100% support the slutty norrington one off <3
WINE-EYED ; j.n.
summary: you loved him once. set during potc:dmc.
pairing: james norrington x f!reader
tags: unrequited love, angst, comfort, a dash of injury and worry, flashbacks to port royal & powdered wigs, a nice dock makeout scene
a/n: bro idk. bro IDK. had some pirate thoughts and then this 3.6k mess happened.
"You always did love her."
Those words, raw and cold from your lips, feel like salt in a wound — as stinging as the sea whipping James Norrington’s sun-split cheeks. The warmth of the setting sun does little to melt your icy disposition, and the ex-Commodore’s well-stoked and unbridled self-loathing rears once more.
He deserves that.
It’s evening, now. Most of the crew has settled below deck for well-earned rest and picking over supper — and you’re here, avoiding the raucous company in lieu of this. Quiet. Peace.
It’s not something you’ve had for weeks now, following Lizzy around the sea in chase of wandering loves and willful compasses and some still-beating heart in a long, lost chest.
She’s with Jack, now — chatting quietly in the evening air as they continue to plot a course by the stern. Far enough away that they’re in their own little world, as muddled and confusing as that thing between them is. Far enough away that James can stare, and wonder, and reminisce in heartwrenching loneliness.
At the sound of your voice, his head snaps forward along the horizon. He stiffens. James leans on the port banister and exhales.
“Have you come to mock me, then?” he replies in that same smooth voice you’d loved long ago — but it’s bitter and harsh, like the sting of an expensive whiskey.
You lean against the mass and cross your arms. The Eastern wind is cool — but it carries the edge of a coming storm. Give it two or three days, you reckon.
You cross your arms over your chest, and the barrel of your long rifle sways against your back. It’s cool through the thin cotton of your billowed blouse.
Your eyes slip coolly across his posture. The tumble of dark, salt-curled strands are pulled loosely into a blue ribbon. He doesn’t turn to face you, and instead turns his eyes to the honeyed-rose sunset dwindling along the horizon.
You deserve that.
You push off the mast and swagger forward. You come to rest beside him, and plant your calloused palms on the weathered wood of the Pearl’s railing.
“Pray, how is that mockery?” you say lightly, though your tone is sharp. Confident. Sure as the setting sun, “It is but the God’s honest truth.”
For the first time since he’s come aboard, he turns his head and looks at you then — truly looks at you.
James realizes then that you are not the woman he once knew in Port Royal.
There’s a new scar on your cheek. Your hair is different — styled in a more practical sense than perfectly placed like he remembers. You lack ribbons and rouge and petticoats. You’ve dawned trousers and boots and belts and sashes.
The only thing he recognizes is that rifle on your back.
You always were an impressive shot.
Though sport was rare on the island of Port Royal, your reputation followed you from England. Your father, the Governor’s Treasurer, took every chance he could to boast about his daughter’s accomplishments. James remembers many a dinner where you sat, as soft and doe-eyed and girlish as could be, and sported a bashful smile at the praise.
You were different from Elizabeth.
You always had been.
While Elizabeth had been infallible — high, and unattainable on a pedestal he’s half-aware he built himself — you had been present and interested and kind. It was clear you held a spot in your heart from the Commodore, even then. Even when he was intent on having Lizzy’s hand. Even when his attention was always wrung from conversation by her approach.
Even when he left, heartbroken and intent on chasing pirates.
You can feel his eyes on you.
His words are slow and very serious. “I’m not in the mood for jests, my lady.”
The jab doesn’t land. You continue on, unbothered.
“There was a time I would do anything for you to look at me like that, you know,” comes your easy reply as you move to crawl atop the cannon to your right. You perch yourself with ease. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you and James feels an uneasy itch crawl into his heart, “God, I would have thrown myself from the Fort’s cliffs, even.”
You never admitted your feelings for him.
Not before now.
He knew, God, of course, he did. Of course.
But, he’d been blind, then. Ignorant to the devotion of one woman, eagerly chasing the untouchable affection of another.
Finally, you look at him, and he feels like it’s ten years past again — and you’re chatting in a quiet room at a boisterous dinner party over the ethics and intricacies of Queen Anne’s privateering laws. He remembers the candlelight and the companionship and the comfort.
You were friends, once.
Your voice is quiet, carried away by the wind. You watch him, albeit distantly.
“Now look at us.”
Two tired souls, each as lost as the other.
With a flick, your gaze finds his. James’ eyes are the color of sea glass — they search yours for a moment before his jaw tenses and he drops his gaze to the water.
He’s quiet for a while, and so are you. For now, it’s just the calm swell of the sea. The sun has all but extinguished now, and the stars are creeping up over your back.
His voice is softer now.
“I doubt an apology would mend much of anything.”
You screw your face uptight. You move to pull your knees up. You’re quick to placate the assumption with a dry laugh. “I didn’t come up here seeking an apology—”
James straightens his posture and turns, fully allowing you to occupy his attention. “Then why did you come to me at all?”
His voice was colder than he intended.
You wince.
Years of loneliness, of regret, of shame, of guilt — they’ve all eroded the soul he had before. He’s as changed as you. Propriety would once call that this conversation be chaperoned; now, he finds himself yearning for a moment alone with you.
His eyes snap away again.
“...It’s what I owe you,” he says — this time, purposefully softening each syllable to paint his intent; he tries to placate the ache he sees in your face, “You... You were always kind to me. Even when I hardly deserved it. Even now.”
His eyes are soft.
Your lashes flutter.
“...It was always impossible to be anything but kind to you, James Norrington.”
He’d forgotten how his name sounded on your tongue — coy, gentle and warm. Sweeter than he remembers now, punctuated by the briefest slip of a smile. It leaves with the passing wind.
With that, you slip down from your perch and slip away.
James watches you climb to the Crow’s Nest — agile and graceful — and wonders why he ever let himself forgo your affections in the first place.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The storm rears upon them sooner than anyone expected.
It’s as if in an instant, the Pearl is swallowed by clouds darker than it’s pitch-colored sails. The electric snap of lightning splits the sky open, and in the span of five minutes, the Pearl careens into the worst storm First Mate Joshamee Gibbs has seen in ten years.
The winds send waves high — and in the chaos of bone-rattling impacts upon the deck, the crew is sent into a scramble trying to maintain the heading. They’ll lose day's worth of travel if they let the storm have her way.
The rain is coming down so heavy that James Norrington can barely see — all he can hear is the hoarse barks of orders by Gibbs and the roar of the thunder and his own thoughts.
Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.
Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.
Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.
His back burns as his hands grip the sea-slick ropes and he heaves, pulling taut the mainsail with four men at his back. A wave slams them from the starboard side and sends a line of sailors tumbling — and James gulps for air when the ice water strikes him hard. But, he stands firm. Keeps hauling.
Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men—
It’s your voice, suddenly, that cuts through the roar of the storm.
“HOLD FAST!”
The starboard side is being battered by the wind and the waves and the rain. Hit after hit, the crew tries to maintain footing as they adjust the sails to correct the heading — and now, you’ve planted yourself at the front of the line.
James’ head snaps to you — and he watches a wave nearly ten feet high slam down on the deck, directly atop your head.
Somehow, you stay upright.
But, it’s like drowning.
Your hair clings to you in wind-whipped tendrils of snarls. Your shirt is soaked through, and the chill is settling into your bones. Still, better down here than up in the Crow’s Nest. The mast, at that thought, groans loudly under the push of the wind. Your boots slip, and you stagger back as you try to haul the sails back to the position — behind you, Gibbs is braced.
Your hands are bleeding.
Lightning cracks close, and you try to breathe.
“BRACE!” suddenly comes the hard call of Gibbs in your ear — but it’s neither too late nor too soon, it’s simply not enough.
The rogue wave hits the Pearl hard.
You hit the deck harder.
In a tumble of limbs and shrieks and pain, you’re rolled violently towards port — and as you gasp hard to try and get up again, you’re slammed with another cold shock of seawater. It seizes up your lungs.
It’s a whirlwind of panic that seizes you the second your back slams against the port siding. It’s water and wind and thunder and the dizzying confusion of pain crawling up your temple — and then, it’s James.
James is there.
James is there, wild-eyed and soaked and holding your face in his hands as he’s shouting something — but your ears are ringing and you’re trying to see his mouth in the downpour.
Then, just like that, the world swims back into focus.
“GET BELOW DECK.”
All you can do is nod.
He helps you, with a bruising grip, towards the lower deck’s hold — water is pooling down here, up to your ankles, and it sways and rocks with each pitch the Pearl takes. Your knees wobble as you descend, and you spare James a single, long look back as he slams the deck door’s shut with a rattle.
The animals one level down are panicked.
There are a few souls down here — most nursing injuries, some praying.
Your stomach tumbles as the ship lurches again and you stagger into a bunk on the wall. Your hands grip the ladder tightly, and it’s then that you realize you’re still bleeding. You haul yourself up, muscles still burning, into a vacant top bunk. It’s nearly dry here — but the noise of the storm and creak of the ship’s bones does little to bring comfort.
Your head is pounding.
And so you stay there, in the lonesome dark, and try to remember the quiet psalm some tired soul is whispering into a rosary. A sailor’s prayer.
Slowly, as time creeps a half past the hour, the violence of the storm begins to subside — and on the seventeenth repetition of the prayer, sunlight begins to peek through the slats in the deck overhead.
You’ve turned your eyes to marvel at the warm rays pooling into the water that has gathered below deck. Little flickers of light dance around the space — and it’s almost heavenly. Peaceful. Quiet.
Then, James.
He’s fast to make his way to you — as the rest of the crew dwindles down, wrought with exhaustion and pain. His hands are as bloody and spent as yours; torn to shreds from the coarse ropes. And still, despite this, his touch is so gentle you swear you could cry.
“Are you alright?” he asks, in a desperate whisper, as his hand finds your knee and he gestures for you to come down from the bunk.
Your nod is far from convincing.
Truth be told, you’re off. Dizzy and confused and your entire back aches. Your ribs protest with each breath.
James sees it.
He’s gentle — and suddenly, so gentlemanly — when he slips his hands beneath your arms and gently helps you down from the bunk.
You slip down his front, hands tangled around his shoulders.
The act is enough to wind you.
You plant your forehead against the sopping wet cloth of his jacket.
This moment is enough; it placates the yearning you’ve stoked for years. It’s horrible in that way — that you’re allowed this now, after so long. After so much. But, James doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his hands slip to push matted tendrils from your temple.
Worry is heavy in his deep voice. “You’re bleeding.”
You’re exhausted.
And so is he.
What he’d give to collapse into his own bunk now — to sleep for a day, or maybe more. But, his heart won’t let him. Not when you’re here, and when he... when he almost thought he could have lost you.
...But, truly, he never really had you to lose.
Nor you him.
And maybe that’s the poetic part of all this.
Suddenly, Elizabeth is calling your name from atop the deck.
You slip away, hands brushing his chest as you do.
His hands trace your arms, and you’re gone.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
You have no idea where you are.
All that matters — however — is that the Pearl is docked, your feet are firmly planted on land, and you’ve got a warm helping of food in your stomach.
The crew needed this after that storm.
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and loosen your grip on the bottle in your hands. It’s rum — cheap rum. But, to the dear Captain’s point: rum is rum is rum. You watch him, and Gibbs, and Elizabeth, and Marty converse about something with animated intent.
From across the crowded tavern, Lizzy offers a smile.
You honor it with a commemorative swig.
The bar is busy — working girls flit in and out with men on their arms, venturing upstairs for privacy. There are card games between tables, a fight in the back alley, and music blaring loudly from the corner. All in all, for being a small little port in the middle of nowhere, it’s good business.
Not very quiet, though.
James, all the while, is trying to ignore the gnaw of yearning the sight of you brings.
He’s staring — openly, now — from his position on the balcony. His own bottle is nearly half-gone. He’s by his lonesome up here, pestered every now and again by a woman or two promising a lovely evening. But, each time, he passes. And each time, his gaze lands back on you.
Had he been so stupid?
Had he been so damn blind?
He could have had you — you, beautiful and witty and charming and sharp. You, kind and gentle, as devoted as the sun is to the moon. He could have had friendship and love and all the things touted in a marriage.
But, no. He couldn’t have Elizabeth. And so, he went and he left and he fell apart at sea. He lost what he was, and drowned the man he used to be.
Sea-green eyes watch you stand from your table. You shrug on your rifle, drop your hat atop your head, and toss a few coins down for the barmaid.
So, James swigs the rest of his drink and follows.
The port is quieter — but still, the noise from the tavern bleeds into the town’s night air. Here, with music droning on as the waves lap at the dock, you find a bit of peace.
“Mind if I join you...?”
You turn, eyes pulled away from the moon.
James’ eyes are soft.
You give him a consenting nod.
It gives you a moment to take him in.
The two days in port have done him some good. He’s washed up, taken a bath, even shaved. But, the shadow of a beard has already begun to creep back along his sharp jaw. His hair is long, swept neatly away, and a few stray strands move in the cool breeze. His hands hang on his belt, loose and easy.
He’s always been tall — imposing. Very handsome. Even in that god-awful wig.
You remember that sandalwood cologne he favored back in Port Royal. Clean. Warm. Pervasive. Expensive. The sort of thing the salary of a Commodore could allow for.
Now, he smells like gun powder and rum.
His arm brushes yours as he sidles up beside you on the dock.
“It’s dangerous to be out here alone.”
Your eyes flick up to see him watching you — and you see humor there in his eyes.
You scoff. “Come to save me, have you? Once a dashing officer of the King’s navy, always one.”
His face twists into a bitter scowl. Like he tasted something sour. “I am inclined to disagree.”
You nudge him with your arm. “Fine. I amend everything from that previous statement, up to and not including the dashing part.”
For the first time in years, you hear him laugh.
Truly laugh. A real, low, thunderous chuckle creeps from his chest as he ducks his head and smiles.
It spurs you to muster your own laughter. You try to tamp it down, to keep it quiet and easy and light. The smile that digs into your cheeks intends to remain. The ache there is sweet.
He’s watching you again.
This time, you feel as though... as though this sort of look is different.
When he speaks, his voice is tender. His words are as sweet as a summer breeze.
“...I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he begins, “But, I now believe forsaking you may have been my biggest.”
And it feels as if someone’s plunged a knife into your chest.
You aren’t sure how to respond to that. How could you have ever been prepared for that? In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel the returned affection of the man before you. And yet, here he is, bending to take your rope-burnt hands into his own.
“I am sorry.”
And again — and again, and again. The knife is twisted, and suddenly you feel months' worth of agony rush up. Words whispered between men at the docks, the HMS Dauntless was lost on the coast of Tripoli. That Commodore Norrington was declared lost at sea. He had left with barely a word. Hellbent and heartbroken.
You never imagined an apology.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles and your swallow roughly.
“James—”
Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek.
“Do not protest this,” he says quietly, “You know it is what you deserve. After all I’ve done.”
You’re shaking your head when his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone. It’s enough to make your head spin. You find both hands clinging to his own now as you shake off the dizzying thought of him in your space.
You feel like a girl again.
“You had a duty—”
“To you,” he corrects sternly; his eyes are set in a serious manner, framed by dark brows that pull taught as he brushes his fingers against a stray lock by your ear, “And I should have seen that. And I didn’t.”
It’s then that you finally look up at him.
It’s his turn to be robbed of breath.
You speak quietly.
“...You’re a good man, James.”
“You need not lie to me,” he whispers back, the space between you both enough to send the moonlight spilling over your entwined shadows.
“I would never,” you insist, your hands moving to brace flat against his chest. Your thumb brushes a bare patch of skin just along his sternum. He feels as if he’s been set on fire.
“Then, tell me,” James breathes as his nose nudges yours, “Would you allow me this?”
His eyes flick to your mouth.
All you can muster is a nod.
And then he kisses you.
His fingers hold your chin, and the kiss is as chaste and gentle as any — it’s slow and kind and warm. It’s punctuated by a deep breath as you both sink into the feeling of one another’s hold.
He... He feels hale and whole.
In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel his lips against your own. And yet, here he is, bending to break your composure with a hand that ventures around your waist. His other cradles your jaw. You cling, and allow the chasteness to dissipate into a feverish sort of chase.
It’s your tug on his lapels, the bunched grip of your shirt, the stagger of boots against the deck as he bends at the knee and nips at your bottom lip. Your arms swim around his neck, and you try to kiss him like you’re not halfway to the depths of love.
You’ve tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, leaped onto the tips of your boots, and allowed for his hands to grip the curves of your waist tightly as he hides a desperate kiss into your smile.
And then, a voice.
“’Bout time, I’d reckon.”
Captain Jack Sparrow — in all his glory — stumbles by.
And James Norrington has to try not to kill him then and there.
