"Andrew..?" It had been a long and busy day for James, not helped by having to cope without his steadfast lieutenant to whom he'd finally granted a day's leave after weeks of begging on the younger man's part. "Sir?" Lieutenant Gilette stared stoutly past his superior's right ear. "Why is there a chicken on the table?" A pinkish blush glowed through Andrew's face powder. "I got it for dinner, sir. I thought it would make a nice centre-piece, sir." "I don't want to seem critical, Andrew," the younger man stiffened, bolstering himself for even the gentlest of reprieves, "but I generally prefer my meat a little more ...dead. And cooked." Andrew drooped, head hung in shame. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't intend..." James's eyebrow lifted, almost of its own accord. "I.. I wanted... but then, when it came to it..." "...Yes?" "I just couldn't, sir." The whisper was almost a whimper. "I had her in my hands, all set, and then she looked at me, and..." "...and?" "Squawked." "Squawked?" "Yes, sir. Squawked. I'm sorry sir." The chicken, hitherto heedless of the drama playing out around her, chose that precise moment to pause, fix Commodore Norrington with her beady eye and squawk in a chattery fashion, scratching at the plate of food on which she perched. "I see." "Yes, sir." A second outbreak of squawking finally broke James's resolve and he let out a deep guffaw such as only his closest friends knew him capable of. "Oh, Andrew," he commiserated, hauling his lover into a tight embrace, "you know I adore your tender-heartedness. But why on earth did you let her loose on the table? Now we'll have no supper at all!"
"Sir?" Lieutenant Gilette stared stoutly past his superior's right ear.
"Why is there a chicken on the table?"
A pinkish blush glowed through Andrew's face powder. "I got it for dinner, sir. I thought it would make a nice centre-piece, sir."
"I don't want to seem critical, Andrew," the younger man stiffened, bolstering himself for even the gentlest of reprieves, "but I generally prefer my meat a little more ...dead. And cooked."
Andrew drooped, head hung in shame. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't intend..."
James's eyebrow lifted, almost of its own accord.
"I.. I wanted... but then, when it came to it..."
"...Yes?"
"I just couldn't, sir." The whisper was almost a whimper. "I had her in my hands, all set, and then she looked at me, and..."
"...and?"
"Squawked."
"Squawked?"
"Yes, sir. Squawked. I'm sorry sir."
The chicken, hitherto heedless of the drama playing out around her, chose that precise moment to pause, fix Commodore Norrington with her beady eye and squawk in a chattery fashion, scratching at the plate of food on which she perched.
"I see."
"Yes, sir."
A second outbreak of squawking finally broke James's resolve and he let out a deep guffaw such as only his closest friends knew him capable of. "Oh, Andrew," he commiserated, hauling his lover into a tight embrace, "you know I adore your tender-heartedness. But why on earth did you let her loose on the table? Now we'll have no supper at all!"
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