Title: Watching The Detectives
Chapter: 2 of 2
Author:
djarum99Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Norrington
Characters: Jack, Norrington
Warnings: slash, snark
Disclaimer: The Mouse owns them, and has made a handsome profit; I own nothing, and profit not at all
A/N: The conclusion of my response to the
potcfest prompt #13, “Jack/James, a detective story.” The setting is
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“Pythagoras. God spare me the philosophy of drunken lunatics.”
“I assure you, I can hold my rum. Protagoras - look it up.”
This bit just has me grinning like a fool. Sooo good! So perfectly Jack, so perfectly James. Awesome!
I truly love that Jack was taken a bit off-guard by James' um...ardor. That was a brilliant little twist and really added so much to the cat and mouse game going on here. Love the talk of giving up the chase -- there's admiration there, each for the other, Jack's of course, hidden in his insolence (you do write Snarky!Jack so very well, BTW)
Can't comment on the Christie, am not all that familiar with her work, but you done the Sparrow-slash proud and I enjoyed the story within the story. And your writing, as always, a gift to behold!
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The Christie stories play out pretty much the way Jack's interrogatory did here. Mr. Quin is a mysterious character who slips in and out of Mr. Satterthwaite's life, whenever he's stymied by an explanation for tragic events he stumbles across. There's always some allusion to the illusion of a harlequin dress in describing him. Mr. Quin asks his questions, and Satterthwaite always finds the answer hidden in the facts he already knows. The stories are very dated, very 1920's. Apparently not the best device to have used here, but I do love Christie :-)
Thanks so much for the read and your lovely comment ♥
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Ah, that's what we love about him, isn't it?
Beautifully written, and a really interesting story. Great work!
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Thanks so much for reading and commenting ♥
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....
*is speechless*
My goodness! Norrington is such a saucy little minx, isn't he?
Jack steps to the glass, lifts his arms to brace himself, hair falling to his waist in a wild-night tangle, brushing the hollow at the base of his spine. He isn’t a tall man, his body formed of spare, taut muscle, the sweep of slender bone. Ivory cedes to copper in skin etched by a dozen vicious hands, a score of life’s retributions.
Jack Sparrow wears more scars than any living man should - and not one of them courtesy of him.
The lash, the blade, the brand, the nameless torment that savaged Jack’s forearm, pressed tight against the panes. He wants to leave his mark, some emblem of their battle, knows in the darkest reach of his soul that winning holds no salvation.
Love that! Had me drooling like baby.
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Appreciate the read and comment, as always ♥
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