I've pioneered this pairing at the Pirategasm archive on LiveJournal, and gotten a small but very positive response to it. I've never seen anyone else write it (though I'd really love to--any takers? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) and...well, I guess I sort of consider the pairing to be my OTP in a way others aren't, although it's (gasp!) het. Gillette/Norrington was my first and most cherished love; Gillette/Elizabeth is...my baby. I don't know what to call it. grin

Constructive criticism is always appreciated and considered--I really want to go somewhere with this fic, and suggestions would be most helpful.

The sense of someone creeping up behind her makes the hairs on the back of Elizabeth's neck prickle, and she whips around, wrapping the marine's jacket tightly around herself as if it might shield her.

Lieutenant Gillette. She turns her back on him again, seething. Mermaids. The bastard. "I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Gillette."

Gillette leans over the deck rail, head hanging like a condemned man's, pale as moonlight. "And I have nothing to say to you, Miss Swann." His voice is low, weary.

Elizabeth pauses, indignant, and studies him. She hasn't expected him to dismiss her so; she hadn't even expected to have the first word, but she does not plan to let him have the last.

She leaves him be for a little while, taking the time to study him. He seems so exhausted...sickly, even; the pallor of his skin is unnerving when juxtaposed with the fiery red of his hair. He is half-dressed, clad only in shirt, boots and breeches, wrapped as tightly in his own thoughts as she is in her borrowed coat. "It's two o'clock in the morning."

"I said I have nothing to say to you, miss." Gillette rests his forehead on the rail. "I know it's two o'clock in the morning."

"Why are you out here?"

"Why are you?"

He will not raise his head to look at her, and she knows as well as he does what the reason is. It does not please her as much as she thinks it should. Why does it give her such an odd twinge to see him in such a miserable state?

"It isn't your fault." The words burst from her like cannonfire, before she wants to stop them. He looks up at that, with a faint glimmer of hope, but just as quickly lowers his head again with a painful, bitter laugh.

"What would you know?" he murmurs. "You weren't there."

"What difference does that make?" she snaps. "It's my fault. I didn't tell you until it was too late for you to do anything. I should have told the commodore, not you."

He raises his head to shoot her a withering look. "And so I'm not only an incompetent fool, I'm an incompetent fool who can't even organize marines that are under my command and direct them into battle."

Elizabeth gives up. "If it's a fight you want, Mr. Gillette, find someone else to converse with. I've had quite enough fighting for today; I'm surprised that you haven't."

"I'm not trying to start a fight."

She would not have left, in any case. It is an alien and exciting experience, having an uninhibited, unrepressed conversation with a man--a respectable man. She has never been particularly fond of Gillette himself, but she loves the way she can let her words fly like bullets when speaking to him, and have him do likewise. Conversation with other men of her status is painful, measured out in small doses, always on the subject of such innocuous things as the weather, the latest high-society cotillion, the lukewarm tea. Conversation with Norrington is like walking through a graveyard.

Gillette has never been afraid to speak freely around her. He has never failed to address her properly and respectfully as "miss" or "Miss Swann," but his speech flows like water, or acid, depending on the subject--and the subject is never limited to the weather.

Perhaps this is why her father is rather less than fond of Lieutenant Gillette. He does not approve of men who speak frankly around young women. Nor does he approve of women who speak frankly around young men. As such, Elizabeth has had little contact with Gillette, as it seems impossible for them to be anything but frank around each other when they do meet.

Like now. "Do you want me to leave, Mr. Gillette?"

He turns away. "Leave if you like."

She settles back against the rail, leaning over it just as he does. He is taller than she is; he seems in more danger of falling over it. "You don't want to be alone right now, do you?" It isn't really a question. She does not expect an answer.

He gives one anyway. "Commodore Norrington blames himself for all this," he murmurs. "He blames himself, for god's sake. When it can't possibly be anyone's fault but mine."

Elizabeth ponders this. "It's partially your fault," she agrees, since he obviously wants her to sympathize. "It's partially the commodore's fault. It's partly my fault, for not telling you or him about it in time. It's partly Jack Sparrow's fault."

Gillette laughs humorlessly. "Let's all blame Sparrow. God knows it would be easier."

"It's true."

"I know it's true."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Mr. Gillette--"

"Just Gillette, if you please. Or Lieutenant."

"It's only proper to call you 'Mr. Gillette.'"

Gillette raises his eyebrows wryly. "And we all know how concerned you are with propriety, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth appraises him for a long while. "Why don't you want me to call you 'Mr. Gillette?' I've always called you that. You've never complained before."

"It seems...incongruous, somehow." Gillette shrugs apathetically. "Such a proper address, from... you."

Elizabeth is oddly flattered, and he knows it. "Very well, then. Gillette." She thinks this over for a moment. Gillette and Miss Swann. "And you shall call me Elizabeth." It is only fitting that the one man with whom she can truly speak her mind should address her as befitting their odd and free relationship.

"I shall call you 'Miss Swann,' as I always have, Miss Swann. I've no desire to have your father set the commodore on me for impropriety concerning his engaged daughter." Gillette leans further over the railing. Elizabeth winces.

"Commodore Norrington addresses me as Elizabeth, and I shall address him as James. We are engaged to be married, and yet I've never truly spoken to him. James is not a man one can speak one's mind with, Gillette."

Gillette considers this. "I have never had a problem speaking freely with him."

"Or with me." Elizabeth grips the railing, on impulse. "You speak your mind with everyone, Gillette. Some despise you for it and some love you for it. And some envy you for it."

"Oh?" He raises his eyebrows. "And which are you, Miss Swann?"

Elizabeth turns, looks him in the eye. His eyes are as dark as hers, perhaps darker. "Some," she says, "despise, love and envy you."

"Ah."

"I don't despise you." She holds his gaze. "I certainly don't love you."

"You envy me, then."

"I suppose." She twists her hand on the railing, fretful. "I don't know. I've always spoken my mind around you. You seem to... invite it."

"As if you needed an invitation."

"It's easier for you to speak your mind. You're a man. There aren't as many rules dictating what you can and can't say, and to whom, and where and when. And besides, you're French." She isn't sure what that has to do with anything, but it makes him laugh. The same wicked smile he has when he laughs made her want to slap him earlier, but now it makes her smile as well. It is a smile as lovely as James' or Will's in its own right, a mischievous, devilish, contagious little grin.

"Actually," he says, "there are dozens upon dozens of rules dictating what I can say to whom and where and when, and the consequences for breaking them can be rather severe."

"And yet you ignore them."

"Not always. I follow them when I know I'll be flogged or court-martialed if I don't." He shrugs. "In a way, I envy you. You only have to answer to society, and if you break society's rules, there's nothing definite that can be done to punish you for it. I answer to the commodore, who answers to the Crown, and therefore I answer indirectly to the Crown, and if Norrington catches me breaking their rules it's his duty to see me punished by their rules."

Elizabeth is unsure what to say to this. "You like things to be definite, don't you?"

"It's a comfort. I live by logic." Gillette sighs. "Everyone wants what they can't have," he murmurs. It seems a non-sequitur, but Elizabeth understands.

"I can only ever speak my mind when talking to you," she explains, taking up the thread of their earlier conversation. "Never with James, or Will, or my father. And yet I address James and Will as such."

"I'm afraid I don't see your point."

"Call me Elizabeth," she implores him. "If anyone should have the privilege of calling me Elizabeth, you should. And I should address you by your Christian name, but I don't know what it is."

"Miss Swann--"

"There are no definite rules stating that you aren't allowed to call me Elizabeth, are there? You can't be flogged or shot or thrown overboard for calling me Elizabeth, can you?" Elizabeth clenches her fists on the railing. "You're laughing at me."

"You seem to invite it."

"Gillette, stop laughing at me."

"Renault." Gillette's laughter fades. "If you insist, you may call me Renault."

"Renault." She tests out the name. It's a nicer name than James, or Will. Or Weatherby. "Renault. It's French."

"You're very perceptive." Gillette exhales, and steps away from the railing. Elizabeth breathes an unconscious, audible sigh of relief, and he looks strangely at her. "What?"

"You were...leaning over the railing." She gestures lamely. "It looked dangerous."

"It isn't dangerous."

"It looks as though it is."

"I've been around ships since I was a very small boy. It isn't dangerous." Gillette leans against the railing, but not over it. He isn't in the mood to spite her at the moment. "I'm not in a suicidal mood, at any rate."

"I should hope not." Elizabeth shivers even in her jacket. She has seen and heard of far too much death in the past few days. "You looked rather dismal earlier."

"I was." He does not care for the subject. "Do you really think it isn't my fault?"

"Very little of it is," she reassures him. Gillette sighs with relief.

Their conversation has come full-circle. Gillette stands, and prepares to leave. "It's late," he says. "You should be asleep."

"As should you."

"Point well taken."

His eyes are no longer mocking and hostile as he looks upon her. They are contemplative, and somehow almost fond. Something unnamable and indelible has passed between them, leaving them open. Elizabeth lowers her eyes, realizing abruptly that she will never be able to speak so freely with James. Perhaps she could have with Will, given time, but she will admit that Will does not have a fraction of Gillette's wit or candor.

Something must be closed between them. She reaches up, resting her hands upon Gillette's shoulders, and seals his eloquent mouth with a kiss.

She has never kissed a man before, and it does not bring her closure. She can feel a question upon his lips and presses harder with hers to capture it before he can speak. He tastes faintly of mango, for a reason she cannot fathom and yet tries to. He senses the question and parts his lips slightly to crush it between their tongues. His arms are around her; the marine's jacket is suddenly enough to keep her warm in the cold night air. He must be freezing in that thin shirt of his, she thinks, and just as easily she can sense his response in the negative.

And just as suddenly, he separates from her, and pushes her gently away, cutting off her question not with a kiss but with a firm answer. "There is a definite rule against that, Miss Swann," he says. "Good night."

And before she can beg him to wait, he is gone.