Author's Note: Yes, I tend to reuse ship names between my fics, even if said fics are unrelated. I also entirely blame the dark nature of this fic on the beautiful Beckett x Norrington fics that I've read to date. Also decided, after all, not to write much smex after all. Thanks again to roommate for impromptu and intensive chess crash course, from which I probably didn't really learn very much in total. XD;;

Chapter 3

Hunting

Hunting – After training is complete, the bird can now be flown free, depending on its species and whether it was raised in captivity or caught from the wild. In the case of shortwings (true hawks), they may be started on quarry right away. For game, the bird must learn to wait-on in the sky above its master until the quarry is flushed out for it to strike.

"Sparrow said he left a mark on you, just as you left a mark on him," Norrington said, mildly, as they reset pieces for their next game.

"Quite. I do feel he was worse off, in that exchange," A sip of tea, taken black. A biscuit. Norrington watched for a moment, in silence, then turned his gaze back to the chessboard.

"I saw the brand. What did he leave on you?"

"Not all marks are physical," Beckett said, finishing his tea. "Sparrow taught me some valuable lessons, about first impressions, and underestimation. I lost a ship, with its cargo, he lost a friend. I gained notoriety for my treatment of pirates, and censure from the East India Company – plus being recalled back to England for half a decade – he gained a brand that would forever mark him as an outlaw."

"A ship?"

Beckett drained the china cup dry of tea, rolling the bitter taste in his mouth. He briefly wondered what Norrington's lips would taste like. Sweet, like honey? Bitter? Salty, like the sea? He supposed he would never find out. After all, that wasn't part of their dance. No nudity featured in their sexual play, Norrington would always be in the greater state of undress, and Beckett had yet to touch the other man (outside of feeding) with bare hands. No actual rutting. Just domination framed by lust, and always only after Friday's intense games. Sometimes there would be no penetration of any sort. Sometimes only Beckett would go away satisfied (satisfaction could be measured in so many levels, above actual physical satiation).

"Choose a side," he said, ignoring the question.

Norrington pouted (briefly, but it was definitely a pout), and complied. "Black."

The white pawn before the king, two places. The black pawn on the same row, moving to block. The white knight on the right, advancing before the pawns, mirrored by black. The freed white bishop swept out to face it. The other black knight moved before the black pawns. Beckett smirked. Norrington was being aggressive.

"Two Knights Defense," he commented, as he considered his next move – he would lose his first pawn.

"Old moves can be best," Norrington shrugged.

The white knight advanced again. Beckett had played with and against this opening many times, even when he had been in London – it had in fact been the first opening whose name he had ever learned. The white bishop took a pawn, to check. In the end, he won, almost effortlessly – black had moved itself into a difficult position, overextending the King. Norrington smiled, a little wryly. "Sometimes an aggressive defense doesn't work very well."

"Perhaps not against someone too versed in its use," Beckett replied, turning the board, setting black to his side. "Again. Use my opening."

Norrington smirked, but complied. Two Knights Defense. They drew – Beckett was unused to the tactic in tournament-style play, and Norrington was unused to countering it. Beckett was the one to lean back when the game was decided. The Commodore tugged absently at his hair.

"I think I'd like to transfer."

"To?" Beckett hid his surprise, only arching an eyebrow.

"England. Perhaps the Indies." Norrington reset the board by himself. He didn't look up.

"We don't always get what we'd like," Beckett settled for another neutral reply, which veiled refusal.

"What if I run?"

"Will you?"

A pause. Long fingers reached for the lacquered box, to put back the pieces. "Sometimes it's tempting."

A smirk. "If you'd wanted to run, you could have done so, any time."

Norrington hand slipped briefly into his coat, unconsciously. Didn't meet Beckett's eyes. Then a quirk to his lips, self-deprecation. "I've been well-trained."

--

Chilled apples, sliced into cubes. Beckett held the intense green stare, up until all pieces were duly eaten, and even when Norrington began to lick at splayed fingers and the soft palm, unmarked by a sailor's life. There was a playful nip at the tip of a forefinger, then it was sucked into the warm cavern of Norrington's mouth.

Beckett ran a nail briefly over the soft tongue.

--

The warship Sea Hawk was a pretty sight in the Naval part of the docks, and was visible even from his office – furled sails, fresh paint and all. Norrington's green eyes kept getting drawn to it, mesmerized. Beckett thought vaguely of the late Jack Sparrow, and the pirate's obsession with that inconveniently fast black ship. Personally, he would much rather be out in an open meadow with Caesar.

"Congratulations, Mister Norrington," Beckett said finally, when he finished the letter to New Amsterdam that he had been working on. "You are now officially a Commodore. Again. Try to restrain yourself from resigning this time."

Norrington snorted. "What's the explanation for the ship?" Terribly blunt, despite so long spent in Beckett's company.

"Given the… loss of the Interceptor, as well as the Dauntless, His Majesty has decided to gift Port Royal with a warship," Beckett replied mildly, dipping his quill into ink and starting on another letter. Mercer was studying the map, ostensibly unconcerned with anything going on around him.

"I looked aboard the ship, Lord Beckett," Norrington drawled. "It wasn't made for the Navy. Not at the beginning. In fact, your family crest adorns the captain's cabin." On the ceiling, carefully painted and embossed.

"My family is very supportive of the Royal Navy. We even have some cousins around in the ranks, somewhere," the quill moved. "Don't you have some duties to be getting along to?"

"You called me here," Norrington pointed out.

"Yes, to…" the quill gestured briefly at a very official-looking letter, set with the King's heavy wax seal, "Give you the paperwork that proves you are, indeed, capable of the Commodore's office."

"Why the ship?" Norrington pressed, as tenacious as a terrier when he set his mind to it.

Beckett looked up. His lip quirked. "What's the fun of hunting with a hawk whose wings are clipped, Commodore?"

An arched eyebrow. "You can hardly dictate Naval patrols, or targets."

"I don't dictate, Commodore. I merely suggest," Beckett corrected.

"And your… suggestion?"

"Some Dutch privateers are beginning to encroach upon Kingston," Beckett replied, mildly, as he signed the letter he was working on. "They grow too bold."

"I doubt we have the strength in Port Royal to repel them," Norrington said, his expression showing that he had indeed heard of such a matter.

Beckett's smile was faintly smug. Norrington blinked. Then, "That's all you're using it for? Helping the Navy?"

"What did you think I was going to use it for?"

"Sinking pirate ships. Perhaps other traders. Vessels belonging to other East India Companies – Portuguese, Dutch."

"And what do you believe would happen, if there was a mass panic over a notorious ghost ship that only sunk ships offensive to the British East India Company?"

"There would be a trade monopoly. You would win. You're stationed in the Caribbean," Norrington said uncertainly. The man even looked briefly at Mercer, as if he might be able to find some hint there.

"Ah. And, with such domination of the sea in my hand, what would happen in England?"

"What does England have to do with this?"

"Who rules England, Commodore?"

"The King."

"And who controls the Navy? And technically, all Naval aspects of the British Empire?"

Norrington blinked, slowly. "You don't want to give Him the… you think He might…"

"Obviously," Beckett said patiently. "On the other hand, I can… suggest, certain quarry, for my hawk to prey on. By all reports, this so-called Flying Dutchman is submersible. No doubt its Captain can be prevailed on to aid you in a spot of perfect concealment."

"I doubt he can fire cannons underwater," Norrington was obviously saying the first thing that leaped to mind, as he grasped for equilibrium. Even the comment about 'my' hawk passed over his head.

"I'm sure he has other means of attack, with a submersible ship," Beckett said dryly. "I'd be sure to ask him to think of something, if it makes you any happier."

"Domination over the sea. Ostensibly via an alliance with the Commodore of Port Royal, who has inexplicably acquired a taste for sinking vessels of rival East India Companies?" Dry.

"Technically, we are at war with them," Beckett replied mildly. "Hostilities over overlapping territories, little inconveniences to both sides. And you need not sink all of them. After a while, simply scaring them off should be sufficient to ensure a trade monopoly in Jamaica."

"What do I get out of this?" Norrington's lips were curved into a half-smile. Obviously, the man didn't expect any real answer.

He didn't get one, or indeed any facetious answer about how it might add to his fame, reputation, and rank. "What do hawks get, from hunting?"

--

With the Commodore now often gone on duties at sea, Beckett found himself becoming quickly bored, again. Redeveloping the sad excuse for a racecourse and the jumps course had only managed to occupy a week of his time. He missed the chess games, and dinners, and often found himself distracted at work.

Mercer somehow managed, unasked for, to locate books. Chess, trade, falconry. He was sent to Tortuga, Barbados, Havana. Information. Stolen. Each time the Sea Hawk and its Naval accompaniment returned to Port Royal, there would be a new, written set of 'suggestions', delivered to the Commodore's desk. Norrington would smirk, and start charting his next course.

The hawk stayed at roost in the East India Company mansion. Occasionally, Governor Swann would suggest some affordable, attractive real estate options, which would be wryly but politely refused. Well-trained. During the couple of weeks that the ships were in Port Royal for resupply and refitting, Friday blitz sessions would be an all-day, exhausting affair, each game blurring into the other. Beckett would spend hours simply attempting variations of one move – bishop to threaten, or traps on castling. Norrington would advance pawns, to one side of the chessboard, in an inexorable tide.

As expected, Davy Jones was, if rather irritably, amenable to the idea of invisible underwater combat, coordinating with some manner of signals with the notorious Pirate Hunter. Beckett wasn't sure about the details, and didn't much care, but it apparently involved firing a steel spear, like a harpoon, to puncture the keel of the victim, or an amphibious crew wrecking havoc by climbing up into the gun deck. The tales of daring, swashbuckling combat where the Commodore went in outnumbered but emerged victorious spread, as did the reign of English Naval superiority in Jamaica. The British East India Company quietly but firmly increased its foothold, based in Port Royal.

The mansion soon expanded to include another department, in a converted villa further away from the harbor, for work that was not administrative in nature. Beckett sometimes smirked as he received commendations from England. Norrington was apparently slated for an Admiralty, or even a Knighthood.

Occasionally Beckett wondered where Miss Swann and her paramour were, or whatever they were doing so far away in Cathay. He didn't much care, but Governor Swann was becoming quite visibly thinner, as was the man's temper.

--

He got his answer one day when the heart crumbled to dust, abruptly, within the bag. When he shot to his feet, Mercer turned, eyes questioning. "Recall Norrington," Beckett said sharply.

Only when Mercer had left, and for a while, did Beckett tear his eyes away from the sea, and sink back into his chair. His jaw twitched, as he took long, shuddering breaths, speculating on exactly when had he learned again to worry about another human being.

--

The Sea Hawk limped back to Port Royal, listing heavily in the water, all but shot to pieces. Of her normal escort of two, only one ship remained, though it had fared somewhat better. Beckett stood in the balcony of his office, his hands white-knuckled on the rail, watching as they docked. He didn't turn when Mercer entered, dusty and slightly tattered, dark stains on his coat that looked suspiciously like other people's blood, to give his report in his inflectionless voice.

The Pirate Hunter had cornered the notorious Captain Dimas Eduardo, in a set of islands near Spanish territory proper, and his luck had run out. Although the Spanish privateer's flagship was destroyed, both sides took heavy losses. The deck of the Sea Hawk was still liberally painted in crimson.

Norrington had survived, if barely, and miraculously – he had been too close to cannon fire, and suffered burns and shrapnel wounds to his side, which had gotten infected on the way back. He was currently being treated at the fort.

Beckett bowed his head. Mercer listed a series of names, and when they were slated to visit. People to avoid. There would be space, during dinner.

--

He set his jaw as he was ushered into the sickroom. The injuries had been deemed too severe for Norrington to return, as yet, to his actual place of residence. Beckett sat in the only chair of the tiny room (bed, chair, dresser) and looked at the still form – the only sign of life the barely moving chest. Norrington's eyes were closed, and his brow was drawn into that little frown. The long frame Beckett had often covertly admired, over the dinner table, at chess, while fencing, was swathed in bandages.

Half-lidded eyes. Beckett knew he was brooding, and was unable to stop himself. He blinked, when Norrington stirred a little, head shifting, untied hair getting lost in the folds of the pillow.

His voice was slurred, in his sleep. "King takes bishop."

Beckett arched an eyebrow, and then shook his head, wryly.

--

One week for the fever to break, and Norrington was moved back to the mansion, upon his own request (despite Governor Swann's suggestion and offer of his own, quieter and more palatial residence). Beckett ignored the dirty looks from the old man, and even managed to prevent himself from resenting the daughter, wherever she was. Like himself, Miss Swann had only done what she had felt was most appropriate for the situation, and in fact he had been rather amused at her brash courage, over that of her fiancé's, so much of a surprise from a member of her sex.

Norrington was only ever conscious for brief spells. He managed, however, to smirk, when Beckett let himself into the room one night. "Bad luck." The smooth voice was a rasp.

Beckett sat at the edge of the bed. The room was relatively large, and comfortable, but not to the point of luxury. The four poster bed was unadorned, though the sheets were of crisp linen and the mattress was soft. Thick, plain blue rugs over the wood-paneled floor. A mirror, a dresser, a bookshelf, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair, all in heavy oak furniture. No paintings. A view of the harbor. He didn't apologize – instead, he looked down at the patterns of fur on the rug. "Mercer reached you too late."

"He helped on the… the way back. Found us somehow. We were boarded. Privateers." Norrington closed his eyes, taking in slow breaths. "He fights like a demon."

"He'd take that as a compliment," Beckett replied dryly. Mercer was just outside, and his ears were preternaturally sharp. No doubt the man would be pleased – as much as he could be pleased about anything.

"Miss Swann succeeded?"

"No doubt. The heart crumbled."

Norrington glanced up to the ceiling. "Bad luck."

Beckett was silent.

"Give me a few days. Then I want to play chess."

"I won't go easy on a sick man."

Norrington snorted.

--

Norrington's condition improved with alacrity once he was past the fever. Still in his prime, and fit. Soon he was sitting up by himself, and demanding that his work be brought to him from the fort. The bedchambers got crowded, with papers and visiting subordinates. Doctor's orders that he convalesce quietly were summarily dismissed.

Mercer noted that the defeat – or technically, a draw, or perhaps even a tentative win – against the Spanish Privateer hadn't managed to dent Norrington's reputation, though as word got out that the Hunter had been injured, pirates became a little bolder. Not all of the newly gained ground could be kept. Beckett meditated on gambits, and the problems of a far too aggressive bid for central control. Norrington worked on an efficient use of bishops, with a Queen defense.

Slower games, the board set up on the bed, and no blitz, despite the Commodore's thinly veiled hints that he was definitely up to the task.

In less time than was medically estimated, the Commodore could walk again, if slowly, and having to stop occasionally for breaks. Rituals at dinner were resumed, as if they had never left off.

Occasionally Norrington would ask, a little offhandedly, about various surnames. Death in the performance of duty. More people to avoid on the street. Questions of fault. Beckett felt that he personally no longer seemed to have much of a conscience, compared to the over-burgeoning one of his hawk. Mercer was not bothered for information.

Norrington began to develop his endgame, Beckett, his counters.

--

Elizabeth Swann and William Turner arrived, thinner, older, and filthy, on a small sloop. Governor Swann's joy was so great it could likely bowl over less well-constructed buildings. Norrington avoided the couple, confining himself to duties at the fort, and other duties at the mansion, with the occasional trip to the harbor, leading Beckett to speculate on the nature of their last parting. The Turners, for their part, avoided the both of them, which suited him fine.

Reports of sightings of a black ship, with black sails, made Beckett purse his lips as he studied the confidential dispatch. Eventually, he summoned Norrington, who arrived garbed in his semi-formal administrative-work uniform (wig, hat, lighter coat, no inner coat, thinner cravat), and passed it to him. Words were studied, and then the Commodore glanced at him, in a silent question. A hawk, waiting for the command to fly.

"What do you think?" Beckett allowed himself to slouch a little in his chair.

Norrington looked back down at the letter. "That he has the most damnable luck."

"Quite."

"The compass?"

Beckett shrugged. Somehow, the driving urge to possess such a curiosity had died, perhaps along with the crumbling heart in the drawer. "Leave it be. Concentrate on rebuilding. The Dutch are pushing their boundaries."

A wry smile. "Aren't you only supposed to give suggestions?"

A shrug, then a different tack. "They'd be getting married."

"You're not invited," Dry.

A smirk. "I'd be surprised if I were. Are you?"

"Yes, but I feel it was more due to the intervention of the father, rather than any inclination on the part of the Turners."

"Sparrow may come."

"I know." Again, that silent question.

"Just make sure he doesn't do anything too outrageous." With the heart gone, and unsteady borders, Beckett needed the continuing support of Governor Swann – who at least rather grudgingly accepted that the trade monopoly, based in Port Royal, was good for said Port, despite bad blood between the cause of it and his daughter.

"That certainly didn't sound like a suggestion."

Beckett smirked, and indicated that Norrington close the door.

Later he arched against his chair, with a soft curse, as he spent himself in the warm throat. Gloved hands jerked, from where they cupped Norrington's skull, and knocked over the Commodore's hat.

--

More ships from around Jamaica – British privateers, with East India Company pardons. Strings pulled, men ready to serve under the flag and reputation of the infamous Pirate Hunter. Boundaries held. More commendations from London.

The master never watched the hawk take flight, confident it would return. Their games got a little more inventive. So did the chess.

Often, Beckett chose black.

-fin-