Title: Grounded
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairing: Groves/Norrington/Gillette, in a way.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, nor do I make any profit.
A/N: I firmly blame the_dala.

If Groves hadn't quite literally tripped over his feet when the ship's bell startled him into jumping from the desk, he would not have needed near twenty minutes to sprinkle sand over spilled ink and tidy up the books he had jostled, all the while liberally practicing the few Spanish and German curses he knew. By the time he was sliding down the narrow stairs onto the middle deck, the muttered profanities he was bestowing onto the lateness of the hour, his own clumsiness, the state of the ship, his assigned duties, and the purser's parentage would have caused even a midshipman to blush.

Habit pulled him to the wardroom after he had locked the books away in his cabin. At past midnight it was empty and glum, the dining table disappointingly bare. He was about to try his luck at the galley, when a noise indicated the presence of another. Groves had to step fully inside the room to see the other occupant, and the sight of the Antelope's first lieutenant with his cravat untied and his coat utterly rumpled made even him pause.

"Here, Norrington," he ventured after finding his composure, and with it his sense of the absurd, "you look quite the sight; have you finally found Gillette's wrestling mermaid, then?"

"Away with you, Groves," came the unexpectedly feeble reply, "I've not the patience."

It was the voice rather than the words that made him come closer to examine the prone form draped over a chair. Even in the weak light of the lanterns he could see that Norrington was almost as pale as his shirt, with bruised smudges under his eyes and the day's stubble speckling his jaw.

"Should I fetch the surgeon?" Groves asked, putting a hand on Norrington's sleeve, lips twisting in a smile a little more uncertain than he would have liked.

Norrington glared at him from under lowered eyelashes. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. 'Tis but a head-ache, hardly the ague."

"Be it as it may, what on earth are you doing hiding in the wardroom?"

It took a disturbingly long time for Norrington's gaze to focus on him after he blinked. "Do you know, I believe I never got up from supper."

Groves had a momentary and quite disturbing notion that he looked like his youngest sister when he rolled his eyes. Slipping an arm around Norrington's shoulders he tugged cautiously.

"You, sir, belong on your bunk, fast asleep. Fortunately it is my duty," he grunted as Norrington's knees buckled halfway out of the chair and he was holding a dead weight for a moment, "to assist my superior officers."

It took a minute to sort out various limbs, but eventually he managed to sling one of Norrington's arms around his shoulders, and to hook his own arm around the first lieutenant's waist. Groves, having had five-and-twenty years of experience with Fate's petty grudges, fully expected the way to Norrington's cabin to be lined with pointing and gossiping sailors, or even worse, officers. As luck, the fickle wench, would have it, they met not a single soul save the ship's cat, who watched, its tail twitching nervously, the two stumbling men turn a corner.

There were few times when Groves did not feel vaguely envious of Norrington's larger cabin, and he had to admire the usefulness of enough space for both cot and chairs. Enough space, in fact, to divest a tall, half-unconscious man of his outer clothing without overturning said chairs or tripping over the cot. He was near panting from exertion when Norrington finally all but collapsed on the cot, clad only in shirt, breeches and stockings and moaning very quietly. Groves would have liked to moan as well, if only in frustration.

"Whatever did you do to get yourself into such a state?" he asked, perching on the edge of the bunk.

"Don't know," came the weak answer. "Oh lord, my head is splitting. Stop moving."

As Groves' moving mostly consisted of breathing, he settled for rolling his eyes again, and was contemplating possible strategies, some of them involving Norrington's head and a blunt implement, when the door opened to admit Gillette's head and half of his torso.

"Norrington, have you," he began loudly, and stopped as he took in Norrington's position and wince, and Groves' frantic gestures. He blinked, looking, Groves thought, just like a bulldog puppy that has lost his bone. A rather endearingly angry bulldog puppy, he had to amend, as Gillette entered the cabin and locked the door behind him, and then turned to Groves.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded in the kind of loud whisper that carries far better than a shout.

Before Groves could do more than raise his hands and eyebrows, Norrington moaned loudly without opening his eyes. "He helped me to my cabin. And he did it quietly!"

Gillette blinked. "But what--"

"Groves, kill him," Norrington commanded, curling up tighter.

"Yes, sir," Groves reached for Norrington's sword on the chair next to him. "Gillette, stand still for a moment."

Gillette moved the sword out of harm's way and sat down on the chair. This time he didn't speak, but merely arched an eyebrow at Groves and nodded towards Norrington.

Groves shrugged. "Head-ache, he says."

"Ah." Gillette leaned back in the chair and looked down at Norrington, who somehow managed to glare at him without opening his eyes or even facing his way. "Worrying about that pirate skirmish again, were you? And what old Troake is going to whisper into the Admiral's ear?"

"I was not," Norrington told his pillow emphatically.

Groves looked at Gillette, and then back down at Norrington.

Who sighed. "Well, maybe I was. A little."

Gillette snorted. "A little. Enough to make yourself ill with worry about whether or not you are going to make post-captain come spring. My mother does the very same thing."

This time both Groves and Norrington turned to look at Gillette.

"Your mother worries whether or not she'll make post-captain come spring?" Groves asked sceptically.

It was Gillette's turn to roll his eyes, and he looked nothing like Fanny, Groves was pleased to notice. "No, she makes herself ill worrying about things she cannot change."

Norrington turned his face into the pillow, his voice badly muffled. "Thank you, Lieutenants. Dismissed."

Gillette turned to Groves, looking like he was trying to hide a persistent smile. "Do you remember where he keeps his nightshirts? I shall fetch some water."

Nodding, Groves stood up to open a chest, hearing Gillette pottering about in the gallery. Norrington's nightshirts were perfectly folded, even after months at sea, and the chest smelled of lavender. Privately, Groves doubted anyone whose effects were always so tidy and ordered would not make post-captain as soon as humanly possible, or, knowing Norrington, even earlier than that.

When he turned around with nightshirt and an appropriately bland expression, Gillette was already back with pitcher, bowl and washcloth. Groves left him to the task of removing Norrington's wig, which apparently involved a large amount of hairpins and subdued cursing.

Wetting the cloth and flapping it to cool it down he watched with no little amusement as Gillette finally unpinned the last of the stiff white curls and went to put the wig away with the proper care. He wouldn't put it past the man to know its value down to the last penny.

The cloth finally cold enough he pulled Norrington's shoulder to turn him on his back, steadfastly ignoring the incessant grumbling, and put the cloth over Norrington's forehead.

The resulting noise, a blend of gasp and groan, did interesting things to his stomach. As Gillette came back to the cot, his expression focused and intrigued, they exchanged a look, and Groves leaned forward, putting his lips to Norrington's ear.

"James, how often have we told you to stop worrying that much?"

Settling down at the foot of the cot, Gillette ran one hand up Norrington's silk-clad calf. "Troake is smitten with you, he'll have you commanding that pretty thing from Port Royal that I came to tell you about. She's a real beauty."

Groves unfastened the top button on Norrington's shirt, once again marvelling at how wearing his own dark hair made the man look years younger. "You are destined for greatness," he intoned softly, fighting a grin.

Norrington made a low noise, more in amusement than in annoyance, Groves thought. He moved to the next button, stroking his fingers along Norrington's collar bone, watching Gillette make short work of the fastenings on Norrington's breeches.

By the time he had reached the third button the cloth needed cooling again, and Gillette had neatly pulled Norrington's breeches off. Groves met Gillette's dancing eyes and grinned. What a sight they were, both he and Gillette still in full uniform, and Norrington lying half naked on the cot, face almost covered with a wet cloth.

Then Groves' fingers, still busy with the buttons, brushed against Norrington's chest, producing yet another sweet gasp, and suddenly it was not really funny any more.

For once ignoring the desire pooling beneath his stomach, Groves pulled Norrington's shirt away button by button, making sure that his fingers strayed often and lovingly to the sparsely haired expanse of the chest, stroked the exposed throat, and dipped to tease all the ticklish spots he had spent years mapping out. Gillette was busy on the other side of the cot, removing breeches and stockings and, judging by Norrington's sighs and murmurs, doing some stroking of his own.

Unwrapped and more than half dazed, Norrington looked quite edible, even from Groves' position, which was upside down and only within reach of Norrington's upper body. Still, years in His Majesty's Navy, or rather tending to His Majesty's naval ships' rigging, had rendered Groves quite flexible, and he demonstrated said flexibility by nibbling a trail along Norrington's lovely white neck, pausing to lick an ear half-covered by soft dark hair.

Norrington sighed quietly and turned his head away, leaving his neck nicely accessible to Groves' lips and tongue. His breath was still deep and even, but Groves thought he could see some colour returning to his face.

Sitting up, he stroked his hands down Norrington's shoulders, over his chest, toying with the hardening nipples. He was watching Gillette with avid interest, as the man raked his nails lightly over Norrington's thighs, eliciting a shudder and a stretch.

He pinched the nipples under his fingers, enjoying Norrington's quiet murmur of approval, and let one of his hands roam that lovely torso, while shaking out the washcloth with the other hand. It wouldn't do to forget the point of the exercise, he reminded himself sternly, and grinned as Gillette tickled the insides of Norrington's knees, making their victim twitch.

The moment marked an unnamed change in atmosphere. Groves was rather surprised to find himself more content than aroused, more focused on giving pleasure than wanting to receive it. Norrington did tend to brood, damn him, and it had been far too long since the three of them had been able to take pleasure in each other so freely and joyfully.

He concentrated on stroking Norrington's chest and belly, tickling his ribs, scratching, pinching and licking wherever he could reach; all the while watching Gillette mirror the same motions on Norrington's legs and lower body, both of them avoiding Norrington's stiffening member by an unspoken agreement.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the head-ache it did not take overly long for Norrington to start making those stifled pleading gasps, his hips shifting restlessly. Groves smiled into the ear he was busy nibbling, and grinned outright at the sight of Gillette very slowly biting and kissing his way up Norrington's left thigh, resolutely disregarding the way Norrington was arching up and mewling.

When Gillette reached Norrington's left hip and moved to the right side, bypassing what lay, straining and eager, in-between, and Groves was slowly scraping his fingernails over Norrington's stomach, Norrington finally groaned, sounding both desperate and weak.

"Enough with the teasing!"

"Are you quite sure about that, James?" Groves whispered. "We would not want to worsen your head-ache, you know."

"Absolutely," Gillette rejoined from somewhere around Norrington's right knee. "You would be quite cross with us if we did, I'm sure."

"I will have you two court-martialled and-- ohhh, yes, right there-- maimed by rabid barnacles if you don't do something immediately," Norrington moaned, grasping one of Groves' hands and squeezing it.

"Well, in that case--" Gillette murmured, and leaned forward to swallow Norrington whole.

Groves held onto Norrington's hand tightly as the man arched up with a loud moan. Not able to reach down far enough to assist Gillette, he settled for stroking Norrington's chest with his free hand and murmuring encouraging nonsense into the ear closest to his lips. The sight of Gillette's full lips closed around Norrington's shaft, the bewigged head bobbing up and down and his cheeks hollowing periodically as he sucked were arousing in the extreme.

One of Gillette's hands disappeared between Norrington's spread thighs, and the resulting shudder dislodged the long-forgotten washcloth. Groves smiled at Norrington's tensely strained face, his lips parted and eyes squeezed shut.

To lean down to kiss Norrington was the most natural thing in the world, and despite the awkward angle he lost himself in the salty taste of Norrington's lips and in the slick glide of Norrington's tongue against his own. The cot was swaying with Norrington's frantic thrusts, and Gillette must have done something interesting when Norrington almost swallowed Groves' tongue.

It did not take much time for Norrington's shuddering movements to become frenzied, and Groves barely had time to steady the cot and press his lips tightly to Norrington's to muffle the cries as the man came undone underneath him.

He straightened to see Gillette licking Norrington clean with a satisfied expression that would have suited a cat, and ran his fingers through Norrington's sweat-damp hair, entirely unable to contain his fond smile. "How fares the head-ache?"

Norrington, sprawled bonelessly over most of the cot, did not even attempt to open his eyes. "Much, much better."

"And the ceaseless worrying?" Gillette asked, standing up.

"Ceased."

Groves stood up likewise and wrapped his arms around Gillette, inhaling the smell of musk and sweat and powder. He knew better than to trust Norrington to stop brooding, but for now the man was sated and comfortable, and Groves had an armful of wriggling Gillette to attend to. It would do. It would most definitely do.

 

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