Fic: 'Three Days'
Wrote this for the merrypirates fic exchange per mirageofmae's request: Elizabeth/Norrington - During DMC, Elizabeth notices things she hadn't bothered to notice before. Can have some Elizabeth/Jack, too. Many thanks to hereswith for the beta read and edit, and to penknife for organizing the merrypirates fic exchange!
~ Three Days ~
"James Norrington, what has the world done to you?"
Elizabeth squatted near (but not in) the mud of the sty as James looked up at her in wonder. No. Horror.
"Elizabeth?"
The corner of her mouth quivered against a singularly inappropriate smile. "Didn't you know?" she asked. "In the tavern?"
He said something rather vehement under his breath and struggled to sit up. She reached to give him a hand, but he waved her away with every sign of revulsion. "Don't touch me!"
She lifted a brow, but quelled her slight annoyance - she had, after all, knocked him out with that bottle and it couldn't have improved his head in the least. She rose to her feet. Watched him struggle to his own, cursing softly, swaying, then straightening to his full height (which invariably made her feel far too young) and fixing her with a narrowed, if somewhat blurred eye. She straightened herself, and lifted her chin.
"Did Turner teach you that swordplay?" he demanded, his eyes flicking over her boy's garb critically.
"Yes, of course."
He sniffed, and seemed to be casting his mind back to the fight with some difficulty. Then he looked her over again, and his mouth twisted. "It appears I owe you thanks, ma'am."
"It's miss, still."
"Not married?"
"No. It's complicated. I'll tell you while we go find Jack."
A grim expression crossed his face and he said softly, "Ah, yes. Jack."
*
She slept like the dead, lulled by the motion of the Pearl, the comparative privacy, and the comfort of the ridiculously decadent bed: all silks, velvets, and gold-shot brocade, every bit of it illicitly obtained, no doubt, and all redolent of Jack (though not unpleasantly so, strangely enough). The sun was well up by the time she roused, and nearly everyone else was already on deck when she finally emerged from the Great Cabin. Jack was consulting with Gibbs on some point of navigation and paid her no heed at first. James, however, on completing the flemishing of a rope with surprising deftness, caught sight of her and favored her with a most sardonic expression. She elected to ignore the implication.
"Are you feeling more the thing today?" she asked as she approached him.
"Tolerable. And you seem fit. I gather sharing Sparrow's bed agrees with you."
She stiffened at the overt attack. "I slept well, if that's what you mean."
"I daresay."
"That's all it was, James," she said sharply. "Sharing. He didn't touch me. He wouldn't."
"I bow to your superior knowledge of men in general, and of Sparrow in particular."
She gave a roll of her eyes at his sarcastic tone. "You are hardly in a position to throw stones."
He inclined his head. "More true than you know. And the habit of years is very hard to break. My apologies, Miss Swann."
"You've always been determined to see the worst in people," she challenged.
"In criminals, certainly," he agreed. "They seldom disappoint. But as it happens I was speaking from concern for your person. Foolish, of course. You must forgive me."
He straightened and moved off down the deck, as at home with the rolling motion as Jack. She frowned after him, her thoughts in turmoil.
The habit of years.
*
"Norrington, you're with us," Jack snapped, more in command of himself since fetching his jar of dirt (though what good such a thing would do Elizabeth couldn't fathom).
But James. "You're taking him along?" she asked Jack, concerned.
Jack glanced at her. "Him and a shovel. He can make himself useful, bloody dig up the chest for us."
"Jack!" she objected. He'd constantly poked and prodded the "former-commodore" in devilishly subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways since they'd all met on the dock in Tortuga, and this proposal seemed to indicate he hadn't tired of the game.
But Jack said, reasonably, "Have to keep an eye on him, don't I? There's too much of the commodore in him yet, and just enough pirate to make him unpredictable."
Pirate. This matter-of-fact assessment was something of a compliment, coming from Jack. As he walked aft, Elizabeth turned to study James where he stood at the rail.
His clothes were worn, almost ragged, his brown hair imperfectly tied with a black cord, straggling locks teased by the wind. He was looking out across the blue sea to Isla Cruses, a tall, straight, commanding figure even in these reduced circumstances. A formidable man. And yet Elizabeth had seen how he had fit in with the Pearls, as handy as any of them in the ways of the ship, friendly but with an indefinable air of reserve that was the province of an officer. He'd followed Jack's orders and endured his jibes with tolerable patience (and an occasionally smoldering eye), but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that here was a man of knowledge and capability, a man other men had followed, and would follow again.
Elizabeth had to agree. Jack was right to be wary.
*
"I've had it! I've had it with wobbly-legged, rum-soaked pirates!"
That's what they were, the lot of them: Jack with his airs and nonsense and cunning, Will with his Guard the chest! and his refusal to listen to her, to see reason. And James, James was the worst, skilled as Will, slippery as Jack, and maddened by fate and ill fortune, completely focused on his own needs and desires.
Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them.
James should know. Did know, now!
Shouting did no good, playing on their sympathy - Oh! The heat!-- produced not so much as a glance in her direction. These men she loved and admired were behaving in a way that made her want nothing more than to knock their heads together!
Sitting cross, cross-armed, cross-legged on the sand, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye: Pintel and Ragetti, making off with the oh-so-precious chest.
Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, swearing.
Bloody Pirates!
~.~
~ Three Days ~
"James Norrington, what has the world done to you?"
Elizabeth squatted near (but not in) the mud of the sty as James looked up at her in wonder. No. Horror.
"Elizabeth?"
The corner of her mouth quivered against a singularly inappropriate smile. "Didn't you know?" she asked. "In the tavern?"
He said something rather vehement under his breath and struggled to sit up. She reached to give him a hand, but he waved her away with every sign of revulsion. "Don't touch me!"
She lifted a brow, but quelled her slight annoyance - she had, after all, knocked him out with that bottle and it couldn't have improved his head in the least. She rose to her feet. Watched him struggle to his own, cursing softly, swaying, then straightening to his full height (which invariably made her feel far too young) and fixing her with a narrowed, if somewhat blurred eye. She straightened herself, and lifted her chin.
"Did Turner teach you that swordplay?" he demanded, his eyes flicking over her boy's garb critically.
"Yes, of course."
He sniffed, and seemed to be casting his mind back to the fight with some difficulty. Then he looked her over again, and his mouth twisted. "It appears I owe you thanks, ma'am."
"It's miss, still."
"Not married?"
"No. It's complicated. I'll tell you while we go find Jack."
A grim expression crossed his face and he said softly, "Ah, yes. Jack."
*
She slept like the dead, lulled by the motion of the Pearl, the comparative privacy, and the comfort of the ridiculously decadent bed: all silks, velvets, and gold-shot brocade, every bit of it illicitly obtained, no doubt, and all redolent of Jack (though not unpleasantly so, strangely enough). The sun was well up by the time she roused, and nearly everyone else was already on deck when she finally emerged from the Great Cabin. Jack was consulting with Gibbs on some point of navigation and paid her no heed at first. James, however, on completing the flemishing of a rope with surprising deftness, caught sight of her and favored her with a most sardonic expression. She elected to ignore the implication.
"Are you feeling more the thing today?" she asked as she approached him.
"Tolerable. And you seem fit. I gather sharing Sparrow's bed agrees with you."
She stiffened at the overt attack. "I slept well, if that's what you mean."
"I daresay."
"That's all it was, James," she said sharply. "Sharing. He didn't touch me. He wouldn't."
"I bow to your superior knowledge of men in general, and of Sparrow in particular."
She gave a roll of her eyes at his sarcastic tone. "You are hardly in a position to throw stones."
He inclined his head. "More true than you know. And the habit of years is very hard to break. My apologies, Miss Swann."
"You've always been determined to see the worst in people," she challenged.
"In criminals, certainly," he agreed. "They seldom disappoint. But as it happens I was speaking from concern for your person. Foolish, of course. You must forgive me."
He straightened and moved off down the deck, as at home with the rolling motion as Jack. She frowned after him, her thoughts in turmoil.
The habit of years.
*
"Norrington, you're with us," Jack snapped, more in command of himself since fetching his jar of dirt (though what good such a thing would do Elizabeth couldn't fathom).
But James. "You're taking him along?" she asked Jack, concerned.
Jack glanced at her. "Him and a shovel. He can make himself useful, bloody dig up the chest for us."
"Jack!" she objected. He'd constantly poked and prodded the "former-commodore" in devilishly subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways since they'd all met on the dock in Tortuga, and this proposal seemed to indicate he hadn't tired of the game.
But Jack said, reasonably, "Have to keep an eye on him, don't I? There's too much of the commodore in him yet, and just enough pirate to make him unpredictable."
Pirate. This matter-of-fact assessment was something of a compliment, coming from Jack. As he walked aft, Elizabeth turned to study James where he stood at the rail.
His clothes were worn, almost ragged, his brown hair imperfectly tied with a black cord, straggling locks teased by the wind. He was looking out across the blue sea to Isla Cruses, a tall, straight, commanding figure even in these reduced circumstances. A formidable man. And yet Elizabeth had seen how he had fit in with the Pearls, as handy as any of them in the ways of the ship, friendly but with an indefinable air of reserve that was the province of an officer. He'd followed Jack's orders and endured his jibes with tolerable patience (and an occasionally smoldering eye), but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that here was a man of knowledge and capability, a man other men had followed, and would follow again.
Elizabeth had to agree. Jack was right to be wary.
*
"I've had it! I've had it with wobbly-legged, rum-soaked pirates!"
That's what they were, the lot of them: Jack with his airs and nonsense and cunning, Will with his Guard the chest! and his refusal to listen to her, to see reason. And James, James was the worst, skilled as Will, slippery as Jack, and maddened by fate and ill fortune, completely focused on his own needs and desires.
Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them.
James should know. Did know, now!
Shouting did no good, playing on their sympathy - Oh! The heat!-- produced not so much as a glance in her direction. These men she loved and admired were behaving in a way that made her want nothing more than to knock their heads together!
Sitting cross, cross-armed, cross-legged on the sand, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye: Pintel and Ragetti, making off with the oh-so-precious chest.
Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, swearing.
Bloody Pirates!
~.~