Because Auggie writes Bennett so much better than I do, and because I was getting jealous. :) Technically, she wrote him before I did. I couldn't have that, now, could I? Hence, Bennetty goodness. (Mmm, Colin Firth in uniform. *drool*)
--------------------------
Commodore Matthew J. Bennett was a man whose outward stiffness belied the dank rottenness within. And if one were to say that to his face, he would respond with a brisk, clipped "Nonsense, don't be so melodramatic," turn on his heel, walk away and brood over it for the next few days.
Moncrieff had not written him yet. To be fair, he'd only been gone four months, and had he sat down and written a letter the moment he stepped onto the docks of Port Royale and mailed it immediately, it would still take the letter at least another month to reach England, under favorable conditions. But he had a feeling Moncrieff had not bothered to write a letter at all, and his mood darkened considerably. Of course Moncrieff would have better things to do than write to him; he'd ensured that his young protege would be sent to a place where his decadence and peculiar tastes could be indulged and overlooked. Moncrieff was most likely sitting on a beach, drinking rum, eating mangoes and admiring the redcoats' arses as they passed by.
For a fleeting moment, he thought hypothetically of joining his former lieutenant in Jamaica. Perhaps the romantic Caribbean air would afford him the confidence to discuss matters of love and lust with the one person whom he'd never been confident around. Bennett could handle anyone from the King downward--not that he'd ever met the King, but he didn't imagine it would be a problem if he ever did--with a stiff upper lip and a sharp tongue, but Moncrieff had a way of tying his tongue in knots, and Bennett wondered if perhaps it wasn't all for the best that the seductive Frenchman was gone.
Temptation was a dangerous thing, if one didn't have one's wits sharpened at all times, and Moncrieff had an unpleasant habit of making Bennett feel tipsy with his very presence. No, Moncrieff was dangerous. Bennett didn't trust himself around him, and he didn't like not being able to trust people. And he found that he enjoyed the pleasures of his position just a bit too much to risk losing it for a bit of pleasure with Moncrieff.
Still--it wouldn't hurt to know just how he was doing, would it? What things were like in the Caribbean. Though if he wanted an accurate account, Moncrieff was hardly the person to ask.
He pulled a crisp sheet of parchment from his desk, sharpening a quill with brisk, hawklike movements, and addressed the letter aloud. "To the esteemed Commodore James Norrington, with my compliments..."
-------------------
Moncrieff had discovered the joys of baiting Gillette. It was always great fun to see the man's perpetual sneer deepen to the point where he was all but baring his teeth and growling like a wolf, and he was the worthiest opponent Moncrieff had found yet when it came to battles of wits.
Gillette stood at the helm, hands behind his back, wearing, for once, an expression of such serene calm that Moncrieff thought it would almost be a shame to disturb him. "Let it never be said that Jean-Jacques Moncrieff turned down a good opportunity," he murmured, and threw an arm about his superior's shoulders. "Comment ca va, mon ami?"
(A/N: I don't speak a word of French. Shoot me if any of it is wrong.)
Gillette shook the arm from his shoulders. "Not even you could ruin my good mood today, Moncrieff."
"Oh..." Moncrieff pouted. "May I try to, at least?"
"Leave me be, Moncrieff." The sneer was back, and Gillette turned to leave. "I'm in no mood for this."
"You're looking simply lovely today, as always. Pretty girls falling down at your feet, eh?"
Gillette tensed, clenching his fists, and turned slowly to face Moncrieff with an air of forced calm. "As if you would know anything about women, Moncrieff."
Moncrieff's face split into a wide, predatorial grin. "Ah," he breathed. "The kitten has claws."
"Kitten?" Gillette scowled, furious with both himself and Moncrieff. He knew better than to give the bastard ammunition, pretending he was interested. Moncrieff smirked.
"Oui. Commodore Norrington's little marmalade kitten."
Gillette clenched his fists hard, nails digging into the palms of his hands. "Leave, Moncrieff. Now. That's an order."
Moncrieff did so, with a mocking bow, leaving Gillette to lean against the mast and ponder what on earth that had all been about.
-------------------------------
Yay for Angsty!Bennett. Because Colin is so pretty when he's angsting. I want to go out and rent "Bridget Jones' Diary" right now, just for all the Colin angst. Ooh, or "Pride and Prejudice." Even better. Because that's WetLinenShirt!Colin angst. Mmm. Darcy-ness.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse
--------------------------
Commodore Matthew J. Bennett was a man whose outward stiffness belied the dank rottenness within. And if one were to say that to his face, he would respond with a brisk, clipped "Nonsense, don't be so melodramatic," turn on his heel, walk away and brood over it for the next few days.
Moncrieff had not written him yet. To be fair, he'd only been gone four months, and had he sat down and written a letter the moment he stepped onto the docks of Port Royale and mailed it immediately, it would still take the letter at least another month to reach England, under favorable conditions. But he had a feeling Moncrieff had not bothered to write a letter at all, and his mood darkened considerably. Of course Moncrieff would have better things to do than write to him; he'd ensured that his young protege would be sent to a place where his decadence and peculiar tastes could be indulged and overlooked. Moncrieff was most likely sitting on a beach, drinking rum, eating mangoes and admiring the redcoats' arses as they passed by.
For a fleeting moment, he thought hypothetically of joining his former lieutenant in Jamaica. Perhaps the romantic Caribbean air would afford him the confidence to discuss matters of love and lust with the one person whom he'd never been confident around. Bennett could handle anyone from the King downward--not that he'd ever met the King, but he didn't imagine it would be a problem if he ever did--with a stiff upper lip and a sharp tongue, but Moncrieff had a way of tying his tongue in knots, and Bennett wondered if perhaps it wasn't all for the best that the seductive Frenchman was gone.
Temptation was a dangerous thing, if one didn't have one's wits sharpened at all times, and Moncrieff had an unpleasant habit of making Bennett feel tipsy with his very presence. No, Moncrieff was dangerous. Bennett didn't trust himself around him, and he didn't like not being able to trust people. And he found that he enjoyed the pleasures of his position just a bit too much to risk losing it for a bit of pleasure with Moncrieff.
Still--it wouldn't hurt to know just how he was doing, would it? What things were like in the Caribbean. Though if he wanted an accurate account, Moncrieff was hardly the person to ask.
He pulled a crisp sheet of parchment from his desk, sharpening a quill with brisk, hawklike movements, and addressed the letter aloud. "To the esteemed Commodore James Norrington, with my compliments..."
-------------------
Moncrieff had discovered the joys of baiting Gillette. It was always great fun to see the man's perpetual sneer deepen to the point where he was all but baring his teeth and growling like a wolf, and he was the worthiest opponent Moncrieff had found yet when it came to battles of wits.
Gillette stood at the helm, hands behind his back, wearing, for once, an expression of such serene calm that Moncrieff thought it would almost be a shame to disturb him. "Let it never be said that Jean-Jacques Moncrieff turned down a good opportunity," he murmured, and threw an arm about his superior's shoulders. "Comment ca va, mon ami?"
(A/N: I don't speak a word of French. Shoot me if any of it is wrong.)
Gillette shook the arm from his shoulders. "Not even you could ruin my good mood today, Moncrieff."
"Oh..." Moncrieff pouted. "May I try to, at least?"
"Leave me be, Moncrieff." The sneer was back, and Gillette turned to leave. "I'm in no mood for this."
"You're looking simply lovely today, as always. Pretty girls falling down at your feet, eh?"
Gillette tensed, clenching his fists, and turned slowly to face Moncrieff with an air of forced calm. "As if you would know anything about women, Moncrieff."
Moncrieff's face split into a wide, predatorial grin. "Ah," he breathed. "The kitten has claws."
"Kitten?" Gillette scowled, furious with both himself and Moncrieff. He knew better than to give the bastard ammunition, pretending he was interested. Moncrieff smirked.
"Oui. Commodore Norrington's little marmalade kitten."
Gillette clenched his fists hard, nails digging into the palms of his hands. "Leave, Moncrieff. Now. That's an order."
Moncrieff did so, with a mocking bow, leaving Gillette to lean against the mast and ponder what on earth that had all been about.
-------------------------------
Yay for Angsty!Bennett. Because Colin is so pretty when he's angsting. I want to go out and rent "Bridget Jones' Diary" right now, just for all the Colin angst. Ooh, or "Pride and Prejudice." Even better. Because that's WetLinenShirt!Colin angst. Mmm. Darcy-ness.
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse