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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG
Pairing: James Norrington/Fred Abberline, implied James/Jack.
Fandom: PotC/From Hell.
Feedback: Good stuff, bad stuff, whatever.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: General idea suggested by latxcvi here. Written for the contrelamontre 'opposites' challenge; done in 58 minutes.
Summary: One night, James comes home and turns around. And sees something strange.
***
He'd had a little sherry at the dinner party, but nothing since then. And James was fairly certain he was still awake, so that ruled out the other logical conclusion.
There was a room in his room.
To be precise, it appeared as if the chamber had been neatly sliced down the middle of the fireplace, and half of it had been replaced with…half of another chamber. But the furnishings were like none with which he was familiar, and the clothing on the man that faced him was not in the least like any of the prevailing fashions.
"You're in my room," said the other man. He was shorter than James, with brown, slightly wavy hair that was cut in an unfamiliar style, and seemed to be fit enough. Something about his leanness, however, bespoke more of illness-as did the paleness of his skin. His accent was decidedly British, and bore a resemblance to that spoken by the poorer districts of London, but it was still not one that James completely recognized.
"I could argue the same," James warily ventured. He stepped up to the razor-sharp line where the rooms divided and carefully put out a hand. It went forward and stopped, halted by some kind of extremely transparent glass. Except glass didn't give, ever so slightly, under pressure. Before anything untoward could happen, James hastily drew back his hand. "Who are you?"
The other man had an ineffably sad smile, like those painted on the Virgin Mary whenever she regarded her infant son. "Frederick Abberline, Inspector in the police force…the year here is 1887, by the way."
"Impos-" James' eyes narrowed "-You said 'here.' Why?"
"Well, I'm in London. There aren't big trees in London, like I can see through your windows." Abberline tilted his head as he softly walked up, his movements eerily smooth. Like water…with echoes of something else. And the way the shadows changed as he passed through the beams of light made James squint, suddenly thinking that he was staring at another man.
Then he noticed that the shadows cast by his candles didn't continue into the other room. A chill swept up and down his back, and he reflexively stiffened himself against it. "What is this?"
"If I'm not mistaken, I believe you're seeing into the future, and I'm seeing into the past." As Abberline passed his hand over the invisible barrier, he pursed his lips in deep consideration of something. After a moment, he took a step back and steadily watched James, distantly curious and too calm.
That was when the realization came. Mannerisms…strip all that frippery away, and that same serenity of someone simply marking time, of someone only waiting for the main chance, and…
"I disturb you," Abberline abruptly said. "Interesting. I have no idea who you are, where you are, when you are, and yet you're more upset than I am."
"You do have the advantage of retrospect, which is much less uncertain than foresight." James immediately regretted the harshness with which he spoke, but the other man didn't seem to mind. He passed a hand over his brow, then coughed, uncomfortably aware that he was stalling. "Commodore James Norrington, of Her Majesty's Navy. You…bear a striking resemblance to someone I know."
"Friend?" Those eyes were far, far too bright, sheened with cold fire.
James shook his head; he caught himself nervously picking at his clothes and irritably forced himself to stop. "A criminal. Whom I'm hunting."
"Oh." Abberline smiled, somewhat humorously. "Unfortunate for me. Ironic, too. Considering my profession."
"You don't seem surprised in the least. I'm beginning to wonder if you're even a real person." As he spoke, James gathered up his courage and pushed a hand through the dividing space.
Ice. It resisted, but not very much, and sooner than he thought his arm was through, and him nearly toppling after it. But then a hand--heat--caught his and pushed him back so only his wrist was past the barrier. Another hand suddenly seized his shoulder, and Abberline's face shocked into view, inches from his nose. The other man's expression was far from happy.
"You fool, you have no idea what you're-" he broke off his furious hiss and turned his head aside. When he spoke again, his words were measured and monotone, and the underlying vibrations in his voice told James more than any amount of talking. "Don't do that. It's no good, you know. Trying to catch flickers, much less change them."
James' shoulder was on fire, and it made his breath vanish. He shuffled forward, leaned in and lifted his other hand to Abberline's…no, Fred's cheek. The muscles twitched under his fingers as he drew them along the curve. "Is the future that horrible?"
A third smile, and this one pure bitterness. "People don't change. They're just as fallible, and the laws they create are like them."
"I think I have to disagree with you," James whispered, pressing his forehead to the thin wall of cold. It began to pass through.
"Disagree with this," Fred snapped, and then his mouth was on James', and his hands were pulling and pushing them so they staggered around, one minute on one side, another on the other. Going through ice, filled with flame-the flash of alternating sensations rippled apart James' mind.
His fingers ended up in Fred's hair, twisting and clutching, and he tugged the other man's head back, devouring throat and lips until he was unexpectedly forced away. James stumbled, groping for balance, and finally slammed against a chair.
On the other side, Fred was gasping from his sprawl on the floor. He tried to stand up once, but his knees failed. James automatically came forward to help, but the other man threw him such a ferocious look that he faltered and fell back. "That's men," Fred muttered. "Right there. They can pretend, yes. They can act as if they're different. But don't tell me that they ever really lose their beginning. It stays with them, and never, ever changes."
James licked his lips, then took a deep breath. "So like and unalike…"
"Even you. You're not really seeing me; it's just another mirror, showing you yourself." Fred finally gave up and sat on the floor, pulling at his collar.
"Whatever happened to you, I'm sorry," James rasped, still trying to calm himself. His heart was pounding up his chest, and he thought that any minute it would leap out of his mouth and land on the rug for all the world to see. "I'm sorry, and I hope…it's…it improves…"
The other man studied him for a long, long moment. Then Fred laughed and propped his head on one hand and knee. "I think you're serious. Well, for what good it does, thank you. And the same to you, sir."
Blink.
Gone.
James made three passes about the whole room, but it was as it had always been. No changes. No one else.
He slept badly that night, and in the morning, the first thing he did was to visit the Turners to discuss a mutual acquaintance.
***