Title: You Don't Know What You're Doing, Part 2
Author: rokossovsky
Summary: Andrew doesn't understand.
Pairings: Gillington.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst. Sort of.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Norrington, nor do I own Gillette. If I did...well, we won't get into that.

After Norrington had left him, cold and alone, standing on the deck, it began to rain. A light, drizzling rain, accompanied with a sad sort of mist that enshrouded everything. Gillette felt something in his heart shatter, splintered into tiny pieces. If he had any reason to live before, it had withered away. He stretched his hand out into the oncoming fog, reaching for something he couldn’t hold and never really could.

With his back to Andrew, James stood at the forecastle, cradling his head in his arms so he couldn’t see his tears, and how utterly weak and vulnerable and ashamed of it all he really was.

A few steps separated them, but the distance was as never-ending as the sea. Andrew couldn’t bring himself to cross the vast expanse and stood there, gently rocked by the boat and kept his eyes on James, eyes looking but not seeing.

Finally James turned around and walked past him. He paused shortly and said, “You had best return to your quarters, Mr. Gillette. You’ll catch your death out here.”

At Andrew’s look, he opened his mouth, to say that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean any of the things he had said, that he loved him, that all he had wanted was for Andrew to be safe, but all that came out was a small strangled sound, and he fought to keep the pained expression off of his face.

Andrew stared at him, his lip quivering slightly. James wanted to stroke it and hold Andrew and tell him that everything would be all right, that he didn’t care—

“I already have…sir,” Andrew whispered, the wind blowing the ribbons at the nape of his neck.

The pained expression James spent all too much effort concealing was now the most apparent emotion on his face. His mouth was agape, wanting to say something that he couldn’t quite put into words. He turned abruptly, and made his way to his cabin without another word. He couldn’t hold his composure any longer, but at the very least, Andrew wouldn’t have to see him like this.

Andrew watched the Commodore’s figure retreat into the haze and stood there, slowly losing him in the mist.

James went back to his cabin, and it seemed empty. He laid in his bunk and held himself, turning his face to the wall, and wept shamelessly.

Somewhere nearby, Andrew lay in his own bed, still dressed, and wondered what he had done wrong.

“Sir! The rigging, it’s—”

“Mr. Smith, take care of that—”

“Yes, sir!”

“Did you hear that? He said—”

“Mr. London! He said, you’re to help with the ropes!”

“Commodore,” Gillette said briskly, emphasizing the word coldly.

He could almost see Norrington wince. “Mr. Gillette,” he replied curtly, an obligatory greeting to an officer. He turned around to resume giving orders. When all the others were occupied with their duties, Andrew grabbed his hand suddenly.

Norrington turned around angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

Andrew looked at him hard in the eyes. “James, I want—”

He jerked his hand away, almost reluctantly, from the warm and slightly sweaty palm he had held so many times before. “We’ve discussed this before, Mr. Gillette. I will have none of this on my ship.”

“James, please,” Andrew said, almost pleading. “I’ll forget everything you said, I won’t listen to it—”

“I wish you would!” James said fiercely, and then lowered his voice, taking a breath. “I’ve told you, Andrew…we can’t.” He straightened up, towering over Andrew. “I believe,” he said in a slightly shaky voice, trying to sound indifferent, “we are finished with this subject, Lieutenant. Back to your duties.”

“James, please! I know you care, I love you—”

“Do not,” Norrington said severely, seizing his wrist and turning it until the point of pain, “refer to us that way ever again.” He threw down Andrew’s hand. “Back to your duties,” he repeated, and brushed his coat off, turning back to the others, bellowing orders with more sternness than usual.

Andrew didn’t understand. Of course he couldn’t, James thought, looking at the pain on his face. If only Andrew knew how much James loved him. If only he knew how much he hated himself.