There was no one else around and it always started this way. A sneaking shame and Cutler wondered why he was the one to be allowed to view it. Time and again, was this the sixth time? Norrington's large hands cradled the slender neck against his palm and pressed his lips against the mouth. The noise, the taste on his tongue, the sigh of enjoyment – all of these little things set Beckett on edge. His quill snapped in twain. His letter was ruined.
Cutler rose abruptly from his chair and grasped the brass rubbish bin. James blinked as Beckett advanced and set down his bottle of rum. Cutler held up the rubbish bin and snatched the bottle from Norrington's lose grasp, smearing ink on his fingers. James opened his mouth as Beckett held the bottle above the rubbish bin and as he let it drop Norrington let out an "ah!" of protest. The bottle made a smashing, splashing sound that satisfied Cutler immensely.
Beckett thrust his face forward as James started to stand, thunder on both of their faces. Very quietly, Cutler said, "I have no care as to what you drink or how you drink it or how drunk you become on your own time, but whenever you are in my presence you will drink like a gentleman and not as Billy Ruffian. Do I make myself clear, Admiral Norrington?" James snapped his mouth shut and plopped back into his chair. He nodded. Beckett cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, "Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Norrington hissed at Cutler. "Good. Very good." Beckett replaced the rubbish bin under his bureau de plat and went to the sideboard to pour them both brandewijn courtesy of The Flying Dutchman. Cutler turned and nearly walked into Norrington, who had stood up and walked silently behind him. Looking up into James' pouting face, Beckett handed him his snifter, "A fine brandy, made from elderberries and aged in a charred oak cask for ten years. Warm it with your palm. Swirl, smell, then sip."