"I've never buggered a Commodore before," Gillette drawls.

Norrington hasn't done this in years, not since he was a lieutenant himself—to say that the act undermines the necessary distinction between the ranks would be an understatement—but he still relaxes instantly against the pressure of Gillette's blunt fingers, and he feels his cheeks flush hot with shame and pleasure.

A Commodore, indeed. It scarcely seems two weeks since he was sitting his lieutenancy exam at Portsmouth. He was terrified; three of the other middies aboard the Windermere had already failed. But he had passed, of course. He always does. He has risen through the ranks in near-record time, had been the youngest Captain in the Caribbean by five years or more. It has not been the easy success that some men have; he has worked, and worked hard. His hands, tanned and salt-hardened, bear silent witness to the work of constructing his career.

Soon—sooner than he would like, perhaps, although he does not know it and would never admit it—he will be an Admiral. Soon he will have to relinquish the well-paced planks of a ship's quarterdeck, the unquestioning loyalty of its men. Surely this is no sacrifice. He will command fleets; he will control the destinies of thousands, tens of thousands of men. One ship, one Captain, is a trifle in comparison.

Gillette spits in his hand, thrusts again.

This will be the last time: he cannot afford it any more. Ironic, that every promotion should mean fewer luxuries he can afford. When he became a lieutenant he gave up drink. He did not like the power it held over him, weighed its pleasures against the promise of his future. It was an easy decision. This one was not so easy.

It used to be that he dreamed of the day when he would have the position—the privacy—for things like this. He spent his first ten years in the Navy living half on top of other men; now he will never have to share a cabin again. This was the sort of thing his hard work, his years of sacrifice were supposed to have been for. The ability, the right, to live his own life, run his own ship, exactly as he desires.

He is not a stupid man. He has always known what men do at sea, over cannon and casks of rum. He has been in the Navy since the age of twelve. But that brazen, below-decks sort of fucking is not for James Norrington. Not that he has not done it, once or twice: he is a hard man, but he is a man and was once a lad, and at seventeen as desperate as any other. Five months out from Spithead without a touch but his own, and thinking of the cocky third lieutenant half the time he did that—no, it was not hard to yield, not hard to straddle the gun and kiss its cold iron barrel. It was relief, pure and sweet, and he did not, does not regret it. But he is no longer a lad and that is not for him anymore. He has learned control. And as he has gained the privilege which would allow him freedom, he has controlled himself more strictly, taken fewer liberties. He has not done this in years.

He can feel Gillette behind him, voice hoarse with lust and fear. "Ready, sir?"

It had been easy—too easy—to seduce his eager young lieutenant, already half in love with handsome, heroic Captain James Norrington. Gillette would have done anything he had asked, and Norrington hates himself for that. For earning it, for knowing it, or for using it, he is not quite sure—only that this must be the last.

He tries to tell himself the timing does not mean anything. Gillette had come to him three weeks ago, when he was still a Captain, before the letter carrying news of his promotion had made its way to Port Royal. Gillette had come to him, his quiet wry lieutenant, to ask him something else. He had come not knowing what he wanted.

The men brawl, rut, shirk: it is always thus, always the greater part of a captain's duty to keep his crew motivated and true. Norrington is a strict and a proud commander. He runs the tightest ship in the fleet, and his men know it. On his quarterdeck, his word is the word of God. But he does reward this unflinching obedience; his officers trust him, and behind closed doors, they can and do speak their minds. He is not so proud as to dismiss the opinions of others: he has handpicked these men, has had that right, has cultivated and polished them with his own hand. He respects them, each and every one, for it is the only way they will respect him. And so when Gillette had come to speak to him on a point of discipline among the men, Norrington had opened his door and gone to stand by his window, and waited for his lieutenant to speak.

The last one, before Gillette, had been nine years ago. Three years ago he had given up even the discreet sort of whoring he had occasionally done; since then it had been the constant struggle and inevitable fall into self-abuse. Nine years ago he had been first lieutenant himself, aboard the Aurora, and a midshipman on the verge of promotion—Sullivan, that had been his name—had sought him out, watched him too long on deck and lingered when called to the officers' cabin. It had not been difficult to come to an understanding. Norrington had known the signs by then.

He had had to take Sullivan in snatched moments: once in a sail locker, just once and desperately in the cabin when the other lieutenants were all on watch or at their dinner. At Christmas the Aurora's men had been granted leave in Portsmouth; Sullivan had followed him off ship and into town and up the stairs in the first inn they passed, all without speaking a word. Norrington had fucked the boy four times a day for the three days of their leave. On Boxing Day Sullivan turned nineteen, and he sat the exam for his lieutenancy the following night. He passed and was signed instantly by the Myrmidon, just back from the Cape and short on officers. Norrington did not see him again.

Sullivan had known what he wanted, had sought Norrington out. There are always men like Sullivan in the Navy—some, lucky enough to figure out their tastes early on, join up expressly for the purpose, and others discover their inclination at sea. They tend to be the ones who are caught and hung for it, the ones who fall in love instead of just fucking like everyone else. He does not know whether Sullivan had been in love with him, but he does know the type. Gillette is not like Sullivan. He did not seek Norrington out, not consciously. The potential was there, though, and Norrington had seen it. Gillette did not watch him boldly, brazenly as Sullivan had—but he watched him with admiration, and that was the next closest thing to desire. It had been too easy, with him there in his cabin, to argue and back him up against the desk and watch him tense anticipatorily. Too easy to turn him and fuck him over the same desk, from behind and with nearly all of his clothes still on. Afterward there had been tear-tracks on Gillette's cheeks and Norrington had kissed him, palmed his cheekbones, touched his hair. Then eight bells had sounded and it was Gillette's watch and he had tucked his shirt back in, righted his wig and gone out on deck. He was a fine officer, one of the finest Norrington had seen in a long time. He would not be a lieutenant for long.

And he, Norrington, would not be a Captain for long, he had known it then; the promotion was a formality, expected by all. And he will not long be a Commodore, either. The sacrifices he made, all those careful early years, were for this—for command, for a ship and the right to make it his domain. And soon, in a few years which will flutter by like so many hours, it will be over: he will have a desk and a grand house in London and one in Jamaica too, a wife and sons to carry the name, but no longer will he command his own world at sea. And Gillette could very well be the last. Should be the last, must be: he cannot do it again, not this way. He feels sick to his bones when he sees how Gillette looks at him now. The men trust him, love him, too well for him to do this again.

He will write to the Admiral. After, when Gillette has gone back up on deck to prowl under the stars and order Groves about, he will write. Get Gillette a command somewhere. A captured French sloop, the Melisande, is due from St. Lucia next month, its diverted cargo bound for England. Lieutenant Smythe of the York is eligible, but Norrington's officers are the finest in the Caribbean, and he knows he will have no trouble of it. He will not tell Gillette.

"Harder," is all he says now to his first lieutenant, who is doing his best to fuck him into next week. "Harder."

—

He lets it continue while they chase the pirates, while he waits for Gillette's transfer to come through. He had thought of ending it altogether, but it would be too complicated to have to explain. He would feel he owed Gillette that much, even though he could simply tell him it was over and the order would be obeyed without question. Better to simply continue for these few weeks, and then Gillette will be gone to the Melisande and nothing need ever be spoken again.

They have their hands full, at any rate, and do not get many opportunities now.