Longitude--chapter ten--epilogue (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: Ten (epilogue)
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Marchons, marchons. Mother's business just keeps on marching.
NOTE: This story is COMPLETE. Thank you so much to demonicsymphony for your continued encouragement and kindness as I wrote this story. It was very much a labour of love :D.


Longitude--chapter ten (epilogue)

Five months, or decades, later...

Cutler Beckett polished the button of his coat with renewed zeal, his white wig having been freshly brushed and placed upon his head with care to not set free any wayward hair that may threaten his equilibrium. The morning sunlight was a brilliantly happy addition to his already good mood, as was the comfort of his red velvet chair and its placement in front of the globe embedded within his desk. He closed his eyes and took in a deep, refreshing breath of cleansing sea air and mused that if Heaven were a physical place on earth, this would no doubt be it.

The beautiful song of the waves crashing against one another on an open sea was broken, however, by the tinny sound of Count Basie's Orchestra creeping its way into Beckett's meeting room. Beckett's happiness was marred by this intrusion, but he kept his demeanour cool as he walked out of the meeting room and onto the main deck. Norrington was at his accustomed spot, his body slouched into a circa 1940's sling deck chair, a pair of suspenders holding up his trousers while his chest was covered by naught but a thin white cotton undershirt. A dusty brown fedora covered his eyes, the naked cigarette he smoked poking out from beneath the rim. Beside him a 1920's Victrola Phonograph brought Count Basie's treasured performance back into life.

"This is not historically sound," Beckett admonished him.

"Mother doesn't seem to mind," Norrington lazily replied.

"She has been most accommodating in regards to this latest foray," Beckett snippily retorted. "The least you could do is at least observe some of the decorum expected of you for this day and age, not the least of which is attiring yourself in the manner befitting a Royal Navy Admiral!"

A series of curses could be heard in the vicinity of Beckett's quarters, and a loud bang echoed across the Endeavour as Larry smacked her head on the low bedroom door frame. She rubbed her temple as she blinked her way blearily out of the meeting room, a ceramic white mug with the words 'I <3 my attitude problem' held in her grip.

"What the hell's wrong with the coffee maker? I only managed to get one cup and the thing just died on me."

"Talk to Cutler," Norrington said through the shadow of his fedora. "He's the one who asked Mother to cut the electricity."

"That's because there isn't any electricity in the 18th century," Beckett said with pride. He gestured grandly to their current surroundings. "As you can see, the Endeavour has found her way home."

Larry made a twisted face over her tepid coffee. "I hate the 18th century," she grimaced.

"Amen, sister," Norrington agreed. He rested his arm lazily behind his head. "Unless, of course, we're in the year 1789, to which I say we head to France and drop our bourgeois pal off at Bastille. Vive la revolucion!"

Larry smacked Norrington on the arm. "Oh come on, be nice," she harshly whispered. "This is the first time he's looked happy in ages. That whole Exxon investment thing really hit him hard, let him have his little fantasy bubble of joy."

"...No matter how sad and pathetic it is," Norrington added, the fedora raised so he could get a better look at Beckett, who was standing in full uniform on the bridge in prim pride, his hands clasped firm behind his back as he surveyed what had once been his finest hour. "Fine, I can live without hot coffee and I'll deal with putting Count Basie on ice for a while, but I'll be damned, Cutler, if I'm going to go through one day without a flushing toilet just because you want 'historical accuracy'. Some things about the good ol' days just weren't all that great."

Beckett's calm confidence was irked by Norrington's intrusion upon his happy morning. He placed his hands upon the rail that surrounded the bridge, his head held high. "I imagine your bodily wastes take a great priority in your mind, seeing as how they are the first thing you think about and wish to discuss."

"I don't think there is a discussion," Norrington said, sitting up unevenly in his sling deck chair, his cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his lip. "Chamber pots are disgusting."

"But valuable," Larry added, nodding over her mug.

"I would rather stick my ass out a window," Norrington said.

"Oh, I'm sure you would, Norrington, such a disgusting act would be a glorious signifier of your elevated class."

Beckett opened the black feathered fan he'd had hidden up his sleeve, and cooled himself off with it. "Perhaps you should also forgo the custom of eating with a knife and fork, as you have been so prone to eating that which you can grab into your hands, much in the manner of an ape scrounging for sustenance on the floors of the jungle."

"It's called a sandwich, you dolt, and you don't eat them with a knife and fork because that's the whole point."

"Insufferable peasant," Beckett said, fanning himself with more vigour than was necessary.

"Marchons, marchons, loser," Norrington shot back.

"Oh God, it's too early in the morning to listen to you two," Larry complained. "Fine. The toilets stay, got no argument from me there, but the phonograph can go." She took a grimacing sip of her black coffee. "Go on, Cutty, you got our attention--What the hell are we doing in this godforsaken era?"

He waited for a long moment, doing his best to stretch his triumph into as perfect a memory as possible. He closed the black feathered fan with a decided snap. "We are going to get a map," he said. "A map that leads to a dead man's chest. Namely, as you are already familiar, my simple Norrington, the map that led Jack Sparrow to the heart of Davy Jones."

He rocked back on his heels in triumph as he looked down at Larry and Norrington from his position at the bridge, a soaring pride beating deep within his breast.

"Been there, done that," Norrington said, dismissing the idea.

"That's the point, my simple fellow," Beckett said through clenched teeth. "It is a map that no one needs any more--It has been a year, by the current calendar, and I'm sure Jack has moved on. That map is Jack's trash, therefore a profit can be made on it." He gave them both a victorious grin. "I have a buyer, an occultist in 1990's Italy who is willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for its delivery."

The morning sun beat brightly upon them all, and Larry sipped her black coffee thoughtfully. "I don't know," she said. "From what I've read this Jack is a bit of a slippery fish. How are we going to find him?"

"Slippery fish," Norrington said, falling back into his casual pose upon the sling deck chair. "Smells like one, too."

"We have no need to find Jack," Beckett said, waving the issue aside as though he were swatting a fly. He descended the ladder, his gait carefully poised as he approached Larry, and took her free hand in his. "According to your yellow book, Jack dropped off a few things during an excursion to Russia, one of which was, to quote a most irate Russian nobleman--'A map to the underworld that didn't work'. He was quite incensed to have been so mislead by Jack's claims that it would bring his dead dogs back, so much so that he ordered Jack beheaded upon sight. I am quite sure this nobleman will be delighted to be rid of his embarrassing purchase, as I know he would welcome us into his castle as his esteemed guests."

"How so?" Norrington asked, suspicious.

"The answer is simple, as you are, Norrington. Count Ivan Saltykova is the purchaser, and he is a nobleman with whom I have some acquaintance. Word of my disgrace has not yet met that cold continent." He bowed and kissed the back of Larry's hand with passionate grace. "It shall please me no end to exalt you in such company."

"I say we ride this one out and pay Mother's penalty" Norrington said. "Nothing Jack has touched can possibly have any good come of it."

"Russia in the 18th century," Larry said, thinking on it. "Nope, I don't believe I've ever visited it. What's it like there?"

"Gloom and darkness and bitter cold, with a shot of depressed vodka thrown in," Beckett assured her.

"So, what you're saying is....?"

"A complete and utter lack of pastels."

"Fantastic," Larry said, ignoring Norrington's rolling eyes as her hip leaned into Beckett's touch. "Count me in."

END