Swagfic for rexluscus

[veronica_rich]

Title: Sticking Point
Author: gryphons_lair
Written for: rexluscus
Pairing: Norrington/Gillette & Gillette/OMC, if you squint hard enough.
Rating: PG, for period profanity and brief violence.
Summary: When Lt Norrington and Midshipman Gillette meet unexpectedly, Norrington discovers a side of his friend he's never seen before.
Warning: None I can think of.
Mod notes: Request was for "Norrington/anyone, mild angst, slash and het, unrequited love, any rating", with the prompts "court-martial, love triangle, impossible choice". I hope you like it!

The island of Madeira, 3 years before the prologue of COTBP

Lieutenant Norrington accepted the bundle of mail from the clerk and sorted the envelopes as he made his way through the crowded anteroom to the street beyond. Several from Catherine---his youngest sister could always be relied upon to keep him up to date on family matters---the usual dismal collection of dunning notices, an envelope bearing the uneven, blotted script of Joseph's eldest---no doubt reminding his uncle and godfather of the boy's approaching birthday---a handful of invitations for events now several months past, three letters from Andrew, and--Oh blessed day!--a thick packet from his prize agent. If they'd finally released the prize money for those two French merchantmen he could discharge all his debts. He might even have enough left over to cover his share of the wardroom expenses for the next voyage.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye as he stepped into the street, but the figure hurtling 'round the corner struck him before he could dodge.

He had to clutch the man to keep from falling. Releasing his grip on the plain round coat, the lieutenant drew himself up and bestowed a chilly "I beg your pardon" on the careless midshipman who'd very nearly sent his correspondence into the mud at their feet.

The young man flushed. "Please acce--" His eyes widened. "James?"

Startled, he took a closer look at the fellow. The man's hair was concealed by one of the white wigs that were the newest fashion. Taken together with his round chin and snub nose, it made the mid's face look positively chubby. Pale brows and a scattering of freckles across the cheekbones framed clear brown eyes that weren't quite on the same level---

"Andrew?" The familiar, brilliant smile dispelled any remaining doubt. "By God, it's good to see you again!" They embraced, and James realized they were nearly of a height. "You've grown!"

"I should hope so!" Andrew raised an eyebrow and twisted his lips into their well-remembered smirk. "It has been three years."

"So it has." Remembering his friend's haste, James asked, "Must you be somewhere? Because if not," he smiled, "I'd very much like to buy you a drink."

"No." Andrew shook his head. "Nowhere important, at any rate. When did you make port?"

"We came in on the morning tide. You're based here, I take it?" At Andrew's nod, James asked, "Is there a decent pub nearby?"

"The Dolphin has the best ale in Madeira, which is why I have a room there." Andrew cocked his head. "I don't recall seeing the Behemoth in the bay."

"The Bee was dismasted in battle six months ago." James stuffed his mail in a pocket. "I'm with Hardiston on the Cormorant now."

"Hardiston made Post?" Andrew's tone was not at all flattering to that gentleman. "How did he manage that?"

"No, only Commander. And he was First on the Bee, as you'd recall if you gave my letters the attention they deserved." The rude gesture with which Andrew answered this made James laugh. "The long and short of it is, we captured two French packets and an eighteen-gun frigate despite being unable to give chase, so the Admiralty couldn't properly deny Hardiston the usual reward for that sort of success."

"Cormorant's a mere sloop, I take it?" Andrew sniffed and arched an eyebrow. "Quite a come-down for you, isn't it, after your last few posts?"

"Better First Lieutenant on a sloop than kicking my heels ashore at half pay." James retorted. "And as I am the only lieutenant on board, I've only to split the officers' eighth with the ship's surgeon."

"Be glad you can draw half pay," Andrew grumbled as they turned into the Dolphin. "We mere midshipmen don't see so much as a farthing unless we bring in a prize."

"Then you should cease being a midshipman." Ignoring his friend's indignant snort, James laid a half-crown on the bar. "Two pints of your best bitter, if you please. And one for yourself."

The barman murmured, "Thankee, sir," and filled two blackjacks to the brim.

Ale in hand, James followed his friend through the crowded room. "Have you sat your exams yet?"

"No, they've not been offered since I turned nineteen." Andrew slid into a settle by the cold hearth. "Thank you for the wine, by the way. It was a pleasant change from the pig-swill that's all my watch can afford."

"It did reach you, then?" James joined him on the long bench. "Good."

"Oh, yes." Andrew's smile turned wry. "While it lasted I was the most popular man on the larboard watch."

This reminded James of an amusing incident in the Bee's wardroom. It made his friend laugh, as he'd know it would, and Andrew matched it with a decidedly naughty tale about the Company factor's daughter and a handsome but rakish lieutenant.

By then their cups were empty. While his friend carried both jacks back to be refilled, James drew his prize agent's letter from his pocket. The news was even better than he'd hoped. Not only had the Prize Board finally paid out on the two merchantmen, but the recently-captured French eighteen was being bought into the Service, so he could expect his share from her within a matter of months. The sum named by Warren would not only discharge his debts and pay the wardroom expenses, but leave enough over to keep him comfortably in funds until the end of the quarter.

But where was Andrew? Surely the barman wasn't that busy? No, there he was at the bar, with another mid. The two were nearly of a height, but the other man was some years older and lightly built, with a sallow, pockmarked complexion. He was speaking--James could see his lips move--but the sound was lost in the general din. Still talking, he leaned toward Andrew and laid a hand on his arm. Andrew shook the man's grasp off and jerked up his chin. Whatever he said reddened the man's cheeks, making the skin around them look even more yellow by comparison. The fellow's eyes narrowed, and whatever he said set Andrew's mouth in an angry line, but before he could reply the other mid turned on his heel and left. Andrew watched him out of sight, then collected their drinks.

"Is something wrong? Who was that fellow you were talking to?"

Andrew reclaimed his seat with a nonchalance belied by the tightening at the corners of his mouth. "No one of importance, and nothing worth worrying about. How long are you in port?"

James would have liked to press the point, but knew from past experience that doing so would only inflame Andrew's stubborn streak. "Three days, I think. Perhaps four. We've some stores yet to make up." The conversation turned to the rapaciousness and general unreliability of the dockyard, the various Navy Boards, and the merchants of the town.

The clock struck five, then the quarter. James reached for his watch--surely they couldn't have been talking for almost four hours!--but it said the same. "I must go; I've the second dog-watch." He rose and shrugged into his coat.

Andrew rose with him. "I'd ask you to dine with me this evening," he said, "but as it happens I've a previous engagement."

James raised an eyebrow. "Dancing with the factor's daughter, are we?" He meant it as a joke, and was surprised when his friend looked away.

Before the silence became awkward Andrew said, "The lady's not to my taste, I'm afraid. Aside from the obvious, she's more than a little plump and quite short."

"By which one may assume," James kept his tone light, "you prefer your partners tall and lean."

"Yes." Andrew turned back and smiled at him. "I do."

He smiled back then, remembering the letter, said, "I've just come into possession of some good news from my prize agent. Will you join me for supper tomorrow to celebrate?"

"Of course!" Andrew's smile turned wry. "Have you ever known a midshipman turn down a free meal?"

James chuckled, "Not so far as I can recollect," and picked up his hat. "I've taken rooms at the Drake's Head. Shall we meet there at seven o'clock?"

Andrew swept him an elaborate bow. "I shall wait upon your arrival, Lieutenant."

"Oh, don't be absurd!" James raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to be taken for a half-wit?"

Andrew shrugged. "I've been taken for worse."

"Rascal!" James laughed, and cuffed him on the shoulder.

-------

Lieutenant Norrington was waiting for the Cormorant's smallboat to collect him when a man burst out of an alley and tore across the quay. A moment later four sailors appeared and gave chase. The fleeing man looked over his shoulder, caught his foot on a cobble, and went down.

The first sailor to reach the man brought a barrel stave down on his shoulder. His fellows joined in with staves and feet.

"What are you doing? Stop that at once!" Norrington strode across the quay, seizing upraised wrist, pulling the man bodily around to face him. "Stop, I said!" The other men turned toward him; he gathered them with his eyes. "That's an order!"

The sailors drew away slightly, sullen but obedient. The man at their feet groaned faintly but made no attempt to get up.

"Four against one, and the one unarmed." He made no effort to keep the disgust from his voice. "You call yourselves Englishmen? What possible excuse can you have for such behavior?"

"They were acting under my orders, Lieutenant." A man wearing the uniform of a Senior Post Captain swept the scene before him with a glance. "Though they do seem to have taken things rather farther than I intended. You are?"

Norrington drew himself up stiffly. "Norrington of the Cormorant. Sir."

A twist of the Captain's lip showed he'd noticed the pause. "Delahunt, of the Sirene. Your sense of fair play is commendable, Lieutenant, but in this instance, misplaced." He flicked a glance over the huddled figure at his feet. "This--creature--is my prisoner and was attempting to escape. I ordered these men to recapture and subdue him. Is that sufficient reason for you?"

It was not, but Norrington could scarcely argue the point in front of Delahunt's men. He confined himself to a single, "Sir."

Delahunt nodded at the biggest of the four sailors. "Get him up."

The sailor prodded the prisoner with his foot. "Y' heard the Cap'n. On yer feet, y' thrice-damned bugger!" The man scrambled to obey, only to have his legs swept out from under him by another of the sailors.

Norrington choked back a reprimand. Whatever the man's crimes, to treat a prisoner so was indefensible. Lawbreakers must, of course, be captured and punished for the good of society, but such punishment was the jurisdiction of the courts, not the individual. But the men were under Delahunt's command, and Delahunt said nothing.

Wood scraped on the stone of the dock, and a voice called "Cormorant!"

Delahunt said, "Your boat, I believe, Lieutenant. Don't let us keep you."

There was no mistaking the dismissal. Norrington said "Sir" again, and turned to the dock. As he settled into the seat in the smallboat's stern, two of Delahunt's men pulled the prisoner to his feet and Norrington got his first look at the man's face.

It was the midshipman he'd seen arguing with Gillette only a few hours before.

-------

The clocks of the town were striking twelve as James started up the road from the harbour. He'd not expected to be released so soon, but the men had been unusually industrious---spurred, no doubt, by Captain Hardiston's announcement that no sailor would be granted shore leave until every man's assigned tasks were completed. He must remember that trick for when he had a command of his own.

What he wanted at the moment, however, was luncheon. If luck was with him, Andrew would be at the Dolphin. And if he was not, James could enjoy his meal and a leisurely pint while deciding what to do with the rest of his afternoon.

The room was dim after the bright midday sun. James stepped out of the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust. Once they did, he had no difficulty spotting his friend. Andrew was lounging at his ease on the same long settle they'd used last night. He'd a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other, but he wasn't reading. He was watching something across the room, lips parted and cheek flushed. James saw him swallow, and his tongue creep out to wet his lips.

He followed his friend's gaze, idly wondering whether the girl would be dark or fair... and saw a porter, stripped to the waist, with a beer barrel on his shoulder. He scanned the surrounding tables, looking for the girl who'd caught Andrew's eye, but found no females of any age or description.

Of course! How absurd of him! The woman, whoever she was, must have stepped into the street a moment before. He looked back at his friend-- but Andrew's attention was still engaged elsewhere.

James followed his gaze again-- and saw, again, the porter, who disappeared down the stairs to the cellar.

Andrew sighed and returned his attention to his book.

The air in the room seemed to curdle, becoming too thick to breathe. James pushed blindly past the group of tradesmen entering the tavern, oblivious to their complaints and angry looks. He stumbled around the corner, into the shadow of the narrow alley that ran along one side. Leaning against the rough brick wall, he drew long, shuddering breaths, willing his racing heart to slow, the pulse pounding in his ears to ease. Concentrating on that, and nothing else.

When his head was clear again, James wiped his face with his handkerchief, folded his hands behind his back, and began to walk. He'd found it helped him to think.

Of one thing he was certain: he couldn't, absolutely could not have seen what he thought he saw. He must have missed something, overlooked something that would show him how ridiculous the idea was.

He called the dimly-lit room to mind and replayed his search of the tables. Surely there had been at least one female in the vicinity. A serving wench, a whore, some tradesman's wife....

...but he could recall none.

This was absurd. Andrew Gillette was not only one of his dearest and most valued friends, but a fine officer and a loyal servant of the Crown. Such a man could not, must not be a... a sodomite.

Andrew had been only twelve when they met, but he'd been sixteen when their paths had diverged. Surely at some point in those four years Andrew had fallen in love. Admired a pretty girl in the street. Commented on a maidservant's bosom. Visited a brothel, for God's sake. But try though he might, he could call no such memory to mind.

It could not be so and yet, if it was...

...if, impossible as it seemed, Andrew was--that sort--what ought he, James, to do? Where did his duty lie?

It was an act condemned by both God and Man. The Bible named it abomination, and the Articles of War declared death for any man found guilty of the act.

But... only the act was forbidden by the Articles, not the thought. A man who only thought such things--surely such a man would be no more guilty of sodomy than a man who thought of bedding a married woman would be guilty of adultery. God, it's true, equated the thought with the deed, but Man's law did not. Why, now he thought on it, he had no proof Andrew was a sodomite at all! His "evidence" was naught but speculation and inference. And surely one would not accuse a gentleman, let alone a friend, of such a detestable act based on mere speculation.

No man of honour would do so; the mere accusation could cause untold harm. Clearly the proper thing to do, the only honourable thing, was to keep silent.

-------

Supper began awkwardly. Despite his best intentions, James was unable to put the afternoon's events out of his mind and, as a consequence, he found himself guarding his speech more closely than usual. This, in turn, led to pauses in the conversation Andrew could scarcely have failed to notice.

But the excellent dinner--ordered the night before--had had a mellowing effect, as had the several bottles of wine that accompanied it. Now, as they sipped a final glass of brandy on the low terrace overlooking the sea, James' earlier agonizing seemed foolish, if not outright absurd. Andrew was his dear friend and as fine a fellow as one could hope to meet, and he must have been suffering from the sunstroke to even consider him capable of such things.

James drained the last few golden drops from his glass and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the terrace, the harbour at their feet, and the sun setting over the water. "A fine start to the evening." He smiled expansively at his friend. "What shall we do with the rest of it?"

Andrew blew a smoke-ring and smiled back. "Anything you like!"

"But I've no idea what the town has to offer," James protested. "I've only just arrived; you've been stationed here for months." He sat his glass down and leaned on the table. "What do you recommend?"

A line formed between Andrew's brows; he blew another smoke-ring and watched it dissipate. "There's a gaming-house nearby; one can get a game of whist there, or vingt-et-un. The woman who runs it--a Portuguese widow, or so she claims--seems as honest as one of her profession can afford to be." Another pause; another smoke-ring. "The landlord of the Santiago is reputed to have the best wine cellar on the island." A double ring; he watched them fade. "One of the tavernas has imported a dancer from Andalusia; she's made quite the sensation." His pipe seemed to have become obstructed. He took some time to clear it, then said, without looking up, "The house run by Senhora Alfama is generally considered the most welcoming to junior officers."

James considered the various options presented him. If Andrew was, as seemed likely, short of funds, a visit to either the Portuguese widow's or Senhora Alfama's could be awkward, and it was too soon after supper for a go at the Santiago's wine cellars to have any appeal. "And what," he asked, "is so sensational about this Andalusian dancer?"

Andrew smiled, and knocked the dottle out of his pipe. "You'll have to judge that for yourself."

-------

James was jarred awake by someone pounding on the door to his room. Groaning--each blow seemed to lift the top of his skull, only to drop it again in time for the next-- he stumbled out of bed. His mouth was coated in a gummy, foul-tasting paste, and he had to scoop a handful of water from the pitcher on the washstand before he could call, "Yes, yes, one moment!"

The pounding ceased, leaving only blessed silence.

Dear God in heaven, what had he been drinking last night? As he poured water into the basin and splashed his face, a vague memory surfaced of a pretty girl--not a servant; the taverna owner's daughter?--filling his glass with a sweet, thick, dark red liquid. What had she called it? Genjintha, gingana... something like that. Swearing to avoid the stuff in future, he pulled on his breeches, tucked his shirt, and rested his aching head against the doorframe for a moment before lifting the latch.

The man outside his door wore the single epaulette of a commander and the shoulder-cord of an adjutant. "Lieutenant Norrington?"

Bloody hell. Norrington straightened; he wasn't quite able to suppress a wince. "Sir?"

"Captain Claris." The adjutant nodded. "Admiral Rathbone requests your attendance in his office as soon as convenient."

From an admiral to a mere lieutenant, "as soon as convenient" meant immediately. "Of course, sir. Please inform the Admiral I shall come at once."

Claris cleared his throat. "I've been instructed to escort you. Take your time, Lieutenant," he added, not unsympathetically.

Norrington nodded and closed the door. As he dressed he searched his conscience, trying, and failing, to think what he could possibly have done to draw the Port Admiral's attention.

It was not quite ten minutes later when he placed his tricorn carefully on his aching head and joined Captain Claris in the courtyard. Neither man spoke as they descended to the docks and the imposing stone building just outside the dockyards.

Claris opened the door to the Admiral's office, said, "Lieutenant Norrington, sir," and closed the door on his heels.

The admiral was seated at his desk and didn't look up from the papers in his hand.

The figure standing in the window embrasure turned, revealing himself to be the post-captain--Delahunt, that was his name--Norrington had encountered on the quay two nights ago. The captain surveyed him head to foot, noting, so it seemed to Norrington, every wrinkle, smudge, and imperfection in his appearance.

It seemed an hour--though the clock on the mantlepiece behind the desk said it had only been seven minutes--before the admiral raised his head. "Lieutenant Norrington," he said, "Captain Delahunt seems to think you can provide us information in the matter of Mr. Rendell."

"I beg the admiral's pardon," Norrington said, "but I fear the captain is mistaken. I've no memory of the gentleman."

"Rendell," Delahunt said, "was the man whose capture you objected to, two nights ago."

He'd objected to the man's mistreatment, not his capture, but he could scarcely say so under the current circumstances. "My apologies, Captain." Norrington chose his words carefully. "I do not recall your mentioning his name, and I had no prior acquaintance with the man."

"Do you know what the charges laid against Mr. Rendell are?" Admiral Rathbone asked.

"No, sir."

"Rendell," Delahunt all but spat the name, "was caught balls-deep in a local catamite."

Norrington stiffened, shocked as much by Delahunt's crudity as the charge itself. "I repeat, sir," he said, "I had no prior acquaintance with the man."

Delahunt's eyes narrowed. "But you are acquainted with a midshipman named Andrew Gillette?

Norrington's stomach lurched; he swallowed bile. "Mr. Gillette and I served together on the Titan for four years, sir."

Delahunt's expression reminded him of a cat watching a mousehole. "Have you seen Mr. Gillette since your arrival in Madeira?"

"I dined with him last night, sir."

"And have you," the captain's tone had gone silky-soft, "ever seen Gillette and Rendell together, Lieutenant?"

Damn you. "Once, sir."

"When?"

"We met by chance in the street." Norrington kept his voice level, his eyes straight ahead, as though he were delivering a report on the state of the ship's stores or some other matter of no consequence. "I suggested we renew our acquaintance over a drink. Rendell approached Mr Gillette when he stepped away from the table briefly."

"They appear well acquainted? On good terms with one another?" Delahunt made the commonplace expression sound vaguely indecent.

"On the contrary, sir." He met the man's eyes levelly. "It seemed to me that they disagreed quite decidedly."

"And on what did they disagree?"

"As I do not make a habit of inquiring into my friends' affairs, I cannot say. Sir." His shot went home; Delahunt's jaw tightened.

Admiral Rathbone had been listening to their exchange with growing impatience. "Captain Delahunt," he said, "I have given you great latitude, in accordance with the Admiralty's request, but that latitude is not unlimited. You led me to believe Lieutenant Norrington, and he alone, held information vital to your investigation, yet so far your questions have yielded no facts which could not as easily have been obtained from any number of other sources. Kindly either get to the point or allow Lieutenant Norrington to return to the duties that no doubt await him."

"My apologies, sir." Delahunt bowed slightly. "I neglected to mention earlier that the creature Rendell has confessed to involving several other officers in his vile perversion, Mr. Gillette among them."

A cold hand seemed to close about James' heart. Did Delahunt have the proof he'd feared to find?

No. If Delahunt could prove the charge he would not have needed James. He was bluffing; he must be. And yet... if asked directly, he could not lie; honour forbade it. But if to speak the truth was to betray a friend...

Delahunt's voice broke into his thoughts. "You are strangely silent, Lieutenant. Does my information not surprise you?"

"No, sir." James let his contempt for the man show in his voice. "In my experience, a man facing the noose will often say anything in hopes of avoiding his fate."

"You seem quite certain of your conclusion." Admiral Rathbone's tone was mild, but his eyes were shrewd. "Explain your reasoning."

James met the admiral's eyes and spoke from his heart. "I first met Andrew Gillette when he was a green midshipman of twelve years, sir. In all the years since, I have never seen him conduct himself in a manner unbefitting a gentleman. I could more easily believe the world flat than I could imagine Mr Gillette behaving in any manner likely to bring disgrace upon the Service."

"A most cogent and comprehensive testimonial, Lieutenant," Admiral Rathbone said. "Have you any evidence to support the man Rendell's accusations against Mr. Gillette, Captain?"

Delahunt looked as though he had bitten into spoiled fruit. "Not at present, sir."

"Then I see no reason to pursue the matter further." Delahunt began to protest, but the Admiral overrode him. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir." He bowed to Rathbone, then nodded to his adversary. "Captain."

Delahunt's face was livid with thwarted rage; he glared at Norrington, but said nothing.

Norrington turned on his heel and walked out of the building.

The late-morning sun was hot on his back; he could feel it unknotting the tension in his neck and shoulders. It had been a near thing, but he'd spiked Delahunt's cannon, if only for the moment. He would need more than Rendell's word to convince the Admiral to bring charges now.

Rendell. He saw again the huddled figure on the stones of the quay, the terror in the wretched man's face as he was pulled to his feet. God grant him mercy. He would get none from the court-martial, that was certain.

How many others had the man accused? Had it been only desperation or....

James realized he no longer wished to know, about Andrew or anyone else. Was there any man alive who did not harbour some secret vice or shame? If a man acted honorably, performed his duties well, and generally behaved in a manner to bring credit to himself and all who served with him, that was enough.

He reached the Drake's Head's just as a familiar figure in Navy blue rushed through the arch that led to the courtyard.

"James!" Andrew caught himself against the pillar with one hand. He was so pale his freckles stood out like drops of blood, but he smiled in self-evident relief. "You're all right!"

James raised both eyebrows. "Should I not be?"

"They said--" Andrew collapsed against the pillar, panting, "--you'd been called---to the Port Admiral's office. Why--"

"A simple misunderstanding, that's all. " James smiled at his friend. "Nothing of any importance."