[Disclaimer: I suspect neither Disney nor Dumas would ever want to be associated with this.]
Author's Note
Eheheheheh…am SO evil.
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An Exercise In International Relations
Chapter Nine: Please Tell Us, Elizabeth
In which Elizabeth's brilliant plan is put into play, and Rochefort announces he's not going to be party to no damn soppy romance fic.
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Aramis,
I'm plotting. It's for James and Gautier -- want to come and play? We'll expect you for dinner tomorrow night. Gautier usually takes a long walk about then; we'll have plenty of time.
Elizabeth Turner
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Gillette,
Please accept this humble invitation to dinner tomorrow night.
You know James better than we do; we need your help.
Besides, you have the keys to the cells.
We'll be expecting you.
E. Turner
---
Elizabeth was bouncing with anticipation when the two men arrived -- just as she'd expected, the rather cryptic note had brought Gillette, and Aramis had already told her that she could call on him whenever she wished.
"I expect you're wondering what I'm doing," she said, once Rochefort was out of the house -- she watched from the window as he left, much to their collective amusement.
Will wondered why on earth he'd married such a dramatic woman, and then sighed and remembered. Oh yes. He loved her. "Yes, Elizabeth. Please tell us, Elizabeth."
She scowled at him. "No sense of romance," she grumbled under her breath. "Well, you see, I've decided that since clearly they're not going to see things for themselves--"
"Elizabeth," Will started, in a warning tone of voice, aware that was the third time he'd said her name in barely a minute.
Gillette, recalling her comment about 'cells', had a sinking feeling. And the determined expression on her face suggested she would not be dissuaded. But could it really hurt that much…? She was right, if Rochefort and Norrington had their way, they'd simply glare menacingly at one each other for the rest of their lives…
"We're just going to have to lock them in together until they sort things out."
"And she says I'm unromantic," Will mutters. "What is romantic about a jail?"
"Be quiet!"
This was going to go perfectly, or they'd die trying and Elizabeth would look beautiful in mourning black.
Perhaps it wasn't the way every girl apologized to the man whose heart she broke, but Elizabeth wasn't every girl. Besides, fair trade. A pretty young man for a pretty no-longer-young man.
---
"You're standing on my dress!"
"Quiet! He'll hear you."
"Well, if you wouldn't stand on my dress!"
"Oww--that was completely uncalled for!"
"Well, shh, both of you."
Elizabeth and Gillette scowled at each other, but obediently Elizabeth stood back and let the men sneak up on Norrington -- quite near the cells, luckily. They'd had a hell of a time getting Rochefort in there, and in the end, Will knocked him out and carried him in himself.
When the dust cleared, and Norrington was locked in with Rochefort, Elizabeth dusted off her hands, smoothed her skirt, and looked entirely too smug. "I told you it wouldn't be that hard," she said happily.
"Says you," Will muttered. Given that she didn't actually have to do much other than stand around and tell them, unhelpfully, what to do, he didn't see that she had room too talk.
"What in God's name is going on here?" Norrington demanded. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You two are going to sort things out right this…" Elizabeth trailed off, looking at the still-unconscious Rochefort. But she rallied impressively. "You two are going to sort things out just as soon as he wakes up! And I shan't let you out until you do."
To his chagrin, Elizabeth appeared to be the one holding the keys. Now, Gillette he could've convinced to let them out -- probably even Aramis or Gillette. But arguing with Elizabeth was much akin to trying to stop the tides by stamping one's foot and pouting.
Completely and utterly pointless.
---
Rochefort stirred, beginning to wake, a few hours after Elizabeth left (sweeping regally away, followed by her retinue of guilty schoolboys). His head hurt, and he didn't quite remember why…this wasn't where he was last he recalled…what…?
"We've been kidnapped," Norrington said dryly, somewhere to the left of him. "Apparently, Mrs Turner has decreed we cannot manage our own lives, and has locked us in here until we agree to kiss and make up."
There was a long, thoughtful silence as Rochefort assimilated this information -- quite a lot to take in after just waking up, granted.
"On the whole," he said finally, "I believe unconsciousness was preferable."
They didn't speak much for a while after that.
Rochefort paced. He tried the lock -- pointless, Norrington had tried it earlier, knowing it would be a fruitless effort, but telling him that would've been equally so. He peered out the little window. He kicked the wall a few times. He looked everywhere but at Norrington and refused to speak to him, either. He took his hat off. He glared menacingly at the token guard -- whom he was also above speaking to.
Norrington had to give him credit; he did look rather impressive, pacing up and down like a caged, wild animal, chafing against unnatural captivity…
Oh, for God's sake. He never spouted poetry for a woman; he'd be damned if he'd do it for a man.
Whom he had no interest in, in any case, thank you very much, Mrs Turner.
Rochefort had finally sat down again, and was looking…all right, in his general direction was as close as he could go, but it'd do. "Gautier?"
"Awfully familiar, aren't we?"
"Considering where you put that tongue you're speaking to me with, I don't see why not." Norrington replied evenly.
"Ah, and the claws come back. I was wondering when that would happen. James." Rochefort chuckled derisively -- this, Norrington ignored, it didn't mean anything.
"I have a question."
"Only one? I'm disappointed in you."
"How did you lose your eye?"
Something in the sudden stillness in the room told Norrington that had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
"I was in the process of betraying King and country. Apparently, that doesn't go down well with Musketeers," he said, each word of the otherwise flippant statement spoken very deliberately.
"You committed treason?" he knew Rochefort was no saint, but…treason?
"Twice," the Frenchman shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "Aramis can tell you, he was there for both."
"Aramis is such a loyal man…why would he defend you?" The idea that Rochefort could so casually betray his King, speak of it as if it were nothing…it was incomprehensible. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. "Now, I mean."
"Aramis has always found it easier to forgive m--forgive than others." Rochefort replied, careful with his words.
I'll just bet he has. "You…you…"
"Are everything you fight against, only better dressed? Now do you see why I told you to leave?"
That brought him up short. "You--"
"--can finish a sentence, which is more than I can say for you. I told you to leave because I've seen this play before, James, and I never much cared for the ending. You're a good man. I'm not. More to the point, I don't care that I'm not. I don't want 'redemption'. I don't even want absolution. Any sins I have committed…they are my sins. I am not ashamed of myself. You, James -- you don't want me. This man, this man that I am, this is not who you need." Rochefort offered him a wry smile. "I know we should really have a long and meaningful discussion of our respective histories first, but I don't see the point. That's what needed to be said. I've said it. Mrs Turner wants romance. She wants us to learn to understand each other. I understand you well enough, James; I lived with you long enough. She wants us to bond and grow and love. Maybe you want it, too. You're both asking for something I cannot give and will not offer!"
This wasn't how it was supposed to work, Norrington thought dimly. Not that he cared, but this wasn't how things worked. You weren't allowed to cut through the narrative straight to the heartbreak. It broke all the rules, it wasn't the way things worked. He couldn't do that.
He just did.
---
"What's going on?" Gillette demanded. Elizabeth's slippered feet had been the quietest of them all, so she'd been designated eavesdropper. (The fact she was probably better at it than any of them and more or less running the show was irrelevant)
Her expression was grim. "Gautier's being difficult."
"Difficult?" Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Difficult how?"
"I think he just broke James's heart, for starters."
"That's fairly difficult, yes," Will agreed, not looking up from his book. (Yes, that's right, he can read.)
"Will, you're not helping!" Elizabeth stomped her foot and glared. "Gautier's not doing what he should be doing."
"Getting down on one knee and composing sonnets, my love?"
"Stop poking fun at me."
"Yes, dear."
Gillette and Aramis exchanged a look. It said 'Never. Ever. Getting. Married.'
"More about this difficulty," Gillette interrupted them. "How?"
"Well, he more or less said he's despicable and evil and it'll end in tears so they might as well not start, also that James and I are asking things of him he can't give." Elizabeth summed up.
"That's a familiar tune," Aramis muttered, scowling.
"What do we do now, then? Let them out?"
Elizabeth looked at Gillette as if he were insane.
