The (Pimp) Cane
In which Norrington gets bitch slapped, yeah!
The well known creaking from old, wet timber deafened the also familiar and just renewed creaking of his uniform, as he stepped onto the slippery deck of The Flying Dutchman.
Admiral James Norrington felt once again the centre of attention. Walking down the line of officers also laced in new uniforms, blue and gold, the colours of The East Indian Company, he was indeed a sight for sore eyes. He held his hands once more clutched behind his back, steady, marching steps, head held high with renewed pride, even though he had not regained his self-confidence completely. He felt as though all eyes were fixated at him once more, even with the horrid, disfigured crewmembers in front of them.
"Order! Get in line!" he firmly commanded the frightened soldiers, cowering behind their bayonets at the sight of the Dutchman's crew.
He turned on his heel and looked sharply at Davy Jones, who had just appeared on deck with his usual amount of noise and threats.
Norrington stepped forward to answer the Captain, but just as he did he was taken aback by a sharp, utterly unexpected rap against his buttocks. He could not help but letting out a low, yet exclaiming gasp.
How dared he?
He instantly moved to the side, with a slightly reddened face and only his heartbeat deafening the creaking of his uniform as well as the creaking from the ship.
He needn't turn to discover the owner of the cane, for a cane it was which had hit him, and it was all too familiar against his backside. He dared not turn around to meet his Lordships pale, constantly reassured, triumphant eyes, fearing that they combined with the blow still pricking embarrassingly against his ass, would have the same effect they always seemed to have. Oh, no - not here.
His pride as well as his stiff, tight breeches would certainly not allow that.
He heard Beckett's drawling voice giving Davy Jones an order.
Norrington registered in the corner of his right eye that the cane was in motion again. It moved slowly this time. It glided softly past the front of his breeches with gentle yet firm pressure, pushing him farther away, pushing him nearer his boiling point.
He heard the voice of Davy Jones, responding in a harsh and self-confident tone to Beckett's orders, still it seemed faint and far away, as from a dream.
A nightmare so to speak.
A nightmare in which Beckett strolled over the deck, past Norrington without even noticing him, pretending that the recent activity of his cane had been quite coincidently. Norrington almost held his breath. He stared into the open air, focusing his eyes on the pale line where the water met the sky, urging himself not glance down or at the little man standing in front of the infamous and feared Captain doomed to sail the seven seas for eternity. Beckett was ordering Jones around as if he where one of his subjects, as if he where James Norrington.
"The Flying Dutchman sails as its Captain commands!" Davy Jones sneered.
"And the Captain commands as commanded", Beckett answered still drawling, almost urgently, slow, pronouncing each syllable with exaggerated stress as if speaking to a dumb or reluctant child, as if speaking to Admiral James Norrington.
He turned to go, but on his way off the deck he finally turned to Norrington with an icy look, smirking unnoticeable, as if to say; and so does the Admiral.