Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, not doing this for profit.

A/N: Normally I'm a Norrington/Gillette girl all the way. But Beckett is intriguing to write. I just hope my Gillette muse doesn't kill me for this. This isn't supposed to be slashy, but I guess you can take it that way shrugs.

Beautiful people are often the ones who end up hurting the most. Others want a piece of their beauty and will not hesitate to steal it forcefully.

Beckett was not a beautiful person.

He was a connoisseur of all things attractive though: clothes, paintings, architecture, furniture, and people. He was always dressed impeccably, his home finely designed and furnished, accompanied by sunning, exotic women.

Perhaps he hoped that, somehow, their radiance would be reflected back upon him.

It never worked.

James Norrington was a beautiful man. Beautiful inside and out. Beckett loathed him. The James Norrington that he had first met, many years ago, was kind and caring and honest. He looked at you like he cared about you; he listened like what you were saying was the most important thing in the world. He could see your pain and you know that he would weep for you.

Beckett had hoped that this angel would be destroyed by the harsh life of a sailor.

Upon his arrival in Port Royal, he knew that he was right.

This new James was broken, twisted, wild. His once god-like body was emaciated from months of abuse, radiant eyes now dead. He moved like a hunted animal, every sentence wrought with anger brought on by sheer desperation.

Anyone else, and Beckett would have cast them aside. One look at Norrington and he felt his heart break. Handing over the official pardon, he stared the former Commodore in the eye, brushing hands as the leather satchel was exchanged.

"Dear God, James. What have they done to you?"

And in that moment, the agony in his eyes was beautiful.