Longitude--chapter six (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: Six
Author: pink_bagels
Characters: Lots of Norrington in this chapter, Beckett, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What happens next is none of Mother's business.



Longitude--chapter six

The market tavern was at least slightly cleaner than the one he'd suffered in at Tortuga, Norrington thought, though the women in this particular port were miraculously uglier. A robust, bearded wench slammed a pitcher of ale at his table, her ample hip jutting him suggestively on the shoulder.

"A Navy man, he is a fascination," she said with a distinctly feminine French accent. She scratched the underside of her beard with surprisingly sultry fingers, its thickness ending at the white flesh of her throat. "There is such tension in your visage, mon cher...Visit me later. We shall have un bon nuit, je sais..."

"I'll keep that in mind," Norrington said, reaching for his pitcher of ale. The bearded wench smiled and patted him warmly on the cheek before heading to back into the more crowded centre of the tavern to deliver more drinks. Her confidence followed her, and Norrington had to admit a certain regret that he would not be taking her up on her offer. He downed half his ale in one steady swallow--He had to admire a person who could take the disadvantages life had given them and turn them into selling points. He himself had never had such a valuable knack.

He supposed, if he wanted to, he could easily escape the Endeavour and her suffocating clutch upon him. As they were tied up at port, it would be easy for him to walk away from its stifling imprisonment, to turn renegade once again. He took another deep swallow of ale, signalling to his bearded temptress to give him another. He'd already had his chance of escape and had blown it for the promise of returning to his old, supposedly comfortable life. He had realised too late that comfort had more to do with his imperfect memory than actual reality. If he had it all to do again, well...One needn't be tethered to the sea. He'd abandon his heart and find his way inland, into the promise of the Americas. Into the dark wilds of the north where coniferous forests were blanketed in snow, where bushwhacked men's souls were shattered by isolation, and wolves devoured the throats of the even the most brave heroes.

Sure. That would be a great place to escape.

Norrington took his second pitcher of ale eagerly. He was steadily feeling the effect of it on his thoughts, which were now concentrating on how much ammunition it would take to sink the Endeavour and everyone who served on it--Especially 'Lord' Beckett and, more importantly, to bring an end to himself.

"If you will excuse me, sir, but are you an officer serving aboard the flagship tied at the dock? Are you a member of the Endeavour?"

"No," Norrington replied, annoyed. "I just like dressing up in a naval Admiral's uniform. The whores love it." He took another swig of ale, not bothering to look at who had asked such a ridiculous question.

A thin shadow sat at Norrington's table, and with this imposition upon his space, James Norrington sighed in impatient defeat. He glanced up at the new occupant of his table, only to instantly be taken aback at the strangeness of his unwelcome companion's clothes. He was a tall, thin man with a rather pinched, hungry expression, his suit simple in its design, and yet its cleanliness and simplicity belied a certain higher level of class. He had the air of a gentleman, without the usual adornments so prevalent in the fashion of the region, and overall gave the impression of being a man who was not only uncluttered in his dress, but was likewise clear in his mind. It was an unnerving experience to be sitting across from such a man, Norrington thought. He possessed the otherworldly aspects of a man who had no interest in the material and yet, he was a defining opposite of everything both Davy Jones and even Beckett represented.

"I wish to ask a simple question," the man said, his English perfect though there was a slight lilt of an Eastern European dialect hovering within it. Russian. Czech. "I wish to know...Have you met a person by the name of Larry?"

The man's eyes pierced into Norrington as though he already knew the answer, and James bit his bottom lip, pretending to think over what he was asked. "I'm not sure. I believe there was, once, yes, a person of that name, or something similar, on our ship, but sadly, there was a bit of a mishap." He took a deep gulp of ale. "She drowned."

The strange man sitting across from James steepled his fingers and pressed them against his thin, hungry lips. "Unlikely," he said.

"I saw it with my own eyes," James said.

"Then your eyes are not to be trusted," his companion rebutted. He splayed his hands on the surface of the table, the tips of his fingers not touching the wood. "I have come to understand the resonance of certain truths and I can conclude without hesitation that she is very much alive, and the Endeavour figures prominently in her present. As for you, James Norrington, the resonance is not so positive. Should you continue on your present course, you will meet your death." A tense concentration could be physically felt by James as the strange man focused his words, each syllable hitting a hollow point within James's soul. "Bitterness has no place in the human heart, nor should there be resignation. The past is always trying to invade the present, it is the very nature of its survival technique. You would be wiser, James, to venture into the future."

James allowed a pregnant pause to brew between them as he digested what this stranger said. "So, you know my name. Which says to me that you already knew I was a member of the Endeavour. I've always found it crass for a man to talk in circles." He regarded his companion coolly. "What is this Larry to you? If she's not dead, as I say I've so plainly seen for myself, then what do you wish for me to do about it? You want me to assassinate her, I take it..."

His already pale companion was stricken white. "Never," he said, horrified. He shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together in anger. "How easy it is for me to forget how barbaric these times are. I am not such a devolved creature, James Norrington. I wish her no harm, in fact, she has my deepest sympathies."

"Oh?" James asked. So, a man with a broken heart. 'Stand in the back of the long line, friend,' Norrington thought. 'Way back.'

"One does not come away from a visit with the Bishop Corsicas unscathed," he said. "The Inquisition was quite cruel to her." He closed his eyes as though the very thought of her suffering caused him personal pain. "No, all I wish from Larry is an object she left with Mother. She has retained something of mine that she has mistaken for trash. I am afraid I must have it back."

Norrington shrugged. "And what would that be?"

His companion shuddered, as though speaking of it made him ill. "A pearl earring," he said, nearly gagging.

"A what?"

"Please, I beg of you, don't make me say it again."

Confused, Norrington abandoned his pitcher of ale. "I don't get it," he said. "If that's all you want, why don't you just ask her for it? If it's a lover's spat that's getting in your way..."

"We have never been in such a relationship, I operate strictly platonically," the Czech snapped. "I can not converse with Larry directly because as I am no longer under Mother's employ the resulting resonance of her presence with mine if we interact will be disastrously catastrophic. The only safe avenue for me is to arrange a visit with Mother that does not involve me physically. As Larry and her are so symbiotically entwined it is impossible for me to attempt to meet one without coming into contact with the other. The best scenario of all would be that I see neither of them. Hence, I need a go-between, and you, James Norrington, are my perfect vehicle."

James pondered this. "Sure," he said. "But what do I get out of it?" He let out a low chuckle as he took his ale back into his hands. "What 'resonance' do I get for getting your damn earring back?"

A small, white card with plain black ink on its surface was gently pushed towards James. He picked it up with frowning study, the card imprinted with expensive black ink and paper.

'Nikola Tesla--35 South Fifth Avenue, New York, New York.'

"Talk to Mother, and if you can find the earring, bring it to me at that address," he said. "Mother will bring you to New York. I propose when she does, you stay a while, Mr. Norrington. I have the distinct impression you would find a true home within that blessed city."

Norrington turned over the card. In faded black ink the number '1891' was neatly handwritten in precise, clear script. "What's this?" he asked, but there was no answer but the splash of ale as it was replenished by the bearded wench who had propositioned him earlier. There was no sign of his strange, pale companion.

Norrington tapped the surface of the wooden table with the corner of the white card, his thoughts abstract yet slowly moving into understanding. The card was something physical in his grasp, a sign that he had not fallen to the whim of a hallucination caused by strong ale. And yet...

"A pearl earring," he murmured.

***

There is a strange paradox to the imbibing of drink, Beckett thought as he accepted yet another full glass of wine. The more one takes in, the less one is inclined to be fettered by the more careful observations of social graces. However, even though one be drunk and feeling especially confident in one's abilities to fool others of their sobriety, the lack of reservation is overwhelmingly, even embarrassingly, clear. For instance, Beckett observed, there was this woman--A very tall, rather big-boned and opinionated creature wearing trousers, but a woman nonetheless--draped most indelicately across the arms of his expensively commissioned red velvet chair. She had tossed the coat of her uniform onto the table before her, obscuring the globe that had been built into it beneath a smothering blanket of red wool and was now scratching madly at her chest and ripping pieces of cotton gauze out from the cleavage of her white cotton undershirt. The white wig she had worn for most of the day was placed on a corner post on the back of the chair, leaving her own thick black and red streaked locks to fall evenly at her shoulders. A set of equally thick bangs fell just above her striking, large green eyes, giving her appearance an oddly ancient Egyptian slant.

"You know, I really do take offence at how you keep calling me a pirate, because I told you it's not like that. I don't take what isn't already thrown out." Her words were slurred as she took a sip from the goblet dangling in her hand. "Mother is very strict when it comes to outright stealing. Much as it would make *my* life a lot easier, it's just plain not allowed."

"I know who you are," Beckett said, his drunken mind slowed to thinking solely of what her appearance told him. "The ruin of Ceasar, her sharp wit his doom. You're Cleopatra."

"Oh, give over, I look nothing like that old whore." She frowned, her upper lip curling in displeasure. "Are you even listening to me? Listen, I'm going to give you some very important words...Listen, you ass! Here, remember this, it's really, really important." She pointed a well manicured nail at Beckett, punctuating every word with a nod. "Free. Market. Economy. Stock-market. Day. Trading. Sell high. Buy low. There--Now when the crash comes you won't go with it." Her eyes rolled as she imparted more of her drunken wisdom. "You got to get creative in this business," she said. "I mean, take a look at those there." She gestured to the two barrels of vinegar that she had insisted be placed in Beckett's meeting room. "Liquid gold, my friend."

"Vinegar," Beckett reminded her. Then, more woozily, "How'd you get so...tall?"

"Genetics and the rack," she impatiently replied. "Listen--the only thing wrong with those barrels is that they haven't been properly aged yet. Give those suckers a good three hundred years and they'll be a lovely addition to any alcoholic billionaire's ego. By the time the year 2100 rolls around, one bottle of that now worthless vinegar will be worth eighty thousand pounds. Not a bad profit from a couple of coins. Mother will be hard pressed not to give me that bonus."

"Your efforts are wasted on Mother," Beckett observed. "All of your fortune is tied up in the future, you can't enjoy any of it in the present. You should quit your employ with this...this 'Mother' and come and work for me. I could give you a title, as an advisor, perhaps, a silent investor for the East India Trading Company."

Larry let out a most unladylike guffaw at this. "The EITC? Please. Their day in the sun will be wilting before you can finish saying 'financial ruin'. Much as you bank on it, the Americans won't keep paying those over-priced tariffs. No, Mother is a far more stable prospect, and besides, I can't leave her even if want to." Larry took another sip of wine. "I've cut myself on her deck and that was just the start of my debt. She won't be paid off for another aeon or two."

Beckett unsteadily walked close to her seat, his hand steadying himself on the back of her chair. He'd given up on the wine, but what he had taken in mixed with battling wills of dominance with the brandy he had been enjoying most of the afternoon. That he was properly sloshed was not a point lost on Beckett, but this did not stop him from dropping to his knees at Larry's chair, his heavy head finding a suitable pillow between her unbound breasts. The fact that she did not protest such closeness gave Beckett the confidence enough to smile. He dared to caress her bared throat with his fingertips, drunkenness doing little to ease the burning sensation that coursed through him at the simple touch. "I believe only one thing of you. That you are completely mad." He rested his open palm on her shoulder, his lips daring to dart across the expanse of clean, blemish free flesh just beneath her throat. "The rack," he said. Then, frowning, "What rack would that be?

"The usual," Larry replied, shrugging. "You know..." She stretched out her arms and legs and made a grotesque, strangled looking face. "Oh God! Dislocated shoulders! Slipped spinal discs! Broken ankles! You know, *that* rack."

"The Inquisition," Cutler said, biting down on his laugh. "You can't seriously expect me to believe you."

"Well, the rack wasn't the worst of it," Larry said with a bored sigh. "That damn Bishop Corsicas and his thing against hands...That was the worst. I can still picture Mother's reaction when I hobbled back onto her deck." A dark chuckle escaped her full lips. "I crawled back on her, a right rendered mess, and held out my arms: 'Look Ma, no hands! Ha!'"

The dark of the meeting room was broken by candlelight, the warmth of the roaring fireplace giving an aura of comfort to the gloomy discussion. He took her hand in his, inspecting it in the near dark with close intimacy. He could find no evidence of them ever having been abused.

"I had an excellent plastic surgeon," Larry sighed. "He asked no questions and just did the hand replacement--It wasn't easy, I can tell you, to find a doctor who was willing to be discreet. 2230 is notorious for being a gossip haven, and I had to pay three times the normal rate just to keep my little 'incident' out of the papers. Mother's not exactly keen on publicity, if you get my drift. It could seriously hurt her business if her customer base were exposed." Larry frowned as Beckett's lips dared to graze her wrist. "You know, I've always thought that gaining an extra inch on the rack thing was just a myth, but I guess it's true. I'm living proof of that."

Even in his drunken state Beckett knew her words were mere folly, and he wisely ignored them as his lips continued their gentle exploration of her palm. She seemed oblivious to his ministration, a fact that only intoxicated him more. He kissed the knuckle of her right hand and then turned it over to press his lips against her palm only to find, to his surprise, a strange configuration of lines resembling thin scars. The lines were precise, starting down the middle of each finger to travel down the length of her palm, ending like a strange star-burst at the beginning of her wrist.

"You have been sorely abused," he murmured against the pad of her thumb. "Give me his name, I'll see a proper punishment is meted out."

"I told you, Bishop Corsicas, and you're far too late for that. His sainted self was thrown up to God in 1547. He died in agony, of leprosy. As they say, Karma's quite a bitch."

Her fingers clenched shut into a gentle fist and she pulled her hand away from Beckett's delicate scrutiny. "Besides, I can't completely blame the man, he didn't know any better. To his ignorance, I was as much as a threat as impending Armageddon, and whose to say he wasn't correct? Right and wrong can be as fluid as time itself if you don't keep a strict reign in on things. It's why Mother is the success she is--She doesn't change her basic rules." She sighed and closed her eyes, her arm resting behind her head in a casual, sensual pose. "It's hard to forgive you for not knowing better, especially when you had that virtue so clearly in your grasp."

"So, you blame me for the crimes of your pirate compatriots," Beckett said.

"Pirates? God, no...What is it with you and pirates? No, I'm talking about *you* Cutty, not your complicated politics, which are never, by the way, resolved by history. It's true, the same conflicts just keep rearing up decade after decade, and it's just damn easier to concentrate on physical things, specifically those things that have no apparent value. You learn a lot about human nature that way, just like you did with that broach."

Beckett's mood was becoming a sober one. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"That broach, you idiot. Don't think I didn't check and found that little glass bobble in the top drawer of your desk, right between your pistol and your orders of execution." She sighed, and attempted to sit up, only to drunkenly fall back onto the chair again. "She gave it to you when you were six."

He felt sick at her words, a crumbling sense of erosion wearing away at the edges of his calm. He rose to his feet, if not unsteadily, his hands grasping the edge of his desk to keep him upright. "You can not know of it," he said.

"Oh, but I do. I know that it has no value, that it's a worthless trinket made of glass and it was the sole piece of jewellery of your favourite maid. She was just a young thing, fourteen I should think, and she was ever so sweet to you, and spoiled you with attention. She was the only one who did--Your mother was too busy entertaining guests and sleeping with dignitaries to care about anything *you* were doing." Larry cruelly yawned. "And your father, of course, always away from home, which was of great relief to everyone because when he arrived back he was always in such a miserable temper. I suppose it added further insult to your child's sensibilities, knowing how violently he often abused her--I quite admire the poor girl for having the wherewithal to leave his employ."

"Witch," Beckett cursed. "You miserable, evil witch!"

"I'm just stating facts, Cutty. The last thing she gave you was her broach before she left your house, off to her ruin, off to freedom while she left you behind with your rageaholic father and your vain mother. You should know better, Cutty--This life you're leading now, this little prison you've made for yourself, it's hardly going to make amends for what happened to her, even if you have tried to correct karma along the way. I'm simply stating fact, there's little pride in taking forward one's curses."

"How dare you," Beckett fumed, his lips pressed tight, his eyes burning. "You talk of my father, of my family...You are a witch, you can't deny it!"

"I've told you to never call me that," Larry said, her own fury flung back at him. "I'm a historian--I take your life and dissect it piece by piece, leaving nothing to secrets. Everything you are is exposed to me. I know what you eat, what you drink and how often you take a piss. Mother has made me time's surgeon, Lord Cutler Beckett, and it's a job I take very seriously."

She rose from her seat, towering over him as he leaned against the edge of his desk, her formerly injured right hand grasping his chin firmly into her palm. He had been angered by what she had revealed, but this was but a trifle emotion compared to the rush of adrenaline the threat of her caused. As her lips closed on his, he felt his knees buckle under the pressure of her will, his body in worship of her, regardless of how sinister her purpose.

"I'm the ledger of your destiny, Cutty" she kissed into Beckett's ear, the room spinning with her words, his very soul drunk on her whim. "Nothing escapes me."