{ xanadu } tell me, am i your baby?
"Dominica, have you ever known me to be anything other than 'terribly careful'?" ....oh, she probably shouldn't answer that. How many times has she mended his clothing? How many bullet holes have there been?
"Do you want me to answer that, or shall I just laugh at you a little?"
Late into the night, when Norrington has retired to his own room in the modest house they share in Xanadu (not too modest, mind, not when there was so much to be had and she was there at his elbow ready to take it while the taking was good), Dominica combs out her thick, dark hair and considers her reflection. She's no great beauty, she concedes, but she has even features and charismatic sex appeal to carry her the rest of the way. Her hair's good, her teeth are clean, and she thinks she has quite nice eyes. She's an intelligent woman for her background, she thinks, and she can almost keep up with him even if sometimes she has to go away and look up the harder words in the dictionary she didn't tell him about picking up from the bookstore a few weeks ago. There's nothing especially wrong with her, and she's certainly had her share of admirers to tell her so.
The problem, she concludes, is not with her. And if they weren't living together, maybe it wouldn't matter - he'd been nothing more to her than an interesting puzzle for as long as they lived in Dustdevil, an interesting puzzle and sometimes a friend, but now he's the only familiar thing and despite herself it really does feel like a slight. Her options are few and simple and it doesn't take her long to make up her mind about it; she takes her candle and leaves her dressing gown, rising from the vanity (what fine things she has now, her ivory-handled comb and this beautiful mirror) in her underthings with only a pause to be sure that her stockings are straight and the black silk hangs right over the scars she sometimes worries about.
Dominica doesn't knock as she sails into his room.
It's for the best that she didn't knock, because if she had, there'd be no guarantee that Norrington would have woken up. As she enters, he blinks awake and the half-finished novel on his chest slides to the side of the bed as he sits up. "Mm? Are you well, Dominica?" No matter how little he's been sleeping, his voice is always rough and low when he wakes up.
"Don't worry yourself," she says, dismissively, setting her candle down on the nearest clear flat surface and perching on the end of his bed with one foot tucked beneath herself, leaning forward on her hands as she examines him critically. He should sleep more, she's always thought so. "I think we need to have ourselves a little talk."
Norrington (never James), nods and rubs the sleep from his eyes before taking a drink from his bedside water glass. His says nothing aloud to the effect, but his expression seems to convey that he always has something to worry about, especially when a lovely woman says 'we need to talk'. "Yes?"
For all of his faults, no one can call James Norrington a fool. (Well, Dominica might, but usually only in her head.) With her sometimes-unnerving stillness settling around her now that she's quite done bursting through the door, she watches him wake up a little and decides the best way of getting under a man's skin is to do it while he's not ready. (That might be why she's doing this now.) "What precisely is it that I don't do I ought to be doing?"
"P-pardon?" There's a moment of shock where he's decidedly flustered and looks considerably younger, even less world-weary, but it doesn't last and soon enough he's back to his usual self. Norrington suspects that since they've moved on and into the more socially permissive Nexus that some how this will relate to her leaving, but at the same time, he's quite sure that if she wanted to go, she would just pack and do so. "There's nothing that stands out, why do you ask? No, wait, that is it that I'm not doing and I ought to be?"
"I might understand, if I wanted to, a man of your strong moral fibre not caring too much for a profession like mine," she says, as casually affectionate as she is slightly vexed, "I think it's silly, but I might understand that. You see where I run directly into trouble is that you are not the sheriff here and I'm not asking for your money."
Dominica straightens, one hand on her hip. "There's no shame in looking, Norrington, I'm meant to be looked at. But you won't even do that. Now, I'm just curious as to why that might be."
"Oh." Clearly he had never actually considered that his lack of interest might be a problem. "There are two things at play here: first, we were not 'married' for anything other than convenience and I never wanted you to feel obligated, and second, I am so very old and what might once have been a priority in my youth no longer troubles me." Good lord, can you get any more British than that?
As gently and sincerely as he can, Norrington offers, "I've never taken issue with you or your profession. You are a good woman and that is all I've ever cared about."
In a tone of placid sweet reason as she lets her hand drop back to the bed, "I don't feel obligated, Norrington, I'm a mite offended. It's not even the littlest bit the same." She purses her lips as she watches him, either trying to find something wrong with that or just trying to decide how she wants to respond to it at all.
"I never wanted to offend you and I took faith in the knowledge that if I did, you would tell me." Much as he's doing now, see? He is a smart man who knows when he's been a twit. Mind you, he's not quite bright enough to figure what he ought to do about it, but you can't have everything.
"Aren't I telling you right now?" Dominica asks, rhetorically. She studies him, gnawing on the inside of her lower lip, until a moment where she might've rolled her eyes at herself and didn't. "Well," she says, eventually, sliding forward, "I surely hope I'll never be so old as that, but I suppose it'll teach me to concern myself with gentlemen."
This is slightly gentler than he might expect, and she kisses his cheek chastely- as chastely as she can when she does it so close to his mouth, anyway, but it's always the quiet ones. She lifts off the bed, then, and picks up her candle again.
He speaks before she gets to the door, but only just before and his voice is soft and low, "I'm not a gentleman. Not for a very long time." Sure that this is neither the time nor the place, Norrington does not go into the details of why he gave up that particular title (for love and/or stupidity), but odds are that Dominica has figured it out through their time together. "You're well-balanced between brilliant and wicked, and I did not want to be in the way. An ugly truth, but there it is."
When he speaks, Dominica has her hand on the door-handle and she doesn't turn around until she's processed what he says, a small and obscure smile hinted at in her expression as she leans against the wood to face him again. "Oh, darlin'," she says, rueful. "No, I don't think that's right. You are a proper wreck of a man, James Norrington, but you are what you are and trust me, I know what you are."
"And that would be a gentleman?" Honestly, she must be working on a profoundly different series of credentials to decide that. "For both our sakes, I suppose I ought to persuade you otherwise. I am ill-tempered, my manners are for show and not of substance -- which may be in favour of my being a gentleman, creatures of fluff and little weight as most are -- and am far to liberal with (nearly) all and sundry."
Yes. He can talk in parenthesis.
"You aren't half so smart as you think you are," she tells him, wandering back to lean against the end of the bed (and no closer). "But you are a good, decent, respectful man. It's awful sad you let somebody think they could make you other than what you are- takes more than that." Maybe she can't talk in parenthesis, but she does have a knack for taking a step back from herself and examining somebody like she can pick them apart and then put them back together again, casually sure of herself and what she sees, delivering it with a certain benevolent lack of involvement.
"I made a mistake when I was younger and let my heart run on without my head, then when the problem went off in ways I didn't expect -- and, to be fair, you don't often expect immortal undead, fishmen from hell -- I tried to make amends and, in doing so, died. I have thought of a hundred thousand reasons why I cannot die and the greatest majority of them have nothing to do with being a good man." He may have the very rare, occasional tumble with someone, but it would never do to become attached.
"Well, you do feel mighty sorry for yourself, now, don't you." ...Dominica's brand of serene kindness can sometimes also look a little brutal.
"I've had plenty of practice." Norrington, don't be a dink. "I'm sure to grow out of it in another six or seven decades."
Her laugh is rare - low and throaty, and she sits down again, playing with the candle in her hand, darting her fingertips near the flame and away. "I see how it is. You made some terrible mistake with a girl- maybe just about a girl- and it all went right to hell. A dreadful mess, I bet, what with the immortal fishmen-" it's kind of amazing that Dominica doesn't blink at this, "-and now here you are cradling your bitterness close 'til you're all convinced what a terrible, bad man you are."
She shakes her head, eyes on her candle, still wryly smiling. "I don't doubt it hurts you terribly, but you are such a man, James Norrington."
Where by 'man' she actually may mean 'little boy'.
"And now you wound me by saying that my pain isn't unique," he says with the hint of a smile. Norrington knows that Dominica is right; truly, he does know it, but he doesn't always act on it. "What do you think I ought to do? I throw myself upon your occasionally gentle mercies."
Oh, this will end well.
"I think you ought to breathe a little, that's what I think." She pats his knee through the covers, light. "You take my word for it - I know terrible men and I could show you the scars. You're not one of those, sweetheart, you're a good man who's tired and angry and rode hard."
"I could try that. For the novelty only, of course." Norrington, you are not helping matters. "I'll see what I can do, but old habits, old dogs, and all that nonsense."
"Nonsense is right," she says, mildly.
...and 'lo, an idea was born. "Do you know how to use a sword?"
After deciding that he's not the type to make innuendo, Dominica shakes her head. "I can shoot," she volunteers, "but I haven't ever put my hands on a sword."
"I could teach you. If you'd be willing to teach me about this modern notion of 'breathing' that you seem so fond of." Nothing will ever go wrong with this plan. Nothing.
Now she does pause, properly, as if feeling her way through this idea to find the catch or the flaw. If she's not mistaken, he's just managed to turn the tables on her and she's not sure that she cares for that, actually. "Well, I don't know," she says, slowly, "you can't hardly teach somebody else to be themselves, now, can you?"
"No, I suppose not. Although, I would appreciate a gentle nudge or a large, clearly worded signpost, when I am being particularly slow." Which will be frequently.
"I suppose I can do that," she concedes, sucking on her fingertips after a too-close call with the candle; the fact that Dominica knows better than to play with fire has never meant that she won't, literally or metaphorically. "I should tell you right now though, my interest was purely selfish and not a thing to do with obligation, so you should be terribly careful thinking about my advice."
"Dominica, have you ever known me to be anything other than 'terribly careful'?" ....oh, she probably shouldn't answer that. How many times has she mended his clothing? How many bullet holes have there been?
"Do you want me to answer that, or shall I just laugh at you a little?"
"You've a wonderful laugh." He's sincere and seems to be willing to allow for a slightly more, ah, personal tone to enter into his conversation. (Good work, Dominica!)
"Careful," she warns, lightly, "I could get to think you're not as old as you say."
"I'll be sure to watch my tone more carefully in the future." That is to say, he is going to be as difficult as ever and perhaps even more so now that he can occasionally semi-flirt in his weird, rusty manner.
At some point here, Dominica lost her grip on control of this exchange. At this point, she decides - in her usual manner, where she takes 'walk like you're meant to be doing exactly whatever it is you're doing' to its absolute extreme - that it's about time to readjust. "You just do that. And if you are so disinterested it doesn't bother you none, you can move over. Winter's cold."
She looks at him expectantly.
Dominica, first you wake him up, then you make him think about all sorts of complex topics and then you drop that on him. Give the old commodore a moment to process that. "I am not that disinterested," he says while moving over. Ahem.
Yes, that's more or less what she was trying to do. "Good," she says, mildly, with just a hint of satisfaction in the word as she blows out her candle and crawls up the bed to the spare side. The movement in the darkness would be Dominica swinging her legs over the side so she can slide her garters and stockings off and abandon them on the floor before she tucks her feet under the covers and burrows down. "Because, Lord almighty, I was beginning to wonder if you weren't one of them as prefer the company of men."
"Er, not as such, no." There's a marked difference between sharing an awkward train compartment or bedroll if they've been run out of town and an actual, comfortable bed. Ahem. Norrington is able to convey his Starched Britishness by 'aheming' in narrative. It's a gift."As you well know, I snore."
"And you sleep like the dead," she agrees, close enough to touch and very conscientiously not touching. "Don't worry any, I promise I've had worse company before."
"Good night, Dominica. Sleep well." In the dark, Norrington gives her such a Look before shuffling and snuffling to sleep. And, yes, he does get to sleep rather quickly.