The King's Navy
Well, huzzah for first attempts. Norrington/Gillette...if it's any good, it'll probably end up in _norrington.
"I still don't understand your delay in dealing with Jack Sparrow, Commodore." Gillette's voice is filed with urgency and confusion and just the right amount of respect. He stands in front of the Commodore's desk. Norrington sits behind the desk and fingers the neck of a bottle of brandy. Gillette notices that the bottle, almost full this morning, is almost empty.
"Gillette, tell me something." Norrington looks up at him, his eyes big and sincere. "How do you look into the eyes of the person that you love and tell them no? How do you deny them something, anything?"
Gillette swallows hard, looks away. "I can't say that I've ever managed it, sir."
Norrington chuckles. "I can imagine. You're so good at following orders -- anything I ask for it done, almost before I know I need it done. The girl who catches your eye will have you wrapped around her little finger faster than either you or she can say 'dotage'." He lifts the bottle of brandy to his lips. He must be very upset, to be drinking straight from the bottle.
Gillette's eyes linger on the Commodore's lips, and he tears them away with some effort. "But Jack Sparrow, sir--" he says, latching onto the one place he knows to be safe in this treacherous ocean of conversation and brandy and candlelight.
"It isn't about Sparrow, Gillette."
He feels his safe place slipping away. "Then who...?"
"Miss Elizabeth Swann and Master William Turner are to be married. It really isn't about anyone anymore." Norrington finishes the brandy, runs a hand over his eyes. Gillette has never seen him like this before. The Commodore is always in charge of the situation. Even when the governor's daughter had dropped the bombshell on him about where her true feelings lay, he had been quick-witted and gentlemanly. He let them know that he was still the Commodore, even though his world had just been stolen by a blacksmith and a pirate. But now, here in the quiet privacy of his office, he starts on his second bottle of brandy.
"Sir--"
Norrington looks to him. "Yes?" The Commodore's gaze is desperate for any solace his subordinate's words may afford him.
"Perhaps this is for the best?"
"The best?! How can you say that?"
"I don't know sir, I'm sorry," Gillette murmurs quickly.
"How can it be 'for the best' when the world now thinks me a fool? I feel as though I've been cuckolded. No one will now have any respect for me." Norrington takes a somewhat larger swallow of brandy.
"I still respect you, sir!" His voice is earnest.
"The sentiment is appreciated, Gillette."
"I feel that you dealt not only justly, but honorably with the situation." The tremendous awe in Gillette's eyes is lost on Norrington, who is thoughtfully tracing his fingers up and down the brandy bottle's neck.
"I suppose so." Norrington's smile is mirthless. "I suppose that I should have known better than to think that it would turn out satisfactorily. No one finds love in the King's Navy." He goes to take another swig from the bottle of brandy, but finds that Gillette's fingers have laced themselves around the neck of the bottle as well.
"I think you've had enough to drink tonight, Commodore."
"Sir, unhand this bottle immediately. I'll have only had enough to drink tonight when I cannot remember drinking any of it." The grip on the bottle does not lessen. "You know I can have you shot for this." This threat has no effect. Norrington's voice falters. "Please, Gillette, it's all I have left."
"It will never come to that, sir." Gillette's voice comes out far more bravely than he'd thought possible. He takes the bottle from Norrington's hand and gently gets him up out of his chair. "Come on, sir, I'll get you home."
Gillette almost knows his way there better than he does his own way home. There is no accounting for this, no accounting whatsoever. Norrington walks at his side, his step rarely unsure. Even inebriated, he makes an effort not to let his dignity down.
The butler lets them in and helps Gillette get Norrington up the stairs to his bedchamber. "Is there anything I can get you, Mister Gillette, while my master is thusly incapacitated?"
"I am not incapacitated, Bardon. I am just very annoyed," comes Norrington's voice from the bed.
Gillette smiles. "Thank you, no." The butler trundles off. This gives Gillette a chance to look around. The Commodore's room is large and spacious, like his entire house. It is sparsely adorned with naval decorations, the most notable of these being the large oil painting of the HMS Dauntless which hangs over the fireplace. Were he to be cruel, Gillette might say that the place needed a woman's touch. He will not be cruel. He will let Norrington sleep in peace. He will go back to his own humble quarters just outside the naval base and--
"Gillette?" Norrington's voice melts his resolve, and he makes his way to the bedside. "Stay with me for a while."
Gillette silently curses, wishes he could find a way to look into the eyes of the person that he loves and tell him no. He sits in a chair by the bed; an awkward silence fills the lull.
"Gillette, why are you here?" Norrington asks eventually.
"Sir, you asked me to--"
"I know why you're here. I want to know why you brought me home; why you were even at my office in the first place."
"Well, sir, you know that all the men think the world of you." Gillette's voice treads carefully in these shark-infested waters.
"Mister Gillette, as Commodore I pride myself on having honest subordinates. But that is the worst answer I have received since being told that one particularly intelligent dock-master let an entire brig and her crew 'take a holiday'. We never saw any of them again. Gillette, I had that dock-master shot. I beg you to reconsider your answer, or lack thereof."
"I would, sir, but I'm not entirely certain that the truth won't get me shot as well.
A smile plays across Norrington's lips. "I've had enough to drink that I think I can handle the truth."
"You're sure?"
"Gillette--"
He takes a deep breath -- a plunge off the side into the icy waters below -- leans forward and kisses the smile that is still playing across Norrington's lips.
"Mister Gillette!" the Commodore sputters.
Gillette looks away, ashamed at having given in.
"You're right; I can have you shot for that." But the smile is still on his lips. "I don't think I will, though. I'd rather hoped that would be your reason. Perhaps you're right; perhaps the whole episode with Elizabeth was for the best." Norrington leans up on one elbow, takes Gillette's face with his free hand. "Perhaps one can find love in the King's Navy." The Commodore tastes of brandy and tears Gillette hadn't seen him cry. The flame of the bedside candle flickers, goes out.
"I still don't understand your delay in dealing with Jack Sparrow, Commodore." Gillette's voice is filed with urgency and confusion and just the right amount of respect. He stands in front of the Commodore's desk. Norrington sits behind the desk and fingers the neck of a bottle of brandy. Gillette notices that the bottle, almost full this morning, is almost empty.
"Gillette, tell me something." Norrington looks up at him, his eyes big and sincere. "How do you look into the eyes of the person that you love and tell them no? How do you deny them something, anything?"
Gillette swallows hard, looks away. "I can't say that I've ever managed it, sir."
Norrington chuckles. "I can imagine. You're so good at following orders -- anything I ask for it done, almost before I know I need it done. The girl who catches your eye will have you wrapped around her little finger faster than either you or she can say 'dotage'." He lifts the bottle of brandy to his lips. He must be very upset, to be drinking straight from the bottle.
Gillette's eyes linger on the Commodore's lips, and he tears them away with some effort. "But Jack Sparrow, sir--" he says, latching onto the one place he knows to be safe in this treacherous ocean of conversation and brandy and candlelight.
"It isn't about Sparrow, Gillette."
He feels his safe place slipping away. "Then who...?"
"Miss Elizabeth Swann and Master William Turner are to be married. It really isn't about anyone anymore." Norrington finishes the brandy, runs a hand over his eyes. Gillette has never seen him like this before. The Commodore is always in charge of the situation. Even when the governor's daughter had dropped the bombshell on him about where her true feelings lay, he had been quick-witted and gentlemanly. He let them know that he was still the Commodore, even though his world had just been stolen by a blacksmith and a pirate. But now, here in the quiet privacy of his office, he starts on his second bottle of brandy.
"Sir--"
Norrington looks to him. "Yes?" The Commodore's gaze is desperate for any solace his subordinate's words may afford him.
"Perhaps this is for the best?"
"The best?! How can you say that?"
"I don't know sir, I'm sorry," Gillette murmurs quickly.
"How can it be 'for the best' when the world now thinks me a fool? I feel as though I've been cuckolded. No one will now have any respect for me." Norrington takes a somewhat larger swallow of brandy.
"I still respect you, sir!" His voice is earnest.
"The sentiment is appreciated, Gillette."
"I feel that you dealt not only justly, but honorably with the situation." The tremendous awe in Gillette's eyes is lost on Norrington, who is thoughtfully tracing his fingers up and down the brandy bottle's neck.
"I suppose so." Norrington's smile is mirthless. "I suppose that I should have known better than to think that it would turn out satisfactorily. No one finds love in the King's Navy." He goes to take another swig from the bottle of brandy, but finds that Gillette's fingers have laced themselves around the neck of the bottle as well.
"I think you've had enough to drink tonight, Commodore."
"Sir, unhand this bottle immediately. I'll have only had enough to drink tonight when I cannot remember drinking any of it." The grip on the bottle does not lessen. "You know I can have you shot for this." This threat has no effect. Norrington's voice falters. "Please, Gillette, it's all I have left."
"It will never come to that, sir." Gillette's voice comes out far more bravely than he'd thought possible. He takes the bottle from Norrington's hand and gently gets him up out of his chair. "Come on, sir, I'll get you home."
Gillette almost knows his way there better than he does his own way home. There is no accounting for this, no accounting whatsoever. Norrington walks at his side, his step rarely unsure. Even inebriated, he makes an effort not to let his dignity down.
The butler lets them in and helps Gillette get Norrington up the stairs to his bedchamber. "Is there anything I can get you, Mister Gillette, while my master is thusly incapacitated?"
"I am not incapacitated, Bardon. I am just very annoyed," comes Norrington's voice from the bed.
Gillette smiles. "Thank you, no." The butler trundles off. This gives Gillette a chance to look around. The Commodore's room is large and spacious, like his entire house. It is sparsely adorned with naval decorations, the most notable of these being the large oil painting of the HMS Dauntless which hangs over the fireplace. Were he to be cruel, Gillette might say that the place needed a woman's touch. He will not be cruel. He will let Norrington sleep in peace. He will go back to his own humble quarters just outside the naval base and--
"Gillette?" Norrington's voice melts his resolve, and he makes his way to the bedside. "Stay with me for a while."
Gillette silently curses, wishes he could find a way to look into the eyes of the person that he loves and tell him no. He sits in a chair by the bed; an awkward silence fills the lull.
"Gillette, why are you here?" Norrington asks eventually.
"Sir, you asked me to--"
"I know why you're here. I want to know why you brought me home; why you were even at my office in the first place."
"Well, sir, you know that all the men think the world of you." Gillette's voice treads carefully in these shark-infested waters.
"Mister Gillette, as Commodore I pride myself on having honest subordinates. But that is the worst answer I have received since being told that one particularly intelligent dock-master let an entire brig and her crew 'take a holiday'. We never saw any of them again. Gillette, I had that dock-master shot. I beg you to reconsider your answer, or lack thereof."
"I would, sir, but I'm not entirely certain that the truth won't get me shot as well.
A smile plays across Norrington's lips. "I've had enough to drink that I think I can handle the truth."
"You're sure?"
"Gillette--"
He takes a deep breath -- a plunge off the side into the icy waters below -- leans forward and kisses the smile that is still playing across Norrington's lips.
"Mister Gillette!" the Commodore sputters.
Gillette looks away, ashamed at having given in.
"You're right; I can have you shot for that." But the smile is still on his lips. "I don't think I will, though. I'd rather hoped that would be your reason. Perhaps you're right; perhaps the whole episode with Elizabeth was for the best." Norrington leans up on one elbow, takes Gillette's face with his free hand. "Perhaps one can find love in the King's Navy." The Commodore tastes of brandy and tears Gillette hadn't seen him cry. The flame of the bedside candle flickers, goes out.