Commodore James Norrington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stem_the_tide) wrote2007-09-18 12:18 am
stem_the_tide) wrote2007-09-18 12:18 am
Entry tags:
Shore Leave
A shore leave, Sparrow had decided, was in order, and so when he had gone off to do... whatever it was he was doing, James had set about helping the crew to unload the necessities, and he himself had gone belowdecks to make sure that all the supplies and victuals housed therein had not been upset by the storm. One of the barrels of fresh water had sprung a leak, but it was quickly sealed, and since they were anchored, it had caused no worry. Now the work has finally finished and the men gone ashore, James leans back and passes a hand over his brow, breathing in the scent of vegetation and dark, wet earth that hangs heavy upon the air. The air is cool and James finds his ire at Sparrow melting away with every breath he takes.
His momentary feelings of restfulness, however, are soon cut short as a shrill voice cuts through the slapping of waves against the walls of the cove and the strangely loud rustling of the heavy, wet leaves of the trees which grow all about them. James sighs. Already he is getting tired of that voice.
'Hey! Navy man!'
He turns, twisting his mouth into a pained smile. The woman (he realises suddenly that he has no idea what her name is) is soaked through and looking positively vicious, her white teeth bared in a sneer James does not like at all. He suddenly wonders if she really does live in a state of perpetual fury, or if it's just something about him that so riles her. He is equal to that, however, and he raises an eyebrow at her. 'Miss?' He says, the epitome of restrained politeness
She scoffs. 'Don' take that tone with me, Norrington. Mebbe you're Commodore, yeah, but that doesn' mean you don' have to do what the rest of us do. We're to gather supplies- water, fruit.' She jerks her head in the general direction of the jungle and sets off without bothering to see if James is following her or not. He sighs, but follows after her anyway. She makes her way smoothly through the dripping foliage, slapping branches and massive leaves out of her way as she goes. No-matter how he tries, James seems always to be a good few metres behind her. After about ten minutes of walking (and it's more like jogging, James has to admit), and no sign of any gathering of supplies, he calls up to her.
'Where exactly are we going?'
She does not turn, just calls: 'To meet the Captain.'
James groans audibly, gritting his teeth when suddenly they do come to a halt and there before the pair of them stand Jack Sparrow- looking rather dementedly cheerful- and Mr. Gibbs. He runs a hand through his wet hair, droplets of water flying from his fingertips. Lovely, he thinks, how really bloody wonderful.
What he says is: 'Captain. Mr. Gibbs.'
His momentary feelings of restfulness, however, are soon cut short as a shrill voice cuts through the slapping of waves against the walls of the cove and the strangely loud rustling of the heavy, wet leaves of the trees which grow all about them. James sighs. Already he is getting tired of that voice.
'Hey! Navy man!'
He turns, twisting his mouth into a pained smile. The woman (he realises suddenly that he has no idea what her name is) is soaked through and looking positively vicious, her white teeth bared in a sneer James does not like at all. He suddenly wonders if she really does live in a state of perpetual fury, or if it's just something about him that so riles her. He is equal to that, however, and he raises an eyebrow at her. 'Miss?' He says, the epitome of restrained politeness
She scoffs. 'Don' take that tone with me, Norrington. Mebbe you're Commodore, yeah, but that doesn' mean you don' have to do what the rest of us do. We're to gather supplies- water, fruit.' She jerks her head in the general direction of the jungle and sets off without bothering to see if James is following her or not. He sighs, but follows after her anyway. She makes her way smoothly through the dripping foliage, slapping branches and massive leaves out of her way as she goes. No-matter how he tries, James seems always to be a good few metres behind her. After about ten minutes of walking (and it's more like jogging, James has to admit), and no sign of any gathering of supplies, he calls up to her.
'Where exactly are we going?'
She does not turn, just calls: 'To meet the Captain.'
James groans audibly, gritting his teeth when suddenly they do come to a halt and there before the pair of them stand Jack Sparrow- looking rather dementedly cheerful- and Mr. Gibbs. He runs a hand through his wet hair, droplets of water flying from his fingertips. Lovely, he thinks, how really bloody wonderful.
What he says is: 'Captain. Mr. Gibbs.'
no subject
He tries hard but can't keep the grin which breaks forth from that. Jack will laugh if Norrington admits he's had sex quite like this before. A few days ago he would have laughed just to hear Norrington say he ever had sex itself. A man who keeps himself as uptight and proper as the Commodore isn't the type to just go bandying about, removing knickers and making folk moan.
Yet here is, completely undone and in disarray, and pressed against Jack with that eyebrow seeking solance somewhere in his hairline. It looks ridiculous, that pompous expression, in such circumstances, and Jack can't resist provoking him for it.
"They teach you that in the Navy? Or is that all due to your own practice?" He skims a thumb beneath the worried muscle -- giving Norrington some idea what he's on about -- to see if it will relax under his touch. "Looks good on you," he says and briefly touches the pocket at the corner of Norrington's smile as Jack brings his hand down. I like it when you smile.
Being in such close proximity makes Jack realise how cold his arse is beginning to feel. And realise why, exactly, it is that his arse feels cold. His breeches are still about his ankles and the front of Norrington's are also open. Both wet and sticky from each other. They might do with a bit of cleaning up.
Jack pushes a hand against Norrington's stomach to prop himself fully on his own two feet. Several coconuts are still cluttered around them and it strikes with a dull remembrance that they actually did not come all the way out here just for this.
Or least not only for this.
Gibbs or Anamaria might come looking for them any momemnt, or might have already come looked and decided it best to leave them be. Either way, it's a decent excuse to stay missing for a bit longer.
Jack has an idea. "Don't know about you, but I could do with a bit of a swim." He glances down between them, at his own state of undress and at Norrington's. At the mess the made between them. "What say you?"
no subject
He has to grin at that. Even if Sparrow entirely missed the irony of the statement, he knows they're both thinking the same thing right now, and it really is dreadfully amusing. When Sparrow's thumb brushes along what might be a dimple if James used it more often, he looks down, his eyelids brushing soft against the curve of his smiling cheek. Again, that queer tenderness from him whom James would least have expected it.
Of course, he'll not answer Sparrow's question about where he learned it; he doesn't expect the man wants him to. Just teasing, an attempt to provoke the Commodore as Sparrow so loves doing. It does afford him a certain strange satisfaction, however, every time he turns out to be something Sparrow hadn't thought him to be, or does something that completely befuddles the pirate. He thinks he knows so much, does Captain Jack Sparrow, he plays games with people- with the world, really. It's a marvellous thought that James of all people can disrupt his playing board somewhat.
When Sparrow pushes himself up though, looks down between them, James is suddenly and abruptly made conscious of what a state he's in. Both their fronts are sticky and unpleasantly wet with the evidence of their passions, and looking down, James sees his own limp prick stuck to the inside of his thigh. He grimaces. Lovely. A thorough cleaning is most definitely in order.
He clears his throat and smiles a brisk sort of smile when Sparrow suggests swimming. 'A superb idea, Sparrow. I daresay I could do with a bit of a rinse.'
He grimaces once again, looking down at himself, and does up his trousers. They really are dreadfully uncomfortable to wear like this, and James knows that once he actually moves, he'll be forced to walk with an absurd, duck-footed gait.
'You know these islands better than I; is there anywhere more... ah, private, where we might swim? I don't particularly fancy showing your entire crew my unclothed body, particularly not that woman. I dread to think what ideas it might give her.'
He shudders a little at that thought, and tries to banish any images of sword-weilding pirate women in conjunction with his naked body from his mind. He pushes an errant lock of hair out of his eyes.
'Shall we?'