2: The Tell-Tale Heart

By noon, it is impossible to keep his thoughts from wandering. Groves tries to return to his work, tries to distract himself in the familiar routine of his duties, but his mind is elsewhere, and his gaze keeps finding its way to Lord Beckett's household. He is used to being out of the communication networks, and has long contented himself with following his orders, yet now... He feels as though a storm has rolled into the sky, and he is the only one who can see it coming. Should it be his obligation to plunge into it, or should he stay away?

He makes a decision, and then changes it, at least ten times throughout the day. It is a dangerous habit for an officer, and quite unlike him. It is hard to make that call when he knows nothing of what has led Commodore Norrington back to the port.

He is unused to seeing the man in anything other than his resplendent uniform. Something must have upended terribly in the world for Norrington to have reduced himself to the bedraggled castaway he was. Groves had thought him dead, and maybe it is still so. That dark shade upon the harbour had not been the commodore he knew. One man had sailed into the hurricane off Tripoli, and another had emerged. It twists a hard knot in Groves' gut. It was only fickle fate that had stayed him from serving on the Dauntless. Many had been lost, and he had assumed that Norrington had drowned with them. A captain always goes down with his ship.

For a couple of weeks, Groves had hoped it was not so. When no other news had come, he had accepted it with a heavy heart.

For him to return to his old place of command, as if dragging the entire weight of the world behind him...

"Lieutenant." From nowhere, Gillette has appeared. He glances at the marines standing guard but a short distance away, and quickly steers Groves along the fort walls. When they are far enough apart, he lowers his voice and says, "I heard a rumour."

Groves looks the first lieutenant up and down, but says nothing.

"I heard that the commodore returned."

Groves swallows. He determines to find whoever was responsible for spilling the news. "It is not my place to say."

Light comes to Gillette's eyes. "Then it is true."

Groves sighs, and ensures that the marines are truly far enough away. Not that they should be eavesdropping anyhow. "He arrived in port a few hours ago," he concedes. "He had business with Lord Beckett, so Mr. Mercer ferried him up there sharpish."

"He survived the hurricane?"

Groves nods curtly. Despite himself, Gillette obviously cannot help his smile. "A miracle. Then why do you look so dour?"

Groves has asked himself that question too. "Something just doesn't sit right," he says lamely. "Business with Lord Beckett after so long away... There was a warrant for the Commodore's arrest, still is. And Lord Beckett - he is -"

Groves knows he is barely making sense. Gillette shakes his head. "The Commodore was always the best of us. I trust his judgement. He will not bend."

"Like we have?" Groves regrets it as soon as it comes out. Something has bundled too tight inside him, and he fears how it might unravel. He pulls it back within quickly. "I will go to Lord Beckett this evening, and find out what I can."

"I shall come too."

"No." He is not willing to deal with that mess too. "No, you stay here. I will not be gone long."

"Well, I wish you good fortune," Gillette says, as if he is sailing into battle. It is only Lord Beckett's household. And, yet, as the sun sinks and the heat becomes even more oppressive, Groves feels that is exactly what he is doing. He approaches the torch-lit shadows of the estate the Lord Governor has ingratiated himself into, and realises he has his hands squeezed tightly behind him. Lord Beckett has become their patron, guiding the wheel of the Royal Navy under the king's approval, but Groves has done his best to avoid him. Soon, he knows, they will be in close quarters upon the Endeavour. He wishes to conserve his energy for that.

A figure materialises, and Mercer accosts him. He is in drab black and grey, as usual, at home in the bleakness. "What is your business, Lieutenant?" he asks, as if Groves does not significantly outrank him.

"I have come for Commodore Norrington," he says, no use in pretence. "I want to ensure his health."

"He is fine."

"I would like to speak with him."

"That will not be possible at the moment, Lieutenant."

Groves opens his mouth to argue, but another voice cuts him off. He looks up to see Beckett at the balcony. He is wearing opulent reds and gold, the king of his castle. "Lieutenant Groves?" he calls.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Come and join me for dinner, if you are so concerned with Mr. Norrington. We can talk."

Groves flounders. "I - I'm afraid I cannot, my Lord. I -"

"Of course you can. Come, Mr. Norrington will be there too. You can see that I am as good as my word."

Beckett disappears back into the house, and Groves knows he has no choice. Mercer looks at him with his perpetual scowl, and promptly escorts him inside. He is taken through the corridors and a rich parlour, up two flights of winding stairs, and into a dining chamber. Paintings of crashing seas look over a dressed table, already set with pastries and vegetables and a suckling pig in pride of place, drowning in gravy. Two wine glasses sit at opposite ends. A servant quickly places another midway along. Groves has not eaten since noon, but he doesn't think he has ever felt less hungry, even in the rolling seas about Cape Horn. He is still in his dusty uniform, and can feel the sweat sticking beneath his wig. He stands awkwardly as Beckett appraises him silently. He has never seen the Lord ruffled or pink-cheeked in the slightest. He is the master of poise, moving his little pieces around the board.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," he commands. "You're making the room look untidy."

Groves scrapes back a chair and does as told. He has borne many a dinner amongst his superiors, but he has a feeling that this will not be like them. He is not being judged for his service to the navy, but something deeper, more intimate... He keeps his head down, preferring to make eye contact with that poor skewered pig on the table. He only looks up when the door opens.

Commodore Norrington enters. In those few hours, he has once again become the man Groves had known. He is back in uniform, beautiful, clean blues and whites, trimmed with gold. The dishevelled beard is gone, and his straggling hair has been cut, pinned beneath his wig. His skin is still weather-beaten and scarred, but Groves knows that face, and those green eyes. He realises he has sprung to his feet again, knocking the table. His chest suddenly feels full, throat tight. "Commodore," he hears himself say.

"Not anymore," Beckett mentions, and Groves has quite forgotten he was in the room. "Why don't you tell him, James?"

James. The use of his Christian names tugs at Groves' nerves. Norrington glances at Beckett, then back to him. "Admiral now, Lieutenant."

"Admiral?" He realises he is just parroting them, saying dumb, simple words like a dumb simpleton. He clears his throat. "I don't understand."

"How about you sit, and we will talk," Beckett says.

Groves waits for Norrington to do so, and follows his action. He already feels caught between them - on the one side, Norrington, his commander, despite the intervening months and disruption, and on the other side, Beckett, the man with the pieces in his grasp. As a servant fills their glasses and carves the meat, another sets a heavy chest next to the pig. Beckett waves a hand and the boy eases open the lid. Groves is not sure what he is expected to do. "Have a look then, Lieutenant," Beckett prompts.

He leans forward, almost expecting some trap. The chest is ornate and impressive, but there barely seems to be anything in it. And then, Groves spots what is curled in the corner. He sits back sharply. "Good God," he mutters.

Beckett is amused. "The heart of Davy Jones," he says.

Despite himself, Groves finds he is leaning forward again. Braced for the visual this time, he takes in the lightly throbbing chambers and the gaping tubes, capped from their moorings. He can hear the thuds against the wooden walls of the chest, and feel them along the surface of the table. He has been witness to much he would rather forget, but this takes it to the next degree. "What -" he starts, "what do you plan to do with such a thing?"

"With it, we command the sea," Beckett explains. "With it, we have Davy Jones under our beck and call. He will be our Greek fire against the pirates."

Somehow, Groves doesn't think it will be quite as simple as that. "How did you come by this?"

"You can thank your Admiral for that."

Groves turns to Norrington, who still hasn't quite met his gaze.

"Oh, but I suppose you don't know about your Admiral's latest exploits," Beckett says, mockery laced in his soft tone. "Shall I tell the tale, or do you wish to, James?"

"It makes no difference."

Beckett smiles. There is something about the small upturns of his lips that itch at Groves' skin. "After surviving the hurricane off Tripoli, your proud and upstanding commodore found his way to Tortuga. I imagine the disgrace and shame will do strange things to a man. Slowly, that lovely uniform would have rotted away, and he would have lost sight of any honour and dignity. Tortuga is only good for penniless drunks and rum-soaked pirates, and your former commodore became both." Beckett pauses for effect, the consummate villain loving the sound of his own voice. Groves refuses to let his face betray the tightness inside of him. "Maybe he would have been contented to stay there, had Jack Sparrow not arrived seeking a crew. James Norrington, the scourge of piracy, the illustrious commodore, joined a pirate ship as a mere deckhand. Maybe he would have stayed there too, if he had not come into possession of the heart. Some shred of honour must have still remained to bring it here. An admiral's position seemed a small bargain for such a thing."

Beckett talks as though Norrington is not right there. Groves listens with nausea in the pit of his stomach. He would have thought Beckett was lying had he not seen the torment in Norrington's eyes before. What has the world done to you? he had thought. Now, he wonders, what have you done to yourself?

He keeps his eyes on the intricate whorls of the chest. He can still hear the heart beating inside, and it is not helping his light head. The commodore had always been the best of them, Gillette had said. He had seemed infallible. At what point do all men crack? At what point do they accept that everything is out of their control?

He realises Beckett has fallen silent, awaiting his reaction. He opens his mouth dumbly, feels the sickness stick, and worries for a moment he might vomit. It is pathetic that the reappearance of the commodore - the admiral - can have so unmanned him. There are eyes on him from both ends of the table. "I -" he says, before Norrington cuts him off.

"Can you not remove that thing from the table?" he asks. "It is a little off putting."

Beckett sniffs. He waits and then waves a hand again. The same servant comes forth and lifts the chest, setting it back to the corner of the room. Groves breathes out. He is grateful for the lapse in conversation. Now Beckett has settled them into the positions he wants them to be, they dine in silence. A clock ticks somewhere on the other side of the room, a soft imitation of the heart throbbing within the chest.

It is the worst meal Groves has ever eaten, and he has been forced to eat all manner of water-soaked scraps while on misfortunate voyages. The wine is as thick as tar, and the meat is like ash in his mouth, burning under Beckett's close watch. And yet Norrington can barely even meet his eyes. For so many years, the former commodore has been the moral compass of the fort, but now, that needle point spins without end. Groves feels horribly caught in the middle of them, literally and figuratively.

He makes it his surviving mechanism to only speak when spoken to. It is a tactic which he is sure makes Beckett lose interest. When he finally dismisses him at the end of the evening, it is with the air of someone who has grown bored with his plaything. Nevertheless, Groves is glad. He is even more glad when Beckett suggests Norrington see him out. They walk through the corridors, and out into the warm night, where Groves finally regains his tongue. "I should offer you my congratulations for your promotion, sir," he says.

Norrington is silent for a moment too long. "It was not my aim in coming back here."

"What was, sir?" He flushes. "I'm sorry, it's not my place."

"It is alright, Lieutenant. I came back here for -" He seems to search for the right word. "Redemption. A chance at it, at least. This was the only way."

Under Lord Beckett? Groves wants to ask. He had already been here when Beckett had cast his net, drawing them all into his service. Norrington has willingly put his neck into the yoke. Now Beckett has him in his hand, there is little he will not do. But, he steels himself, and only says, "well, I am glad to see you back, sir. Truly."

They have come back to the courtyard. Though it is growing near to 10pm, there are still the distant sounds of work and movement throughout the town and down by the dock. Nightjars sing plaintively, interspersed by dogs barking, and a cat yowling in some back alley. And always, the noise of the sea, a deep, ever-present roll. These are the things Groves has become used to after so many years stationed here. The world should feel back to rights with Norrington returned. But, when he turns to him, something tugs inside. He fights for something to say. "The men should be glad to see you too, sir," he manages. "I hope to see you soon."

Norrington nods. "I hope that too."

God, but he doesn't want to leave him. "I truly am glad," he says again. "You are a good man, sir."

"You are kind, Lieutenant. But we shall see."

He swallows, twisting his hands behind his back. He is making this intolerable. "Well, good night, Admiral," he forces out.

"Good night, Lieutenant."

Groves lowers his head in respect, and takes a step away. When he does, something snaps inside of him. Buoyed up by the wine, a wave of emotion rolls over, and he finds himself pulling Norrington into an impulsive embrace. The man stiffens in shock. A long, silent moment, and then Groves feels his hand upon his back. He is close, breath against his neck, palm warm through his coat. Groves allows himself one second of weakness.

The shame takes him quickly. He backs away. "Good night, Admiral," he rushes.

He returns across the courtyard, not once turning back. His cheeks are ablaze, his heartbeat too thick. It says everything that he has tried to keep hidden.

(tbc)

a/n: me me pls I beg of you, write something happy. Well, as I seem unable to do that... But this will get a bit happier, don't worry there is more of the 'comfort' part of the hurt/comfort coming up haha. Oh, and I will be continuing with Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, I just need to get together some more ideas for the next chapter :)