Fan Fiction ❯ You Didn't Even Ask ❯ Chapter 1

Author's Note: This was written as a giftfic for El.

Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the characters therein; it belongs to a big corporation (corporations plural, perhaps? I'm not sure), the name of which I cannot immediately recall.

Backdating: This was written in March 2004.

"To the happy couple!" someone exclaimed, and Gillette automatically touched his glass against the young sailor's in a toast. What was that boy's name again - Fredricks, Ferrick? Something like that. Commodore Norrington would know. Gillette was secretly in awe of his bold Commodore - the man's ability could remember the name of every sailor serving under him was only one of many traits that continually impressed the Lieutenant.

And just when I thought he couldn't become any greater... he makes such a grand gesture, sacrificing his own happiness and risking damage to his career to reward a deserving few. For a moment, he felt a surge of jealousy for the young woman whose wedding they celebrated this night. What a fool Elizabeth was to give up a man like that! "Yes, to the happy couple," he replied with a polite smile, quickly escaping the slightly drunk young man.

As he made his way across the room, he heard someone call his name. "Lieutenant Gillette!" Turning, he nodded and moved through the crowd to Elizabeth's side.

"Can I help you, Mistress Turner? Congratulations on your marriage," he said politely.

She gave him a blissful smile. "Lieutenant Gillette, I was wondering... do you know where Commodore Norrington is? Will and I had hoped he would be here tonight, so we could thank him for his kindness towards us. I don't believe we've done so properly quite yet."

Gillette paused. Where was the Commodore? His commander had told him to go ahead, and promised to arrive later - but it was nearly midnight, and Commodore Norrington had not yet arrived. Now that he thought about it, the Commodore had been very moody the past fortnight or so. He doubted that the older man would show at this late hour. "Duty called, Mistress Turner," he lied smoothly, quickly covering for his commander. "His presence was required elsewhere, and he sent me in his stead. I apologize for not informing you earlier."

Elizabeth's face creased in disappointment. "I see," she said. "Well, tell him that Will and I send our deepest thanks, and are sorry that he could not come."

"I will do that," Gillette promised. Nodding respectfully to Elizabeth, and then again to the approaching Master Turner, he turned away, slowly heading towards the exit.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, his pace increased. I should have realized how depressed he's been! he scolded himself. He must be feeling terrible about this, to avoid the wedding itself! The Lieutenant prided himself on how carefully he watched his commander, and how sensitive he was to every nuance of the older man's mood; to have missed this was not just negligent, but a severe blow to his pride. Oh dear, I do hope he's all right.

"Come in," a slurred, weary voice called from the Commodore's cabin in response to Gillette's loud knock. Slowly opening the door, Gillette stared in shock at the state his normally suave and well-groomed commander was in. The older man was wearing only his dressing robe, white wig nowhere to be seen - for the first time, the Lieutenant saw Norrington's hair, a handsome chestnut that suited him much better than the powdered white curls. There were dark circles around the Commodore's eyes, and he held a half-full bottle, two others littering the table at which he sat.

"Commodore Norrington!" Gillette breathed in shock. "Whatever has possessed you?" He had never seen his commander drink before, either - no more than a single glass of wine at official occasions, at least.

"Love, Luten- Li'ut- G'llette," his Commodore slurred, waving the bottle for emphasis. "Love." He peered suspiciously at his Lieutenant. "Wh're y'doin' 'ere? Y'went to the weng- weld- pardy," he accused. "Gone 'way. E'rybody at pardy. No one to see me," he added, slightly more coherently. "Why're y' 'ere?"

No wonder the older man didn't drink often, if he was in this state after fewer than three bottles of wine. "True, this was a good time if you had to get drunk," Gillette found himself admitting. The thought of anyone else seeing his commander in this state - or worse, the thought of this news reaching his superiors - was rather frightening. What kind of damage it could do to his career, particularly so soon after loosing the infamous Jack Sparrow from the very gallows! "I came because the Turners asked me to bring you a message," he explained. "Although perhaps you'd like to hear it later, this might not be the best time to mention Elizabeth-"

"'Lizbeth!" the Commodore shouted, slamming his bottle down on the table. "I don' care 'bout 'Lizbeth! N'ver liked 'er," he added in a tone that verged on the cranky. "Couln't stan' 'er father, neif- neth- too. Was 'is idea to marry 'er an'way."

"But you were talking about love, Commodore," Gillette said, confused. Then he shook his head. "No, it's none of my business. Why don't you give me that, sir...." He gently pried the Commodore's fingers from the bottle and corked it, setting it aside. "I think you'd best go to bed now."

"Mmm. Sleepy," his commander murmured, annoyance suddenly gone as he blinked up at Gillette with bleary eyes. "Good ol' G'llette, always takin' care of me.... Cleanin' up af'er me.... An' I n'ver said thank y', did I?" He continued to babble sleepily as he let his Lieutenant guide him to his bed. Lying down, he looked up at Gillette while the younger man pulled the covers over him. "Wouln't be 'ere w'out y', an' I n'ver said thank y'."

"No, sir, your talents would have carried you to the top regardless of my presence," Gillette corrected him quickly. "I try only to make things a little smoother, Commodore. You would excel with or without me."

"Don' go!" Apparently confusing his Lieutenant's statement somehow, the Commodore reached up, grabbing Gillette's arm. Startled, Gillette gently pulled the older man's hand from his wrist.

"I'll be right here, Commodore," he assured his commander, reaching over to pull the chair close to the bed. It was a good idea to stay anyway - Commodore Norrington would certainly have a hangover to deal with in the morning, and he sincerely doubted that his commanding officer had much experience with that sort of thing.

Closing his eyes, the Commodore sank back against the pillow, his breathing slowly easing into the steady patterns of sleep. Just as Gillette began to believe that the man was asleep, he spoke again, voice so quiet that the Lieutenant was forced to lean close to hear it. "Good ol' G'llette.... So p'lite... y' din't even ask who...."

"Who what, sir?" Gillette inquired anxiously.

"Who 'm mopin' 'bout.... So p'lite... y' fool." He fell silent, and now seemed to be truly asleep.

Puzzled, Gillette leaned back, watching his Commodore with quiet confusion. The confusion slowly turned into a tiny spark of hope that he let float around in the back of his mind, while he indulged himself in what had in the space of a few minutes become his new favorite pastime - watching Commodore Norrington sleep.