Author's Note: So I realize I'm a bit late to the party, but I just watched the Pirates movies for the first time recently (I know, I know, insert comment about living under a rock, etc). I became immediately enamored of the character of James Norrington, and began to wonder what his life might have been like if his exile on Tortuga had continued. And thus this story was born. It takes place some three years after the events in Curse of the Black Pearl, and though I may reference, adopt, or alter events from Dead Man's Chest and At World's End here and there, the story should be considered AU after CotBP. One final note: this story is rated M for a reason, and thus contains very strong language (plenty o' salty sailor swearin'), sex and sexual themes, and some violence. Ye be fair warned! All right, enough chattering from me; our tale awaits!

James Norrington awoke with a muffled groan, his head pounding in time to a staccato tattoo of pain, to find himself ensconced face down in the tits of a rather buxom whore.

Lifting his head produced a rather intense stab of discomfort, and so, abandoning the effort, he rolled sideways onto his back, and the sudden and unwelcome invasion of bright morning sun shining through the window elicited another drawn-out groan. Rubbing a shaky hand across his face in a futile effort to dull the ache, he squinted his eyes against the light and reached out with his other hand for the bottle that sat on the bedside table, the bottle that contained the cure for his ills and the only surefire remedy for the ungodly riot of agony that marched through his skull. Wrapping a fist around the bottle's neck, he pulled it gratefully to his mouth and took a long pull, the last dregs of the rum washing down his throat with a familiar and much-welcomed fire. As the last of the rum disappeared down his throat, he tossed the bottle carelessly across the room, where it landed with a loud clatter against the far wall.

The clash of the bottle hitting the wall was sufficient to awaken his companion, and the whore – what was her name again? Molly? Maggie? – stirred groggily, lifting her head from the pillow and unfurling in a cat-like stretch, providing him with a rather lovely view of those magnificent tits. She seemed to notice him then, and gave him a lascivious smile as she rolled out of bed.

"Morning, handsome," she purred. "Had us a full night, didn't we? Got your coin's worth I hope." She began to pull on her skirts, but he reached out with a hand to stay her arm, ignoring the acute throb that laced through his head at any sudden movement.

"Wait," he said, his tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth. "No need to run off so soon, is there? Maybe we could have a proper morning greeting." Despite the deleterious effects of last night's overindulgence, he still felt the stiff ache between his legs that so often greeted him first thing in the morning, and it seemed such a shame not to enjoy the comforts of a comely lass in his bed once more before the day began.

"A morning greeting?" she laughed. "You mean for free? Sorry, love, I don't be handing out favours for free."

"Free?" he frowned. "I gave you coin last night."

"Aye, last night! And so you got what you paid for last night, didn't you? You didn't pay me nothing for today."

"Today?" He sat upright in the bed now, giving his head a small shake to clear out the cobwebs that seemed to have draped themselves around his mind. "Well, it's just now the morning. After last night." He cursed himself, the obviousness of his words sounding stupid even to his inebriated ears. "What I'm saying is that really, this could all be considered part of the same..." He paused, his mind blanking, while he groped for the word he wanted – the damnable light, and the pounding in his head, and everything all together seeming to keep him just on the outside edge of lucidity.

"The same business transaction," he said triumphantly as his brain alighted upon the words he'd sought.

"Business transaction? Ain't you a real fancy gent with your big words! I hates to break it to you, love, but there ain't but one kind of business transaction I make, and that's you giving me coin if you want to take a tumble. You don't gets to pay me once and be taking my services all week. Now if you got more coin that's another matter." She tugged on her skirts, and he felt his hands tremble with frustration as they traced fitfully along the bedsheets that draped across his lap, barely concealing the evidence of his need. That was the problem; he didn't exactly have more coin. Not right now, anyway.

"You're a cruel woman, Molly," he said, deciding to change tactics – perhaps he could appeal to her womanly compassion – surely even whores still possessed that in some measure. "To deny a man in his need so. Surely you could at least lend me a hand."

She scowled at him as she finished dressing, but he detected a measure of resigned irritation in her countenance. "My name ain't Molly! It's Margie. And I told you already – "

"Yes, you don't work for free. You did mention that. But Margie," he said smoothly, as though he'd not forgotten her name mere moments earlier, "you are quite lovely, and quite talented, I must say. I would dearly love to enjoy your company again. But you have to understand, coin can be a bit hard to come by when the seas are rough. I regret I have nothing more to give you. But I promise you my penury won't last long, and when I've coin to spend, I would very much like to spend it with you." He paused for dramatic effect. "That is, if you give me a reason to show you particular loyalty. There are many lovely ladies vying for the attentions of sailors with coin to spend on this island." Well, there were many ladies, certainly, though comparably few who could be called 'lovely' with any degree of verisimilitude; though, of course, he was not about to say so to Margie.

He could see the conflict warring across her features and felt a thrill of triumph as she finally relented, heaving a vexed sigh and approaching the bed with a haste that made no effort to conceal her irritation.

"Fine," she snapped, kneeling down beside the bed and gesturing impatiently at him. "Well, come on over, then. And you'd better be quick about it. I ain't going to tug on you for the rest of the morning."

Unable to suppress a licentious grin, he tossed the bedsheet aside and shifted over to the edge of the bed, issuing a low growl as she took him in her hands. He slid his hands through her auburn tresses and sighed contentedly.

"Margie," he said slightly breathlessly as she began to move her hands along him, "this is very nice – wonderful in fact – but your lips are so warm, and inviting, and perhaps – "

She shot him a murderous glare even as her hands did not pause in their rapid ministrations. "Don't push your luck, you scurvy dog. You're getting more than enough as it is."

He decided that she was right, and that it would be best to remain silent as she worked, lest he provoke her ire before she finished the job and left him in a state of even more agonizing want than he had been in to start. But she was indeed talented, and before long, he felt his release shudder through him, and he grunted in satisfaction as he gripped his hands tightly in her hair. The tremors of his pleasure reverberated through him, serving to help blow away the lingering cobwebs of the previous night's drink. Feeling his breathing return to normal as he came back into himself, he looked down to regard her with a satisfied grin, only to find that she'd already risen to her feet and was halfway to the door.

"That was marvellous, Mol – Margie," he said, catching himself (he hoped) in time. Why did he keep wanting to call her Molly? There must be another tavern whore named Molly, he reasoned; perhaps also with red hair? Yes, that would make sense. But Margie seemed unmoved by his gratitude, and turned over her shoulder to toss one last caustic glare his way.

"Save your flattery, you rum-soaked blackguard. Don't think I won't be remembering your promise!" And with that she was out the door, and he was alone in the small, shabby room.

"Well," he murmured to himself as he rose to his feet (steadily, he noted with pride) and began the search for his breeches, discarded somewhere in the recesses of the room late last night in the throes of passion. "I wouldn't exactly say I made a promise. It was really more of an insinuation."

He reflected, as he tugged on his breeches, that, once upon a time, years ago, such behaviour as he'd just engaged in would have been unthinkable, appalling; he had been a man once who had adhered to a strict code of honour and chivalry; a true gentleman of noble bearing and sterling reputation. He angrily dismissed the unwelcome ruminations as he tugged his shirt over his head. He rarely thought about those days anymore, and with every whore he fucked, every bottle of rum he desperately swilled, every act of dubious moral and legal repute he performed, he felt those memories fade just a bit more, until they had become almost a myth, a story of a different man in a different life that wasn't his. That man was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

And good riddance to him, he thought darkly as he raked a hand through his unkempt, unbound dark hair. That man had been an uptight, naive, and stupid bugger anyway. Feeling the good mood from his sexual release suddenly dissipating, he cast his gaze around the room for the rum, before remembering that he'd drank the last and thrown the empty bottle into the corner. Well, nothing for it but to get another, then. Shrugging on his overcoat and belt, and checking that his pistol and sword were properly in place, he pushed open the bedroom door and made his way out and downstairs to the tavern, hoping that Crusty still trusted him enough to sell him a bottle on credit.

Sidling up to the tavern's bar, he slid onto a rickety old stool and waited for Crusty to look up from the tankard he was dutifully polishing with a filthy, sodden rag. Crusty (so named for a rather unfortunate skin condition he claimed he'd contracted in Brazil) at last glanced up from his futile task, and regarded James with a disapproving frown.

"Margie sure came stormin' down those stairs in quite the huff," Crusty growled, setting the tankard down none-too-gently on the bar. "Mutterin' somethin' about 'bloody pirates' and all their 'empty promises.' You tryin' to seduce me workin' gals away, Norrington?"

"Of course not," James scoffed, casting his eyes behind Crusty to survey the bottles of liquor that lined the shelf behind the bar. "And I'm not a bloody pirate. I only suggested to her that perhaps I might show her favour in the future if she, er… " He trailed off, not wanting to admit that he'd cajoled a complimentary favour from the whore, knowing Crusty would not take kindly to the loss of income.

But he was safe; Crusty, misinterpreting his intent, merely raised his eyebrows in 'understanding,' no doubt imagining that James had wooed her with false words of devotion and love. "Ahh, I see," he said, though clearly he didn't. Then he burst out into a loud guffaw. "Ah, yer a scoundrel and a rake, Mr. Norrington! I got to admit, I was fair surprised as anyone when you sauntered in here all those years ago still in the tatters o' yer navy blues. I never thought you'd last a month, to tell the God's honest truth. But it looks like Tortuga fits you like a glove, it does."

The mention of his former career, recalling his own earlier musings, served only to exacerbate James's foul mood, and he remembered why he'd come down to the bar in the first place.

"Crusty," he said firmly, drawing himself up straighter, his muscle memory recalling the naval bearing he'd once worn without a second thought. "I need more rum."

"Aye, do you now?" Crusty responded, his voice thick with sarcasm. "And I suppose you expect this one to be on the house as well?"

"Well, I – "

"Forget it," Crusty responded gruffly, ignoring the murderous glare he received from the other man. "That's a dozen bottles I've sold you on credit, now. No more."

"God damn it, man!" James exploded in desperate frustration, his eyes wavering from Crusty's iron-clad glare to the enticing row of rum bottles behind. "You know the seas have been stormy and rough for weeks now! There are few ships coming or going and none of them are hiring on hands! And you know I'll be good for it as soon as I have gold. I give you my word!"

"It ain't your word I doubt!" Crusty shot back. "But your word ain't going to keep me in business, is it? I said no and I mean it this time. Come back with coin enough to pay off your debts and maybe I'll reconsider."

With a snarl, James pushed away from the bar, jerking his coat around him as he stalked towards the door. "A fine friend you are, Crusty! A fine one indeed!" he bellowed as he threw the door open with vehemence. Crusty, no stranger to such outbursts from drunkards, merely shrugged and went back to wiping down the bar with the stained, filthy cloth.

James slammed the door to the Mermaid's Tail tavern and stormed out into the street, wrinkling his nose at the fetid odours that pervaded the air along the main thoroughfare of the small island port. He set off down the street without a clear destination in mind, his mind broiling with a heady stew of unpleasant memories, grim appraisals of his dire financial straits, and desperation borne of his impending deprivation of liquor.

Ordinarily, things weren't this bad – he usually had coin enough, taking whatever seafaring jobs presented themselves, and it was enough to pay for his room, his board, his drink, and his whores. Things had been hand-to-mouth for the past several months, ever since the ship on which he'd been a reliable mate had been scuppered off the coast of Martinique in order to keep it out of the hands of privateers, and he'd been unable to find another ship that would take him on as a member of the permanent crew. It seemed that the pirates, privateers, and disreputable merchants who made port in Tortuga weren't overly keen to hire a former commodore of the Royal Navy to man their ship.

He felt his lip curl as he was reminded once again of how far he'd fallen. Curse and damn them all, from the Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy and the King himself, to that damnable blacksmith Turner and the two-faced vixen he'd stolen away, and most of all, that bloody pirate bastard Jack god-damned Sparrow. A pox on them all. He felt his hands twitch with a by-now familiar need. God above, he needed a drink.

Which brought him back to the problem at hand. Crusty was the closest thing he had to a friend in this miserable hellhole, and if even Crusty wouldn't extend his credit… well, that did leave him in a precarious position. He needed coin, and he needed some now. As if to emphasize the treacherous weather that had landed him in this penniless predicament, the wind gusted fiercely around him, billowing his overcoat out behind him and whipping his untied hair about his face. He shoved a hand to his face to brush the stray strands of dark hair out of his eyes, and, looking up, he realized he'd arrived in front of the Laughing Wench, one of the less-reputable taverns on Tortuga (not that there was any such thing as a reputable tavern on Tortuga, to be truthful).

And there, like divine providence, the solution to his quandary stood, shouting and laughing and weaving drunkenly and carrying on before him – Brawlin' Bill Hardy and his faithful retinue of lackeys, stumbling uneasily through the door of the Wench.

Brawlin' Bill Hardy was a pirate of middling renown, infamous around Tortuga for his endless appetite for liquor and women (which made him not unlike most men who lived on Tortuga, but it was said he could consume enough rum in a night to kill a lesser man and still have enough spirit left to carry on with a wench besides). And such appetites cost coin (as James knew well) – which meant that he owed many men many debts.

James Norrington, it so happened, was one of those men. He felt the beginnings of a feral grin, and he checked that his blade, his knife, and his pistol were at the ready, just in case this confrontation went less than amicably. Because if Brawlin' Bill Hardy was swaggering into the Laughing Wench, it meant he had coin to spend. Coin that he owed on a debt – a debt James intended to collect without further delay.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, James threw open the door and pushed his way into the Laughing Wench.