Warning: I usually never post a fic that hasn't been beta-read. But I'm really in a murderous mood at the moment (those who know me will be able to tell from the story) and needed something to cheer me up. A 'cleaned' version will be up sooner or later, this one here will only be posted to LJ. Read at your own risk. ;)
FLUCTUAT NEC MERGITUR
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: (pre-) slash
Pairing: Norrington/Gillette
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: spoilers for "Dead Man's Chest" if you look very hard for them and bring your own microscope. AU - definitely AU!
Summary: While Will and Norrington were marooned on an island ("
Without Fail"), life continued in Port Royal.
Author's note: "Fluctuat nec mergitur" ("tossed by the waves, she does not sink") is the motto of Paris. This will make sense sooner or later...
Those who have read "
Without Fail" know what "my" versions of Will Turner and James Norrington are like. I thought it was nothing but fair to introduce the unsinkable Thomas Gillette as well before I post the sequel.
"Lt. Gillette to see you, my lord," the servant announced with a respectful bow. Lord Cutler Beckett looked up, a satisfied smile on his lips.
"Ask him in," he ordered. So it was just as he had thought: with Norrington gone, his stalwart second in command was trying to secure his future. Beckett felt a small pang of disappointment; he'd expected a fight, protests, but not the simple acceptance of his order.
How regrettable.
Gillette entered. He looked around; saw the large map on the wall marking the territories of the EITC. Norrington used to call them "EITC infested places", but he wasn't here today.
"How kind of you to come and see me, Mr. Gillette."
Only now Gillette did what politeness required and greeted Lord Beckett by briefly nodding his head. One look into his eyes and Beckett's mood improved significantly.
"You've ordered me here, Lord Beckett."
"Indeed I did."
Beckett filled a glass with wine from a carafe, hiding a smile. Gillette had indeed done the unexpected - he'd picked up the gauntlet. The lieutenant loathed him, and the only way for him to make this dislike for Beckett even more obvious would have been if he had ran him through with his sword, a scenario Gillette probably often dreamed about.
"I certainly don't have to tell you how very much we all regret the loss of Captain Norrington. Certainly, he had his failures, as we all do, but we lost a good man, and I wished you would be more cooperative in making this matter less bothersome for his family."
"Commodore Norrington has gone missing, which is regrettable, but he's certainly not lost. I can't see how I could be of assistance to anybody."
Beckett sighed upon that stiff response, and sipped the wine. He held the glass up to watch the sunlight play in the burgundy liquid and clicked his tongue.
"Ah, delicious! It might be an unpatriotic thing to say, but French wines are the best, don't you agree, Mr. Gillette? But I digress. To declare Captain Norrington dead, we need the statement of an eye witness. You have been there, you've seen him die. So I expect you to do the decent thing and sign these papers. I've prepared everything. Mr. Mercer, please."
He snapped his fingers, and immediately his factotum stepped out from the shadows, producing two documents, already sealed and signed by Lord Beckett.
Gillette's frown deepened upon seeing the documents. Had Norrington been there, he could have warned Beckett that his second in command would lose his temper very soon, and that an angry Thomas Gillette was a dangerous man to deal with. He stood there, bolt upright, the tip of his tongue firmly pressed in the corner of his mouth; there was a fine twitching on his face, indicating that the moment he would start swiping papers off the desk or kicking chairs across the room was imminent.
"Commodore Norrington is not dead, I've witnessed no such thing, and I'll certainly not sign any papers stating otherwise, Lord Beckett, Sir," came the pressed reply.
"Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Gillette. But even you must admit that this was not the first time Mr. Norrington has shown bad judgement. You of all the men should know that. People are still talking about your arrival here on a sinking ship, with only a handful of survivors. If you'd asked the families of the brave men who died thanks to Mr. Norrington's miscalculations, they'd certainly not agree with your still persistent admiration."
"The families I've talked to so far do understand that even a commodore of the Royal Navy can't command a hurricane. He did what he thought to be best. Furthermore, I couldn't have brought those men home if it hadn't been for him. And the Joyful Molly wasn't sinking. A little worse for the wear, agreed, but she's a good girl. Nearly unsinkable."
Beckett took another sip of wine and looked Gillette over. The man could have become captain long ago if it hadn't been for his quick temper, notoriety for being lippy and occasional arrogance when dealing with superiors. The latter was now the case - any other officer would have lowered his gaze and avoided the scrutinizing look of Lord Cutler Beckett, but not Thomas Gillette, oh no! He only returned the view with the arching of an eyebrow and a sneer.
Beckett had to smile upon such stubborn arrogance.
"Just like you, it seems. The unsinkable Thomas Gillette they call you. An honourable sobriquet, no doubt. However, you should consider your own future as well, lieutenant. The Joyful Molly needs a commander."
Gillette's eyes narrowed into slits.
"The Joyful Molly already has a commander. I can't see the need for two. I'm quite happy in my position."
Beckett put the wine aside and steeped his fingers.
"I've actually often wondered what your position used to be under his command, Mr. Gillette."
Gillette was tempted to throw the carafe after Beckett, but he knew that Norrington wouldn't have wanted him to end up in a prison cell or hang from the gallows, so he silently counted to ten and tried to calm down before he replied.
"My position was such that he knew he wouldn't have to watch his back because he could be sure that I would do it for him."
Beckett laughed.
"That was actually a very witty remark, Mr. Gillette. I wouldn't have expected a man of your social class to have the finesse needed for double entendres."
"You will be even more surprised to learn that I also have the susceptibility needed to see when someone tries to twit me, Lord Beckett."
"Now indeed? How interesting."
Beckett walked around Gillette and came to stand behind him. It was with no small gratification that Gillette noticed the lord had to stand on tip-toes to whisper into his ear.
"Norrington is gone, Gillette. And you have to decide now whether you'll stay an active participant in this game or not. If you don't sign these papers, somebody else will. To the world, Norrington will be dead; I'll make sure of that. So consider your options carefully. You're either with me or against me; there is no middle ground for you, mon ami."
Gillette looked over his shoulder and wrinkled his nose.
"There is absolutely nothing I have to consider, Lord Beckett. I've said my part."
"Very well." Beckett returned to the desk and sat down. "I take it you will not sign those documents then?"
Gillette had reached the end of his tether, and there was no James Norrington to calm him down with a stern look or a placating gesture. He placed his hands firmly on the desk and leaned forward, coming almost nose to nose with Beckett. He could smell the heavy perfume, its strength nauseating in the heat.
"Your assumption is quite correct," Gillette hissed. "I'd just like to remind you that Commodore Norrington still has many friends here, and if you're pushing the boat out too far, somebody might be tempted to shove those bloody papers up your noble arse, with all due respect, Lord Beckett, Sir."
He grabbed the papers and tore them in half, throwing the pieces over his shoulder. The guards standing behind Lord Beckett almost dropped their muskets upon witnessing this outrageous behaviour; Mercer's hand slipped into his coat, reaching for the dagger, but Beckett waved him off.
"There is no need for that, Mr. Mercer. It's just a little disagreement among friends."
Beckett hadn't even flinched during Gillette's little speech. He had underestimated the lieutenant, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. One thing became clear to Lord Cutler Beckett: Thomas Gillette was not the man who would go after him with a sword; he would tear him to pieces with his own bare hands and spread his innards all over the market square of Port Royal for the crows to feast on.
"I admit that I find you intriguing, Mr. Gillette, and that's the only reason you're still alive. This place is very boring, and so little manages to amuse me. You have a good head on your shoulders - be careful not to lose it."
For a short moment, Gillette thought to have discovered something like admiration in Beckett's cold eyes. But then it was gone, and the façade of cultivated ennui was back into place.
Beckett leaned back in his chair and waved Gillette off.
"I trust you will find your way out of my office yourself, Mr. Gillette."
"I wouldn't know from your offices, Lord Beckett. But as this is Commodore Norrington's office, I'm confident I'll find my way out, thank you."
Without further ado, he turned and left, slamming every door he passed close in the process.
"One word from you and I'll get him," Mercer promised with lowered voice. "It would be my personal pleasure."
Beckett folded his hands on the desk and looked at the paper pieces littering the ground.
"All in it's time, Mr. Mercer, all in it's time."
'And when it comes,' Becket thought, 'I will get you myself, Thomas Gillette, and be assured: that will be my personal pleasure.'
Happy reading. :)
Erestor