Moncrieff is being terribly bitchy and not doing anything I want him to. He's turning into bloody Hugh Grant, and I hate that. He's Rupert Everett, dammit! Moncrieff is Rupert Everett! On the other hand, I'm writing later chapters as well, jumping around a bit, and Bennett is being lovely and Firth-y and doing just as I tell him to. At least *one* of the Honoraries shows proper respect for his authoress. *harrumphs* Anyway, enjoy.
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Gillette huddled on one side of the bed, jerking the covers up over his chest with a furious exhalation. Norrington sighed sympathetically and slipped into bed beside him, gently stroking his lover's bare, tense shoulder. "Don't mind him, Renault. You know you're a better man than he is."
"I suppose." Gillette, sulking, curled into a ball. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."
"Oh, is that what you're upset about?" Norrington raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, Renault, there is really no danger of my running off with Lieutenant Moncrieff, if that's what's been bothering you."
Gillette snorted with bitter laughter and turned to face him. "I should hope not. I daresay I'm a better catch than him--that man acts like he's compensating for something."
Norrington's lips quirked upwards. "And you deduced this from thirty seconds of conversation with him."
"I'm trying to make myself feel better," Gillette mumbled into the pillow. "Let me insult him in peace."
"I say there's no need to stoop to his level. Be the bigger man, Renault."
"I assure you," said Gillette sardonically, "I probably am."
Norrington sighed. "You're incorrigible," he said. Gillette snuggled up in his arms.
"I'm insulted, is what I am."
"The man is, admittedly, an arrogant prick. He is also your fellow officer, and it won't do to alienate him right from the start."
"As opposed to alienating him later?" Gillette nestled more comfortably into Norrington's embrace. Norrington laughed softly in spite of himself; deep, rich, sensual laughter vibrating between them, and Gillette, overcome, threw a possessive arm across his lover's chest and held him close.
"If Moncrieff so much as looks cross-eyed at you," he murmured, "so help me, I'll run him through. You're mine, and no one else's." He raised his eyes briefly, anxiously to Norrington's, as if asking permission to claim him as such--he'd never been so bold about it before.
Norrington exhaled softly and kissed Gillette's forehead. "I won't argue with that."
Gillette smiled against his lover's bare shoulder, and fell asleep.
*****
Moncrieff reclined on the sofa, twirling the stem of a wineglass idly between his long fingers. He'd not been in the Caribbean a week yet, and already he'd begun to smell the makings of a scandal. Moncrieff was in his element.
His thoughts shifted to Commodore Norrington and his overprotective young lieutenant. There was an odd dynamic between them--Norrington seemed almost as defensive of his lieutenant as Gillette was of him...as if he owed Gillette for more than just his loyalty; as if their relationship were more than strictly professional.
Unbidden, Bennett came to mind, and he smiled wryly. Good old Bennett. The man was an invaluable ally when it came to bailing one out of scrapes and tight spots. It was thanks to Bennett, after all, that Moncrieff was in Jamaica at the moment, away from all that nasty business with the Marquis and the incriminating letters, and posted in a spot most convenient for savoring all the delectable Naval eye candy.
Most notably, James Norrington. A slow smile twisted Moncrieff's lips at the memory of him. It had been a long time since he'd had a bedmate as fine as the dashing young commodore. He'd have to work on him a bit, but then, where was the fun if there was no challenge? And besides, in the end, nobody ever refused Jean-Jacques Moncrieff.
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Simply enormous panties! *sigh* Moncrieff, don't you dare go all Daniel Cleaver on me. This is not "Bridget Jones' Diary." Even if Colin Firth is in it.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse
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Gillette huddled on one side of the bed, jerking the covers up over his chest with a furious exhalation. Norrington sighed sympathetically and slipped into bed beside him, gently stroking his lover's bare, tense shoulder. "Don't mind him, Renault. You know you're a better man than he is."
"I suppose." Gillette, sulking, curled into a ball. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."
"Oh, is that what you're upset about?" Norrington raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, Renault, there is really no danger of my running off with Lieutenant Moncrieff, if that's what's been bothering you."
Gillette snorted with bitter laughter and turned to face him. "I should hope not. I daresay I'm a better catch than him--that man acts like he's compensating for something."
Norrington's lips quirked upwards. "And you deduced this from thirty seconds of conversation with him."
"I'm trying to make myself feel better," Gillette mumbled into the pillow. "Let me insult him in peace."
"I say there's no need to stoop to his level. Be the bigger man, Renault."
"I assure you," said Gillette sardonically, "I probably am."
Norrington sighed. "You're incorrigible," he said. Gillette snuggled up in his arms.
"I'm insulted, is what I am."
"The man is, admittedly, an arrogant prick. He is also your fellow officer, and it won't do to alienate him right from the start."
"As opposed to alienating him later?" Gillette nestled more comfortably into Norrington's embrace. Norrington laughed softly in spite of himself; deep, rich, sensual laughter vibrating between them, and Gillette, overcome, threw a possessive arm across his lover's chest and held him close.
"If Moncrieff so much as looks cross-eyed at you," he murmured, "so help me, I'll run him through. You're mine, and no one else's." He raised his eyes briefly, anxiously to Norrington's, as if asking permission to claim him as such--he'd never been so bold about it before.
Norrington exhaled softly and kissed Gillette's forehead. "I won't argue with that."
Gillette smiled against his lover's bare shoulder, and fell asleep.
*****
Moncrieff reclined on the sofa, twirling the stem of a wineglass idly between his long fingers. He'd not been in the Caribbean a week yet, and already he'd begun to smell the makings of a scandal. Moncrieff was in his element.
His thoughts shifted to Commodore Norrington and his overprotective young lieutenant. There was an odd dynamic between them--Norrington seemed almost as defensive of his lieutenant as Gillette was of him...as if he owed Gillette for more than just his loyalty; as if their relationship were more than strictly professional.
Unbidden, Bennett came to mind, and he smiled wryly. Good old Bennett. The man was an invaluable ally when it came to bailing one out of scrapes and tight spots. It was thanks to Bennett, after all, that Moncrieff was in Jamaica at the moment, away from all that nasty business with the Marquis and the incriminating letters, and posted in a spot most convenient for savoring all the delectable Naval eye candy.
Most notably, James Norrington. A slow smile twisted Moncrieff's lips at the memory of him. It had been a long time since he'd had a bedmate as fine as the dashing young commodore. He'd have to work on him a bit, but then, where was the fun if there was no challenge? And besides, in the end, nobody ever refused Jean-Jacques Moncrieff.
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Simply enormous panties! *sigh* Moncrieff, don't you dare go all Daniel Cleaver on me. This is not "Bridget Jones' Diary." Even if Colin Firth is in it.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse