The girl is still gone. She left him with instructions to remain in place and to not touch anything. It is galling that she treats him like a child when he's surely older than she. He could certainly figure out how to make the noise end if he defies her wishes. He stares at the box and frowns. She is not his commander nor his wife, so there is no need to listen to her. Besides, he still isn't completely convinced that she's not insane.
He has been here for days yet she has not provided answers to explain his presence. There are stories of her being a witch, and she has the stick that she waves at him whenever he argues with her to silence his words, but he believes that she might be poisoning his drink. The proper poisons could make him hallucinate, he knows, and she could simply be lying to him. Despite his natural suspicions, he finds it difficult to believe that she is a liar. That difficulty has nothing to do with his distracting thoughts of her lips, of course.
"Bah," he growls as he glares at that damnable box and stalks towards it. He picks it up and shakes it, but nothing happens. She has been gone too long. It has been hours since she left with a promise of a quick return. Perhaps she has been taken. If so, he will have to rescue her. There is no other choice because he refuses to allow anyone else to touch her or possess her. She might be maddening, but she is his witch. Or insane wench. He'll eventually know which is true.
"Don't break the radio."
Her voice. He turns quickly and hears a noise before the box suddenly becomes silent. He looks down at it and can't help but grin. "It is silent," he tells her proudly.
"That's because you ripped the plug from the wall, you stubborn git," she mutters as she crosses the room and puts a wet bag down on the counter in the kitchen.
He is unsure what a plug and a git are, but he doesn't think the latter is flattering. His smug grin fades into a glare as he looks at her. "It was bothersome."
She rolls her eyes and walks towards him. He tightens his grip on the box when she tries to take it, smirking slightly when she seems frustrated. "Give me the radio, Norrington," she says in an appealing growl that he's become accustomed to hearing. Perhaps he deliberately provokes her in order to hear it, but the cause isn't important.
"No," he says simply. She looks very attractive, he realizes. Her hair is wet and a wild mass of curls around her flushed face, and she is wearing the trousers that she calls denims. He is still shocked at how snug they fit her, and he is horrified when he realizes that she has gone out around other men while wearing them. "You should not be out in public while wearing such garments! They are improper, Madam."
"They are proper, as I've attempted to explain a dozen times in the last three days. If you'd ever actually listen, then you might learn something. Now, let me have the radio so that I can fix it before I put away the groceries."
"I do listen. It is no fault of my own that you fail to explain things properly," he informs her curtly. It is horrid enough to be treated as a child without her questioning his intelligence. "It is not as if you can explain why I am here. You do not know as much as you think you do."
She scowls and tugs the box away from him when he is distracted. "I told you that I'd figure it out. It has to do with that bloody sword and the curse placed on it, which took me weeks to break. It's not likely that I'll find answers in just a few days, especially when I'm dealing with you. Besides, you're alive here, so I'd say that's an improvement over death."
He narrows his gaze as she turns her back towards him and puts the box on the shelf and fusses with the odd rope hanging from it. He is tempted to continue fighting with her, if only to see if he can cause more growling, but her stick is nearby, and he loathes being silenced by things he does not understand. Yet. His silence has nothing at all to do with the fact that she's right and that he feels more alive since he met her than he had even before his death.