(disclaimer and notes in 1st chapter)
~~~~~~~~
The next several weeks saw no improvement, either in their bed or in the household. He worked more often than was necessary, sometimes skipping meals so that he wouldn't have to sit, uncomfortably silent, at the other end of the long dining table. She read every night before bed, but he wasn't sure what she did while he was gone; she had never been much for needlepoint and he had servants for cooking and mending clothing. Other than those womanly arts, he had no idea what could possibly be occupying her time. She was like a stranger in his house – in her *own* house, as it was now.
He asked her one night at supper, his curiosity getting the best of him.
"What do you do in the daytime?"
She sipped her wine, fixing him with quizzical eyes. "Beg pardon?"
"When I'm away," he clarified. "While I'm working. How do you spend your time?"
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, with a hint of suspicion.
With a shrug, he said, "I only wondered."
Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she thought for a moment. "I read," she said. "I go for long walks along the coast."
"That's very dangerous –" he began, but stopped when she rolled her eyes.
"I take a pistol from your armory with me. I'll not be captured by pirates and brigands, never you worry."
He was too surprised at this bit of information to take note of the bitter tone in her voice. He'd had no idea she could shoot, though now that she mentioned it, he seemed to remember that one of his guns was indeed in a slightly different place every day. He'd assumed it was due to the servants moving it while they were in to clean. "Anything else?"
"Sometimes I ride," she continued. "I go to the market and wander the stalls. I sketch things, around the house or outside."
"May I see your sketches?" he asked shyly. She considered it for a moment, clearly still half-suspecting some kind of trap, before she nodded and left the room to fetch them. Returning with a large leather book that smelled of lead and charcoal, she moved her dishes aside and spread it over the table. He crossed to her end and leaned over her shoulder, one hand on the back of her chair.
There were small black and white sketches of plants, birds, objects around the house – Norrington was no expert on art, but she seemed to have a good sense of perspective and an appreciation for fine detail.
"These are quite good," he said, meaning it. He was so intent on the pages rifling through her hands that he nearly missed her small, pleased smile.
"Thank you." She turned another page and it was filled with sails, hanging lankly or puffed all the way out. "I was sitting at the docks and trying to catch how they're filled by the wind – see?" One short, well-kept nail pointed at the best one on the page. "It's more difficult than it looks." The next page startled him: it was a full portrait of a tall man with a scraggly beard and torn clothing. He looked haggard and menacing, large eyes glaring out of his skull.
"That's Barbossa, former captain of the Pearl." She glanced up at him. "You never saw him, did you?" He shook his head and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Count yourself lucky. His breath was far more foul than his looks."
Norrington laughed and her eyes brightened. They looked at each other and silently acknowledged the moment they were sharing, quite possibly the first of its kind. He leaned ever so slightly forward, inhaling the soft scent of her body rather than the floral perfume she sometimes wore. She smelled of fresh, expensive soap and salt air; must have been down to the harbor earlier, he thought. Before he could kiss her, she looked down at the sketchbook again. The room was so still he could hear her heart beating, a frightened fluttering like the wings of a trapped butterfly.
He focused on her art again. The next few pages featured bones, some bare and some with small vestiges of flesh hanging gruesomely off. He remembered the sight well.
"Getting them down on paper helps to keep them out of my head," she explained softly. He covered one of her hands in his own, squeezing her fingers gently and earning himself another honest smile.
It disappeared, however, upon the turning of the next page, where Will Turner was sprawled across a wooden bench, sleeping peacefully with his hands steepled under his head. The graceful planes and curves of his body, his face, were more carefully rendered than anything previous.
Elizabeth's cheeks reddened. "I was visiting him at the forge one day – he had been up working late the night before and he fell asleep while I was making lunch." Her fingertips brushed gently over the surface of the paper.
Pain stabbed at him – no one who saw such a drawing could have any doubt that the artist loved her subject.
She was peering at him anxiously. "James? Does it bother you?"
"No," he said shakily, and then, more firmly and with a reassuring smile, "no, it doesn't. Have you any more?" He knew she didn't believe him, but she said nothing, instead showing him a couple of rough sketches of Jack Sparrow. One was a close-up of him laughing, eyes twinkling wickedly, one was a study of his intricate hair ornaments with the face left blank, and a third was a small full-length portrait, where he had his arms crossed over his chest.
They were too detailed to have been drawn from memory; he could see that immediately. "He...he is your friend, isn't he?"
Her voice and posture immediately stiffened. "I would say nothing to endanger him or his crew."
"And I would never ask you to," he replied, hurt by the accusation.
She relaxed a fraction, though her eyes were still guarded. "He's a good man," she said, looking out the window to the sea beyond Port Royal.
"So I've heard," said Norrington, his tone light. She glanced at him sharply and he waggled his eyebrows to show he was joking. He knew it was difficult to recognize, as he didn't do it often.
"A good friend," she added with a wistful sigh. " I'm glad Will is with him. That's where he belongs."
It was on the tip of Norrington's tongue to ask her if it was where she belonged, too, but he bit his words back. Having to deny it would only hurt her, and he knew her answer already.
Closing the book with a slap, she set it aside. "Our food is getting cold, and the lights are burning low."
"Right," he said, knowing the moment was over and the impenetrable fortress inside her had put its walls back up. "Thank you for showing me."
"You're welcome," she said, and though they finished the meal in customary silence, he thought her smile was less strained than usual.
A few days later he woke in the middle of the night to soft yellow candlelight beside him. Elizabeth was sitting cross-legged in bed, one pencil caught between her teeth and another in her hand. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and the sketchbook was in her lap.
"Don't move," she said around the utensil in her mouth. There was a dark streak across one cheek. "I've just gotten to your right arm and I need to work on my foreshortening."
He could feel himself getting a crick in the neck from his current position, but he stayed still.
"You look younger when you sleep, did you know that?" she asked, her eyes flitting from her paper to his arm and back again. "Most people do, of course, but the difference is really pronounced with you. It's like you've let go all that responsibility that sours your mouth in the daytime."
"And maybe it's the lack of a wig," he said, trying not to move his lips too much.
A grin quirked at the corner of her mouth. "Close your eyes," she ordered crossly. "You're supposed to be asleep."
He couldn't catch a glimpse of the paper with the angle his head was at. "I don't get to see my own picture?"
"When it's done," said Elizabeth. "Eyes closed, please." He obeyed without another word.
Just as he was beginning to fall back asleep, she announced, "Finished."
Stretching, he pushed himself up on his arms to look at the sketch she was holding. He was surprised to see that she was right – he did look much younger.
"I like it," he declared. Elizabeth grinned and set the sketchbook aside. She blew out the candles she'd lit and tucked herself under the covers once more. Taking a deep breath for courage, he reached for her. She froze as he pulled her into his arms, and he hated himself for rousing that kind of reaction. He had no husband's purpose in mind; he only wanted to hold her for a time and pretend that she was his in more than name.
As he made no other move, her muscles gradually lost their tension. Her arms settled around him as she tucked her head underneath his chin, and he kissed her hair lightly enough that she wouldn't feel it.
"What made you want to draw me?" he asked.
Her pale shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I was awake, and you were beautiful," she said simply. "It wasn't supposed to mean anything."
His good spirits sagged and he knew she could feel it in his body.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, lifting her head.
"For what?" he said thickly, his arms still around her.
"I keep hurting you," she said in a tiny voice. "Even when I don't mean it. It isn't fair."
"Hush," said Norrington quietly.
"But –"
His grip tightened. "Don't talk about it." He wasn't sure if it was a command or a request – a plea. "I made my choice, Elizabeth."
Falling silent once more, she kissed him gently before laying her head back down on his chest. "You're right. I know you're right."
~~~~~~~~
A Note About Norrington's Eyebrows: The Eyebrows, as they have come to be known amongst me and mine, are one of the most sublime moments in all of "Pirates of the Caribbean." If you have never noticed them before, check out the next-to-last scene, right after the line, "Oh, I think we can afford to give him one day's headstart, you stupid mook Gilette" (okay, maybe I fudged it a bit), and catch them. Right after that line. They are the Eyebrows. Blink and you'll miss them. I simply had to immortalize them here, because they have bewitched me time and again with their unexpected sexy power. I don't care if Norrington does nothing for you normally -- check out the Eyebrows and you will be changed forever.
~~~~~~~~
The next several weeks saw no improvement, either in their bed or in the household. He worked more often than was necessary, sometimes skipping meals so that he wouldn't have to sit, uncomfortably silent, at the other end of the long dining table. She read every night before bed, but he wasn't sure what she did while he was gone; she had never been much for needlepoint and he had servants for cooking and mending clothing. Other than those womanly arts, he had no idea what could possibly be occupying her time. She was like a stranger in his house – in her *own* house, as it was now.
He asked her one night at supper, his curiosity getting the best of him.
"What do you do in the daytime?"
She sipped her wine, fixing him with quizzical eyes. "Beg pardon?"
"When I'm away," he clarified. "While I'm working. How do you spend your time?"
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, with a hint of suspicion.
With a shrug, he said, "I only wondered."
Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she thought for a moment. "I read," she said. "I go for long walks along the coast."
"That's very dangerous –" he began, but stopped when she rolled her eyes.
"I take a pistol from your armory with me. I'll not be captured by pirates and brigands, never you worry."
He was too surprised at this bit of information to take note of the bitter tone in her voice. He'd had no idea she could shoot, though now that she mentioned it, he seemed to remember that one of his guns was indeed in a slightly different place every day. He'd assumed it was due to the servants moving it while they were in to clean. "Anything else?"
"Sometimes I ride," she continued. "I go to the market and wander the stalls. I sketch things, around the house or outside."
"May I see your sketches?" he asked shyly. She considered it for a moment, clearly still half-suspecting some kind of trap, before she nodded and left the room to fetch them. Returning with a large leather book that smelled of lead and charcoal, she moved her dishes aside and spread it over the table. He crossed to her end and leaned over her shoulder, one hand on the back of her chair.
There were small black and white sketches of plants, birds, objects around the house – Norrington was no expert on art, but she seemed to have a good sense of perspective and an appreciation for fine detail.
"These are quite good," he said, meaning it. He was so intent on the pages rifling through her hands that he nearly missed her small, pleased smile.
"Thank you." She turned another page and it was filled with sails, hanging lankly or puffed all the way out. "I was sitting at the docks and trying to catch how they're filled by the wind – see?" One short, well-kept nail pointed at the best one on the page. "It's more difficult than it looks." The next page startled him: it was a full portrait of a tall man with a scraggly beard and torn clothing. He looked haggard and menacing, large eyes glaring out of his skull.
"That's Barbossa, former captain of the Pearl." She glanced up at him. "You never saw him, did you?" He shook his head and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Count yourself lucky. His breath was far more foul than his looks."
Norrington laughed and her eyes brightened. They looked at each other and silently acknowledged the moment they were sharing, quite possibly the first of its kind. He leaned ever so slightly forward, inhaling the soft scent of her body rather than the floral perfume she sometimes wore. She smelled of fresh, expensive soap and salt air; must have been down to the harbor earlier, he thought. Before he could kiss her, she looked down at the sketchbook again. The room was so still he could hear her heart beating, a frightened fluttering like the wings of a trapped butterfly.
He focused on her art again. The next few pages featured bones, some bare and some with small vestiges of flesh hanging gruesomely off. He remembered the sight well.
"Getting them down on paper helps to keep them out of my head," she explained softly. He covered one of her hands in his own, squeezing her fingers gently and earning himself another honest smile.
It disappeared, however, upon the turning of the next page, where Will Turner was sprawled across a wooden bench, sleeping peacefully with his hands steepled under his head. The graceful planes and curves of his body, his face, were more carefully rendered than anything previous.
Elizabeth's cheeks reddened. "I was visiting him at the forge one day – he had been up working late the night before and he fell asleep while I was making lunch." Her fingertips brushed gently over the surface of the paper.
Pain stabbed at him – no one who saw such a drawing could have any doubt that the artist loved her subject.
She was peering at him anxiously. "James? Does it bother you?"
"No," he said shakily, and then, more firmly and with a reassuring smile, "no, it doesn't. Have you any more?" He knew she didn't believe him, but she said nothing, instead showing him a couple of rough sketches of Jack Sparrow. One was a close-up of him laughing, eyes twinkling wickedly, one was a study of his intricate hair ornaments with the face left blank, and a third was a small full-length portrait, where he had his arms crossed over his chest.
They were too detailed to have been drawn from memory; he could see that immediately. "He...he is your friend, isn't he?"
Her voice and posture immediately stiffened. "I would say nothing to endanger him or his crew."
"And I would never ask you to," he replied, hurt by the accusation.
She relaxed a fraction, though her eyes were still guarded. "He's a good man," she said, looking out the window to the sea beyond Port Royal.
"So I've heard," said Norrington, his tone light. She glanced at him sharply and he waggled his eyebrows to show he was joking. He knew it was difficult to recognize, as he didn't do it often.
"A good friend," she added with a wistful sigh. " I'm glad Will is with him. That's where he belongs."
It was on the tip of Norrington's tongue to ask her if it was where she belonged, too, but he bit his words back. Having to deny it would only hurt her, and he knew her answer already.
Closing the book with a slap, she set it aside. "Our food is getting cold, and the lights are burning low."
"Right," he said, knowing the moment was over and the impenetrable fortress inside her had put its walls back up. "Thank you for showing me."
"You're welcome," she said, and though they finished the meal in customary silence, he thought her smile was less strained than usual.
A few days later he woke in the middle of the night to soft yellow candlelight beside him. Elizabeth was sitting cross-legged in bed, one pencil caught between her teeth and another in her hand. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and the sketchbook was in her lap.
"Don't move," she said around the utensil in her mouth. There was a dark streak across one cheek. "I've just gotten to your right arm and I need to work on my foreshortening."
He could feel himself getting a crick in the neck from his current position, but he stayed still.
"You look younger when you sleep, did you know that?" she asked, her eyes flitting from her paper to his arm and back again. "Most people do, of course, but the difference is really pronounced with you. It's like you've let go all that responsibility that sours your mouth in the daytime."
"And maybe it's the lack of a wig," he said, trying not to move his lips too much.
A grin quirked at the corner of her mouth. "Close your eyes," she ordered crossly. "You're supposed to be asleep."
He couldn't catch a glimpse of the paper with the angle his head was at. "I don't get to see my own picture?"
"When it's done," said Elizabeth. "Eyes closed, please." He obeyed without another word.
Just as he was beginning to fall back asleep, she announced, "Finished."
Stretching, he pushed himself up on his arms to look at the sketch she was holding. He was surprised to see that she was right – he did look much younger.
"I like it," he declared. Elizabeth grinned and set the sketchbook aside. She blew out the candles she'd lit and tucked herself under the covers once more. Taking a deep breath for courage, he reached for her. She froze as he pulled her into his arms, and he hated himself for rousing that kind of reaction. He had no husband's purpose in mind; he only wanted to hold her for a time and pretend that she was his in more than name.
As he made no other move, her muscles gradually lost their tension. Her arms settled around him as she tucked her head underneath his chin, and he kissed her hair lightly enough that she wouldn't feel it.
"What made you want to draw me?" he asked.
Her pale shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I was awake, and you were beautiful," she said simply. "It wasn't supposed to mean anything."
His good spirits sagged and he knew she could feel it in his body.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, lifting her head.
"For what?" he said thickly, his arms still around her.
"I keep hurting you," she said in a tiny voice. "Even when I don't mean it. It isn't fair."
"Hush," said Norrington quietly.
"But –"
His grip tightened. "Don't talk about it." He wasn't sure if it was a command or a request – a plea. "I made my choice, Elizabeth."
Falling silent once more, she kissed him gently before laying her head back down on his chest. "You're right. I know you're right."
~~~~~~~~
A Note About Norrington's Eyebrows: The Eyebrows, as they have come to be known amongst me and mine, are one of the most sublime moments in all of "Pirates of the Caribbean." If you have never noticed them before, check out the next-to-last scene, right after the line, "Oh, I think we can afford to give him one day's headstart, you stupid mook Gilette" (okay, maybe I fudged it a bit), and catch them. Right after that line. They are the Eyebrows. Blink and you'll miss them. I simply had to immortalize them here, because they have bewitched me time and again with their unexpected sexy power. I don't care if Norrington does nothing for you normally -- check out the Eyebrows and you will be changed forever.