Meridian--chapter one (Beckett, OFC, Norrington, Jack, et al, PG-13)
Title: Meridian
Chapter: One
Author: pink_bagels
Characters/Rating: Beckett, Norrington, OFC, Jack, et al, rated PG-13
Summary: Sequel to Chronometer. The third installment of the trilogy. Having escaped Siberia, the unemployed trio of the Endeavour head to Larry's 'quiet' island only to find it overrun with pirate squatters, a savvy Pirate King Elizabeth and Mother's latest odious employee. Beckett's plans for opening up a pub are seriously overshadowed by Larry's own business plans with the Pirate King, but all face potential ruin thanks to the dread pirate Ned Lowe, who has come to Shipwreck's Cove in a mad bid to create an unholy monopoly of his own.



MERIDIAN
Chapter One

Tall, black heels clicked in a precise rhythm on the creaking wooden planks, each step pushing aside the mist that gathered around her shiny black ankles with cloying interest. Her footfalls conveyed an exact measurement of time, discernible in the steady click, click, click echoing across the splintered surface of the Endeavour. On either side of this stiletto journey were the remnants of various ill-fated vessels; crates of teacups momentarily shadowed by her long legs, hundreds of iron nails and an equal amount of embroidered silk cushions, which she added to absently, the cushions tumbling against each other as she tossed one more to their number. Opposite the cushions, a series of random clocks of varying sizes piled high upon each other were paused over, her stiletto heel gently tapping on the wooden plank beneath it. Her hand broke through the opacity of mist and placed another, delicately porcelain clock on the ground before the others, her fingers curled against the pastel hues of this treasure as her hand retreated, disgusted. A sweep of black from the hem of her long black coat brushed away the ever thickening onslaught of mist, the quick, precise step of her heels now punctuated by the occasional hacking cough. Her black boot sought out the device that created this issue, and found it without difficulty, her pointed heel deftly pressing the red power button to 'off'.

A hefty black bag was dropped to the deck with a low thud, its contents revealed as it fell open. Maps and navigational charts were rolled tightly within it, along with that most precious of commodities--books. She shoved this prize to one side with her high-heeled boot, the black bag leaving a wet smudge upon the damp deck in its wake.

Larry placed a hand on her hip, her long black woollen coat open and revealing the equally black and fine lined trousers and matching silk top she wore beneath it. She was an imposing figure in the misted space, her six foot one plus height lengthened by the shadows her black attire created upon the opaque mist. "That's the last of it," she said to Norrington. "I'll need the book."

Norrington inwardly sighed, the rusted out fog machine that had been used to create the effect of a thick blanket of mist to both partially hide the Endeavour and inspire terror was sputtering its last breath as it powered down, its mechanism yet again in need of repair. As if he didn't have enough to do, he mentally groaned, his steps careful as he tried to avoid the rusted out puddle that seeped out from beneath the small black box. His life on the Endeavour as of late had been a never-ending series of chores, most of which involved all the little nagging necessities that being infected with items from the future could bring. Repairing the coffee machine (Larry's imperative), fixing the generator, sealing leaks in the plumbing, the chores never stopped. He turned the black box that was the fog machine over with his foot, his heart heavy at the amount of rust that leaked out of it. There was little hope left for it at this point. This particular tool was well beyond his ability to repair it.

With this point nagging the periphery of his thoughts, he reached for the book Larry had requested which had been carelessly placed on a plank resting against the foremast. He handed it to her wordlessly, the pages curling from damp, the title '18th Century Shipwrecks' momentarily catching his eye. He watched with vague interest as Larry opened it to a bookmarked page, a large black marker procured from her coat pocket which she then used to summarily cross off the circled description of the pre-salvaged Hagboat with a large 'X'.

"What are the takings this time?" Norrington asked. "Nothing useful, I presume. Nothing at all resembling silver or gold or any other such procurement that might actually give us proper wealth. Really, Larry I don't understand this predilection of yours for useless things." He grimaced at the pile of brass fittings she had stolen from the fireplace mantel of the Hagboat's meeting room, along with the actual mantel itself, which was resting in three carefully sectioned pieces against the rail holding a cockboat. "Stealing rooms from ships doomed to sink may have advantages, but only if the goods are worth resale. There is no twenty-second century auction house poised to buy all this junk, Larry, only near sighted Englishmen who have far too much of it as it is."

Larry stubbornly placed her hands on her hips, her heel tapping in mental calculations as she placed specific prices on every item she had thus far obtained from several ships along their journey towards Shipwreck Cove. She bit her bottom lip as she took in the vast amount of clocks that had been acquired, a curious subject for her to take so much interest in, especially considering how cruel time had been to them all.

"Volume is the key," she said to Norrington, absently. "We'll undercut the prices of the local shops, offering better quality goods to colonists while still selling them cheap. Since we don't have any investment expenses, every dime is pure profit. We won't make allies in the markets where we set up, but we're destined to turn a good chunk of change out of it. Where's that banner Jack and I made? You have to keep it out of the puddles, I don't want it getting mouldy. It has to look crisp and clean, even if what we're selling isn't."

The heavy roll of tarp lay next to the mantel pieces, its girth made wide by the words thickly and neatly painted on it. Larry's intention was to have it displayed above their acquired goods when they next made port, creating an impromptu market of bric-a-brac, their 'business' proclaimed in the banner that would read, in large, brightly decorative letters: "The Right Honourable Emporium Of Fine Furnishings And Quality Lumber For The Gentleman Of Discerning Taste And Circumstance Ltd., Est. 1774." That the name of this business venture was inordinately long was a facet that Jack had suggested, as it was both eye-catching and in the market they were wont to journey in, suitably pompous when enunciated. Wealthy colonists missing the baleful snobbery of home would love it.

"I suppose you want me to play the part of sales clerk again," Norrington complained. "I'm warning you Larry, this time I will not be forced to lower myself to bartering."

"You weren't bartering, you were outright refusing to sell that broken phonograph," Larry admonished him. "God, you got so emotional, it was embarrassing. You'd better not cry over any of those damned clocks."

Norrington's heart was bitter, his longing for the jazz life he'd preferred in his frequent trips to 1920's New York and Chicago welling up within him in thinly controlled emotional torrents. He forced the feeling inward, an implosion of his soul crushed at the effort. "I'd rather smash them all," he said, miserable.

Larry was distracted from his sadness by the sudden ringing of her cell phone, which she answered with eager glee. "Annie! Darling! How good of you to return my call!" Her steps tick-tocked their way to the mainmast, her fingers neatly tidying a crate of herbal tea that she had earned at the second 'salvaging' juncture they had perpetrated. Her voice sang across the deck, its cadence occasionally muffled by the snap of wind in the sails. "Yes, it is terrible news, just terrible. No, I had no idea Mother was planning on firing me, it really did come out of the blue. I agree, but I have no worries, Annie. You know me, always one step ahead of things. I've already got a sound business plan in the works."

Norrington wrote a price on one of the porcelain clocks, a seriously lesser value than even Larry would have agreed to. He placed a small, sepia coloured tag onto the wind-up mechanism, the excessive force he used to tie it on effectively breaking it.

Larry, and thus himself and Beckett, had been fired from Mother's employ, the timeship taking most of her valuables with her and leaving a scant amount of brutally aged twentieth century gadgetry and the simple outer shell that was the Endeavour behind. The Endeavour and the items left upon her had aged in congruence with their travelling, the ship now appearing and performing like a vessel over two hundred years old. The entity that was Mother had now been gone for two whole months, the nagging presence that had been her emotional psychic connection upon them leaving an uncomfortable silence in her absence. He was loathe to say he missed her, as much as one could miss an emotional 'thing' that one couldn't see or hear but who managed to have a long conversation with one nonetheless. He sighed, the price tag on the valuable clock a pathetic form of victory. He hadn't won here, he knew. He'd lost everything. His favourite era, his records, his beloved phonograph, his deck chair. Yes, Larry had managed to get it repaired, and the deck chair was still in prominence and waiting for his slouching upon the quarter deck, but the sling was now made of a dull grey canvas instead of the brightly cheerful rainbow colours it had held before. What he had now was a sad replica. A falsehood. No small measures were going to make him happy in this longitude of time, and he hated the lie that stupid deck chair now represented.

"Oh really?" Larry said, her voice clipped, and her shoulders back as she was told some interesting news by the nebulous secretary Annie. "Mother has already found my replacement? Yes, how very nice for her. How very efficient." Larry chewed the inside of her cheek at this, clearly unhappy with this news.

Her feeling was infectious, Norrington mused as he contemplated how difficult it was easing back into this 'old life' he once understood. There was little about him that was the Royal Navy man he'd once been here, time and experience long since whittling away at his character until it had morphed into a soul he no longer recognised. It had happened long before that last journey to Russia, the damage irreparable, making him capable of the crimes he had committed in Larry's honour, the screaming wails of Arthur Portsmouth echoing long into the chasm that had blown a hole through his sensibilities. That the man had been a murdering psychopath was not the point, not when Norrington himself had allowed his participation in Larry's revenge to reach such ugly proportions, following Larry with a near blind understanding. Memories of what he'd seen in the lair of the Bishop Corsicas continued to assail him, and he'd awoken often enough in the night, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, myriad screams still echoing back through the dark shadows of the hold where he fretfully slept.

"You don't like him?" Larry said, an evil glint present in her green gaze, which she fixed with some achievement on Norrington. "Of course you don't, it's hardly like working for *me*, is it? So what is he like, this new employee? Oh dear. Oh God. Yes, he does sound like an ogre, poor you, Annie." Larry drummed her fingers along the post of the mainmast, the rhythm calculating. "You know, Annie, there's no need for you to continue being tied to Mother's yoke. You can always pack up and work for me." She grinned at the response she gained at this, Annie's eager voice seeping out of the cell phone in glee. "Oh God, of course you'll get the same salary, darling, in fact I'm willing to up it another twenty percent. To be honest, I don't think there will be much more for you to do, your workload will possibly be lighter." She laughed, the cell phone held aloft at Annie's excited exclamation. "I'll get your benefits package ready, and you can start tomorrow. Oh, no need to thank me, Annie, you know your happiness means a lot to me. Talk to you later, darling. Toodles!"

She clapped the cell phone shut and placed it in the pocket of her long, black coat. Though she tried to ignore the unease that had erupted between herself and Norrington, it grew into ever larger proportions until it was a person itself, looming within their midst. "Annie is an excellent secretary and there is no way in hell I'm going to lose her," Larry said, by way of excuse. "Oh come on, James, don't blame me, she jumped at the chance to leave Mother at the first opportunity I gave her."

"Yes. One must wonder how bad things are with this 'new employee' if she thinks employment with you is better," Norrington bitterly replied.

"Oh God, don't be an ass," Larry said. "Annie is and always will be indispensable. Without her, this project of mine will go belly up at the onset. I need her to take careful notes of the companies I'll be investing in, I need places that are going to make me quick returns now and not a hundred years in the future."

"You just can't give up, can you?" Norrington said. "Always work, work, work." He turned away from her, unable to take in the furious glare she was giving him. "You're just as obsessed as ever. I thought things were supposed to change on our way to *your* island. This was an opportunity to re-evaluate things, to take it easy."

"I'm starting a new business," she tersely replied. "That takes a considerable amount of personal resources in its infancy."

"And when you are talking about resources, you should be kind enough to simply use my name, as it is my efforts that are gaining you your leverage." He set his jaw, his anger heightened by the vast amount of work waiting for him thanks to 'pricing and cataloguing', work that would implemented by him alone, yet another chore to be added to his burgeoning list. "I don't see your husband here, helping in any capacity. He seems to be the only one having a proper holiday."

Larry's already austere posture stiffened at this, her elongated shadow sliding like a pointed minute hand towards Norrington with furious precision. "He was damned near tortured to death," she curtly reminded him. "He is under my instruction not to leave his bed until he's properly healed."

"He had a few lashings from a madman, hardly life threatening," Norrington argued. "You suffered no such remedy when you yourself were tortured by Bishop Corsicas, the Inquisitioner, and he lopped off your hands. From what I understand, you were back to work for Mother within the week."

"In between bouts of intense physical therapy to get the new hands I bought back into life--A very painful process and endured under the unforgiving whim of Mother, I might add. She never let me forget how much that twenty-third century surgical procedure cost, not to mention that these aren't even my hands, but an unknown donor's. No matter what I do, they never quite feel like the originals. You have no idea how strange it feels. It's like wearing gloves that are both too big and too small." She flexed her hands at her sides at this talk, the latent memory of their injury splaying her fingers outward, like a tense starburst. "I'm not like Mother, I don't make the people I care about suffer."

"True, but God help those you aren't fond of," Norrington said, miserably remembering the days he spent in the hold, tending to her victim Arthur Portsmouth, a human veal set for slaughter. "I know well the benefits you've sought from 'suffering' and I won't have you tell me you abhor it."

Morning crept onto the Endeavour with a blood-tinged stealth, the Hagboat far in the distance as they made headway, the tension between Norrington and Larry as fine a wire as one that held the sails, their canvas pregnant with wind. Larry left her place at the mainmast, her steps clicking on the deck boards as she approached Norrington, a determined timepiece that had little patience for his despair. "Don't whine to me when I gave you a choice," she spat at him. "Don't you dare put yourself on any kind of higher moral ground when you were very much a willing participant. If you can't sleep at night, don't blame me. What monstrous dreams you have are entirely your own fault."

"Interesting, this talk of nightmares," he said to her, his voice a conspirator whisper between two unholy agents. "I mentioned nothing of how I was sleeping, and as such I can only surmise you are talking of yourself in this regard, which gives me some small measure of hope for your guilt addled soul. Don't be angry with me, Larry. I assure you, the events that have transpired between us have assigned me the same affliction."

A loud clatter disturbed the otherwise silence of the early morning, the sun glancing on the puddles that had collected around the rusted fog machine, sending their orange hue into a fiery gleaming. Larry's hand shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched her husband, Cutler Beckett, struggle up the ladder to the quarter deck, his steps as uneven as the boards beneath his feet. The pirate Captain Jack Sparrow moved quickly behind him, a chair and a small table held in his grip which he struggled with in equal tottering form up the ladder to their destination. The pair were a study in carefully controlled inebriation, Norrington observed, with Cutler's motor skills impaired due to the massive amount of painkillers he was still prescribed, and in Jack's case a permanent pickling of those areas of balance within his brain due to his constant imbibing of rum.

With the aid of his cane, Beckett pointed out to Jack where he wanted the table and chair situated, which was naturally in a place of central prominence on the quarter deck. With a great flourish, Beckett unfolded a white linen tablecloth and draped it over the table, a small vase of faded red plastic flowers dustily placed in the centre to prevent the heady morning breeze from blowing the crisply ironed linen away, as well as to provide an aspect of misplaced gentility upon the scene. He placed the chair beside the table and sat unevenly into it, his cane adding extra support as the chair in question wobbled on the warped wooden boards comprising the quarter deck. As he sat at the table, his demeanour one of kingly propriety, his white wig perfectly affixed, his newly acquired (by Larry) velvet red coat and brocade vest doing little to alleviate the fashionable pallor that rendered his face a pasty hue, Cutler Beckett looked to be a man overly pampered, a condition Norrington knew to render many of the male species of this era into insufferable, spoiled dandies. He was certainly playing that part well, Norrington mused as Beckett unfolded his linen napkin, placing it with exaggerated delicacy upon his lap, the lace cuff of his sleeves teasing the periphery of his knuckles.

It was thus with great pleasure that Norrington beheld Larry storming up the ladder leading to the quarter deck as Jack Sparrow began tottering his way upwards again, this time his arms laden with a silver tea set which he was set to smash upon the planks with his unsteady ascent. Larry grabbed the tea set from him at the exact moment Jack tripped and fell face first onto the deck, his cursing over the splinters in his knees carrying across the ship in perfectly elucidated diction.

"Cutty, what the hell are you doing?" she asked, placing the tea set onto the table, a once valuable matchbox beneath one of its legs preventing its incessant wobble. "You're still recovering, you should be in bed."

"As it is a pleasant day, I have decided to take my morning tea outdoors," he proudly replied. He bid her to take an extra chair Jack had kindly provided. "You are more than welcome to join me."

"Of course I am, it's *my* tea set, specially commissioned for me by Queen Victoria herself, as this is also *my* antique oak table, and *my* art nouveau chairs, and *my* highly valuable and about to be ruined by tea stains vintage 1932 Irish linen tablecloth!" Her hands were resolute on her hips as she regarded him with annoyance. "Really, Cutty, I can get a damned good price even in this era for these things, I can't risk you ruining them with use." She cast a wary eye on the teetering form of Jack Sparrow, who had somehow made his way without further injury to the mizzenmast. "Not to mention you let him into the hold to get this stuff. Who knows what kind of destruction will be waiting there now--You know how careless he is with our valuables."

Beckett poured himself a cup of tea into a heavily flowered green and gold teacup and saucer, adding two lumps of sugar and a small serving of cream. "I see no reason to deny ourselves the fruits of our labours," he said, bringing his teacup to his lips. He caught the glaring eye of Norrington who was now leaning over a massive stack of disorganised and ready to be priced books, a task that was set to take the former Naval officer the remainder of the day. "Busy morning?" Beckett asked.

"You can't use our stock," Larry admonished Beckett, her imposing figure doing little to rattle him, as he was so used to these half-hearted outbursts. "I've told you before, Cutty, even an iron nail has value and we can't dismiss it. Business start-up costs have to be carefully calculated, every damned nickel counts."

"I've always liked this chair," Beckett said, ignoring her concerns. "See the way the legs look like little vines? Fascinating. I could look at them all day." He took another sip of his tea, his movements uneven, making him appear drunk. The effect, however, was due to far more serious issues.

"He's stoned out of his mind," Norrington shouted up to Larry. "There's no sense talking to him when he's like this. You're going to have to start cutting back those painkillers you've got him on."

As if in response to this, Beckett shifted in his chair, the movement making him wince, a small sigh emitting from him as he braced himself against this seeming pain by clutching the edge of the table with a shaky grip, his teacup and saucer mysteriously held without tremor in his other hand. Norrington rolled his eyes at this familiar play, his arms crossed over his chest as he witnessed the sudden softening of Larry's ire as she fussed over Beckett, her eyes large and brimming with concern.

"Oh God, Cutty, are you feeling all right?" she asked.

"Just a trifle bit of discomfort," Beckett replied, making his martyrdom more effective with another pained wince. "I assure you, I am fine. All I wanted to do was get out of that stuffy bedroom for once and enjoy some open air, I can't see how this is a problem." He gave Larry's figure an appreciative study as he sipped at his tea. "I must say, that particular ensemble does suit you. Quite fetching, the way those little silver buttons tease at your bosom."

To Norrington's chagrin, Larry gave him a small smile at this flattery mixed with self-serving suffering, giving Beckett a victory in his manipulative game. "As long as you are feeling all right," Larry said, even going so far as to give him a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Go ahead, then, enjoy your tea."

"My morning repast would be even better with your scones, you knows the ones, Chef Henri gave you the recipe. I believe La Patisserie Rouge et Blanc is now famous for them," Beckett added.

"I have a lot of work to do, Cutty," Larry said, gesturing to the massive collection of items waiting for her attention on the main deck. Beckett winced again, and Larry's firm stance melted as quickly as icing on a warm cake.

"I understand. There is no time for it," Beckett said, disappointment dripping from him in all its sighing want.

She patted his cheek sweetly. "Of course I'll make them," she promised.

He emitted a cherub-like cheer at this, his gaze following her as she made her way down the ladder to where Norrington was already working, the click of her steps muted by the creaking hull of the advanced age of the Endeavour. "Be sure not to put raisins in them," Beckett called out to her when she was halfway to her destination. "Cinnamon would not be unwelcome, however. And be sure to bring butter, there is no purpose to scones without butter."

Norrington was aloof as she passed him, his thoughts on the matter made clear. "You've created a monster," he said to her before she made her way below decks into the galley. "This is what you get for spoiling him rotten. It's truly disgusting, Larry, the way you baby him."

She sighed in defeat at this. "I know damn well, James, but how can I stop when what happened to him was partially my own fault?" She wiped a weary hand across her sweating brow. "I need a damned cup of coffee. No, that's not true, what I really need is sleep, but I'll be damned if that's going to happen any time soon. Damn."

Norrington kept his sights on Beckett as Larry descended below decks, monotone cursing accompanying her as she muttered bitter complaints about their shortage of flour and time and coffee and raisins. Jack Sparrow was now on the opposite side of the ship, perched in thought on the bowsprit, his injured knee drawn close to his chest. No one was at ease here, Norrington realised, not even Beckett and his calm facade, which was not as effective a ruse for the spoiled man as he clearly hoped. There was a slight skittishness about Beckett that hadn't been there before, and as he took the cup of tea to his lips there was, just barely discernible, the slightest tremor to his grip. The dark circles tempting the circumference of his eyes belied the story, as did the unhealthy pallor of his skin that no powder could achieve. The crew of the Endeavour was a collection of tired, haunted souls who forced their way through the linear hours of each day, and Cutler Beckett was no exception.

It was a great source of comfort to Norrington to know that he wasn't the only one longing for an uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.