Title: Between Wind and Tide, Chapter 3
by Ruby Isabella
Disclaimer: The following is fanfiction based on a property owned by Disney.
Summary: Norrington returns to Port Royal after long absence
Notes: Sequel to "A Windward Tide." Also, you might worry at times that this is not slash, but it is. Really. Cross my heart. Finally, it takes place some years after PotC.
4.
"It gets dark so early it seems lately," Elizabeth said, looking toward a window framed with heavy drapes. "I should get Estrella to light the lamps."
"It's unusually cold, too, isn't it?"
"Yes. It's horrid, don't you think? I recall that this was what London was like, when I was last there."
"You were just a girl."
"Mmm. A girl with the whole adventure of her life ahead of her. If I'd known then...." A sigh lifted her chest, then sagged her shoulders.
"Oh come now. Your life is far from over. Do you plan on living in misery and self-pity for the entire rest of it?"
"James!"
He would have worried that he'd overstepped his bounds were it not for the much-welcomed light that shone in her eyes as she turned, eyebrows raised, lips curved into an "oh," toward him.
"Well, someone had to tell you." He set down his drink. "And someone should tell me when I've overstayed my welcome." He reached for his crutch.
"No! You must stay for supper. I never have company anymore. It's a pleasure I'm now realizing I've missed quite a lot. Please stay."
Norrington filled his chest to protest, but the thought of taking another meal in a dark corner of the inn changed his mind.
"I shan't take no for an answer, Mr. Norrington."
"Well. If you insist."
"Good!" She rose, catching her skirts with one hand. "I shall tell Estrella to set an extra place--and to light this lamp before we start walking into the furniture."
~~~
By the light of a single lamp, Norrington began to drowse in his chair. Elizabeth had not returned; presumably she was changing for dinner, or whatever it was that women did before sitting down for a meal. Estrella had refreshed his brandy, and that, as much as the flickering lamp, he blamed for his heavy eyelids.
There seemed to come a rifling of the air, and then by his ear a voice said, "I know what you are."
"Elizabeth?" He pressed an elbow against the chair's arm in preparation of sitting straight.
"I know about you and Will."
It _was_ Elizabeth. She came around the chair, her body bent so that her chin was level with his. The lamp cast flickering shades of orange against her cheeks. Her eyes seemed black in that light.
Norrington pulled his back against the chair as a feeling of cold trepidation dropped through him like an anchor.
Surely, she didn't mean.... "You've caught me dozing, I'm afraid." He tried to smile through his panic. "Startled me, in fact."
"I'll bet I have." Her voice was soft, but her grin brought to mind a Jack- o-lantern on a lonely road long past sundown. Her skirts whished as she shifted to the side of the armchair and lowered herself until her chin rested on his shoulder. One of her hands, thin and pale, came to lie upon his thigh.
He had a desire to move from under it; it felt like ice, and its aching cold sank into his trousers and the skin beneath.
"I know about you and Will." Her breath skated along his jaw; he averted his head and opened his mouth to say...he knew not what.
He lifted his elbow to reach for his crutch--if he could get up and pace, put a little breathing room between them, he could have the situation, whatever the hell it suddenly was, in hand--but the crutch rested against the table on the far side of her body. His arm bumped her bosom. He shrank away from her, and away from his crutch.
"Elizabeth." His mouth was dry.
"Oh, yes, I know." She lifted a bit, to speak in his ear. Her chest pressed his shoulder. "You liked my Will, didn't you?"
His fingers clutched the chair's arms as though he was about to push himself up. He wasn't. He wasn't pushing himself anywhere, except flat on his face if he persisted. He began to feel as though he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. "Elizabeth, please, what is this--"
Her hand on his thigh crept upward. "I know how your flesh came alive at his touch, at the sound of his voice...how the pit of your stomach warmed at his smile."
"Elizabeth!" He clamped his hand down at the top of his thigh, barring her progress.
"What about the first time, James? Do you remember it? Do you remember how nervous you were as you strode through town in the middle of the night, your back--and I daresay other parts of you--stiff as a rod, your chin lifted high, you acting for all the world as if you were out on important, _business-type_ business?"
Norrington swallowed. His eyes had closed. His other hand came to help the first ward off her fingers, which felt delicate and brittle as he caught them in his hands, but writhed free like snakes.
One of her nails cut a scratch down the inside of his ring finger.
"Do you remember startling at the creak of the blacksmith shop door as you pushed it open, James? And jumping at the touch of Will's hand on yours in the dark?"
*"Will?" Norrington had called out in a hoarse whisper without thinking. Gathering his wits, he'd followed up with a low, "Er, Turner, I mean. Is that you?" Will had responded with a tug on his arm and, "Shhh. Close the door."*
"Do you remember his room? The narrow bed? The way it groaned when the two of you landed on top of it, trying to get out of your boots without letting go of each other?"
*"Where's Brown?" he'd asked, pulling Will's shirt up from the bottom, feeling for the first time the skin of Will's back against his fingertips. Will used the weight of his body to push him onto his back before grinning down at him and saying, "Bought him a bottle, told him it was his birthday, and sent him upstairs to celebrate hours ago. He's dead out by now." He shifted his weight, and Norrington's crotch received the full effect of it.*
His staccato breaths robbed him of oxygen. His fingertips tingled. His upper lip felt wet, and though he wished to wipe it he did not wish to risk taking either of his hands from his lap. Elizabeth's deft fingers were too strong of purpose; they had already once brushed where he most wished they would not.
"Do you remember fucking him?" she asked. "Him fucking you?"
"Stop it!" He twisted her fingers sharply, causing her to pull back finally with a soft yelp.
"I'm sorry," he said, not looking at her. Looking, instead, at her fingers, cradled in her other hand, moving toward her own lap. "I'm sorry." He shoved behind her, still without meeting her eyes, to retrieve his crutch.
Out of the chair, his backside felt cold and damp. He had been sweating more than he'd realized. His gaze darted to her feet as he stumbled over his goodbyes. Then he turned and, passing Estrella, presumably come to call them to dinner, her look of bewilderment garishly lit by the lamp she carried, he clomped toward the front door.
Where he found himself stuck.
"Damn it." He pulled at the handle, rattled it, pushed against it. No lamps had been lit in the foyer. The long windows to either side of the door were draped with heavy fabric; had they not been, Norrington still doubted that little light would be available to him; dusk had come on, and beyond the safety of the house, a fresh storm raged.
He pounded at the heavy wooden door with the flat of his hand.
His throat tightened.
"Estrella!"
What if she didn't come? What if Elizabeth came instead? Pressing his forehead against the wood, he continued rattling and jerking the door handle, hoping for the best. Hoping to get out.
Over his racket, his ears picked up the swish of skirts. His heart banged against his chest. He was afraid to look, to see who it was.
"Commodore?"
Estrella's voice. He opened his eyes. Her lamp ensconced them in a circle of light. "Get me out of here," he pled.
"Of course... you just need to turn the lock. Here." Her fingers did the work for him, and the sound of metal scraping allowed him to believe that he _would_ get out of the house.
She began to pull the door open. In his clumsiness and haste, he slammed it back shut.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I--"
"It's all right." She waited, her hand on the handle, as he scuffled back, away from the door.
"James."
His shoulders stiffened at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. He hadn't heard the swish of her skirts. How long had she been standing behind them?
"James, you said you were sorry, but, really, I'm the one who must apologize."
He caught the edge of the door in his free hand as it came open. "I have to go," he said.
He pivoted his crutch forward. The steady thrum of rain pouring down in front of him contrasted with the silence of the foyer behind him and made him fee caught between two worlds. The fresh air, however, cooled his face, and for the first time since he'd been wakened in the armchair, he felt he could breathe. He clutched at his jacket at the collar, preparing to descend the few steps that led to the walkway.
"James, it's just that...."
He chanced a glance over his shoulder.
"You're all I have left."
It was then that he realized that the water running down his cheeks was warmer than the rain that had begun to stream down into the back of his collar.
by Ruby Isabella
Disclaimer: The following is fanfiction based on a property owned by Disney.
Summary: Norrington returns to Port Royal after long absence
Notes: Sequel to "A Windward Tide." Also, you might worry at times that this is not slash, but it is. Really. Cross my heart. Finally, it takes place some years after PotC.
4.
"It gets dark so early it seems lately," Elizabeth said, looking toward a window framed with heavy drapes. "I should get Estrella to light the lamps."
"It's unusually cold, too, isn't it?"
"Yes. It's horrid, don't you think? I recall that this was what London was like, when I was last there."
"You were just a girl."
"Mmm. A girl with the whole adventure of her life ahead of her. If I'd known then...." A sigh lifted her chest, then sagged her shoulders.
"Oh come now. Your life is far from over. Do you plan on living in misery and self-pity for the entire rest of it?"
"James!"
He would have worried that he'd overstepped his bounds were it not for the much-welcomed light that shone in her eyes as she turned, eyebrows raised, lips curved into an "oh," toward him.
"Well, someone had to tell you." He set down his drink. "And someone should tell me when I've overstayed my welcome." He reached for his crutch.
"No! You must stay for supper. I never have company anymore. It's a pleasure I'm now realizing I've missed quite a lot. Please stay."
Norrington filled his chest to protest, but the thought of taking another meal in a dark corner of the inn changed his mind.
"I shan't take no for an answer, Mr. Norrington."
"Well. If you insist."
"Good!" She rose, catching her skirts with one hand. "I shall tell Estrella to set an extra place--and to light this lamp before we start walking into the furniture."
~~~
By the light of a single lamp, Norrington began to drowse in his chair. Elizabeth had not returned; presumably she was changing for dinner, or whatever it was that women did before sitting down for a meal. Estrella had refreshed his brandy, and that, as much as the flickering lamp, he blamed for his heavy eyelids.
There seemed to come a rifling of the air, and then by his ear a voice said, "I know what you are."
"Elizabeth?" He pressed an elbow against the chair's arm in preparation of sitting straight.
"I know about you and Will."
It _was_ Elizabeth. She came around the chair, her body bent so that her chin was level with his. The lamp cast flickering shades of orange against her cheeks. Her eyes seemed black in that light.
Norrington pulled his back against the chair as a feeling of cold trepidation dropped through him like an anchor.
Surely, she didn't mean.... "You've caught me dozing, I'm afraid." He tried to smile through his panic. "Startled me, in fact."
"I'll bet I have." Her voice was soft, but her grin brought to mind a Jack- o-lantern on a lonely road long past sundown. Her skirts whished as she shifted to the side of the armchair and lowered herself until her chin rested on his shoulder. One of her hands, thin and pale, came to lie upon his thigh.
He had a desire to move from under it; it felt like ice, and its aching cold sank into his trousers and the skin beneath.
"I know about you and Will." Her breath skated along his jaw; he averted his head and opened his mouth to say...he knew not what.
He lifted his elbow to reach for his crutch--if he could get up and pace, put a little breathing room between them, he could have the situation, whatever the hell it suddenly was, in hand--but the crutch rested against the table on the far side of her body. His arm bumped her bosom. He shrank away from her, and away from his crutch.
"Elizabeth." His mouth was dry.
"Oh, yes, I know." She lifted a bit, to speak in his ear. Her chest pressed his shoulder. "You liked my Will, didn't you?"
His fingers clutched the chair's arms as though he was about to push himself up. He wasn't. He wasn't pushing himself anywhere, except flat on his face if he persisted. He began to feel as though he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. "Elizabeth, please, what is this--"
Her hand on his thigh crept upward. "I know how your flesh came alive at his touch, at the sound of his voice...how the pit of your stomach warmed at his smile."
"Elizabeth!" He clamped his hand down at the top of his thigh, barring her progress.
"What about the first time, James? Do you remember it? Do you remember how nervous you were as you strode through town in the middle of the night, your back--and I daresay other parts of you--stiff as a rod, your chin lifted high, you acting for all the world as if you were out on important, _business-type_ business?"
Norrington swallowed. His eyes had closed. His other hand came to help the first ward off her fingers, which felt delicate and brittle as he caught them in his hands, but writhed free like snakes.
One of her nails cut a scratch down the inside of his ring finger.
"Do you remember startling at the creak of the blacksmith shop door as you pushed it open, James? And jumping at the touch of Will's hand on yours in the dark?"
*"Will?" Norrington had called out in a hoarse whisper without thinking. Gathering his wits, he'd followed up with a low, "Er, Turner, I mean. Is that you?" Will had responded with a tug on his arm and, "Shhh. Close the door."*
"Do you remember his room? The narrow bed? The way it groaned when the two of you landed on top of it, trying to get out of your boots without letting go of each other?"
*"Where's Brown?" he'd asked, pulling Will's shirt up from the bottom, feeling for the first time the skin of Will's back against his fingertips. Will used the weight of his body to push him onto his back before grinning down at him and saying, "Bought him a bottle, told him it was his birthday, and sent him upstairs to celebrate hours ago. He's dead out by now." He shifted his weight, and Norrington's crotch received the full effect of it.*
His staccato breaths robbed him of oxygen. His fingertips tingled. His upper lip felt wet, and though he wished to wipe it he did not wish to risk taking either of his hands from his lap. Elizabeth's deft fingers were too strong of purpose; they had already once brushed where he most wished they would not.
"Do you remember fucking him?" she asked. "Him fucking you?"
"Stop it!" He twisted her fingers sharply, causing her to pull back finally with a soft yelp.
"I'm sorry," he said, not looking at her. Looking, instead, at her fingers, cradled in her other hand, moving toward her own lap. "I'm sorry." He shoved behind her, still without meeting her eyes, to retrieve his crutch.
Out of the chair, his backside felt cold and damp. He had been sweating more than he'd realized. His gaze darted to her feet as he stumbled over his goodbyes. Then he turned and, passing Estrella, presumably come to call them to dinner, her look of bewilderment garishly lit by the lamp she carried, he clomped toward the front door.
Where he found himself stuck.
"Damn it." He pulled at the handle, rattled it, pushed against it. No lamps had been lit in the foyer. The long windows to either side of the door were draped with heavy fabric; had they not been, Norrington still doubted that little light would be available to him; dusk had come on, and beyond the safety of the house, a fresh storm raged.
He pounded at the heavy wooden door with the flat of his hand.
His throat tightened.
"Estrella!"
What if she didn't come? What if Elizabeth came instead? Pressing his forehead against the wood, he continued rattling and jerking the door handle, hoping for the best. Hoping to get out.
Over his racket, his ears picked up the swish of skirts. His heart banged against his chest. He was afraid to look, to see who it was.
"Commodore?"
Estrella's voice. He opened his eyes. Her lamp ensconced them in a circle of light. "Get me out of here," he pled.
"Of course... you just need to turn the lock. Here." Her fingers did the work for him, and the sound of metal scraping allowed him to believe that he _would_ get out of the house.
She began to pull the door open. In his clumsiness and haste, he slammed it back shut.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I--"
"It's all right." She waited, her hand on the handle, as he scuffled back, away from the door.
"James."
His shoulders stiffened at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. He hadn't heard the swish of her skirts. How long had she been standing behind them?
"James, you said you were sorry, but, really, I'm the one who must apologize."
He caught the edge of the door in his free hand as it came open. "I have to go," he said.
He pivoted his crutch forward. The steady thrum of rain pouring down in front of him contrasted with the silence of the foyer behind him and made him fee caught between two worlds. The fresh air, however, cooled his face, and for the first time since he'd been wakened in the armchair, he felt he could breathe. He clutched at his jacket at the collar, preparing to descend the few steps that led to the walkway.
"James, it's just that...."
He chanced a glance over his shoulder.
"You're all I have left."
It was then that he realized that the water running down his cheeks was warmer than the rain that had begun to stream down into the back of his collar.
