Jjail

Assassins, it seemed, received special treatment when in custody.

It was black outside the narrow window when they brought Norrington back. In
truth Jack had wondered if they would; it had occurred to him when they came to
haul the commodore to his feet and drag him from the cell that they might have
decided to end the man sooner rather than later. Norrington had spoken to them
in English they probably didn't understand, demanding to know their intentions,
telling them they were making a very grave error. When the larger guardsman struck
him a brutal, silencing blow to the gut, Jack had winced in sympathy. He'd been
on that end of the stick more often than he liked to remember.


Norrington was managing to walk -- sort of -- but once they shoved him into the
cell his feet gave out and he went hard to his knees, then his hands. The
guards took the lamplight with them; only stars through bars illuminated their
prison now. But Jack had seen enough of his face before the guards left. Not
pretty.

Without speaking, he rose and moved to the downed man's flank, hands going to
either side of his ribs, helping him back to that corner of his. Norrington
slumped against one unfriendly wall with an indrawn hiss.

Jack, crouching beside him, snorted. "Ever the stalwart, eh?"

"What?" Ground out between tight-clenched teeth.

"Just admiring your manly refusal to whimper, mate."


A swollen eye peeped at him. Slid closed. "You...would do
otherwise...?"

"I'd be whinin' and cursin' 'til your ears fell off. But then, I'm just a
pirate, not an assassin. You lot must get special training."

Lips turned in an uneven grimace. He worked his jaw, a hand going to touch
lightly at a swollen knot on the right side, all the way back at the hinge.
"Is there any water?"

"No."


"Food?"

"You've not been in prison a whole lot, have you?" Jack eased down
beside him, ignoring the brief, tired glower from the puffy face. Patted his
knee companionably. "Now listen, first thing you've gotta do is stop
actin' so bloody unbreakable. Nothin' gets these bastards hotter t' see
a man cry than findin' one with a spine so stiff as yours, savvy?"

"When I need your advice, Sparrow..."

Jack arched his scarred eyebrow. Waited.


Sighing, Norrington squinted a look at him. "... I suppose you are
the voice of experience here..."

"You might think to show a little gratitude, Norrington. You've not
exactly endeared yourself to me in the past, you know."

"I know," the commodore said, a bit too fervently. "Which begs
the question of...of why you're 'helping' now."

A single-shoulder shrug. He danced fingers at their barren cell again.

"You're still more interesting than weaving straw." With a feeling of
familiarity, he scooted closer and dropped a forearm over Norrington's nearest
shoulder, sparking another faint hiss. "'sides, looks like you'll be dead
soon enough. Never much liked holding grudges with dead men. It's a messy
business, an' somehow ending it never feels quite so good as you imagine."

"I'm not going to die. This is just...a misunderstanding."

Jack drew back, gathering feet, his hand trailing over that tense shoulder,
squeezing lightly. "Of course it is, Sad Man. I'm sure it'll all be
straightened out soon."

***