(standard disclaimer applies; if the idea of three people in a bed squicks you, please back out now)
"What's he gotten himself into this time?" Groves backed into the cabin and shut the door, more intent on seeing that no one observed him than on the interior and its occupants.
"Nothing," said Norrington in the sharp tone he generally reserved for masking shame or a wound. "Barely a scratch."
Groves raised his eyebrows at Gillette, who was bent over the table with his face very near his hands upon Norrington's right arm. He didn't look up. "It doesn't look like a scratch, not with that great needle Andrew's waving about."
"Keep still," Gillette murmured, tongue tucked between his teeth, when Norrington made a face at Groves. "I'm nearly finished."
Groves swung around behind them, leaning over to look at his shipmate's handiwork. "That will scar, you know." He covered Norrington's free hand with his own.
Gillette shot him an offended look. "I tried to get him to go to the surgeon, but he refused."
"The man had real injuries to attend," Norrington protested, "and there was no need to bother him with my minuscule scratch." Despite his dismissive words, he laced his fingers through Groves' and squeezed tightly when Gillette poked the needle through his skin.
Groves smiled, dropping his chin onto Norrington's shoulder. "Our modest James," he said fondly, nuzzling the underside of the other boy's jaw. Norrington continued staring down at Gillette's nimble fingers sewing up the gash, but he leaned his head against Groves'.
"If you could please stop that till I'm done?" Gillette snapped. As usual Groves ingored him, distracting Norrington from the pain with small kisses, until Gillette sat back with a triumphant grin. "There, as well as I could manage."
Norrington flexed the arm, nodding in satisfaction. "It feels much better. Thank you, Andrew."
"An excellent patch job," Groves agreed, slipping behind Norrington's back to give the doctor's son his due. Gillette accepted the press of his lips, but pulled away at the touch of Groves' tongue.
"Any moment now, Lieutenant Orloch will duck in here to ask what we're up to."
Groves perched on Norrington's lap, steadying himself by pulling Gillette closer. "Let him. The man's probably starved for entertainment."
Norrington rolled his eyes, but his mouth curled at one end to see the flush spread down Gillette's neck, making his freckles pop out. He put his arm around both his friends, then winced as the newly treated flesh complained.
"You can impress the admiralty with your grievous wound," said Groves. He immedately knew he should have held his tongue. Norrington looked down at the table and Gillette frowned to himself, not noticing Groves' fingers playing over the rise of his hipbone.
Groves bit back a sigh, frustrated with himself for having spoiled the mood. They were all three looking to Norrington's upcoming exam with a queasy mixture of excitement and apprehension. If he passed – and both Gillette and Groves had wagered outrageous sums with the crew that he would – the changes would be swift and brutal. The Kestrel had four lieutenants already, and in any case, Norrington had gained such a reputation for his abilities and his performance in battle that he had little chance of being stuck on a dilapidated old boat like this. Captain Phillips had implied as much when he'd given Norrington the good news.
And it is good news, Groves thought fiercely. James deserves this chance more than any man alive. I would be a poor fellow indeed if I wasn't happy for him.
But we will miss him so, the selfish part of his mind reminded him as he met Gillette's sad, guilty blue eyes.
Norrington's eyes were closed and his arm had fallen to the side. He'd drawn his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it in his constant worry over being found wanting. Groves released Gillette and turned, curling against Norrington's lanky body. Gillette shifted to his other side and knelt by his chair.
"You're going to send them all into swoons with your brilliance," Groves declared.
Gillette laid his cheek on Norrington's thigh. "And then you'll go off and continue to be brilliant, somewhere where you're needed," he added softly. "Even if we aren't there to see it."
Groves found himself wanting very badly to kick Gillette as Norrington's hands went still on his gingery head. "Don't start, Andrew. There is always a chance –"
"But if there isn't," said Gillette, glaring at Groves and then fixing a more subdued gaze on Norrington, "you have to know how we care for you, and wish you well, and –"
"I do know," Norrington broke in, his voice quiet, and so warm that Groves pressed closer to him. "I do." He pulled Groves' hand from his shoulder and drew it down, to meet Gillette's at his knee. For some reason Groves thought of his father's beloved horses, of the handful of difficult births in which he'd assisted, the damp, wide-eyed colts from the bluest of bloodlines. His father had called him that before he'd left – a colt who didn't know his knees from his elbows or his arse from his ears. Groves had assumed he'd meant it in affection, though it wasn't always easy to tell with his father.
He thought of how the colts got up just minutes after being dropped into a bright, noisy, frightening world. They folded their long legs and struggled and fumbled until finally, perhaps with a friendly nudge or two, they stood. They'd been born to it and that was that.
"Never forget it," he whispered to Norrington, and Gillette's fingers stroked the back of his palm.