the Dalaverse

Haven't played in this universe in quite some time. The ole "Honey and the Moon" bit, unabashedly sappy, especially at the end. I give you lieutenant-lurve first, though. Sneaky!Gillette inspired by fabu ::smooches:: so she gets this dedicated to her lovely person.

Also, I LOVE MY ICON.



Wax and Wane



“His fever is quite high, but I don’t believe it will become dangerous.” The ship's surgeon sat back, studying his slumbering patient. “Still, I’ll be relieved when we are back in port.”

“Less than a day’s sail,” Gillette assured him. He was nearly as pale as the sick man, due mainly to the strain of worry and responsibility. “Is there anything we can do for him?”

Dr. Adams shook his grizzled head. “Keep him comfortable. I can administer laudanum if he complains of head pain or muscle aches.”

“He’s not one to complain overmuch,” said Groves quietly.

“Yes, well, send for me if his condition should deteriorate,” replied the doctor, standing a clapping his hat over his head. “I’ve a gangrenous foot to tend, but if he hallucinates again, I must be notified.”

“He was hallucinating?” Gillette asked, alarmed.

“Mildly,” the doctor said. “He was calling out for someone named William.”

The two lieutenants exchanged a swift, unreadable look.

“His older brother, as I recall,” said Groves before the silence could stretch to awkward proportions.

“They’re very close,” Gillette added.

Fortunately, they needn’t have bothered with the off-the-cuff backstory; Adams was interested in little besides the well-being of his charges and his nightly brandy. They both thanked him absently as he departed.

Groves took the doctor’s place in the chair beside the commodore’s bunk. “His color looks better, don’t you think?” The nervous hope in his voice moved Gillette to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Dr. Adams seems to think he will be fine. I do wonder about the hallucination he described, though.”

“As you would,” said Groves with a hint of mirth. “A paramour, perhaps?”

“There’s no proof of that,” Gillette scoffed.

Groves cocked his head thoughtfully. “He has become more cheerful the closer we’ve gotten to home, I’ve noticed.”

Though he was still unconvinced, Gillette reasoned, “Not a sailor, then.”

“How nice for him,” said Groves dryly. Gillette smiled and squeezed his shoulder. Grand as the Dauntless was, it wasn’t exactly an environment conducive to privacy.

Making minute adjustments to the blanket drawn up over James’ chest, Groves said, “You should get back on deck. I’ll keep watch in here.”

“No, I’ll stay.” He held off Groves’ protests with a raised palm. “The men are uneasy, Theo, and you have the better way with them.”

He could tell Groves wanted to argue further, but there was the issue of rank to consider, after all, and he would do nothing to make Gillette invoke it. With one last concerned glance downwards, he got to his feet. Disturbed by the unease in his normally carefree expression, Gillette took a liberty he would not normally dare. After checking to see that no one stood immediately outside the door, he gave Groves a quick, chaste kiss on the mouth. Groves grinned and tried briefly to tempt him into something even more inappropriate, but was eventually rebuffed.

Gillette stood over James for a long moment. To see the man he admired most in the world looking so vulnerable was a blow that threatened his nerve. He found himself wishing James did have a lover back in Port Royal, some one to care for him while he recovered.

James’ face suddenly tightened. He squirmed beneath the sheets, eyes still shut. “Will,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, love...” He broke off with a groan.

Gillette wavered over whether or not he should fetch the doctor. James subsided almost immediately, however, relaxing again with a displeased sigh.

So Groves had been right after all. It was a pity that Gillette didn’t often mix with the townsfolk; he knew there was more than one William in Port Royal, but beyond that he hadn’t an inkling as to whom James was seeing in his fever-induced dreams. Perhaps there was a sign somewhere, a token or a love letter…

Checking to see that his commander was still at peace, Gillette wandered over to his desk. He ignored the weighted-down maps, spotting a tiny edge of paper sticking out from a partially opened drawer. He got to his knees and peered into the black space beyond, but could see nothing; the drawer was cracked only about the width of his fingers.

At this point, he paused. Curiosity was one of his pet vices. He didn’t know why he always felt such a compulsion to know what was going on in every corner of his life and his ship, but as it had served him and his superiors well in the past, he didn’t spend too much time lamenting it. Groves thought it a charming personality quirk. He was forever reminding Gillette that curiosity killed the cat, usually for the sole opportunity of ruminating on the nature of the satisfaction which would bring it back.

Were their positions exchanged, Gillette was sure that Groves would not open the drawer, even though he’d gladly receive whatever news Gillette brought. Groves was not here, however, and the only question on Gillette’s mind was how to get at the contents without committing the bold act of pulling the drawer open for no good reason.

At length, he hit upon an idea. Plucking one of his cufflinks off, he dangled it over the crack and dropped it in. “Ooops,” he said loudly for James’ benefit. “How terribly clumsy of me.” Thus justified, he pulled the drawer all the way open.

Scanning the paper quickly, he saw that it was exactly the type of letter he'd had in mind, although it had barely been started. Addressed to “My dearest William,” it went on for a few sentences about how the sunset made James long for the comfort and warmth of said William’s bed. And then it ended. It told him nothing about William’s identity; it told him nothing at all, really, except that James was exceptionally fond of his correspondent and felt free to express himself in language Gillette had never imagined him utilizing.

Disappointed, he retrieved his cufflink and restored letter and drawer to their previous configurations. He supposed he could always check the other drawers for more illuminating material, but he’d already done too much sneaking for the day.

“I hope the two of you are being cautious,” he said to James as he sat down beside the bed.




Though it was dark and the docks were quiet when they dropped anchor, word traveled quickly in a small town. As he sat next to a bundled-up, groggy James in the carriage, Groves could see residents poking their heads out of windows and doors to watch them pass. Indeed, the town’s doctor reached the commodore’s house before they did. Drs. Adams and Gregory did not get along, and they argued fervently even as Groves and Gillette helped James up the stairs. Once they’d settled him on the bed, both professionals shooed them out and slammed the door.

“What do we do now?” Gillette asked, staring at the knob as if he could will it open by force of mind.

Groves dropped onto the small sofa in the foyer. “We wait, it looks like.” Gillette’s mouth twisted sourly, but he sat as well.

“Please, sirs, what’s wrong wit’ Mr. Norrington?” James’ housekeeper and cook, a portly older woman, had crept up to them, his mousy serving maid clinging to her arm. Both women looked frightened and frustrated that they were not allowed inside.

“He has taken ill,” Groves told them kindly. “The doctors are examining him now.” Noticing that they were in dressing gowns and nightcaps, he continued, “I shouldn’t think there is anything to worry about. You might as well go back to bed.”

They hesitated, especially the elder, but a stern look from Gillette sent them scurrying downstairs again, whispering to each other. Groves settled back again, half-leaning into his companion. He was awfully tired, and he could tell that Gillette was going to nod off at any moment.

They both jolted awake at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. William Turner appeared at the top of the stairs, shirt inexpertly tucked into his breeches and hair loose, as if he had rushed out with little regard to his appearance. Gillette sniffed distastefully. Groves wondered why the servants had let him in at this hour, and on this night.

Spotting them, Will crossed the hallway in long strides. “Lieutenant Gillette, Lieutenant Groves,” he said, nodding politely to each of them. “I – I heard the commodore was ill and I came to see how he fares.”

“Why, you needn’t have troubled yourself, Mr. Turner,” said Gillette a bit coldly, protective of James as always. Groves barely heard him; he was busy taking in Will’s rumpled appearance, the worried set of his mouth, the desperate fear in his eyes. He stuck his elbow in Gillette's ribs, hard.

“What –” Gillette began indignantly as Will wrung his hands and shifted from foot to foot. Then he gasped. “You!” he exclaimed, jostling Groves as he bolted to his feet and stabbed a finger at Will. “You’re my dearest William!”

Groves raised an eyebrow at him. Will’s face went bright red before the color began to drain from it entirely.

“I don’t know what you are speaking of, Lieutenant,” he said, nerves obvious in the quickness of his speech. “Perhaps you are not aware of it, but Ja – the commodore and I have become friends over the recent months and I merely wished –”

“Come now, lad,” said Groves quietly, tugging Gillette’s arm back down and feeling an urge to shut his gawping mouth as well. “We understand that you are more than friends.”

Will took a step away from them, panic in his tightly-clenched jaw. “Lieutenant Groves, I don’t – there is no…” He trailed off, hanging his head. “How did you know?” His voice was barely audible. Before either of them could answer, he gave a short, rueful laugh. “Was he talking in his sleep again?”

“Oh my God,” said Gillette, sounded horrified. “Of all the –”

“He asked for you when he did not know what he was saying,” Groves interrupted.

Will’s eyes flickered with something like pleasure before he became grave and forlorn once more. He folded his hands like a penitent seeking absolution. “Please, is he all right? If I could see him…”

“None of us can see him at the moment,” Gillette snapped. “He is being attended by Dr. Adams and Dr. Gregory.

Groves pitied the young man’s obvious distress. He knew only too well how difficult it was to keep affection hidden when it was punishable by death. “It seems to be only a fever, nothing serious,” he told Will. “He has been abed since yesterday. The doctor assured us that he will be fine.”

Will let out a great, noisy breath of relief.

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

The three of them turned to greet the puffing governor as he rounded the top of the stairs.

“Is Commodore Norrington quite all right? William, my boy,” he said in surprise. Groves saw out of the corner of his eye how Will immediately brought himself back under control. “I did not realize you would be here as well.”

“The commodore and I have become friends of late, sir” said Will.

“I’ll bet you have,” Gillette muttered. Groves elbowed him again.

Swann nodded in approval. It was clear that he still felt a certain good will toward the man who was once pledged to be his son-in-law – toward both of those men, Groves realized.

“We are waiting for news, Governor,” said Groves. “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

The four of them cast glances at the small piece of furniture against the wall; rather than argue over who would have the privilege of sitting, they all decided to pretend it did not exist.

As he had predicted, they didn’t wait for long. Dr. Gregory, as tall and slim as Dr. Adams was short and stout, opened the door with an aggrieved sigh. “My colleague’s diagnosis has proven correct,” he said, sounding downright melancholy. “All the commodore needs is rest, fluids, and simple foods to restore his strength once he has awoken.”

Dr. Adams forced his way past the other man. “Yes, he’s quite all right, thanks to our prompt attention, boys,” he said cheerfully to Groves and Gillette. “Please tell his servants to fetch me if anything else should happen.”

“My house, I believe, would be closer,” said Dr. Gregory with a frown.

“Ah, but that is assuming you go down Market Street,” Dr. Adams replied. The two doctors continued arguing all the way down the stairs and out into the street. The maids, meanwhile, had come bustling up, fully dressed this time.

The girl came forward to clasp Swann’s arm. “Governor, won’t you come down to the kitchen for a cup o’ tea before you return home?”

Swann glanced at the door. “Well, that does sound...and I suppose he isn’t to be disturbed.” He allowed her to lead him downstairs, calling over his shoulder, “You will give Commodore Norrington my regards, won’t you, gentlemen?”

“Of course, sir,” Groves said. Gillette was back to glaring daggers at Will, whose eyes were trained steadily on the closed door.

The other woman planted herself in front of him before he could take a step. “If you please, Mr. Turner, there’s a hinge in the linen closet what won’t close proper.”

“What?” said Will, distracted. Then he looked at her and his face seemed to clear. “Of course. Yes, I’ll take a look at it while I’m here, Mrs. York.”

She turned to the lieutenants with a wide smile. Groves was immediately suspicious of its apparent innocuousness. “Will you be able to show yourselves out, then?”

“If he’s staying, we’re staying,” said Gillette, crossing his arms over his chest. Groves fought an urge to roll his eyes, but he did want to stay until James was awake and capable of holding a conversation. He knew he wouldn’t rest easily at his own home.

Mrs. York pursed her lips. “Now see here, gen’lemen, this is no boarding house –”

“It’s all right, Mrs. York,” said Will, putting a hand on her arm.

“But Mr. Turner –” He quelled her with a significant look. She glanced at the lieutenants again, put two and two together, came up with four, and immediately her face relaxed. “Well, then.” She narrowed her eyes at Groves and Gillette, a little smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I’ll see the two o’ you to the spare room, then.”

“Oh – we...” Gillette paused, looking to Groves with a plea for help.

Groves considered what he could say to this woman, and really, there was only one possibility. “Thank you very much, ma’am, we appreciate it.”

“May we check on James once more first?”

Will looked uncomfortable that he was actually agreeing with Gillette, but he nodded. The four of them filtered into the silent room, lit by a lantern on the wall.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. York clucked, though she drew back to let Will approach the bed. Gillette started to follow him forward, but Groves, seeing James begin to stir, held him back.

Will dropped to his knees by the side of the bed, reaching for James’s hand. At the touch, James opened his eyes, staring in confusion.

“Will?” he breathed. A broad smile stretched across Will’s face. “I dreamed of you, but then you went away...”

“Shh, James,” said Will, his voice thick and heavy as if he were holding back tears. “I’m here now.” Clutching James’ hand in both of his own, he pressed his lips to James’ knuckles. “Get some rest, darling.” James made a soft, agreeable noise, gazing contentedly at Will until his lids dropped shut once more.

“Out,” said Mrs. York, lowly so as not to disturb the tableau, but firm as stone. Gillette and Groves allowed themselves to be buffeted out the door and into a small, neat bedroom at the rear of the house.

Gillette threw himself down on the bed, scowling fiercely. “I do not approve of this.”

“Calm down, Andrew,” said Groves mildly, body already tingling at the thought of finally getting out of these over-worked clothes.”

“He’s just a boy, for God’s sake! The embers of his relationship with Elizabeth Swann have barely cooled, and he’s certainly no gentleman, and think of what James is risking when he’ll only get his heart broken –”

Down to his shirt and breeches by now, Groves planted knees on either side of Gillette’s thighs, settling into his lap and kissing him until he went quiet. “For one thing, it was Miss Swann who left Will Turner, not the other way around,” he murmured against Gillette’s temple. “And for another, gentleman or not, boy or man, did you see the way James looked at him? No, Andrew, don’t argue with me.” He cupped Gillette’s face in other hands, keeping him from turning away. “Did you truly see?”

“Yes,” said Gillette, with great reticence. “Yes, I did. I still fear that –”

“Andrew.” Groves laughed softly, nuzzling the auburn curls peeking up from beneath his wig. “It will be all right.”

“But –”

“It will be all right,” Groves repeated, the last word coming out in a puff of air as he managed to lever Gillette back on the bed. "And what's this about 'my dearest William,' hmm?"

"Oh, that. Errr..."




For a moment, James feared the stillness of the world meant he had gone somewhere he was bent on avoiding, at least for awhile yet. Opening his eyes and blinking at the ceiling, he realized that he was only in his own home.

“Good morning.” He looked over at Will, sitting crossways in the red leather chair with his legs flung over one arm. Tossing his book of French naval customs aside, Will unfurled himself and stretched out on the bed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” James raised a hand to his face, fingertips playing over his lips. “Although I must look like death warmed over.”

Will shook his head emphatically, stroking James’ hair back without getting tangled in its snarls.

“I do,” said James, closing his eyes at the familiar touch. “I need a shave, and a bath, and something to wash this taste out of my mouth...”

“All things I can help with,” Will promised. He shivered when James caught his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Don’t, James, not when you’re still weak and I’ve missed you so. It's cruel.”

James ignored him, skimming his mouth along linen sleeve to take up a better place above the collar. Will breathed out sharply and wrapped an arm around his waist. Head still fuzzy, James felt as though he might float above the bed were it not for stubborn blacksmith muscles.

“Don’t leave me, not ever,” said Will, his voice muffled against the top of James’ head.

“How could I?” He picked a path over Will’s chin, finally bringing them nose to nose. He smiled to chase away the vestiges of fear hidden in the depths of brown eyes. “You can never lose what belongs to you.” And he kissed him, blaming the last twinge of fever for his embarrassing sentiment. As for the constriction of his chest and the white-edged colors swirling behind his closed eyes - that, definitely, was the fault of one William Turner.