AndreaLyn

All men must come to their hour of death. For some men, they come to this stroke of the clock more than once in their life. Jack Sparrow pries one eye open to take a peek and looks straight up into the almost-angelic and far-too-pleased face of Commodore Norrington, out of his constant uniform.

“Oh, bugger it all, I’m in hell, aren’t I?” Jack complains sharply.

“They haven’t really given me a name for this place,” Norrington admits, extending a hand out to Jack. “Come on, then. I’m supposed to take you around.”

And that, that right there, is a bloody laughing fit. Jack raises a brow and listens to the echoing sound of silence all about them. The charms in his hair still jangle, his sword still makes a clanking noise as he moves, and the fabric of well-worn clothes shuffles along with him. Norrington is all in white and looks rather serene.

“…oh no. No, no, no…”

“Yes, Captain Sparrow,” Norrington announces with great delight and smug pride. “I’m to be your angel.” His hand is still extended out and Jack takes it and holds hard. “You won’t be seeing the back of me anytime soon.”

Which, Jack supposes, is a shame. Of all things, the Commodore had always possessed a lovely arse.