Longitude--chapter seven (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: Seven
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Beckett, OFC, Norrington
Summary: Broken things. Just drop them off at Mother's business.
NOTE: This chapter is heading into obvious AU territory, as Norrington is clearly still alive and on the Endeavour :P.




Longitude--chapter seven

Early morning. Bright, cheerful sunlight had become a curse as of late, one which Beckett suffered through with particular pain upon waking, the sun diving into his skull with all the vicious precision of a blade. In contrast, memories of the night before came back to him in foggy snatches; pity mixed in with fear, desire and surrender competing, a bruising sense of lurid understanding...He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling a growing shadow of stubble scrape across his palms, wherein he discovered the lace edged wrist of his night-shirt sleeve dangling from where it had been ripped. Strange, he thought, how did that happen? He studied the sleeve with quizzical interest and then abandoned it to further inspect his person, finding several rips in the seams of his night-shirt and no clear memory of how this had transpired.

Of course, there was that grey nudge on the periphery of his thoughts that not only was the destruction placed upon him not life threatening but it had been, his conscience blushed to point out, a most pleasurable event. He rolled on his side and was instantly struck by the warmth that still remained on his bed, the sheets scented with the twin glories of feminine wile and sex. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the feather down cushion she had lain her head upon, her presence lingering even though she herself was nowhere to be seen. He smiled into this sweetness, and though it pained him to do so, gently injured as he was by an odd accruement of bruises, aching muscles and pounding temples, Beckett slid out of his bed to wash and dress, his movements slow as his body railed against both the physical and emotional comfort of his sheets.

It was a good half hour when he was redressed, his uniform only slightly rumpled at the sleeve, his face still retaining a layer of stubble as he couldn't trust his still rather shaky hand to shave himself without accidentally slitting his own throat with the straight razor. He did his best to walk steadily out of his private cabin and into the meeting room without stumbling, but the effort was a difficult one with the rolling see-saw of the ship as it coursed through choppy waters. He rubbed the back of his neck as he gingerly picked his way across the expanse of his desk, a sharp ache just under his chin betraying the mysterious reddened bruise that lay there. He collapsed into the red velvet chair at his fireplace, all energy spent.

A shadow was evident through the side window of the meeting room, and Beckett frowned as he witnessed Larry, garbed once again in her ridiculous male attire, a tailor's measuring tape in her hand as she plotted out the dimensions of an oak plank on the staircase. She re-entered the meeting room without giving Beckett so much as a passing glance, opting instead to head immediately for a waiting piece of paper and quill and ink which she then used to scribble various sums upon the parchment before heading back out the doors onto the deck to continue her odd exercises in geometry. The after-effects of a night spent in too much revelry had clearly not slowed Larry's salvaging pursuits. Beckett sighed, and rested his chin in his hand, his heart more than just slightly troubled at how easily she had already taken the night before for granted.

His meeting room doors swung open, and Beckett became further depressed by the familiar form that entered the room. Admiral Norrington, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, regarded Beckett with little more than only passing respect as he made his way across the room to Beckett's desk.

"I see you've survived," Norrington said.

Beckett regarded the former renegade officer with no small amount of contempt. "Survived what, exactly?" he asked impatiently.

"The night, of course," Norrington said, in mock concern. He twirled the globe embedded in Beckett's desk with a quick push of his hand upon it. "Considering how desperate you sounded, we all thought you were destined to be murdered."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As you know, the crew's quarters are at the other end of the ship, at the forecastle. Therefore, it was quite shocking for us to be hearing your cries of terror. It took a bit of convincing on my part to keep them from charging your quarters." Norrington sighed in pleasure as the doors of the meeting room swung open again, a servant carrying an elaborate silver setting entering and placing the tray on the surface of the desk. "Ah, how nice. Tea." He poured himself a steaming cup of the amber brew into a gold-rimmed pink cup, and pointedly neglected to offer Beckett any. "Not bad, but I'm a coffee man, myself."

"They thought I was being murdered?" Beckett asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why would they think such a thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it was all those loud cries of 'Darling, oh please! Please have mercy upon me!'--Among a few other alarming exclamations, of course. Your attacker did not relent, if anything I'd say we all assumed you were properly done in." Norrington sighed reservedly as he raised the cup of tea to his lips. "We had believed that tall, rather 'robust' officer who left your cabin this morning with his hand so casually on his hip was, in fact, your slayer, so you can imagine our surprise to find you well, happy and snoring in your quarters." Norrington raised his teacup again, only to frown and place it back upon the silver tray. "Terribly sorry, I have displayed such bad manners--Did you want me to pour you a cup?"

The meeting room doors swung open as Beckett and Norrington silently stared each other down, with James clearly at the advantage. Larry entered with a length of measuring tape wound messily around her fingers, the quill and parchment waiting for her at the desk now earning more numerical scratches.

"Fifteen by fourteen...A hundred per square foot...Factor in inflation and duty costs..." she muttered under her breath, completely oblivious to Beckett's longing stare.

"Larry," Beckett gently said to her, his address an attempted whisper to bring her into his confidence, though the point was moot as Norrington knew the entire sordid story already. "About...About last night..."

"Cutty, I'm sorry," she said, flustered that the sums on her paper were not adding up to the amounts she wanted. "I can't talk about anything right now, I'm really busy, I have to concentrate on work." She held up a paint chip she had chiselled from the upper deck wall. "What colour best describes this, do you think? Sandy yellow or puce?"

"Mustard," Norrington offered.

"Perfect," Larry said, adding this information to her copious messy puzzle of notes. Her exit through the panelled glass doors of the meeting room was as swift as her dismissal of Beckett's obvious, brooding affection, which was now waning into a perplexed, aching feeling that sat unwell within his constitution. The infuriatingly dull Norrington leaned against the fireplace mantle with bored observation, his cup of tea abandoned as it had become cold.

"It appears you are but a secondary note to the whims of a woman's desires," Norrington said, sighing. "Welcome to my world."

"There is no such comparison," Beckett snapped. He spoke his words with cool detachment, though the effort was a tad forced. "There is no love between us."

"She seems to have that effect on men," Norrington observed.

Beckett was not amused. His cool demeanour became dark as he regarded the former renegade officer. "Your meaning?"

"Back in port I had a rather fascinating conversation with an acquaintance of your 'friend' Larry," Norrington said. "His name is Nikola Tesla, a Czech, I believe, and though he insisted that there was nothing untoward between them, I couldn't help but wonder...He was so concerned, you see, about your dear 'friend's welfare." He gave Beckett a condescending smile. "There is no consequence to this, of course. You've said yourself you have no heartfelt desires for her." He dared to open a drawer of Beckett's desk, pulling out a small, black box that he knew contained a very special compass. He tossed it to Beckett who caught the magical compass with fumbling hands. "Am I right?"

The meeting room doors swung open yet again, Larry's tall form marching to her insufferable notes, a piece of painted wood in her grasp. She studied it against the onslaught of morning light, as though it held some vast portent of scientific knowledge. "Would this be bluish green or aqua?" she asked.

"Evergreen," Norrington said.

"Exactly it!" she said happily, and wrote this trifling information down. "Honestly, if the colour descriptions aren't clear enough, Colin and Justin are just bitches about the entire project. You have no idea how picky..."

The compass needle stubbornly followed Larry's every movement as she flitted around the meeting room, measuring tape taking in the dimensions of the windows and doors. Annoyed at this revelation of his subconscious, Beckett shut the compass lid and all of its ramifications from his sight. "Larry, there is something I must ask of you," he said, his voice ice. "It appears Admiral Norrington has met an acquaintance of yours..."

"I'm not surprised, in my line of work you make a lot of acquaintances," Larry said absently, and frowned over her notes. "You know, much as it seems to go together well on paper, I'm not sure mustard and evergreen are compatible colours."

Keeping his temper at a low ebb, Beckett pushed the offending compass away from him. "I wish to know about Nikola Tesla," he said, his voice terse.

Larry paused over her notes, and Beckett bristled at the expression of triumph that suddenly broke across Norrington's features. "He was a lover, then," Beckett said to her.

"I should think not," Larry said, making a face. She turned to Norrington. "You can tell that obsessive compulsive freak that I got that pearl earring fair and square. He's the one who tossed it out that hotel window, he's the one who trashed it. I don't care if he doesn't want any remnants of himself going up for auction, Mother has already appraised the damn thing!" Beckett's sudden reassurance of her sole affection for himself was short-lived, however, as Larry's stern anger quickly softened into an expression of genuine, deep concern. "How is he, anyway? He was so thin the last time I saw him, is he eating properly?" She sighed, a measure of deep regret seeming to well from her bosom. "How is his death ray coming along?"

Slightly taken aback, Norrington gave Larry a perplexed shrug. "He didn't really say..." Norrington replied.

"Oh, no matter, I'm sure he's figured it out at some point in time--no doubt after great cost to his health. That's the thing about geniuses, their minds are so occupied with non linear things they don't know how to take care of themselves properly. He should have just stayed with Mother instead of surrendering all his patents to her, he'd have been better off." Larry fanned herself with her notes in an effort to make the ink dry faster. "It amazes me how smart people can sometimes be so shockingly stupid."

She placed her hand haughtily on her hip and gave Beckett's desk a concentrated scrutiny, her fingers daring to spin the globe embedded within it. "I'm not sure about the resale value of this," she said. "It's a bit of a clunky piece of furniture, and minimalism is more the thing in the future furnishings market." Her hand rested on the compass box, which she picked up to investigate further. "Rosewood. Simple design, nice detail with the tassel. What is this?"

"It's nothing," Beckett assured her.

"It's a compass," Norrington revealed. "A very special one."

"How so?" Larry asked.

"It shows you your heart's desire," Norrington said, but his words were cruelly aimed at Beckett.

"Really?" Larry asked. She placed her notes back onto the surface of the desk and regarded the black box with more concentrated scrutiny. Beckett held his breath as she opened it, his mouth dry at the information such an act was about to reveal.

"Doesn't seem to be working," Larry said, shrugging. "It's not pointing to true North. See?" She moved the compass to one side and then the other, biting her bottom lip in contemplation. "Weird. It keeps pointing at Cutty."

Norrington raised a brow at this, and Beckett sat up smugly in his seat, his heart significantly lightened by this news. So, she was not quite so cured of his attention after all, a fact that made him feel inexplicably giddy. A slow, victorious hint of a smile was directed at Norrington's frowning displeasure, with Beckett's pride swelling into such enormous proportions he even entertained the thought of asking Larry to marry him at this very second, if only to hit home against Norrington that he, Lord Cutler Beckett, was immune to Norrington's diseased sense of hopeless loss.

Larry stepped closer to him, the compass held out before her, its needle pointed strong and true at his heart. Her large green eyes locked with his, and he felt his breath catch at the loveliness of her face and the flawless rosy hue of her healthy skin. He longed to bury his lips into the thickness of her soft hair, and breathe into its sensual darkness, but as decorum would not permit such acts with Norrington present, he would have to be content to keep his anxious need for her an unspoken, tense desire in the air between them.

"Mother!" Larry exclaimed.

Her hand reached out and grabbed a small model ship that was sitting on its side on the surface of the desk just in front of Beckett. The compass was tossed onto the desk like so much trash as she inspected her new prize, her apologies to her loss of it close to weeping. "Oh, Cutty, this is fabulous! To think that compass pointed right at her--What a coincidence!" She kissed one of its paper sails. "Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry I nearly lost you! I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Norrington's disease crept into Beckett's soul with all its terminal intent. A most horrible sense of misery buried him into silent immobility, his mouth a thin, down-turned line as she, completely oblivious to his suffering, happily danced out of the meeting room, her tiny ship's model of 'Mother' in her eager hands. Norrington didn't even have a parting shot for him, opting instead to follow Larry out of the meeting room, his questions echoing to where Beckett sat, motionless.

"*That* is Mother? How odd...I was expecting something just a little...Well, bigger, actually," Norrington said.

"Of course she's small," Larry chided him as she made her way up the stairs. "She was dry-docked near Tortuga for over an hour--What do you *think* would happen to her?"

"How sure are you that's Mother?"

"History, of course. See these two pillars? Smokestacks. She's used the first steamship model--you won't be seeing those around here for at least another fourteen years..."

Her conversation with Norrington gradually dissipated as they made their way onto the upper decks, leaving Beckett alone with his shattered expectations. Jack Sparrow's magical compass seemed to mock him from where it been tossed on his desk, and Beckett found he didn't even have the energy to fling its ungodly presence from his sight in fury. There was little emotion left in him since all he could feel was this horrid, pressing emptiness that made every breath he took an act of miserable fate.

A bright yellow corner stuck out from beneath a pile of maps, and Beckett took out the volume that Larry had first arrived with, turning with some trepidation to his usual page. His footnote had thankfully returned, but there were now marked differences in its content:

"Lord Cutler Beckett, a slave trader for the East India Trading Company, was known for his zealotry against pirates which resulted in the deaths of countless innocent victims. It is believed that his hatred of pirates began in his dealings with the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow who had freed a cargo of slaves from the EITC when he had been under their employ. (see pages 38-89 noble pirates, heroes, Jack Sparrow). An aristocratic man with a weak constitution and possible homosexual, Lord Beckett suffered bouts of severe, debilitating depression. He died in 1773 of an overdose of opiates off the coast of Malaysia."

Beckett groaned and slammed the volume shut, pushing it away from him. Damn history, and damn his place in it! He sank into his chair, feeling as though the universe had compressed him into a speck of dust and he thought, with as much self-indulgent pity as he could allow himself, that a drawing of a cuttlefish would have been far more welcome.

***

Her sails were stunning in their detail, the tiny pieces of cloth so intricately sewn that they operated in the exact manner of a full scale ship. Her deck seemed to be comprised of hundreds of tiny, perfectly laid out matchsticks, while the two tiny 'smokestacks' as Larry had called them were fashioned out of a sturdy metal material, several pieces of which had tiny dots lining them, as though they were bolts joining the metal pieces together. Norrington dared to open a miniscule flap on the side of the model ship, and was surprised to see a very tiny, black cannon resting within it. "The workmanship on this model is extraordinary," Norrington said. "Where did you get it?"

"Mother isn't something you 'get', she takes you on herself," Larry impatiently replied. "Besides, the workmanship, as excellent as it is, has nothing to do with her--She's just following the blueprints in her database, and this ship is from our last excursion. Honestly, if I don't see another minute of the 18th century, it won't be too soon." She kicked at a deck board, loosening a nail which she then pocketed. "No offence, of course, but your era is far too class conscious for my tastes."

Norrington gave her a nod, not finding much to argue in regards to her observation. He dared to touch the tiny canon, its black surface leaving what looked like miniscule dots of soot on his fingertip. "So what you're saying is, you travel on this tiny boat across the seas of time--Considering the scale, I'd say it would take every minute the universe encompasses just to make it to Singapore."

"She doesn't stay small," Larry said to him, annoyed. "Like all things absorbent, she expands in water." Her hand was stuck resolutely on her hip as Norrington turned Mother over in his hands, his eyes squinting as he peered at the tiny windows that lined the lower decks. "You know, I never did get a chance to thank you," she said.

Norrington shrugged. "I don't know why you think you need to bother," he said.

"You did try to convince the crew not to put me on that plank," she said. "It's not your fault they didn't want to listen to you."

"I'm not their captain," Norrington conceded.

"Thus, it was very kind of you to ensure their captain had a word in," Larry said, giving Norrington a sideways, knowing glance. "Though it was a bit of a gamble on your part--I wouldn't have been so confident that Cutty would attempt to save my life, if anything he might have pushed me off himself."

"It was my last gamble, and you fell into the sea anyway," Norrington said, a twinge of regret evident in his speech. Mother's tiny, polished rails glinted in the morning sunlight. "I just chalked your fate up to another of my many failures."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Larry said, punching Norrington jovially in the arm. She leaned back on the deck railing, her head cocked to one side in a casual pose usually adopted by flirting barmaids. "You know, you kind of remind me of Nikola, in a very obtuse, not quite able to be mapped sort of way. You both have very obsessive personalities--For Nikola, it's all about how the universe works, and how he can harness every facet of its mechanism. With you, it's a bit of a more earthy possession--You love to wallow in how much the universe is working to destroy you. If you want my advice, I say damn what the universe is doing to us. It's always beating us to a pulp no matter who or what we are, so why bother fighting it or making our best pal in misery--You should openly look for that next heartbreak, seek out that devastating blow because that's the only the way your past can be properly obliterated. How can you concentrate on one tragedy when you have so many to choose from?"

"Sounds like a bitter remedy," Norrington observed.

"Well, if that fails, there's always Xanax," Larry replied, dismissing all concerns with a wave of her hand. "You just seem like such a nice guy, James Norrington. I wish you could find your place in this universal mess. Maybe all isn't lost, you can always ask Mother for help, she's very accommodating."

Mother was still held aloft in Norrington's palm, her delicate sails billowing out as a gentle breeze cascaded across the deck of the Endeavour. Mother was regal, purposeful, ready to set sail across his hand.

"You're a very special person, Larry," Norrington replied. "Which makes it all the more difficult for me to understand just what the appeal of Cutler Beckett is for you."

"Oh, I don't know, he's not so bad..."

"The man is a toad."

Larry deeply sighed, her posture only slightly deflated at Norrington's observation. "You see, that's why I like him," she said, shrugging in defeat. "It's an occupational hazard."

"How so?" Norrington asked.

"Working for Mother isn't easy, James, there's a considerable amount of stress involved. I have to remember what's Gregorian gothic and what's just boring Renaissance, not to mention living in daily fear that Colin and Justin are going to suddenly become enamoured with pastels and...Ugh, I can't think of it. Mother's policies make my job all that much harder, and my whole life is tied up in what people throw away and, I admit, perhaps I'm a little overly *passionate* about rescuing that which has been neglected. I mean, there he is in that overly furnished, cluttered room where he's moping in his big red chair, my poor pointless, tired little Cutty and his tiny place in history--He's tossed away and he deserves it, but God help me, I'm still trying to find some value in him." She sighed deeply, her hand on her heart. "He has such a fragile ego, and I'm a sucker for broken things."

Sobered by this rather odd insight into Larry's views on relationships, Norrington perched Mother onto his fingertips, turning her to the left and right as though his fingers were waves steering her. "I wonder--If you can go into the future, how easy is it to change things of the past?"

"No can do," Larry said, her words harshly final. "You can never go back to any time you've already visited."

"One of Mother's 'rules'?" Norrington asked.

"No. Just a fact of how she works," Larry said.

Norrington pursed his lips at this, Mother's sails collapsing as the gentle breeze on the Endeavour's deck turned direction. "How she works," Norrington repeated. "Perhaps you could give me an education."

Larry gave Norrington a crooked smile. "Easy enough. Just launch her."

Norrington bit down on a surprised laugh. "And just how would I accomplish that? With a miniature pulley and some ants in Navy uniform?"

"Just throw her into the ocean," Larry said, her green eyes lit with jade mischief as the onslaught of morning sunlight pierced them. "She's positively parched, and she'll be grateful for the drink."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Norrington raised the model behind his head as he prepared to jettison 'Mother' out into the ocean. "You're mad," he said. "This can't possibly work."

"That's what they told Tesla, but he did disintegrate an owl," Larry replied.

Norrington paused as he was about to throw Mother, an unconscionable act of charity entering his thoughts. "You know, maybe it's better if your 'Cutty' as you call him did the honours. He was pretty miserable when we left him back there, and I half wonder if he won't make you walk the plank for grinding his heart into mince."

Larry made a disgusted face. "Are you kidding me? No way." She crossed her arms over her ample chest. "He throws like a girl. Besides, he'd hang me first, he knows I can survive the plank."

"I can't understand why you would want to be with a man who could so easily end you."

"Who says he can do anything 'easily' to me?" Larry replied.

On her cue Norrington flung Mother as far as his strong swing could carry her, the tiny ship's body disappearing into the unknown brightness of the morning horizon. He waited at the railing for some catastrophic event, only for the waters to remain calm, with the tiny model remaining stubbornly out of sight.

"That's it?" he asked.

"Not really," Larry said, leaving the comfort of the deck rails. "I have a lot more measuring and prep work to get done."

She took a small letter opener out of her side pocket and scraped at the railing, taking a sliver of polished wood from its surface into her grasp. "What colour would you say this is? Amber or rusty brown?"

"Sandalwood," Norrington said, confused by her suddenly analytical demeanour.

"Perfect," she replied.