Authors: elessil and cjk1701
Rating: NC-17/Adult content
Pairing: Norrington/Gillette
A/N from elessil: This is the result of a (or rather a few) innocent roleplaying sessions. No elephants were harmed in the creation of this fic.
Summary: After many years at Norrington's side, Gillette faces a startling revelation or five. Features dauntless ships, stormy seas, dashing heroes, and one pink elephant who wasn't.

~~~

Standing on the quarterdeck, the Commodore shouted orders to clear the deck. What should have been an easy take had turned into a bloody battle when the crew of the small pirate sloop had decided to board the Dauntless. They had outnumbered the bloodthirsty ruffians, but two of his men had lost their lives, several others injured, among them himself. Strangely he barely felt any pain, and did not notice how the blood from his shoulder slowly soaked his coat dark red.

Norrington slowly felt the heat of the battle seep out of him, leaving behind a peculiar feeling of loss. Loss of these crewmen who had been his responsibility: Matthews, an able seaman and Midshipman Loomis, barely fourteen years old. These deaths lay on his conscience; he should have prevented the skirmish. A sloop, for God's sake, equipped with sixteen guns - no match for the Dauntless. They had won, yes, but at which price?

Still, the crew worked efficiently, the surgeon bent over one of the wounded while the others were carried into the sickbay. The rigging had taken some damage which was even now being knotted in place, and would be spliced later.

~~~

Gillette almost stumbled over the carpenter's mate working on the gunwale, and only managed to right himself with an undignified grab for the taffrail, feeling like a landlubberly midshipman for the first time in many years. Around him was barely organised chaos as the crew went about caring for the wounded and repairing the worst of the damage. They had been incredibly lucky, all things considered, but the Dauntless had taken quite a beating, as had her crew.

Standing at the mizzenmast, out of the way of the carpenter and the sailors scrubbing the decks, he surveyed the efforts. The ship would hold. No holes below the waterline, and barely any above. Unless another pirate ship happened upon them in their weakened state, they would arrive back in Port Royal not much worse for wear. And even if a pirate did spot them, most of the blackguards knew to stay well away from Jamaica nowadays.

Upon the heels of that thought another came chasing. He looked up, trying to see the Commodore above the milling sailors. Norrington was normally easy to spot, towering over most men as he did. Gillette made his way aft, treading carefully between prone and working people.

~~~

Sparing a last look to the sinking sloop - they had scuttled it, too much damage to bother taking her as a prize - Norrington stepped over to his approaching First Lieutenant. "Lieutenant. How does the crew take it?"

Loomis had been well-liked among the men, as had Matthews been. They were his men, had to trust his judgement, and in this battle against an inferior foe, he had failed them. Yes, they had won, but the loss of the men irked him. It had been so very pointless, the pirates without chance against the Dauntless that they had lashed out like caged animals, taking them down with them. If he had not felt so superior, so very sure of their victory, perhaps he could have prevented these two deaths.

~~~

Gillette turned at the sound of the familiar voice, but almost went sprawling as a rogue wave tossed the ship up and forward. He cursed under his breath, and bent to find a line to hold on to for the time being. "They are upset, sir, but determined. Proud of their--" he finally located the cable and straightened up again, narrowly avoiding a collision with a harried-looking midshipman. "--their victory."

"And well they have reason to be." Norrington nodded tightly, his knees almost giving out as the Dauntless tossed again, but by force of will, he kept himself upright. He always did.

"Have the surviving pirates locked into the brig and see to it that they are treated accordingly. When we are underway again, the men are allowed an extra spirit ration for today." They would reach Port Royal within three days if the wind held and were not likely to encounter another ship today. Let the men have their small amount of inebriation and forgetfulness of blood and loss.

Slowly, he began to feel the pain of his shoulder. Apparently the cut was deeper than he had thought, but the surgeon had enough men to see to, and his injury was not as bad. He was still standing.

"Yes, sir," Gillette replied automatically, trying to locate a blue uniform in the milling chaos around them. A familiar impulse of concern made him add, "I saw you fighting earlier, sir, I trust you have sustained no injury?"

"Nothing to worry about, Lieutenant; merely a scratch, although I thank you for your concern." As he locked his hands behind his back, he suppressed a wince.

Slowly, order would be restored to the ship, the injured brought below decks, two hammocks retrieved to cover the corpses. Later they would be stitched into them, committed to the deep as Norrington read their parting words. He hated that part of his duty. He hated writing letters to tell a wife that her husband had fallen, to tell a mother that her son was dead. It was inevitable, but never routine.

Turning swiftly, Gillette focused his entire attention on Norrington, forgetting about the restoration of order and the ship. He hated that surge of helpless fear that swapped over him every time Norrington got himself in the middle of yet another skirmish. A part of his fear was strictly proper concern of a loyal lieutenant for his commanding officer, and he held on to that, not daring to feel anything else.

"Have you been seen by Doctor Henderson yet, sir?" He scanned the pale face before him, while schooling his own into the familiar mask of frozen propriety.

Wondering for a moment at the expression he had witnessed on Gillette's face, Norrington shook his head. "I do not think that will be necessary. He has far more serious injuries to treat, and it would not do to distract him from that. As I formerly stated, it is but a scratch."

His eyes narrowing despite his best efforts to maintain a bland expression, Gillette sacrificed a moment to contemplate a life spent trying to keep Norrington out of harm's way. On one hand, Sisyphus had it far easier. On the other, it was a life spent by Norrington's side. Not much of a choice, really.

Allowing the tiniest fraction of his exasperation to slip into his tone, he reached out. "Sir, there is none aboard of a greater importance, and even if it is merely a scratch, the surgeon will have time for you. Your cabin should be reassembled again, I believe, and perhaps you should rest there until Henderson is finished."

Norrington allowed himself a tight smile at Gillette's worried loyalty. "Perhaps I am of the highest rank, but that does not mean my minor injury has priority over another man's. I will wait, as anyone would." As he felt the pain throb more strongly, he nodded. "But as I appreciate your concern, very well then, I shall retire to my cabin for the time being. Your watch, Lieutenant, and alert me of anything out of order."

Oh yes, Gillette thought morosely, my commander's stubbornness is definitely out of order, how is that for a report? Outwardly he smiled tightly.

"Very good, sir." He turned, seeing a midshipman at the mizzen. "Hudson, help the Commodore to his cabin, please, and then ask Lieutenant Randolph to join me here on the quarterdeck."

~~~

Inwardly, Norrington rolled his eyes, but he thought that perhaps it would be more efficient if he simply accepted Hudson's help so Gillette would not fuss further. Truly, he was quite glad for the supporting arm as he stepped down the stairs, the movement jarring his injured arm.

He dismissed the midshipman and wearily sat down on his bed. After a few seconds he gathered the energy to pull off his coat, biting down on his lower lip to stifle a groan as he lifted his injured left.

Slowly, Norrington continued to divest himself of his waistcoat, blood staining the white garment where it had seeped through the fabric. With one hand, he slowly pushed the buttons open and then slid it down his arm, shutting his eyes against the pain. How would it look to the men if he, barely having sustained notable injury, would wrest the surgeon's attention from crewmen with worse fates? Yes, he was their captain, and that was precisely why he could not allow himself weakness or indulgence in this.

Cursing under his breath, he realized that he would not be able to pull his shirt off as normally, as raising his arm caused white-hot pain to rush through him. Breathing heavily, he silently counted to ten, then pulled off his right sleeve, then his head out of the collar, and then, very slowly, down his injured arm. The pirate had struck a lucky hit, although he had been more skilled with a blade than his breed usually were. It was longer than Norrington had expected, and ragged, but not very deep, although it bled profusely and he pressed the ruined shirt against it to staunch the bleeding.

~~~

Sometimes it paid off to have a reputation as fussy and detail-obsessed, Gillette thought, as he waited for Randolph to start working on checklists and inventories. He may be fussy, but he was thorough, and he would see the ship and its unwilling commander through the aftermath of this as he had seen it through many others. He was calculating tolerable cable usage in his head as Hudson appeared by his elbow again.

"Sir, Lieutenant Randolph says he will join you shortly," the boy said, sounding quite out of breath, but his enthusiasm undimmed. Gillette wondered if he'd ever been so young himself as Hudson went on, unconcerned, "and ain't it a pity the Commodore left his manservant in Port Royal?"

Gillette frowned. "Why is that, Mister Hudson?"

Hudson flashed Gillette a quick smile. "'cause his coat was all bloody, sir, and I daresay someone will have a fine time cleaning and mending it, lest it be lost."

Stomach sinking, Gillette allowed himself an uncharitable thought about the marital state of Norrington's parents. "All bloody, you say?" He did not wait for a reply, but started walking towards the stairs, sidestepping coils of cable and piled up boards. Randolph came up to him, lips already parted with some trite observation, but Gillette forestalled him with a sharply raised hand. "Your watch, Randolph, and I'll be in the Commodore's cabin if you need me."

Randolph chuckled darkly. "What, he's got himself into a scrape again? Smudge on his nose? You think he notices how much you fawn over him, Gillette?"

Flushing with anger, Gillette stormed past him, bounding down the stairs.

By the time he had reached the doors to the great cabin, Gillette knew he looked calm, although his cheeks still tingled with the remnants of his anger and embarrassment, and his heart beat furiously fast in his chest. Damn Randolph with his insinuations, and damn Norrington who couldn't have stayed out of harm's way if tied up in a nursery.

Knocking on the door with more force than strictly necessary, Gillette pushed it ajar and called towards the direction of Norrington's sleeping cabin, "Sir, are you in there?"

Another curse under his breath. Norrington knew that Gillette would be unreasonably worried if he saw his injury, but there was no way around it. With their service, they risked their lives, and everyone accepted that. Why did Gillette think it was less Norrington's duty than anyone else's? Who should set an example, if not the Captain?

He took a deep breath and composed himself, still pressing the bundled up shirt against his shoulder. "Yes. Come in."

Closing the doors behind him, Gillette walked through the day cabin, trying to suppress a wince as he saw a trail of blood droplets leading to the sleeping cabin. Thus prepared, he was able to keep most of his feelings from reaching his face as he saw Norrington bare-chested, surrounded by the remains of his bloodied coat and shirt, pale and sweating. In fact, Gillette was quite impressed by his lack of outward reaction, in sharp contrast with the storm of fear twisting his stomach. "That scratch of yours appears somewhat messy, sir," he said calmly.

"It looks worse than it is." Norrington would have shrugged, but refrained. "It will not even require stitches." Honouring though Gillette's care and worry was, he did not enjoy being treated as a child, even if the man was older than him. "Is there any commotion topside, or whatever is the matter, Lieutenant?"

"I believe you scared Hudson, sir," Gillette replied as lightly as he could manage. "He considers the loss of your coat a terrible waste. I like his priorities."

Pulling a clean handkerchief from his sleeve, he stepped over to the dressing table and the water pitcher. "Randolph is overseeing the repairs. It seems we are doing better than expected." Wetting the cloth, he walked the few steps separating him from Norrington's bed and sat down on the chair by its side. "Let go of the shirt for a moment."

Appreciative of the help, Norrington did move the shirt away. Obviously, he could not quiet Gillette's concern in any other way, and having help in cleaning and binding the cut would ease it greatly. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Is the mizzen course replaced already?" The sail had taken damage and had been flattering aimlessly in the wind.

Gillette examined the cut critically. Long and bloody, but shallow enough to heal unaided lest it got infected. "They were inspecting the rigging when I left the deck, sir," he touched the wet cloth carefully to Norrington's shoulder, wary of causing more pain than necessary. "I would recommend repairing the greater damage here while at anchor, and to set sail as soon as the carpenter tells us the masts can hold it. We can take care of the rest on our way."

Norrington hissed once under his breath, but otherwise stood the cleaning without a sound or move. "Agreed. Carry on with it." The mizzenmast itself had taken some damage, but apart from the course, it was not too serious and they would reach Port Royal soon enough. The cloth touched an edge of the cut, and he bit down on his lip.

Leaning forward to see better in the dim light from the gunports, Gillette very firmly did not think about his proximity to a near-naked Norrington. It was funny, he thought dispassionately, in the near fifteen years he had known the man he had perfected the art of not thinking about the pink elephant. Gillette, the one-man circus. A bitter smile curved his lips for a moment, then was chased away by a frown of concentration as he bent over his task.

Clenching his fist so he would not flinch away, Norrington sat there in silence as Gillette worked. He realized how ungrateful he must look. What gratitude was he displaying towards this unwavering loyalty and worry about himself other than rejection and disregard? "Bandages are in there." He nodded towards a sea chest in the corner next to the bed. A short pause. "And Lieutenant? My most sincere thanks."

No amount of practice would have kept the smile off Gillette's face as he looked up. The aggravation and the fear were worth it, just for those few moments, when he needn't pretend a lack of emotion. With his free hand he squeezed Norrington's fingers lightly. "You are most welcome. It's what I'm there for." And then the knot in his chest grew too tight, and he turned towards the chest lest Norrington see his face.

Relaxing marginally as the pain receded, Norrington resettled himself on the sheets, relieved that his message had been received and taken well. Very well, considering the smile and the touch on his hand. "To watch over your superior officer when in your opinion he is acting most stubborn?" A smile curled his lips, small but honest. "The requirements for Lieutenant must have been changed in these six years."

"That would not surprise me, considering how many times I had to retake the exam," Gillette muttered, rummaging around in the chest for bandages and salve. "And I've been watching over you long before I had to call you sir," he added in a rare moment of honesty. It was always harder to keep his tongue in check after a battle, when the tension was still there and Norrington already distant. Or worse, wounded and still unrepentant. He had changed little from that tall, handsome boy with a penchant for long discussions and a stubbornness that would rival a pig, whom Gillette had met all those years ago and had instantly come to love.

"Yes, I do seem to remember a certain midshipman who held the wig when seasickness forced a thirteen year-old boy to vomit over the side." Norrington's smile grew wider at the memory of their first voyage together. "And that exam is not what makes a good officer, as you should know, Andrew. You are the best officer I have ever served with. Your loyalty, your skill. You have a way with the men. I know not where I would be without you."

Still looking down at the chest, Gillette bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten in Latin before he judged it safe to look up without displaying too much emotion.

"Yes, well, my love and deep affection for you were not imperilled by a bout of seasickness and that fetching shade of green your face had taken on," he said lightly. It was truly amazing how often the most profound truths were perceived as sarcastic jibes when spoken in just the right tone of voice.

"And I thank you for your kind words. Here's hoping I shall always serve by your side and keep your wig out of harm's way, so you needn't ever find out where you would find yourself without my assistance." Please, Lord, he added his as-ever heartfelt prayer, and walked back to the bed with the bandages and the jar of evil smelling salve that Henderson always insisted would speed up the healing.

Eyeing the jar critically, Norrington grinned back at him. "Probably at the bottom of the ocean and far away from this vile concoction. I believe this brew is merely intended as further punishment for those that receive wounds in battle, and likewise to those that tend to them."

At the mention, he reached up to his wig, a little the worse for wear, but still salvageable. "As long as my wig is safe." The heat of battle, drained though it was, still surged through him, filled him with restless energy.

"Your wig is quite safe," Gillette said with a minute, fond smile and unscrewed the jar, blinking a little at the biting smell. Putting the bandages on the chair, he sat behind Norrington on the bed and put a generous glob of the salve on his fingers. "Here, lean forward a little."

He put his right hand on the Norrington's neck, and rubbed the salve in slowly with his left, his nose only inches away from Norrington's warm skin. Torture, but of the best kind there was. Another memory to add to his cherished collection.

Despite the slight pain the salve's application caused, Norrington slumped forward marginally, relaxing. The battle was over, the few pirates that had survived would meet their justice upon arrival in Port Royal. It was over, and now there was Gillette's hands warm on Norrington's skin, his touch as gentle as the soft breeze of his breath. To stay like this, for a moment, an intimacy frowned upon and rarely understood. Likely not understood by Gillette either, and so Norrington forced himself to sit up a little straighter again.

Gillette was breathing quite literally down Norrington's neck, he realised with a crooked smile, but the fear and aggravation had not yet abated and so he did not even attempt to assume his normally stiff reserve. Noticing Norrington tensing, he rubbed his thumb gently over the fine hairs on the back his neck. "Shh, keep still, this won't take long."

Norrington's breathing was even, but with the continued touch it grew shallower, quicker, barely notable for anyone but himself. Gillette was his friend, offering support and care, and it was shameful that this tenderness led him to think of sin and vice. He clenched his fists and tried to control his breathing.

"Good Lord, James, stop twitching or I'll tie you to the bed. I know it doesn't sting half as much as you would have me think it does," Gillette muttered irritably, but nevertheless smoothed his right hand over Norrington's shoulder, biting at the smile that wanted to emerge alongside a comparison to a skittish colt. He rubbed gently at the tense muscles under his fingers, enjoying the rare opportunity to indulge his desire to touch that lovely expanse of skin.

"Normally you complain about me ignoring my injuries too much. You really must decide at one point, Andrew," Norrington replied lightly, even as Gillette's drop of formality did nothing to ease the sudden lustful turn of his thoughts. Nor did the entirely pleasant touch to his shoulders, rough hands tender and warm against them. Insensibly, he leant into it.

"The decision is often an easy one. You tend to choose the most inadvisable course of action in most situations concerning your health," Gillette said naughtily, barely suppressing a smile.

Having finished with the cut, he rested both hands on James shoulders, thumbs stroking alongside his spine, then began kneading the tight muscles in earnest, making sure to avoid the cut, which had finally stopped bleeding.

"I tend to choose the course of action most advisable to this ship's and this crew's safety." Norrington retorted. "I am not merely a man on my own, I bear the responsibility for them all." A soft sigh, barely audible as Gillette 's fingers soothed over sore muscles, so warm and so tender. Resolutely, he stopped his thoughts from drifting off, even as his body relaxed further.

"Yes, yes," Gillette muttered almost into Norrington's wig, "now where have I heard this before?" He dug his thumbs in, smiling at the way tension seemed to be seeping out of the man before him. "Have you ever considered that the men might be uncomfortable with a commander who behaves in such an odd manner? Or that they would prefer to know you are safe and whole, and able to take charge at any time?" He frowned as the stiff curl of Norrington's wig almost crawled into his nose.

"The men? Or you?" Norrington asked teasingly, suppressing another sigh. "For certainly, Hudson was worried more about my coat than his Captain, as you stated. What do you expect of me? To stand by and wait, watching others fulfil their duty while I shirk mine?" How often had he heard these words, noticed Gillette's concern about his well-being? It was humbling, this unwavering loyalty, but it would not change what he perceived as his duty.

Gillette's smile turned bitter, although his hands did not still. "You do what you always do, James. I have never met a man more true and honest than you are." Which is a reason to love and hate you at the same time, he added silently, then reached forward and brushed his fingers over Norrington's cheek in a tender caress. "But allow me to stand by you and make sure your zeal to do right by your men will not lead you to do wrong by yourself." He could feel Norrington's breath against his fingers. Everything in him protested against moving them somewhere safer. Like, for instance, Africa.

"If ever you are not by my side, it will not be by my wish or command, Andrew. You are a strong man, a good one, and the best of those who I dare to call friends. Thank you." A soft touch to his cheek, and before he could think, he crested into it, like a cat, then froze.

Norrington craned his neck so he could look back into those pale brown eyes, could watch the play of expressions on Gillette's face.

Silence stretched between them.

Gillette often thought that Norrington's eyes were like the sea. Bright and calm when he was cheerful, grey and stormy when he was angry, deeply green when he was overcome by some strong emotion. They were this green now, and the expression on Norrington's face was not one Gillette had seen before, this strange mix of longing and fear. As if James would ever have anything to fear from him. Leaning forward, he planted a soft, brotherly kiss on Norrington's forehead, trying to pretend his fingers hadn't just brushed over Norrington's lips.

Bandages. Where were the bandages, so innocuous and safe?

James felt a shiver run through him; Andrew so close, the expression on his face so unreadable, the press of his lips like a burn on James' skin. Andrew's touch on his lips, and as he closed his eyes, he could imagine it were lips.

A harsh intake of breath, let out in a gasp, and he forced his eyes open again, a torrent of emotion in them. This was more difficult for him that charging forward in battle, more difficult to be bold here where it was not only his life, but his heart at risk.

After short, uncharacteristic hesitation, James turned a little, lifted his uninjured arm, callused fingers gently cupping Andrew's jaw and pulling him down for a locking of lips.

Gillette froze, his heart pausing then fluttering wildly as warm, soft lips touched his. He'd dreamed of this very thing so often, with such a vivid richness of details, that it was hard to believe this time was real.

He drank in the feeling of Norrington -- James, he thought, James for now, for this -- right there, warm and strong, and solid. His lips were salty.

It was so very difficult to draw back, something in him twisted and cried out at the loss. Moving his head back just enough so he could see Norrington's eyes, he pressed his hand to the faintly stubbled cheek.

"James, don't. There is nothing I would," he swallowed convulsively, almost physical pain knotting his guts, "nothing I would love more dearly than to be with you. But you know we can't, and I would not have you hate me for leading you astray."

James tensed as Andrew drew back. Wrong, appalling, how could he ever have imagined this to be appreciated? How could Andrew not think him sick and twisted after this? Only dimly the spoken words registered, and he looked up, hope and joy and pain mingling in the brown eyes, so clear, so familiar. Lead him astray? He chuckled bitterly. That had been done long ago. "Do you really think I could ever hate you?" His voice was soft, but he dropped his hand from Andrew's cheek.

"I would rather not find out," Gillette said quietly, wishing he could do more than speak. He drew his arm up, awkwardly in their current position, and embraced Norrington loosely, careful not to jar his shoulder.

"I am greatly honoured by your friendship, James, and you can be assured of my loyalty and my love, for now and for every day I draw breath. I could not bear to lose your respect and your affection, and we both know I would lose that, and more, were we to..." he paused, awkwardly, feeling a blush creep up his neck. There was a good reason he never let himself think of this matter. "You would not want to look at me, if we did, and I do not wish to jeopardise the greatest joy in my life, my life at your side."

Returning the loose embrace with one arm, James drew back so he could look into Andrew's face while speaking. "Andrew. Without your friendship since the day I first set foot aboard a ship, I would have never become the man I am now. Without your companionship, a homesick midshipman of thirteen years would never have gathered the courage to command a gun crew. Without you, I would have wallowed in misery and never... Andrew? Do you remember Lieutenant Stevens?"

Lowering his eyes and smiling at the praise, Gillette allowed himself to relax fractionally. Maybe there was a way out of this situation that would leave their companionship intact.

James's arm was warm even through the wool of his uniform, and the realisation made him reach one-handed for the bandages he left beside the bed, without breaking their hold on each other. The apparent non sequitur made him blink, the strips of cloth in his hand fluttering. "On the Hermes, that Stevens? I remember hating his navigation lessons, but he was a good enough man, I suppose."

Following the movement out of the corner of his eyes, James leaned back marginally, allowing a better angle to tie the bandage around his shoulder. Andrew still was so close, still so uncertain. Fools, to rush forward... "His name was Richard. Richard Stevens. He was impressed by my navigational skill and one day, we began talking after them. Soon after, we became friends, and then, gradually, something more... you are no fool, Andrew. You know what sailors do when the voyages stretch on for too long. He showed me... what a man may do with another."

He had said it, delivered himself completely at Andrew's mercy, whether for him to report James, to turn away in repulsion, or perhaps, perhaps to stay.

Eyes trained firmly on Norrington's shoulder and the bandage, Gillette was glad for the years of experience that allowed him to keep his face impassive. "It was wrong of him to take advantage of a boy, however kindly he meant it and however little blame you attached to him then and even now." His hands moved almost on their own, wrapping and fastening the cloth. "Although you are lucky that all your memories are good ones." He refrained from mentioning his own experiences with a man, the fear and revulsion they had evoked, the brutal violence that had prevented anything turning into pleasure.

He pulled the bandage tighter carefully, glad that no fresh blood was soaking through. Tending to the wound was easy. Looking up at Norrington was harder.

"James, you needn't try to make it easier for me. I could not refuse you anything, you know that." He looked away again, watching a seagull outside raise on the air currents and dip again out of sight. Wondered if James really thought a boy's fumbling and a lost moment's mood were worth losing everything. But then, James had far less to lose, he reflected.

James' eyebrows drew together in a frown. "I was seventeen years old then, and he twenty-two. Though I know it happens otherwise," he swallowed thickly, "this was consensual, and never anything forced upon me against my will and my choice." He began to reach out, to make Andrew face him at his next words, but then dropped his arm, not applying force where a choice of will would be necessary. "Andrew. Forgive me. I wish not to force anything upon you, even if you would not refuse me. Please forgive me for pressing the matter."

Gillette followed the aborted motion of Norrington's good arm with his eyes, then reached for it. Norrington, the golden boy, the man who dared and who could. He had never felt jealousy, not of Norrington's steep career, nor seemingly enchanted life, but he did feel the bitter dregs of it now. Why did it always have to be so difficult for him? James knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it. He, on the other hand, had spent fifteen years afraid to dream and feel, and now the pent up desires were crashing into him like surf over sharp rocks. He shook his head, saddened beyond what words could express.

"I was serious when I said there was naught I would love more," he whispered, then found his voice again. "You have nothing to apologise for." The sound of a hammer reached them from beyond the gunports, and he drew back, sighing. "Let me go tell them to not disturb your cabin save for emergencies, then we can talk about this." Or maybe you will come to your senses by the time I return, and send me away, he added silently, then stood up.

James briefly cradled Andrew's hand in his, but then let go just as quickly, staring up into brown eyes so full of pain and bitterness. And want. It was there, undeniably, and he wondered what forced Andrew to deny his heart's desire, freely offered to him. He knew he had not had that strength when Elizabeth had told him 'yes', and admired Andrew all the more. "If you wish. Know that here, now, you are not my Lieutenant, but my friend, and you can tell me 'yes' and 'no' like any free man could." In silence, he sat there, unmoving, his gaze fixed to Andrew's.

Gillette looked away first, too uncertain of what Norrington could read in his expression. He retrieved the blood-splattered clothes and pulled a clean shirt from a locker, as familiar with Norrington's cabin as he was with his own.

"I will give these to your steward," he said tersely. "Unable as he is, he might be able to salvage your waistcoat, at least." Norrington's eyes drew him back as if by force, and he swallowed dryly, putting the shirt on the bed. "Rest a little, I will be back in a few minutes."

He walked out of the cabin, and the movements of the ship were suddenly alien to him, which was what he firmly told himself as he was forced to lean on a bulkhead to catch his breath for a long moment, before continuing in his search for the wayward steward.

Gillette knew he looked the same as he stepped onto the deck, because he made a point of always noticing his and other people's appearance. He'd spent so much time and effort attempting to blend in and become something people overlooked that he could now rest easily with the fruits of his labour.

Sailors worked and walked around him, nobody paying much attention to anything save the bundle of blood-splattered clothing in his hands. He dropped those into the hands of a passing sailor with the orders to give them to Norrington's steward, ordered another sailor to tell Randolph not to let anyone disturb Norrington's rest, and made his way down to the galley, all the while looking so absolutely normal and ordinary that his teeth started to hurt. The enormous new pink elephant had been immediately banished to the same corner of his mind as the old one had been, and was even now stirring uneasily.

It barely took any effort for Gillette to wrestle some rum-sweetened water from the cook. Nobody asked questions; his reputation as Norrington's loyal lapdog made them unnecessary.

It had never bothered him before, whereas he made sure to ruthlessly squash any talk about the Commodore himself, but this time it made him pause in his steps. A life lived in service, and for a long time the service hadn't been to king and country.

He wondered how the seagulls could make that awful screech without driving themselves insane.

He wondered at what point his life had become a farce.

He wondered when Andrew Gillette had ceased to exist, giving place to Lieutenant Gillette, Norrington's right hand and most loyal servant.

He wondered if there was anything left of the free man James wanted his answer from.

He wondered if it wasn't time to find out.

Walking steadily he made his way back to the captain's cabin.

~~~

Staring at the cabin door through which Andrew had disappeared, James could not help but wonder for just how long he had failed to see what Andrew had said now, for how long he had missed the desperate edge of Andrew's care and worry where he was concerned. Now, Andrew had all but fled from him, the concerns well-founded but also a welcome reason to flee from his proximity.

Not that James could not understand. What he had suggested was sin; what he believed Andrew wanted could cost them both their careers and even their lives. Yet, James risked his life nigh every day, often for tasks he valued less than Andrew Gillette.

Picking up the shirt, James gingerly pulled it on, then pushed off his shoes, sitting back on the bed and leaning against the headboard.

Alone in his cabin, James allowed himself to slump forward, immaculate posture for once abandoned. Not a man to sit in silence when there was still more to be done, the enforced stillness and wait not to his liking. He knew that this was not a battle to be fought and won, but somehow, he wished it were. It would be easier.

He wondered when Gillette would come back. If he would want to.

If James wanted him to.

~~~

When the door cracked open, James was torn from his thoughts, wondering where his trepidation suddenly came from. This was Gillette, was Andrew, the loyal friend who had always been there at his side, unwavering and so without doubt that James only noticed when he was not there, not when he was. At times, when he noticed, he thanked Andrew, and from the smile he received, thought he was understood. But this could never be enough for a lifetime spent at his side, and he knew that without Andrew, he would never be the man he was now.

He looked up, into Andrew's eyes, and smiled.

Gillette returned the smile fondly, sitting down at the foot of the bed. He filled the glass he had retrieved from the day cabin with water from the pitcher, and gave it to James, setting the pitcher aside. "How is your shoulder? This is the friend asking, not the lieutenant," he added with a twitch of his lips that he knew rendered his smile mischievous for a moment.

Accepting the glass with gratitude, James took a small sip, then a greedier swallow when he realized how parched his throat had been. "In that case I can tell you that it hurts, but that is the best way of knowing it really is not too serious. I have taken far worse, as you well know." Another swallow, and he drained the glass.

"I know," Gillette said simply. It was so very disconcerting and wonderful to be able to speak his mind, at last. It felt like flying, like jumping from a cliff and rushing towards the sea.

"Every time I wished it had been me injured, or unconscious, or uncertain to pull through. And every time I knew I could not stop you from charging into the thick of the battle when the next time came." He smiled, and bent to refill Norrington's glass. "Do you remember how we met?"

"Do you mean when I was a lanky midshipman who stumbled over his own sea legs?" James smiled fondly. "I remember a hand held out to help me up, being told that the incident was not nearly as embarrassing as I made it to be. I remember thinking that perhaps, being away from home was not as intimidating as I had thought it to be."

"I mean when I first laid eyes on a handsome boy with a temper twice his size and a mind and knowledge to rival the lieutenants'," Gillette replied, and leaned back against a bedpost.

"I mean when I had to pull you off Travis, who also was twice your size, two days later, because he'd insulted your mother. I mean how I looked at you and knew that you would be a great man one day. Soon." He reached for Norrington's hand to pass him the glass, then closed his own hands around Norrington's when he took it. "And I remember you becoming this man, so very different to that boy, and so very alike. And still with that temper and mind of yours."

He felt a strange new calm settle over him, a peace of mind he had never known before. Whatever happened, he thought. Whatever may come. "Tell me, what is it you want us to do, aside from the grievous sins we were thinking of indulging in?"

"What I meant..." James tried to choose his words carefully, fully aware of the effect they could have. "What I want is for us to be honest with one another. For you to tell me what you want of me and since when, without fear of my reaction. My temper may be twice my size, but my fear only half. There are many reasons why something I wanted slipped through my fingers, but fear was never one of them, and hopefully will never be. And now I want your trust, to trust me enough to tell me why your hand lingered on my cheek."

Hands still resting over Norrington's, Gillette let his mind drift with the waves outside, with the stillness in the cabin.

Norrington was a good man, an honest man, and none knew it better than Gillette. Whatever path they would take now, he was sure of it, would free him from the terrible tightness that had taken up residence in his mind and heart ever since he realised that he hungered for something he could never have. And whether he could have it now, or whether he would take his leave, the dizzying freedom was worth it.

Focusing on Norrington's face again, Gillette smiled with fifteen years' worth of love. "Since when? Did I not tell you the exact moment just now?"

"And I a thick-headed fool not to realize it," James whispered, to himself more than for Andrew to hear. Whatever he could do now, it could never make up for those years, he realised. For those years where he had dismissed Gillette's worry as annoying, where he had accepted friendship as though it were a given. Now that he knew, he was overwhelmed by such selfless devotion, not to the Navy, but to him. "What now?"

That one was easy, Gillette thought. It always had been, and the sudden transformation that had come over him did not change it in the least. James might still walk out on him afterwards, and he would deal with it for better or worse, but at least James knew now, when the thick wall of pretence he had spent years constructing had crashed around them.

He was afraid, nay, he was terrified, and some part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he was also drunk with freedom. Giddy, carefree, or as carefree as he ever got.

"And the answer to that is unchanged," he said out loud, releasing Norrington's hands at last. "Whatever you want."

Simply staring up at him, James blinked every so often. He had never been a man of many words, not when there was nothing more they could say, nothing more they could change.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted his hands, setting the glass they still held down on the chair beside the bed.

Another moment, and he reached up to his head, slowly pulled the pins away and then set the wig aside, chestnut curls tumbling into his face. He pushed them away, allowed himself to see again, to simply look at Andrew for a while, then leant forward to kiss him but stopped, a breath away from their lips touching, intention clear as crystal, yet still a wordless question.

Gillette still remembered the day James had bought his first fashionable wig: white and powdered like a pastry. He'd hated it on sight, hated it even though he had already worn one himself. Hated it because it had replaced James's own tidy queue.

Slowly he raised his own hands to James head, indulging in the long-forgotten pleasure of running his fingers through the thick locks. "I used to braid these for you, remember?" he breathed, and then leaned forward in a wordless answer to an unspoken question, touching his lips to James'.

How could he forget? Same as James could not ever imagine forgetting this, Andrew's lips pressed to his, gentle, full of wonderment. After slow, sweet moments, James parted his lips, his hand sliding up to cup behind Andrew's neck, thumb caressing in the hollow beneath ear and jawbone.

Andrew's hands were in his hair, and again he felt like the boy he had been, exploring life and what it had to offer. Perhaps erring, but always looking forward.

Humming in pleasure, Gillette parted his lips, inviting James in, salt and rum and all. His fingers were still combing that silky hair and as his eyes closed he remembered how it had glittered gold in sunlight, or was spread darkly and loosely over a pillow as James' queue came unbound at night. James' hands on his skin felt rough and warm, sending a shiver through his body that had little to do with him being awfully ticklish.

Tentatively, James slid his tongue forward, turning the kiss into one of promise, one of passion. Perhaps this was what Andrew had dreamt of, had longed for, and tasting this dream, James decided it was a good one, no matter who might frown upon it.

His hand stroked up further, beneath Andrew's wig, cupping at the base of his skull, deepening their kiss until lack of breath forced them apart.

In the following silence, James eased himself further down until he was half-lying against the pillows. His injured arm lay limply at his side, but he barely noticed the pain anymore, and with his other, he reached out again to pull Andrew down atop him.

Gillette stretched out on the bed, half-draped over Norrington's prone body, and used his free hand to pull off his wig, sending pins flying. He dropped it next to Norrington's own and smiled at the face inches away from his own.

"We are not going to violate the Articles aboard your flagship, Commodore," he murmured against that lovely mouth, then bent to kiss it once again. "Besides, you are injured and in need of rest."

Bringing his right hand up to rest against Norrington's cheek, he brushed his lips first with his thumb, then with his lips once more. "There will be time enough, once you are recovered and better acquainted with the concept of your first lieutenant being an abominable sinner and a sexual deviant."

To demonstrate his point, he pressed a final quick kiss to Norrington's pliant lips, then slid down, curling up awkwardly at the foot of the bed, his chin on Norrington's stomach and his hands on the placket of Norrington's breeches.

A smile tugged at James' lips as he reached down to lightly rest his hand atop the soft, ginger locks, soft and wavy, like fire, so unlike Andrew's calm temper. "Apparently there is a fair amount of concepts I will have to become acquainted with."

He stared down the length of his own body, into Andrew's eyes, forced himself to keep his hips still at the exploring touch. "But as you stated so eloquently, we have time. Although I will have you know that I, as captain of this ship, never enforced this Article. I am not a hypocrite." He probably did already, but somehow, it seemed important that Andrew knew that, knew James' reason.

"No doubt," Gillette said lightly, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons, "but I also remember you saying something about killing me where I stood after a certain night at a certain tavern. Although you might have said something entirely different, it was hard," he squeezed lightly, "to make out with all the moaning."

"That," James gasped, "was another case of guilt entirely. Your mocking at it was painfully inappropriate, as I believe it is now." Then he moaned, as Andrew had stated, but still forced himself to lie still, to not thrust up into those teasing fingers. "But then, perhaps I need education about proper manners in a situation such as this."

"Really. Am I to believe," and Gillette paused, pushing Norrington' shirt tails out of the way and nuzzling at a pale thigh, "that the illustrious Lieutenant Stevens - Richard - did not extend his schooling this far? That is quite an oversight indeed." And then he stilled because, really, it was ill-mannered to talk with your mouth full.

The tang of iron filled James' mouth as he bit his lip hard to keep from crying out, even as his breath left him in a shudder. His hand fisted tightly in the sheets, and he fought not to push into Andrew's mouth, that sweet, wet bliss. A strangled moan escaped, despite his efforts at silence.

Gillette chuckled quietly to himself, fully aware of the vibrations it caused and their effect. It had been some years since he'd last done this, but it seemed he still remembered the basics. Sucking forcefully at James' member, he forced a hand past the tangled up linen of James's breeches, stroking his balls. His other hand was flush against James' stomach, both to steady him and to reassure James.

His lover.

Who'd have thought.

He chuckled again, firmly telling himself that this was not a good time to giggle.

James bit back the loudest sounds, only the occasional whimper escaping. His eyes were shut tightly, and when he forced them open, seeing Andrew moving between his legs, he came apart entirely. Spreading his legs wider, he shuddered violently, every muscle in his body twitching.

With a presence of mind that surprised him, he brought his arm to his mouth, smothering his abandoned shout of release by biting down hard.

Gillette fought against his body as James came, trying to swallow quicker than he could taste. He had no second handkerchief to spare, but he sacrificed James' shirt tail for cleaning duty, then took his time to carefully smooth out James' clothing and button up his breeches.

For the moment all was right with the world, and he was loath to break the feeling of drowsy contentment that seemed to be oozing from James' body. Eventually, though, his legs protested the cramped position at the foot of the bed, and he stretched out at James' side again, trying hard to just feel instead of think.

Still trembling from the aftermath of pleasure, James attempted to collect himself. Andrew's attentions had left him more drained than the battle before, and now he was unsure whether he could truly stand if he were to get up. Instead he turned, a lazy smile on his face, and bent his head to hover over Andrew's. "Thank you," he whispered against his lips, then leaned forward to kiss them.

It felt nice to lie there, despite the hard edge of the bed digging into his back. It felt even nicer to have James' soft lips against his, even despite the residual ache in his jaw. He broke the kiss to tip his nose gently against James'. "You are quite welcome," he murmured with a smile, then brought his hand up to stroke James' hair lightly.

"Perhaps I can do something to show my gratitude." James's drowsy smile had turned mischievous, his hand drifting over Andrew's neck, stroking lightly over the taut muscle at its side, then down the uniformed shoulder, the flanks. He winced a little as the shifting pulled on his cut, turning a little to release the tension.

Meanwhile, his exploring hand had reached Andrew's stomach, dipping under the coat to feel the heat even through the shirt. To silence any protest that might come forth, he kissed Andrew again while he fumbled blindly with the breeches' buttons, getting them undone.

Gillette smiled and twisted a bit, pushing against James' fingers. It felt nice, and even better because it was James lying next to him, smiling; because it was James' hand fighting with his clothing; just because it was James.

"Perhaps," he acquiesced, "but only if you want to." Not that James hadn't all but boasted about his experiences earlier, but feelings were often fragile things in such situations, and he'd hate it if James would only please him out of some misguided gratitude. Still, the pressure against him felt wonderful, and he shifted restlessly in the narrow bed, seeking more.

The last button gave way, and James pushed the rough material down, then reached to grip Andrew's erection, hot and slick.

"Have I not made that quite clear enough?" A soft question, breathed against the sweaty skin of Andrew's neck, just above his cravat, followed by a light nip. His hand was pumping continuously, two fingers stretched out and stroking Andrew's testicles on the down stroke. Pressing another kiss to Andrew's lips, he offered his mouth to swallow what noises Andrew could not contain.

It took embarrassingly little time, with James' hand wrapped around him, and James looking at him, and James' lips on him, and James' delicious, deep voice right there. He reached out, pressing closer, moving up and tighter and closer like a spring. And then he was there, the pleasure unbearable for a long moment, and the fact that it was James there with him making it the most horrifyingly wonderful experience he had had in a long time. Possibly ever.

He drifted, dazed and floating, and James was there.

Right next to him.

Even before he felt the sticky heat on his palm, James noticed Andrew's shudders, tried to hold him still with his mouth alone. He wiped his hand on his shirt , sparing a brief chuckle to the thought that he was quickly running out of shirts to wear on this voyage. Buttoning breeches with the use of only one hand was even more difficult than opening them, but eventually he managed. His hand drifted up Andrew's back again, holding him for a short moment.

Gillette's eyes snapped open at yet another shout and a string of loud curses from the outside. He sat up slowly, wincing as the narrow bed tried to dig every hard surface into his kidneys. Fishing for his wig with one hand, he stroked James' cheek with the other. "Thank you. That was..." he ran out of words, and suspected there were no suitable terms in any language known to man to express what he was feeling. "It was better than wonderful. It was... you."

James ran his hand through Andrew's hair, almost as if without thought, but the intent look in his eyes belied that. He had found something precious where he had failed to look before, and the wondrous tone of Andrew's voice seemed the answer to the questions he should ask now. "Not me. Us."

Gillette leaned lightly into the fleeting caress, then brushed his fingers through his hair before donning his wig and reaching for the hair pins he had scattered so carelessly earlier. "Who'd have thought," he said, voice muffled as he bent to scrutinise the floor.

It still felt like a fever dream, about as substantial as a truce between England and France. James and him. He finally located some pins and straightened up.

James leant back against the headboard, briefly considering pulling on his uniform and returning topside to supervise the repairs, but truth be told, although he no longer was in any real pain, he was exhausted. "I have the suspicion that if I insist on returning topside, you will tie me to this very bed." His voice held a tone of good-natured teasing, although it did make him wonder. This was how it would be, brief moments of danger and bliss in one another's arms, then return to duty.

Gillette turned around to look down at Norrington spread out on the bed. The idea of tying him down to keep him out of harm's way was ridiculous, but in certain other circumstances... he firmly banished that train of thought and leaned down to steal a quick kiss. "I have no illusions about my ability to keep you safe without your consent," he said with a smile that bordered on aching, "but you are injured and in need of rest. If I give you my word that I will send for you if there is a single splinter out of place, will you be able to sleep?" He adjusted his waistcoat and breeches with practiced motions; in a moment nothing would remain of what they had shared save a handful of sweet, fleeing memories.

A tired smile spread on Norrington's face and he nodded. "I shall trust in your honour enough to entrust the safekeeping of my ship into your hands." Eyes briefly closing, then opening again, he stared up at Andrew. His constant companion, his friend, now his lover. It came less as a surprise than it should, and it bordered onblindness that he had failed to see Andrew's feelings for so long. For the first time, he really hesitated. "What about you? Are all your... splinters in place?" He wondered how he could have phrased this more awkwardly, and came up empty.

Gillette's lips twitched and he abandoned his attempts to tidy his appearance, lowering himself to the chair and resting his elbows on the edge of the bed, just beside Norrington's shoulder. "It feels like a dream," he whispered, suddenly and unaccountably nervous. "It's been so long, James, I never thought you would..." he swallowed harshly, his throat closing up.

He lowered his head, looking at the crisp white linen of the bed sheets. "I will be content with whatever you want to give me. If you come to your sense once we reach port and start lavishing your attentions upon Miss Hinton-Bankes I won't begrudge it one bit."

Gingerly, Norrington turned so he could properly face Andrew again. He considered to reach out and take the pale hand in his, but in the last moment, refrained from it in a strange feeling of propriety. "Miss Hinton-Bankes and I have nothing in common, apart from us both suffering the attention of her, shall we say, adoring mother." He shook his head in distaste. The young woman, while fair enough to look at, was dull and managed not to spark the least bit of interest inside Norrington.

His gaze dropped for a second, but then he forced it up again. "I am sorry, Andrew. I never meant to cause you pain or worry, even if I was too blind to see."

"It was my choice," Gillette said angrily, and looked up with a frown. "You cannot be held accountable for other men's dreams -- especially such improper ones. I lived for years with the certainty that you would never know, and I was content with my lot. I will be content even if you do woo or marry, whether Miss Hinton-Bankes or another young lady, hopefully more deserving of you. In fact, I always knew you would, and my only desire was to serve by your side and watch over you."

He stopped, running a hand over his face, as if to stop the words tumbling out. But it was too late for pretence now. "You called me a free man, James. Allow me to make my own choices. Do not carry misplaced guilt on my behalf. Do you think me stupid? If either of us had been a woman, or at least not living by the Articles of War... I knew very well what I was not saying, though I lived with it every day. You know the cost of even the silliest rumours."

Norrington sat up more rigidly. "I know that very well, Andrew. Merely because sometimes I am stubborn does not mean I am ignorant." This was no longer only the careful and sated talk after the sharing of carnal pleasures, these were necessary questions that they would have to deal with now, no matter what lay ahead in their personal relationship. "But I always counted you as a friend, and am in hope that I will always be able to. I cannot promise you the world. I cannot say it won't be dangerous. What I can promise, you willing, is to do my best. What I can say is that I will gladly dare try it, whatever this should be between us. For this I require your answer, the answer of that free man."

Gillette twisted his lips in a brief, sardonic smile. "Such sweet words. A pity poor Miss Hinton-Bankes shall never hear the likes of them." He shifted away in the chair; Norrington may have been injured, but he also had a very accurate throwing arm.

The moment passed, and the gravity of his mood reasserted himself. "James," he began slowly, "you must consider me very silly indeed if you think I would require, or believe, any promises. Our lives and destinies are not our own, and even if the King's orders should strive to keep us safe, there is still a greater Power guiding our steps. There is nothing two men can promise each other, save loyalty and love. It is no use dwelling on what the future may bring."

"Allow me to differ. I cannot promise anything to happen, to come true. Yet what I can promise, and will, is to try my best. This will not change what I am. Come the next battle, I will be fighting it again, and you know that as well as I do." Norrington sat very still, but despite the gravity of his words, he was calm. This, at least, he could say with full conviction. "If my best be loyalty and love, then I promise them to you, so you want them. If you will promise me yours, I can promise you my honesty."

"Ah, yes," Gillette said, pursing his lips and looking up to the low ceiling. The Stoic Hero mood for Norrington, then. Briefly he wondered what Norrington would say if he knew that Gillette had spent several boring watches, many years ago, cataloguing and labelling Norrington's moods and characteristics. Probably a lot. Rather loudly.

Shaking his head briefly, he looked down again. "My dear sir, the last fifteen years of our acquaintance seem to have slipped by you. I know you will do what you always do. I have no desire to ask anything else of you. And if I have failed to assure you of my devotion and loyalty both today and in the days past, there is nothing else I could say or do to show you."

"There is no need for you to prove anything more than you have." Norrington looked at Andrew and smiled briefly. "I trust you with my life and my heart, Andrew, and what I intend to say is that if we want it to be, that will be enough."

Peering at the cut on his shoulder, he grinned. "And thankful though I am, do not think this will give you more right to mother me or call me a stubborn, honourable idiot. At least not shipboard."

Gillette felt his spine go rigid as he all but snapped to attention while still sitting down. "I do not believe such words have ever left my lips, nor entered my mind, sir!"

Norrington's hauteur cracked up and he began laughing. "Your face is more expressive than you think, my dear Andrew, and even if you might not have spoken these words, I am certain that you have thought them more than once. The last time when you practically ordered me to my cabin barely an hour ago."

Knowing that the hot flush of anger and annoyance was all too visible on his white skin, Gillette wished for nightfall, or at least an excuse to leave the cabin. This would be the other side of the new development, then. Whereas he would have left or maintained indignant silence before, now there was no hiding from the man who had, in the space of an hour, become his lover and closest confidant.

"Well, forgive me for being concerned about your well-being," he said tightly. "And I will have you know, sir, that I have never deemed you a fool -- although your words just now might force me to reconsider my stance! I feel nothing but respect and love for you," and he dimly realised how ridiculous that sounded when spoken in his angry, clipped tone, "and while I do believe you to be both stubborn and honourable, both of these qualities having caused me considerable distress when forcing you to ignore your own well-being, I was not aware they were traits worthy of derision." He made to stand up. "Permission to attend to my immediate duties, sir, and go oversee the repairs."

Almost instinctively, Norrington reached out to hold Andrew back, but withdrew his hand at the last moment. It was dangerous ground they treaded, not only the danger that public knowledge and rumour would represent, but also the constantly redrawn boundaries between the two of them, the inability to determine where Lieutenant and Commodore ended and Andrew and James began.

He knew not quite what had caused Andrew's violent reaction, the high colour to his face, the offended tone of his voice. "Permission granted." Norrington's voice again held all the formality that had faded from it before. "My apologies. I spoke but in jest and if I intended to mock, then only myself, and certainly did not mean to offend."

"I..." Gillette began, then swallowed. "Sir, I apologise if I overreacted. I would never undermine your authority, nor would I commit such gross insubordination, whether in thought or in action. If you take my concern to be overbearing, I shall do my best to alter my behaviour." He stood up, clasping his hands behind his back. Was parade rest an appropriate stance after one had bedded his commander and then argued with him like a jilted lover? How many things he had never considered at all.

Norrington's expression softened. Even after years of friendship, somehow the Lieutenant was easier to deal with than the friend, and now, the lover. Yet, if he meant to live up to any of his words before, the lover was the one he would have to talk to in times as these, was the one he had to assure of his intentions, rather than the one to issue orders to. "Andrew, calm down. I do not, in fact, bite, unless asked to do so. Although I may fail to show it, your concern about my well-being is accepted and appreciated more than I can ever tell you."

Expelling a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, Gillette finally looked down at Norrington and felt a smile tug at his lips. "Very well," he said quietly. He knew well there were more dangerous waters ahead, but these ones had been sailed safely. Reaching out, he touched cool fingers to Norrington's hand fleetingly. "I will send for you once we are fit to make sail," he said. "We will be back in port soon enough. Then we can continue our... discussions, if you are willing. Pleasant dreams, Commodore."

Returning the smile, Norrington briefly took Andrew's hand in his and squeezed it, once. "I believe I have made my willingness to do so quite clear." He fought hard not to let the smile spread into a grin. "If the Dauntless sets but one sail before you send for me, you will have to answer to me." The grin did spread then. "I do expect to be fetched at once should any problem arise."

To finally know the true reason for his Lieutenant's concern made it all the more appreciated, made him wonder what else he had missed in all those years of their service. And perhaps, he would soon find out.

Gillette snapped his heels. "Yes, sir. At once, sir," he barked, then executed his best courtly bow and only allowed himself the tiniest smile as he stalked out of the door. There would be time to talk later. And as to biting... he firmly pushed the thoughts away, in the corner of his mind where the pink elephant wasn't. Time to see if Randolph had managed to make any progress with the repairs.

He couldn't wait to reach Port Royal.