, I'd
imagine. Longer if you asked to see a priest a few times."

"As I am not Spanish, nor do I even speak Spanish, tell me
what possible good that does me."


"Hm." He spun rings again, one by one. "D'you speak
Portuguese?"

Slowly, methodically, Norrington began to thump his head back against the
uneven stone of the corner. Jack stared, brow furrowing with some bemusement
(and perhaps a little amusement as well). Lost interest in his rings and
instead pulled his knees up, looping arms around, leaning in to watch the show.

All at once the thudding stopped. Jack leaned forward a bit more, expectantly.

"Ow," Norrington muttered.


"You don't say."

Eyes slitted on a hard, cold glare. "I do acknowledge the irony in
this."

Jack gave him a bit of a grin, a bit of a leer. "I was hoping you
would."

"You can stop staring at me now, Sparrow."

He rocked back, an arm sweeping at the unadorned dullness of the cell.
"For once, Commodore, you're the most interesting thing around."


Really, he did anticipate a snappy rejoinder at that. So it was a bit
disconcerting when instead Norrington looked away from him, past the bars, the
tightness around his eyes hinting at some of the darker, more uneasy things
that had to be stirring in his chest. "I wish I could say the same."

Eyes narrowing speculatively, Jack only grunted a non-answer.

***