PotC: Crime and Punishment (M, Cold, Norrington)

[Mercury]

A/N: This is much shorter than I would have liked, but Pirate!Norrington isn't my cup of tea as much as The Commordore, so I did what I could.

Crime and Punishment

He had been on Tortuga for a while. He didn’t know how long exactly and had no interest in measuring time. The Commodore’s crew was dead and his ship destroyed. He had the tattered remains of his uniform and his wig, both of which were most likely due for a good wash, but he refused to remove them. They were all he had left of his dignity.

Besides, he was already so immersed in the vile town he could no longer smell them.

James had sold the buttons from his jacket, his pistol and the buckles from his shoes. Someone had stolen his hat and he’d stolen someone else’s but it wasn’t half as nice.

By some miracle he had found a place to stay that wasn’t the pub. He spent far too much time there as it was.

Instead he had been living in a small, enclosed stable behind the tailor’s shop. The woman who ran it let him stay there for near naught while her son, who was apparently the usual occupant of the hay-filled shelter, was off on the sea.

The once dignified man didn’t stop to wonder at the quality of dwelling she provided son. It seemed that all loyalties and trust, even those formed by blood, were for naught in Tortuga and everyone was kept at arm’s length.

Everyone looked out for themselves, and no other.

“Huh’ETCHHHOO! Hehhh... HUH’ITCHHHOO! Dab it.”

It was somewhat fortunate for James Norrington, who had been looking out for himself for years, that this was long practiced. Distant parents and a life in the navy meant that he had rely on his own strength, not show weakness to others, and he’d long since accepted that when he fell ill there was no one but himself.

He had gotten quite apt at it, but as he lay in the straw with a sack of potatoes supporting his head, he couldn’t bring himself to care or look after himself at all.

James coughed deep in his chest, wet and barking as he curled up on himself.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, his chest was too tight and the pressure in his head was too full to try. He instead sat up against a wall and reached behind the sack to pull out a bottle. He wasn’t quite sure what was in it, as he only went to it when he wasn’t sober enough to taste anything.

With the cold he had he’d gotten drunker much more quickly, not that he had been able to taste anything at any point of the day anyway.

Swallowing quickly, making his throat burn as he almost choked on the liquid, he inhaled so sharply that he nearly pulled the alcohol into his lungs.

“Hih’EKTCHHH! AETCHHHOO!”

James sneezed openly into the air; despite knowing how wet they were without having to open his eyes. He wiped his sleeve under his nose as he coughed once again.

He would never be thankful that his men weren’t there to see him in such a state. Even if they were to cast judgement on his for being so uncouth they would, in the very least, be alive.

He was hidden away in this latrine of a settlement where no one could find him because he couldn’t stand being in Port Royal knowing no one was coming back. Some nights, in drunken haze, he could pretend some made it to land safely and weren’t torn apart by the hurricane, and knowing he would never return and see it proved wrong kept him going in those moments.

Running the sleeve under his nose again, he pulled his knees to his chest.

The ex-commodore was not an emotional man, but liquor had an odd effect on him, which was why he so rarely drank. It made him angry and resentful, but in that moment of sickness and grief, his anger was directed more towards himself unlike anything he had felt before.

James rested his head on his knees and sniffed thickly, for reasons he would continue to believe was because of his cold, and remained there for several moments. He his mind closed to everything except trying to keep his breathing steady and as far from sobbing as possible. It was a success for several minutes, before it hitched sharply in a way he couldn’t control.

He pulled his head back, leaning it against the wall behind him.

“Heh’IGTCHHHH! ESCHHHOO! EKTISHHHHOO!”

His body slumped and he coughed again before he brought the bottle to his lips, drinking more from it than he had before. He felt as if he deserved to feel this miserable, have his body fail him as his leadership skills had failed his men... his friends.

“Huh’ASSHHHHOO!”

Wiping his nose once again, he pulled his jacket together around himself. Even though he deserved this cold, he deserved worse and he finished off the bottle before lying down. His stomach starting to churn and he could feel a fever already starting to creep up on him.

“Hekitchhhtt!”

Maybe he would go out the next day, cold be damned, and try to make some noise in the local pub. He could get himself beaten to a pulp or find some captain looking for a suicide mission and a crew.

It would be better treatment than he deserved.

Edited March 2, 2014 by Mercury

[Spoo]

Oh. Ohhhh. My heart... The poor thing!

This was EXCELLENT, Mercury! You captured James' emotions super well - especially the ones related to his crew and crumbling sense of purpose, as well as his stubbornness to relinquish the tattered remains of his honor. It amazes me how much more powerful a cold could be when the one suffering is also going through emotional turmoil. Guh!

These are some lines in particular that stood out to me:

James had sold the buttons from his jacket, his pistol and the buckles from his shoes. Someone had stolen his hat and he’d stolen someone else’s but it wasn’t half as nice.

I can almost imagine how hard it was to sell those things - how reluctant he was, how he probably refused to make eye contact with the person he sold to. And having to steal, too! Buhhhh.

He would never be thankful that his men weren’t there to see him in such a state. Even if they were to cast judgement on his for being so uncouth they would, in the very least, be alive.

Maybe he would go out the next day, cold be damned, and try to make some noise in the local pub. He could get himself beaten to a pulp or find some captain looking for a suicide mission and a crew.

It would be better treatment than he deserved.

Nooooooo-hoooo-hooooooo.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Oh Commodore I think you captured the poor man perfectly.

[Shay]

Well cold fics don't really do anything for me for me fetish-wise, but I just wanted to say that I think you got the character down really well and did a great job on this.

[sauce]

I'm not sure whether to thank you or slap you for bringing back all my Commodore Norrington feelings. T_T

Seriously though, A+ writing.