Current mood:	geeky
Entry tags:	potc

Longitude--chapter two (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG
Title: Longitude
Chapter: two of about six
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG
Characters: Beckett, OFC, Norrington
Summary: Vintage influenza. Mother believes in the science of business.



Longitude--chapter two

As evening set upon the Endeavour, the cool welcome of darkness brought with it a shroud of mist that covered the ship from stem to stern. The mist twined along the decks with smooth fingers, prying into open doors and into tiny cracks within knots of wood. It crept into the sleeping quarters of the officers with all the damp chill of a succubous meeting her victim and lover.

Beckett lay in his bed, his knees drawn up tight against his stomach, misery twisting his gut and soul into all manner of horrific shapes. The cloying mist that had found its way throughout the ship had now found his room and it blanketed his quarters with a heady damp that did nothing to alleviate the stench of vomit that had leached into the very pores of his wooden confines. His nausea worsened, he sank further beneath the wool blanket covering him, his brow sweating profusely though he felt as though nothing could alleviate him from the cold chills that overtook him. He closed his eyes, holding his nausea in, doing his best to die with at least some semblance of dignity.

Of course, this was the doing of that wicked harpy who had stowed away upon his ship, the woman who was Sparrow's agent, he was sure on it. He had never thought Jack would be one to resort to murder, but perhaps he had been short-sighted in his thoughts on what the man was truly capable of. That it had been implemented so easily caused Beckett no small amount of chagrin. If he managed to survive he'd be sure to add attempted murder to Larry's charges along with the thievery. He'd been such a fool--had she not openly avoided the beef? She'd so much as told him she'd poisoned him.

The Endeavour was quiet. He'd given strict orders not to be disturbed as he was so ill, and too late did he realise that this decision had not been a wise one. He brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed back the bile that threatened to spill once more. His stomach furiously railed at him for the insult.

Through the hazy focus of a fever, Beckett noted something yellow poking out from beneath his bed. With what little strength he had, he pulled the strange book out and into the bed with him, his mind searching for any recollection of how it had arrived in his room. He thumbed through its thin, white pages, the odd typeset and shocking contrasting black ink swirled into incomprehensible phrases as he tried to read. Books, as Beckett had understood them, were usually precious items and were not normally so grievously abused as this volume had been. Several paragraphs had been underlined in a bright, pink ink, and the margins were riddled with ink notes of all colours, their coded meaning lost on Beckett as he read them.

In red ink, in the upper left hand corner was a small list: "Drill--fourteen pounds fifty. Scaffolding--two hundred pounds (rental). Call Anna for for quotes on extension, cell #328--0997."

The rest of the margins were cluttered with various names and numbers mixed together making a strange pattern that was too random to have been scribbled there without purpose. "Charlie--887-0088 ext. 56. Rope for pulleys--1857--99p." A nauseous turn overtook him, and he flipped forward a few pages in the book for what he hoped would work as a further distraction against his illness.

He had found a page of illustrations, some so amazingly life-like it was as though the moment they portrayed had been captured in its immediacy and transferred directly onto paper. He glanced over the various cross-sections of ships which were laid out like maps, with every detail exposed for anyone who wished to know their innermost secrets. There were drawn models of officers and their ranks, even those in casual dress, every button and sleeve annotated in precise detail, as though the clothes themselves were part of a human being's anatomy. The yellow book was a strange dissecting tool, Beckett realised, a surgical approach to his history.

His stomach tightened the wench within his gut, and he let the book fall to the floor as he curled into a tighter ball. He was so thirsty, and yet the thought of quenching that need sent his body into paralysing spasms.

A dark shadow flickered past his window, to grow in size as it made its way to the front door of his cabin, its height so great it had to duck to get in, and even in doing so the shadow still banged its forehead on the door's frame.

"Dammit," Larry said, rubbing her head. "I swear, this place is made for midgets."

Beckett's stomach did another agonising turn, and he spewed into the bucket next to his bed, wishing death upon the effort. Wiping his mouth delicately with his lace handkerchief, he wondered if some words from the Good Book were worthy, if not necessary, for contemplation at this dark hour. But the only litany that came to mind were the cold, clipped sentences of a footnote, his stomach souring further at the choice of words that were his legacy.

"Minor importance..." he hoarsely whispered. "Zealot...succumbed..."

She was busy in his room, taking his precious trash into her magic, waterproof sack. The maps were made quick work of, though he wondered why she didn't wait until morning and get his own death certificate in the bargain. He wasn't so sure she'd still want his chamber pot in its current condition, however. For a fleeting moment, he thought about sounding the alarm, for demanding she be arrested and hung for her heinous crime against himself, but the expenditure of energy this would take was far too much for Beckett to endure. It was all he could do to simply watch her steal from him like the carrion crow she was while his misery whittled him down into nothingness.

To his surprise, she really did take the chamber pot, if the litany of curses at its contents told him anything. There was a brutally cold breeze let into his room as his cabin window was opened, and a cursing splash as the pot was emptied out of it.

"You've escaped," he managed to say.

She paused at the window, the outline of her body in cameo against the grey clouds that rolled upon the horizon. Through his feverish understanding, Beckett couldn't help but note that she was not an unseemly creature, and despite her odd height, daintiness had been replaced with strong symmetry.

"It didn't take much," she answered him. "You don't exactly have complicated security systems. All I needed was a wooden splinter and spit."

"I see," Beckett said, closing his eyes. He could taste the tension in his cabin as she made quick work of the rest of his 'artefacts', her movements as speedy as any pickpocket. "You have murdered me and now you are taking your spoils. You are a pirate after all."

"I didn't murder you," she said. She took the handkerchief he had held at his mouth and wrapped it in tightly in several pieces of paper before dropping it into her water resistant sack. "Labs," she said by way of explanation. "They have this thing about studying ancient diseases. I can get a very good commission for vintage influenza."

"You poisoned me."

"I did no such thing. You ate bad meat riddled with botulism. Don't say I didn't warn you."

She tied the bag shut with a tight knot and slung it over her shoulder, with the chamber pot held in her free hand. Using her foot, she nudged the cabin window open, and then hoisted her leg up onto its ledge. She paused, her breath held in the darkness, her leg dropping from its position back onto the floor.

"Forgot something?" Beckett weakly asked her. He gestured helpfully over his shoulder. "I believe there is a cracked, mouldy teacup on the back shelf. There's pins in it."

"18th century pins..." Larry said to herself, seeming to consider it. She readjusted the black bag on her shoulder and raised her leg onto the windowsill once again. "I just need the proper leverage," she explained. Her foot slipped and fell to the floor and she nearly toppled backward into the wall with her sack. Her shadowed outline stood at his window, her hand firmly on her hip.

"There's worse ways to die," she told him, her voice haughty. "I don't know what you're so whiny about."

Beckett moaned, and swallowed, his throat a collection of sand. "I'm not whining," he managed to croak.

"You could have had a long, miserable run with cancer, for instance. Or, maybe you could have been tortured to death, that's not a very nice way to go, not with getting your skin slowly peeled off--believe me, it's not a pleasant method."

"I'm sure," Beckett agreed.

"Just be happy you aren't dying at the hands of the Inquisition. Think about that, why don't you?"

"I'll be sure to," Beckett said.

"Besides, if the tables were turned, you'd be more than happy to leave me to die."

"Of course," Beckett whispered.

"Well, I'm glad we understand each other," Larry said, considerably cheered by their conversation. She hoisted the sack onto her back and swung her leg onto the windowsill.

"Dammit," she said, her foot teasing the shutter, tapping it open and closed. "I promised Mother, I won't do this." She swung her leg out of the window as far as her knee. "I won't mess up another longitude like the last time. I won't be paying Mother any more of her damned penalties..."

Larry dropped the sack to the floor, her leg swung back in and firmly meeting the other as she leaned against the wall opposite Beckett's bed. "I have to warn you, I have a terrible disease," Larry said to him.

Beckett frowned at this, wondering what sordid detail was about to be revealed, and despite his imminent demise a rather untoward thrill coursed through him at the unsavoury thoughts her sentence produced.

She approached his bed, her face lit up by the candlelight from his bedside table. Her dark hair framed her face, her large green eyes looking him over with what he could almost believe to be concern. She was most definitely a creature of shadows, Beckett thought, for the flickering candlelight cast every strong feature into a softer relief. There was more femininity present when she was close to that dancing flame. He sighed in blissful contentment when her palm met his forehead, the clean scent of her skin such a contrast to his feverish sweat and the warmth of her touch as soothing as chloroform.

"I've got a terminal case of ethics," she said.

"How very terrible for you," Beckett whispered.

He closed his eyes as her palm slid down his forehead to the side of his face and then warmly cupping the underside of his neck. Such an intimate embrace, Beckett thought, such sweet smelling skin...

She pulled her hand away, leaving only the sickening cold behind.

"You need a saline IV for hydration and alcohol compresses for lowering that fever. It's going to be quite a job disinfecting the equipment I'll be needing, not to mention producing the saline itself. This would be a lot easier if I could just find Mother." She sighed and stood up, the chamber pot kicked unceremoniously back to its place underneath Beckett's bed. "Let's hope at least one of your officers is partial to making moonshine. The antibiotics, though, they'll be easy enough to obtain...I'm sure the galley has plenty of mouldy bread."

Beckett reached for her hand as it rested near him, but she left his bedside before he could give it a proper caress. All he earned was a fleeting touch that gave only the faintest glimmer of hope.

"Larry," he whispered to her.

She paused at the door, her head tucked to prevent any further smacking against its frame.

"You are truly a witch," Beckett said to her.

She was stone as she stood at the door, her voice betraying no amusement at his words. "For a man who wants to live you have a funny way of making sure people would prefer to see you dead," she said. "Do yourself a favour, Beckett. Don't ever call me a witch again. Ever. Because if you do, death will be the least of your problems. Are we understood?"

No, he wanted to say but he was far too weak now to waste what little time he had left on words. He closed his eyes, his room colder as she left it.

***

A bright light shone into his eyes, and Beckett blinked into it, its searing heat suggesting he was staring directly into a flame of hell. Still, there seemed to be an uncharacteristic cheeriness attached to this brilliance which had no place in the fiery pit. He certainly couldn't be in Heaven, he reasoned. He'd done nothing in his life to ensure he made it *there*.

With unexpected strength, he reached his arm behind him and felt the cool outline of his feather down pillow. His room no longer held the fetid stench of the sick and dying, but it was awash in a rather vinegar ambience that was just as unpleasant. He tested his strength further, and found he could easily sit up in bed, if not a little dizzily. A wet cotton compress fell onto his lap, and, puzzled, Beckett took it into his hands and then brought it close to his face. An overpowering reek of pure alcohol wafted from it, and he tossed the offending piece of cloth onto the floor in distaste.

So, it seemed he had survived. He was in his quarters, on his bed, for all intents and purposes recovering from a rather harrowing sickness. He pulled aside the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, his health so restored he had a fervent urge to dress. The faster he left this horrible sick bed, the better, he thought. The last thing his career needed was any evidence suggesting he was in ill health.

He paused as he buttoned up his trousers, the odd events of the day before playing on his mind. Surely such things had been nothing but hallucinations brought on by fever? He dared to cast a glance beneath his bed and with some relief found his chamber pot was still in its accustomed place. He almost laughed at his own folly. A pirate who steals trash--What nonsense!

He rose from his bed as he fixed his white wig to his scalp, and stood at his open window, enjoying the cool breeze as it caressed his face. He would give orders to Mercer to take all evidence of his illness off the sick list. He adjusted his wool coat, which thanks to the loss of a few pounds no longer fit him perfectly. He adjusted the sleeves, and felt a sharp pain on the inside of his arm. Curious, he inspected the soft flesh on the underside of his elbow, and was surprised to find a fairly large bruise marring his otherwise pale skin. He could not recall how the injury came about, but since it seemed to have little to do with his past affliction, and in fact had no bearing on his current good health, he chose to ignore it. He let his sleeve fall, hiding the unpleasant blemish.

The sea outside his window was a jewel blue, the sky devoid of clouds and so close in colour to the waters below it both earth and heaven nearly blended into one. Beckett couldn't help but smile at this scene, as it seemed to have been given to him alone for his pleasure.

"I'm alive," he said to the melded horizon.

"Yes. How wonderful." A sardonic clapping resonated throughout Beckett's cabin, its echoing disappointment ruining Beckett's good humour. "Bravo."

Beckett pulled the shutter closed on his cabin window. "How is it, Norrington, that whenever you are around the sun just doesn't seem to shine all that brightly?"

Norrington cast a long shadow in Beckett's now dimly lit cabin, one hand firm on the hilt of his sword. "You're a lucky man, Lord Beckett. You've been brought back from the precipice of death by the ministrations of a rather skilled herbalist. Or, by other means...The ship's surgeon has yet to define the methods used. But, no matter, the transgressor has been dealt with, and you are now in good health. The ship is again under your command." Norrington gave Beckett a patronising bow. "At your service, sir."

Beckett pushed his way past Norrington, heading for the main bridge. "I don't fear I need remind you of your own precarious position on this ship," Beckett said to him. "Unfortunately, there is no avenue wherein I can charge and hang you for being an insufferable bore."

He winced as his weakened stomach decided to remind him that he had still only just recovered. Hunger assailed him, and he longed for a plate of bland vegetables and unsweetened tea.

"Feeling all right?" Norrington asked.

Beckett straightened and pulled himself up the small flight of stairs to the bridge, the action smarting the odd bruise on his right arm. He nodded at Mercer, who acknowledged his superior's presence with the proper restraint.

"It's good to see you are doing well, sir," Mercer said.

"Thank you," Beckett replied. "Are we still set on course to rendezvous with Jones?"

"We were a little behind schedule, but we seem to have caught up," Norrington said, behind him. "Despite all the concerns, of course."

Beckett bristled at this. "And what concerns would those be?"

"Oh, I don't know. Concerns of the crew, of the fate of this ship. Concerns about the rather dark element that we are allying ourselves with."

Beckett's imperfectly fitting jacket added further discomfort to their conversation. He would have to have it adjusted by a tailor immediately.

"Though they are the best in the fleet, they are but simple men at heart," Norrington continued. "Making deals with the dead sits ill with those who are already a superstitious lot. That last little problem...Why, I do believe there is an aura of mutiny about the place."

"Hold your tongue," Beckett snapped. He squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the dull pain that shot through his injured arm. "I wonder, Norrington, just when did that concept spring into their 'simple' heads and who, exactly, put it there? Mutiny is a strong word with a very short noose attached to it. As a standing precaution, I suggest you eliminate it from your vocabulary."

Beckett surveyed his ship, searching for cracks in the general order of his command. But if there were any mutinous feelings, they were not readily evident. It appeared that despite Norrington's warning, the Endeavour was operating under business as usual, with the decks being swabbed, ropes being repaired and a general sense of calm bathing the ship which was in direct contrast to what lay for them ahead.

Still, there was a small, though not rowdy, gathering off the starboard side, with several naval officers standing in morose attendance. Beckett motioned to Mercer, and gestured to the small crowd.

"I see Governor Swann is getting his proper burial at sea after all," he said to his henchman, his voice terse. "I thought I gave strict orders for such formalities to be forgone in his case."

Mercer smiled, but it was more a twisted sneer. "Nay, sir. Governor Swann was buried four days ago."

Four days? Beckett reeled beneath the weight of this information. He'd been so ill he'd lost track of time, an entire four days--Governor Swann had been buried, and Norrington had four days to whisper sweet mutiny nothings in his officers' ears. Four days he spent, alone in his cabin, with everyone on board fully expecting him to die.

"If it is not a funeral..." Beckett said, confused.

Mercer gave Beckett his most enthusiastic, and sinister, grin.

"They be drowning the witch, sir."

***
"Stop! I order you to stop!"

The mixed crowd of seamen turned, the officers among them standing at attention as Beckett furiously marched toward them. Mercer followed closely behind, but Norrington remained aloof, his gait slowly casual as he caught up with them, his sword tapping the wooden planks in a distracted semblance of boredom.

On the tip of a large, wooden plank that had been pointed off the deck and above the rolling ocean, Larry stood with her arms crossed over her ample chest, her bare feet planted firmly on her perch. Beckett clutched the rails, unsure if he was more perturbed that his hallucination was, in fact, real, or that an order of execution had been made without his clearance.

In the end, he opted to be officious. "Who gave this order?" he shouted to the crew gathered around him.

The grumbling discussion that brewed within the crowd betrayed the fact that no one person had made the formal decision. The ship's surgeon coughed nervously into his fist. "We checked up on you, sir," he said, wisely not identifying exactly who 'we' comprised of. "Caught her right in the act of it, we did."

"She was sucking your soul out, sir," a petty officer said in unthinking agreement. "She'd dug a hose stolen from the still into your arm and she was siphoning your soul into a bag she had hanging on the post of your bed."

"Nonsense! You've earned yourself a kiss from the gunner's daughter! Mr. Mercer, you know what to do."

"Nay, sir!" the petty officer cried. "Not the whipping! She's truly a witch, sir!"

"Bring her back on board," Beckett ordered his men.

There was ensuing dismay at this order, the grumbling within the crowd becoming more of a fevered protest.

"There's been enough black magic wandering about without this on our deck."

"I didn't sign up my soul to be spending time in Davy Jones' locker for some half naked strumpet."

"Nothing good comes from having a woman aboard ship."

"Enough!" Beckett shouted. Mercer stood behind him, his weasel eyes ferreting out the more vocal of the crew and clearly making mental notes to hand out harsh discipline later. "This is no witch, and is therefore no threat to this ship or this crew. Superstitious lies can bind anyone who believes in them here to the gun for a proper whipping. However, as I am sure being exemplary officers of the Royal Navy, we are all reasonable men. Despite the unorthodox methods by which we will secure it, I assure you all that it is reason that shall be the victor in this battle and naught else. We shall stamp out Davy Jones and his ilk from this world and replace it with the cool solidity of intellect. Witches, ghosts and monsters will wither from our lack of faith in them. Such peasant folly as you've exemplified today will no longer be tolerated."

Norrington was painfully close to him, his near whisper just loud enough to be overheard. "Nice speech. I almost think that you believe it."

"She is no witch," Beckett assured him.

"Be that as it may, how sure are you that you can trust her?" Norrington's voice softened to bring Beckett into his full confidence. "What that poor deck hand said was somewhat true--She did have you hooked up to a very strange contraption, though it seemed to me the clear liquid was not your soul, but some sort of salted water, and it was not being siphoned from you but put into your blood." Norrington's voice grated on Beckett's ear. "My Lord Beckett, mark my words--A lot of knowledge is useful, but only a little knowledge is dangerous."

"This has nothing to do with trust," Beckett shot back.

"Really?" Norrington said, raising a brow. "Then what does it have to do with?"

Ignoring his jab, Beckett turned his ire back upon his crew. They wisely moved aside as Beckett approached the plank, his manner cool as he placed his hands on the deck rail. "You've saved my life," he said to Larry.

"You're welcome," she replied. She shifted where she stood and the plank dangerously creaked beneath her feet. Wide splinters in the old wood threatened to break into shards and plummet her into the black, churning waters below that longed to claim her. Beckett offered her his hand, beckoning her to come forward.

Each step she took heaved beneath her weight, but she was not so far from the deck. Only a couple more steps and she would be safely guided back onto his ship with the firm assurance of his hand in hers. Beckett felt a swelling sense of anticipation at this, and he dared to give Larry a knowing smile.

"You have quite a knack for causing a scene," Beckett observed.

"And you have quite the skill when it comes to minimising damages," Larry said. She placed a haughty hand on her hip and raised her chin in proud confidence. "You could say that's what drew me here in the first place."

She took a step forward towards Beckett and the safety of his touch, but her last footfall was just a fraction too heavy. The knots within the old wood popped, sending spidery lines outward from each circle.

With a harrowing crash the plank splintered into fragments. She hurtled down the side of the ship, splashing into the briny, black ocean, where billowing waves swallowed her whole and buried her beneath their turmoil.

Beckett still had his hand held out, the emptiness within his grasp heavier than a loaded, iron cannon. A small choke escaped his lips, but he clenched his outstretched hand into a fist and held it back, easing his stricken heart into a semblance of icy calm. The crew silently dispersed around him, a palpable sense of relief at her passing coursing through them. They had not, of course, fully believed in Beckett's speech, and were more than content to continue walking their paths in the dark.

"Pity," Norrington said, searching the black water. "She was an interesting distraction." He tapped the blade of his sword on the deck, stabbing small holes into the wood. "Jones will be here at any moment." Norrington walked away, his sword tap, tapping in front of him like a blind man's cane. "Let's hope her soul has sunk too far for him to find it."

***

Distracted was the word Beckett was searching for as he regarded the tentacled, barnacle mess that was Davy Jones. The pirate's octopus face puckered and popped in quiet contemplation as Beckett sat back, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know any pirate named Larry," Jones said. He puffed again, regarding Beckett with a certain level of confused curiosity. "And what be the purpose of this?" he asked, his lobster pincer pointing to the large, white ceramic object sitting in the middle of Beckett's desk.

"Don't touch it," Beckett warned him. He slouched in his seat, and stared at the scrubbed to gleaming white chamber pot as though scrying his future. His bottom lip was pursed in a morose pout, his eyes hollowed and dark as he continued to stare at its banal surface.

"It's worth forty thousand pounds," Beckett added.

"Nothing is worth such a sum," Jones growled.

Though it was difficult to contemplate, there were worse fates than losing her to the crush of the sea, Beckett thought. She could have met her fate on the Flying Dutchman, and as such she was lucky to have caught her demise on the Endeavour. If she'd been on the Dutchman, by now she would already be a part of the ship, her long arms and legs twisted into the beams, her thick black and red hair a lined streak within algae riddled wood. She would be nothing more than another absorption into the unholy construction.

Beckett shivered.

"Who be this Larry to ye?"

"It doesn't matter. Larry is dead," Beckett impatiently told Jones. He searched the undead man for any sign of a reaction, but there was nothing from him but blank ignorance. Beckett sighed, an uneasy sadness threatening to overtake him. The only person who seemed to have any disappointment in her passing was himself.

He thought on earlier that evening, when he had retreated alone to his cabin and pulled out the yellow volume she had left behind. He had turned to the page that had outlined his meagre life for the future, but the page had changed, altering to reflect his current history. Survival had not boded well for him. All that remained there now was a detailed cross-sectional diagram of a cuttlefish. There was no footnote for Lord Cutler Beckett. He didn't deserve even this.