Scenes from the Flying Dutchman Pt 3
This fic is rated: PG-13
Fandom: Pirates of the Carribean
Characters: Will Turner, James Norrington, "Bootstrap" Bill Turner, OFCs
Summary: more ust and torture-related angst
For slashthedrabble's prompts: Skin, Comfort, I'm Sorry, In/Out, Decision, The Dead of Night, Touch, Wishes, Missed/Missing, Glass, Regret, Charity
Warnings: m/m imagery and mentions of torture
Word Count: 1200
Feedback: yes, please! Concrit welcomed.
Distribution: archiving, linking or remixing ok, just credit me and drop me a line!
Cross-Posted were_lemur, pirategasm, potc_fic, slashthedrabble, turningpirate, one_norrington, norrington_love
My FanFic Masterlist
Disclaimer: PotC belongs to Disney. Characters will be played with nicely and returned to them in good condition when I'm done. No infringement is intended, please don't sue me!
In the same 'verse as Not Exactly a Fix-It Fic
Part One
Part Two
Skin
Will got Norrington's arm over his shoulder and pulled the man to his feet. He half-guided, half-carried Norrington to his cabin, stoked the fire, and stripped him out of his sodden clothes.
Seeing Norrington naked, he had to swallow against a sudden surge of nausea.
Norrington's skin was a map of pain; of tortures inflicted at the hand -- and claw -- of Davy Jones. From shoulders to hips, his back was a mass of crisscrossed scars; Will didn't even want to think about the ones on his belly.
He drew the blankets over Norrington, and sat down to wait.
Comfort
During his ordeal on the Dutchman, Jones had been careful never to let him pass out. But sometimes, when the pain was too much, Norrington had managed to escape, just for a few minutes, into a waking dream.
He'd open his eyes to find Elizabeth sitting by him, and she'd smile and say you're awake and I've been so worried and everything will be all right now and she'd hold him and for a few minutes whatever Jones was doing to his body wouldn't matter.
But this time, when the dream faded, he found Will Turner sitting by his bed.
I'm Sorry
"Captain." Norrington's voice jerked Will from his half-doze.
Will leaned close, relieved -- but Norrington didn't meet his eyes. "I would like to offer my apology ... and my resignation," he said. "While I realize I have ninety-nine years and some months remaining in my term of service, for the good of the crew they might be better spent scrubbing the deck."
"I need your help," Will said. "I may be the captain of the Flying Dutchman, but you're the one who keeps the captain from doing something foolish ... most of the time."
Norrington gave him a thin smile.
In/Out
Lying in bed, with Turner staring down at him, was the last place Norrington wanted to be. He was about to throw back the covers when he realized that he was naked.
And Turner had seen --
He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away from the pity in Turner's gaze. He had to force himself not to clamp the blankets to his neck. "We'll talk about this later, Captain. Please -- I'm very tired." He curled up, facing the wall, bracing himself in case Turner decided to touch him. But after a long moment, he heard retreating footsteps.
Decision
Maybe, Norrington thought, Turner would release him from his contract. Let him go to whatever afterlife he'd earned.
But how did he know that would be any better?
For all he knew, hell truly existed, and he was bound there. The argument could be made that he'd committed suicide -- a mortal sin. Wherever he ended up, he suspected, he'd still have to deal with himself.
Besides, he had the lingering fear that Jones would be waiting for him.
He smiled bitterly. Jones waited for him whenever he closed his eyes.
He squared his shoulders, and went to see Turner.
The Dead of Night
With the passengers settled -- or as settled as they were likely to be -- Will went to his cabin to catch a few hours of sleep. Maybe once he'd gotten a good night's sleep he could figure out what to do about Norrington -- and how to deal with things if he was serious about resigning.
Norrington was waiting, looking as wan as the dead souls they transported. "Captain," he whispered, his voice harsh. "I need your help."
"Of course," he said. He opened the door, let Norrington precede him into the room. "What do you need?"
"Touch me."
Touch
Will goggled at Norrington, afraid for a fleeting moment that he'd fallen into that dream again.
"I can't go through eternity cringing from the slightest contact." Norrington's voice was sharp with pain. "I can't."
Will put a tentative hand on Norrington's shoulder, felt muscles bunch beneath his fingers and would have pulled back, but Norrington covered the hand with his own. He let out a shuddering sigh, and Will felt him gradually relax.
When Will put his free hand on Norrington's other shoulder, the flinch lasted only a moment. Norrington closed his eyes. "That's ... not so bad," he murmured.
Wishes
One single step forward and he could be in Turner's arms. Could lay his head on Turner's shoulder, and maybe Turner would hold him, stroke his hair, rub his back.
The Captain would do it. Norrington knew he would. He'd seen the man hold men's hands while they breathed their last, watched him cradle them while they died of their injuries.
But the crew of the Dauntless wouldn't have received any such compassion. They would have had to face Jones.
He took a step back, away from the kindness he didn't deserve, and forced a shaky smile to his face.
Missed/Missing
For just a moment, Will thought -- hoped -- that Norrington was about to open up, to tell him what had happened. But then his face twisted as if in pain, and he stepped back.
"I'll be all right, Captain. Thank you."
He finally realized that the man was trying to smile. "You don't look all right."
Norrington swayed; he looked ready to collapse. "I'm tired."
Will wanted to put a hand on Norrington's shoulder, to coax the full story out of him. But Norrington had already turned away. Will watched his retreating back, keenly aware of an opportunity missed.
Glass
When James Norrington was a child, his mother had had a favorite bottle; one made of peacock-colored glass. It sat on her dressing table, and young James always wanted to play with it, but his mother said it was too delicate.
One day he'd played with it despite her warning, and he'd broken it, and though she'd said it didn't matter, he'd seen the sorrow in her eyes.
Though he managed to maintain his military bearing as he strode to the helm for his watch, he felt exactly like that bottle -- ready to shatter at the first sharp blow.
Regret
Bootstrap approached carefully, making sure Mr. Norrington had plenty of warning, and he warned the rest of the crew to do the same. Not that they would have needed to be told -- they all shared some of the guilt for what had happened to the man.
They'd all watched, and some had participated. Stripping the coat from his back to prepare him for the lash, holding him down as Jones flayed him. Turning the crank another notch.
They'd all heard him scream, and done nothing to stop it. The least they could do was be careful of the man.
Charity
"Thank you, Mr. Turner," Norrington said.
The old sailor ducked his head. "Is there anything else you need?"
He needed to be left alone. The captain's pity was bad enough; he didn't need the crew treating him like a charity case. "Thank you, Mr. Turner," he said, more harshly than he planned. "I think you've done enough."
The senior Turner nodded, and turned away. Norrington was left with the memory of the pity in the man's eyes.
Just how many of the Dutchman's crew had witnessed his latest humiliation? He squeezed the spokes of the wheel until his fingers ached.
Part Four
Fandom: Pirates of the Carribean
Characters: Will Turner, James Norrington, "Bootstrap" Bill Turner, OFCs
Summary: more ust and torture-related angst
For slashthedrabble's prompts: Skin, Comfort, I'm Sorry, In/Out, Decision, The Dead of Night, Touch, Wishes, Missed/Missing, Glass, Regret, Charity
Warnings: m/m imagery and mentions of torture
Word Count: 1200
Feedback: yes, please! Concrit welcomed.
Distribution: archiving, linking or remixing ok, just credit me and drop me a line!
Cross-Posted were_lemur, pirategasm, potc_fic, slashthedrabble, turningpirate, one_norrington, norrington_love
My FanFic Masterlist
Disclaimer: PotC belongs to Disney. Characters will be played with nicely and returned to them in good condition when I'm done. No infringement is intended, please don't sue me!
In the same 'verse as Not Exactly a Fix-It Fic
Part One
Part Two
Skin
Will got Norrington's arm over his shoulder and pulled the man to his feet. He half-guided, half-carried Norrington to his cabin, stoked the fire, and stripped him out of his sodden clothes.
Seeing Norrington naked, he had to swallow against a sudden surge of nausea.
Norrington's skin was a map of pain; of tortures inflicted at the hand -- and claw -- of Davy Jones. From shoulders to hips, his back was a mass of crisscrossed scars; Will didn't even want to think about the ones on his belly.
He drew the blankets over Norrington, and sat down to wait.
Comfort
During his ordeal on the Dutchman, Jones had been careful never to let him pass out. But sometimes, when the pain was too much, Norrington had managed to escape, just for a few minutes, into a waking dream.
He'd open his eyes to find Elizabeth sitting by him, and she'd smile and say you're awake and I've been so worried and everything will be all right now and she'd hold him and for a few minutes whatever Jones was doing to his body wouldn't matter.
But this time, when the dream faded, he found Will Turner sitting by his bed.
I'm Sorry
"Captain." Norrington's voice jerked Will from his half-doze.
Will leaned close, relieved -- but Norrington didn't meet his eyes. "I would like to offer my apology ... and my resignation," he said. "While I realize I have ninety-nine years and some months remaining in my term of service, for the good of the crew they might be better spent scrubbing the deck."
"I need your help," Will said. "I may be the captain of the Flying Dutchman, but you're the one who keeps the captain from doing something foolish ... most of the time."
Norrington gave him a thin smile.
In/Out
Lying in bed, with Turner staring down at him, was the last place Norrington wanted to be. He was about to throw back the covers when he realized that he was naked.
And Turner had seen --
He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away from the pity in Turner's gaze. He had to force himself not to clamp the blankets to his neck. "We'll talk about this later, Captain. Please -- I'm very tired." He curled up, facing the wall, bracing himself in case Turner decided to touch him. But after a long moment, he heard retreating footsteps.
Decision
Maybe, Norrington thought, Turner would release him from his contract. Let him go to whatever afterlife he'd earned.
But how did he know that would be any better?
For all he knew, hell truly existed, and he was bound there. The argument could be made that he'd committed suicide -- a mortal sin. Wherever he ended up, he suspected, he'd still have to deal with himself.
Besides, he had the lingering fear that Jones would be waiting for him.
He smiled bitterly. Jones waited for him whenever he closed his eyes.
He squared his shoulders, and went to see Turner.
The Dead of Night
With the passengers settled -- or as settled as they were likely to be -- Will went to his cabin to catch a few hours of sleep. Maybe once he'd gotten a good night's sleep he could figure out what to do about Norrington -- and how to deal with things if he was serious about resigning.
Norrington was waiting, looking as wan as the dead souls they transported. "Captain," he whispered, his voice harsh. "I need your help."
"Of course," he said. He opened the door, let Norrington precede him into the room. "What do you need?"
"Touch me."
Touch
Will goggled at Norrington, afraid for a fleeting moment that he'd fallen into that dream again.
"I can't go through eternity cringing from the slightest contact." Norrington's voice was sharp with pain. "I can't."
Will put a tentative hand on Norrington's shoulder, felt muscles bunch beneath his fingers and would have pulled back, but Norrington covered the hand with his own. He let out a shuddering sigh, and Will felt him gradually relax.
When Will put his free hand on Norrington's other shoulder, the flinch lasted only a moment. Norrington closed his eyes. "That's ... not so bad," he murmured.
Wishes
One single step forward and he could be in Turner's arms. Could lay his head on Turner's shoulder, and maybe Turner would hold him, stroke his hair, rub his back.
The Captain would do it. Norrington knew he would. He'd seen the man hold men's hands while they breathed their last, watched him cradle them while they died of their injuries.
But the crew of the Dauntless wouldn't have received any such compassion. They would have had to face Jones.
He took a step back, away from the kindness he didn't deserve, and forced a shaky smile to his face.
Missed/Missing
For just a moment, Will thought -- hoped -- that Norrington was about to open up, to tell him what had happened. But then his face twisted as if in pain, and he stepped back.
"I'll be all right, Captain. Thank you."
He finally realized that the man was trying to smile. "You don't look all right."
Norrington swayed; he looked ready to collapse. "I'm tired."
Will wanted to put a hand on Norrington's shoulder, to coax the full story out of him. But Norrington had already turned away. Will watched his retreating back, keenly aware of an opportunity missed.
Glass
When James Norrington was a child, his mother had had a favorite bottle; one made of peacock-colored glass. It sat on her dressing table, and young James always wanted to play with it, but his mother said it was too delicate.
One day he'd played with it despite her warning, and he'd broken it, and though she'd said it didn't matter, he'd seen the sorrow in her eyes.
Though he managed to maintain his military bearing as he strode to the helm for his watch, he felt exactly like that bottle -- ready to shatter at the first sharp blow.
Regret
Bootstrap approached carefully, making sure Mr. Norrington had plenty of warning, and he warned the rest of the crew to do the same. Not that they would have needed to be told -- they all shared some of the guilt for what had happened to the man.
They'd all watched, and some had participated. Stripping the coat from his back to prepare him for the lash, holding him down as Jones flayed him. Turning the crank another notch.
They'd all heard him scream, and done nothing to stop it. The least they could do was be careful of the man.
Charity
"Thank you, Mr. Turner," Norrington said.
The old sailor ducked his head. "Is there anything else you need?"
He needed to be left alone. The captain's pity was bad enough; he didn't need the crew treating him like a charity case. "Thank you, Mr. Turner," he said, more harshly than he planned. "I think you've done enough."
The senior Turner nodded, and turned away. Norrington was left with the memory of the pity in the man's eyes.
Just how many of the Dutchman's crew had witnessed his latest humiliation? He squeezed the spokes of the wheel until his fingers ached.
Part Four