Author's note: I'm better at dialogue, so I thought it could be an interesting challenge to write a (twisted, dark) relationship based so much on silence. Not sure if Beckett's white horse is a stallion. Didn't check. Also, I don't have a gloves fetish. Serious!

Chapter 2

Training

Training – the hawk must now learn to come to its master for food. It must be bound with a creance to a perch, and the trainer is to hold meat in his fist. Only when the bird comes to him without hesitation can the next step begin.

"What the devil is all that racket?" Beckett muttered. The corridors of the Port Royal fort on the second floor were built in a regrettable manner – high, arched ceilings and thin arrow-slit windows tended to amplify and echo sound. The harsh sounds of metal shearing against metal. Gunshots.

Mercer tilted his head for a moment, then suggested, "Fencing, sir. Want me to take care of it?"

The assassin's master smiled faintly, entertaining the brief, if amusing, image of stilettos and red coats shading a deeper crimson. "Sadly enough, I don't believe His Majesty will appreciate employees of the East India Company 'taking care of' members of the Royal Navy, deservedly or not."

Beckett was nursing a headache from too little sleep – the East India Company's Barbados representative, Lord Elmtree, had just arrived, and society dictated that Lord Beckett was the one to entertain. Brandy and cigars, late into the night, and far, far too much small talk.

And now he had to handle some annoying administrative detail in Port Royal's fort, over the escort of warships that Lord Elmtree had 'just happened' to bring along with him and dock in the wrong side of the harbor. Beckett had decided to go himself, out of curiosity, instead of sending some minion – observing the hawk in his natural habitat, as it were – but was now regretting it. Copiously.

"All right, sir," Mercer replied, equably, and then glanced again at his master's obvious suffering. "Perhaps sir should take the day off."

"Tempting, but impossible at the moment, with the workload," Beckett rubbed his temple. The wig was too hot. The coat, far too damned hot. Damned Caribbean weather. A turn of the corridor, and, blessedly, a balcony. Beckett stepped quickly into it, taking deep breaths of the sea breeze. Mercer waited, patient, holding the large folder of necessary forms to his side. Emotionless eyes took in their surroundings with a few flickers, and then he stood, back to the wall, at an angle to be able to observe the corridor, so habitual to him now that it was almost unconscious.

Beckett realized the source of his irritation was at the courtyard. Did the Navy have to train, at this very hour? While it was still so damned early in the morning? Muttering darkly under his breath, he watched them – toy soldiers in bright uniforms, playing at guns and swords. And frowned.

Dancing a circle around his opponent, in a perfect harmony of grace and menace, was Norrington. The soldier he faced knew his opponent was stronger – clear from his poise, and the halfhearted attempts at offense. Norrington easily parried a stab at his shoulder, and stepped back, lips moving – probably in some sort of lecture. Legs together, one hand back, the other a straight line melded with steel to a point – perfect stance. The soldier's shoulders slumped, and the blade was lowered. Norrington gestured at another.

Guns in a sharp retort, far in another corner of the enclosed courtyard – target practice with inoffensive painted boards. Beckett forgot his irritation at the noise as well as his headache as he watched Norrington, with feints, parries and deflections, take his next opponent apart. The Turner blade (returned, with some veiled jibes, to its former owner a day ago) snaked over a hastily constructed guard, and tapped the poor man's shoulder. Norrington was speaking again, no doubt to those watching – Beckett could only catch faint snatches of half-finished words, sent up by the breeze.

He was going to be late for his appointment.

He didn't care.

Typical. He shook his head a little to clear it. An important aspect of falconry was that the trainer not be mesmerized by the raptor's beauty and graceful strength. There should be respect, but the power balance had to be firmly in favor of the master.

Just before he looked away, Norrington glanced up. A blink of surprise, then a smirk.

--

Beckett opened by advancing the white pawn before his King, two squares. Norrington arched an eyebrow, and moved the left knight. The pawn moved again, one square. The black knight, to its left. Another white pawn, from before the Queen, two squares. Hesitation, then a black pawn from the Queen. Another white pawn, from the bishop, next to the second. A pretty little frown, and the black knight moved back before the line of pawns. The game clock's ticking was loud in the silence, the taps on either of its stops as either man finished his turn pigeonholing their time.

"Ambitious," Norrington murmured. "Reckless."

Beckett's smile was sharp, but he didn't reply. Startled by this change in play – Beckett was often, outside of Friday games, cautious, preferring to develop his game slowly – Norrington turned defensive, and realized his mistake only too late. A strong white center had to be attacked early. Beckett pushed the advantage, and won easily. Norrington chuckled.

"Again."

Pieces were rearranged, and Beckett opened with the same move. This time, Norrington was prepared tactically. Black crushed the line – but a slip and a counter resulted in a draw. The Commodore – more of a Commodore now, not an ex-Commodore – leaned back in the chair, tapping at his lip as he frowned at the pieces. Beckett reset the game clock, then the playing board.

"I should have won that round," Norrington said, finally.

Beckett shrugged. "Why?"

A blink. "You opened with the same moves."

"I knew you were anticipating that," Beckett replied, dryly. "I merely had to keep one step ahead of you. After all, I knew that you knew that I was about to use the same move."

A snort. "You still lose games."

"If I won all the time there would be no entertainment at all in playing against you."

"Is that what you're doing? Entertaining yourself?" A veiled question.

Beckett chose to ignore it. "Certainly. Playing chess isn't part of my duties. It is, however, an amusing intellectual exercise, especially with a worthy opponent."

Silence again. Norrington's gaze didn't move from the board. Beckett drank a sip of his tea.

"Again."

This round, Norrington won, but on time.

--

Dinner was now a closed-door exercise in patience, always held in a private function room in the East India Company mansion. A square room with a square carpet, smaller than Beckett's bedchambers, with a round oak table, and four plush chairs. A heavily curtained window, a door, and a framed picture of an artist's impression of Buckingham Palace. Mercer would serve them, two trays, and then step outside and close the door behind him. Beckett would eat, Norrington would watch, straight-backed in his chair, a faint quirk to his mouth that could have been wry amusement or self-mockery, and possibly both.

Bread to be torn into small bite-sized pieces before being buttered. The soupspoon to be rasped against the side of bone china. Only one set of cutlery, one glass for wine.

When Beckett mopped his lips clean with a white napkin, he would seat himself on the arm of one of the chairs to either side of the Commodore – it varied. Slender fingers kept firmly on the rests of his own seat, as Norrington was fed. Bite-sized pieces of bread. Cooling soup. Clinically sliced meat. Peas pushed into a fork. Both men would be expressionless, or mostly – sometimes that little quirk would appear, especially if Norrington thought the other man wasn't watching.

An exercise in patience, and in domination. Lessons in power.

Then Beckett would clap, twice, sharply, and Mercer would clear the trays. Norrington would slouch in his chair, and watch Beckett settle back in his seat and take coffee, and petit fours. It became a ritual that marked the end of each day. After the second time it occurred, Norrington arrived at the mansion himself, the next day onwards, on time, without any prompting from Mercer.

Bitter liquid drained, Beckett would leave the room for his study, to do some reading before bed. He never looked back.

Mercer once commented about the arrangement, afterwards, when Beckett was studying a book discussing the relative physiological differences between the natives of the New World and the Europeans. "Surprised he agrees to it, sir."

A half-smile, perhaps at the comment, or at the lurid descriptions of native fertility rituals. "Raptors must be trained to feed only from the hand of their trainers, Mister Mercer. Or they may develop erroneous assumptions about their state of freedom."

"He's a proud one, sir." Mercer in his function as a bodyguard, wariness. Suggesting that some point, something in Norrington might snap – with potentially lethal consequences.

"Hawks are proud birds." Beckett turned a page. "The idea is not to break their spirit, merely to tame it. The former is far easier than the latter. There is a relevant distinction. Breaking the bird's spirit will simply remove any enjoyment to be derived from the sport."

--

Beckett took his white stallion Caesar out for a ride some afternoons on the leveled ground at the only stables in Port Royal. A canter around the paddock, and Caesar would be impatient for the large field that served as a racecourse, snorting and whinnying, obviously missing the rolling fields of England. The fine animal disliked rocky, hot Port Royal, making its displeasure evident by occasionally butting its owner in the shoulder with a warm muzzle upon dismounting. Sometimes Beckett would stroke its fetlock in an apology.

Today he felt like indulging – Lord Elmtree had departed to places unknown, and hopefully for good – there was a stiff, cooling breeze, and clouds about the sun. He guided the horse to the fenced-off jumps course attached to the racecourse – two canters about the field to warm up, then deft control – knees pushed into warm horseflesh. Muscles bunched, a perfect leap, and a graceful landing, hind legs clearing the pole of the first jump easily, long white tail a silky pennant. Caesar snorted as he pulled at the bit, obviously in disdain at the lack of challenge. He was from the stock of champions, thoroughbred, and was worth a fortune – his line had been with Beckett's family for as long as the man could care to trace it, and in the past, had occasionally saved some ancestors from bankruptcy. Taking him away from the stables in England had been a decision edged in some guilt. In Port Royal, Caesar would be very unlikely to sire any foals worthy of his blood.

As he rode Beckett thought briefly on the amusements of gentlemen's games. The training of his (unequivocally his) hawk had, somewhere down the line, turned from being a mere exercise in power and a distraction from boredom into something edged, rather dangerously, with carnal lust. The Commodore was pretty, to be sure, even when deprived of his dress uniform (or perhaps because of it), with handsome features and those entrancing green eyes – but Lord Beckett knew very clearly the risk of ruin. Had, in fact, visited the selfsame ruin, of scandal and exposure, on rivals, in the past.

He also knew that it was entirely possible that the other man could be playing him – Norrington was obviously intelligent enough to be doing so. It really depended on whether he had the audacity to use such a gamble, which could also so easily be his own, final ruin. So far, Beckett hadn't actually done anything that could be permanently damaging to his own career – but it could only be a matter of time, with the temptation.

The question now was whether to simply continue in the original vein of action, cease altogether, or change the game, somewhat. Caesar's unquestioning obedience and well-bred ability freed his mind to think.

Another jump, and brief, fierce joy in the fleeting impression of flight. Beckett was dressed almost casually, in riding gear – no wig, black hat, blue jacket, brown jodhpurs and breeches, black boots – it nearly made the heat bearable. The riding crop was unnecessary. A faster circuit, Caesar's interest pricked by the pace, but the jumps still easily, smoothly performed. Another snort, and a reproachful shake of the proud head. Its master made a mental note to do something about the deplorable state of the riding grounds – it was a telling sign, when his animal was so obviously bored.

Beckett slowed the canter to a sedate trot, back towards the paddock. Mercer met his eyes briefly from where he leant against the fence of the racecourse, and jerked his head to the side briefly. Beckett glanced in the indicated direction, and smirked. There was a clear line of sight from the paddock to the fort. Sunlight caught in a brief, tiny flash, on what could have been an inappropriate use of a Naval-issue scope.

--

A soiree held in the honor of the representative from South Carolina, Lord Senders, his lovely wife, and his lovely daughters. Or so Beckett would say, if confronted with the need to provide a description. His personal opinion was something more disparaging, but that tended to be the case for most people, so it didn't reflect too badly on Lord Senders and his… amusing… brood. It was hosted, thankfully, by Governor Swann (through Beckett's private request, so he wouldn't have to bother himself with arrangements) and at the Swann residence, where Miss Swann's absence was explained as a romantic honeymoon, properly chaperoned, of course, bringing flutters to ladies' fans.

Mercer wore his 'scowling face', in respect of Beckett's decision that he didn't feel like entertaining any fluffy female company just before he definitely had to entertain some stuffy male sort (in endless cigar-infused discussions on the slave trade, cotton and the VOC, no doubt). As such, Beckett was free to observe human nature in relative peace, and enjoy the caviar-related hors d'oeuvres, not to mention buffer himself up with enough champagne so as to be able to endure previously mentioned late night discussions.

And so it was to their considerable surprise that Beckett was approached by a blushing flower of English womanhood known by the regrettable name of Lady Everetta Senders, one of said daughters of the South Carolina East India Company representative. "Lord Beckett, I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Father has spoken often and well of you."

Beckett reassessed his opinion on fluffy womanhood, especially those slightly taller than him – sometimes, despite an inordinate amount of lace, pearls and terribly feminine robin egg's blue dresses, they tended to be sharp as knives. He made himself smile, even as he brushed the proffered, gloved hand with lips, curtly. "I assure you it is my pleasure, Lady Senders."

"Oh, please call me Everetta," a flutter of the fan, "My mother is known as Lady Senders, and it wouldn't do to have any confusions."

Beckett grimaced inwardly. With this sort of offering, society declared that he had to return the politeness in kind, unless he could flatter his way out of it – but that in itself had dangers. "'Lady Senders' seems far more appropriate for one of your distinguished comportment."

Everetta blushed, and fanned herself. "You are too kind, Lord Beckett."

He was fast growing bored. "How do you find Port Royal, Lady Senders?"

As she nattered on about the weather and the beautiful view, Beckett let his mind and eyes wander – and noticed one of the latecomers. A certain Commodore, dressed for the occasion, the dark blue theme of his clothes even managing to impart the suggestion of rank in the King's Navy. Very dashing, and already attracting feminine company.

Everetta followed his glance, and the fan fluttered again. "Oh! Commodore Norrington. I heard he only recently returned to Port Royal."

"Yes, he was on… business," Beckett said, taking a sip of his champagne, pointedly not looking at said dashing Commodore.

"I suppose you share management of Port Royal with him, Lord Beckett?" A playful smile, suggesting at feminine ignorance.

Appearances were definitely not to be believed. He settled for a neutral reply. "It can be said so, yes. Since he handles the Naval interest in Port Royal, while I am merely in charge of the new East India Company foothold."

"Not merely, I'm sure," Everetta fanned herself again.

"Ah, but us East India Company Lords tend to be terribly full of themselves, so any correction I may care to give could be circumspect," Lord Beckett countered, with a smile that fell just short of humor. Everetta, however, chose to laugh.

"Quite so. Sometimes my father takes his work far too seriously." Another flutter of the fan. "Perhaps I could prevail on you for an introduction, Lord Beckett?"

Beckett would have gladly foisted off any feminine attention for the night on anybody, due to his growing foul mood, including his hawk, and possibly even Mercer. "Of course."

With the lady on his arm, he approached Norrington, who was engaged in a lively discussion with Lord Obens – one of the so-called merchant princes – about the safety of trade routes to New Amsterdam. A brief opinion on the usefulness of North as compared to South Carolina, and he fulfilled his task. "Commodore Norrington, Lord Obens – Lady Everetta Senders."

That little frown, then a gleam of amusement. "Pleased." A brush of lips on a gloved hand provoked a flash of ire that surprised Beckett himself. Not hidden quickly enough for his purposes – the gleam turned speculative. Beckett retreated back to Mercer.

--

Friday's game of blitz chess was briefly observed by the Senders family, who then retired, bored, when neither player cared to acknowledge their existence. Regrettably rude, of course, but Beckett had already previously warned them, pleading obsession with the chessboard. He used the English opening for four games, lost two, then set a trap on the fifth game to win it within twelve minutes. Norrington chuckled, and changed sides.

Now Norrington opened with the English opening for four games, lost three, and drew on the fifth game with time. He arched an eyebrow in challenge. Beckett dipped his own head, briefly, took white, and opened with the Queen's Gambit, won the first, was declined in the second, and won the third. Norrington changed sides. His Gambit was always accepted – two wins, one draw. No longer playing to win – not even Beckett was really sure what they were playing for, if at all. The intellectual exercise had just turned metaphysical.

Given perhaps another week, Beckett knew Norrington would likely have improved to become a better player than he was, at least on blitz Fridays. The man thought easily on his feet, made good spur of the moment decisions, and was usually able to evade traps while fighting for central command. Beckett, on the other hand, was better at longer games, where there was time to plan, to feint.

Norrington closed his eyes and leaned back when Beckett put the pieces back into their box, his hands as always primly on the rests, the bound hair hanging over the backrest. He glanced back, sharply, when he heard a drawer being pulled open.

The chess set and the lacquer box had been placed to the edge of the table. Beckett had taken out a creance – a long line, a leash, used in hawking or falconry – black, neatly coiled, and placed it on the center of the table. He didn't smile.

The Commodore looked down at the creance, up at the ceiling, back down at Beckett, then out of the window, towards the fort and the harbor. He dipped his head, and smirked, not meeting Beckett's eyes, then picked it up.

Norrington could now often be seen, when in thought, dipping his hand briefly into the pocket of his coat. It was widely assumed that perhaps the Commodore had, due to the trying nature of his secret business before partial reinstatement, taken to using snuff.

--

Beckett studied trade routes and patterns of piracy after dinner, occasionally making notes. Sometimes he would think about the heart, locked in his drawer. Maximum profit, minimum risk, was the best route to take. Or was it maximum profit, maximum enjoyable risk? Difficult to decide, when the equation involved green-eyed pretty Commodores.

Discreet enquiries (read: Mercer) proved that despite appearances and his brief, regrettable slip at the soiree, the Senders family was entirely unaware of any possible personal relationship that he could have with Norrington, and had pegged them as friends at best, allies at worst. Thankfully, for the rest of their stay, the feminine company revolved, firmly, around the Commodore.

It was probably the title. Beckett was relieved that the East India Company had never thought of encouraging its Lords to give themselves dashing titles. The forbidding aspect of being addressed as 'Lord' Beckett suited him fine.

--

Next Friday, after the pieces were cleared, Norrington reached into a pocket and took out a glass vial of oil, which he placed on the table, exactly where the creance had been. His lips didn't smile, but his eyes did – in challenge. Something darker, harder to define. Challenge, and invitation.

Beckett crooked his fingers, and Norrington got to his feet, tilting his head slightly as he was studied, cold eyes tracking a silent path over the long frame. A clap of the hands, and Mercer glanced into the room – then stepped out back to the corridor, closing the door after him, at a gesture. Norrington smirked.

Beckett reached into a drawer and pulled out gloves of thin leather, cream-colored in hue, and delicately pulled them on, finger by finger. A second reach into the drawer brought out a folded hand towel. He waved idly at Norrington's belt, which was removed and curled on the desk. A gesture at breeches – unlaced and pushed down to the knees. He got to his feet, and rounded the desk in a saunter, the glance at the swelling shaft under the folds of the white shirt almost clinical. Cold.

A tug at an arm, to guide the man back a step, then a hand on his shoulder, to push him down against the desk, his touch only in guidance, without force. Making it clear that any obedience would be voluntary, to within, of course, a certain definition of the word. He dipped fingers into the coat pocket, removing the coiled creance, and placed it in front of Norrington's head, on the desk, clearly where he could see it. The vial was uncorked unhurriedly, and Beckett didn't need to look down to know that he was being watched, with those entrancing green eyes.

Oil was coated over the gloves. A gesture at the coat, and it was pulled up, wordlessly, to reveal a pert rump. It was Beckett's turn to smirk, as he used a leg to pull Norrington's chair closer, to sit on. Another gesture, and Norrington's gaze turned firmly to the creance.

-cut to fit into rating. Full version can be found in beckington community, livejournal-