HMS Triton
Jul. 12th, 2011 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Morrison/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: More pirates! Lots more pirates, hooray!
Russell Morrison remembers that gangly cabin boy, John Smith, when the pirate captain presents himself in Barbados...
Commodore Russell Morrison, commander of the fleet in the West Indies, general officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, knight of the real,, legend of the age, rose the moment the wide oaken door of his office swung wide open, liveried guards sweeping in to flank its girth.
He smiled to himself and ran an unconscious hand down his resplendent Navy red.
He’d hardly dared to hope that the pirates would allow his emissary to live, much less take his message all the way to their captain. He had not been expecting a reply so swiftly, brought ashore two days before deadline and presented at the fort itself. And least of all had he believed that he would be standing here, on the given day at the given time, awaiting the arrival of...
“Commodore Morrison,” one of the guards boomed, and saluted smartly.
Morrison returned that salute at his leisure. “Did you secure my guest, soldier?” he asked, drumming a finger on the polished surface.
“I have been nothing but secure since setting foot on your docks, Commodore,” a familiar voice laughed. ‘Twas louder and deeper but no less sweet to his ears as it had been the very first day he heard it. “You may see the evidence of that yourself.”
And there he was, John Smith, his Johnny, once upon a time, standing in his doorway, smiling, ever so slightly. The man had a big, well-traveled sea cloak cast up tight around his shoulders, revealing nothing but a pair of polished leather sea boots, a dark tricome atop his now-silver hair, flowing in a long braid down his back, without wig. Unadorned as always, nothing more needed than his presence alone. Older, he was, than their last parting, but those blue eyes were no less keen. What a Captain he would have made, Morrison thought with a small pang of regret, remembering all the events past that had come between them, everything that could come between them now...
“Indeed,” he smiled back, coming around the edge of the grand desk. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, to do, but the guards were watching, and the slightest gesture or word wrong would lead to immeasurable gossip across the fleet. John’s lips twitched slightly, holding back from a smile, as if he was thinking the selfsame thought.
It wouldn’t last long, though.
So Morrison waved his hand again. “Leave us,” he said to the guards, affecting boredom. “Captain Smith and I have much to discuss this day, and your presence is not needed.”
The guards looked at each other, clearly wondering if they should leave such a high-ranking officer alone with such an infamous pirate, and John was smiling openly now.
“You checked my weapons at the armory, lads. I can do no harm to your Commodore,” he told them softly. “And you would do well to follow his orders. Would not do to spend a night in the brig or an eternity at the bottom of the harbor, now would it?”
The guards both looked at Morrison, who was barely holding back his smile. But as they filed out and closed the massive door behind them, it was John’s warm laughter that filled the space around them.
Letting himself be drawn in by that laughter, those bewitching blue eyes, Morrison gathered John in, slapping him heartily on the back.
“God’s breath, my boy, it is good to see you!” the older man laughed, relishing that brief embrace, letting John pull back and laying his hands on those strong shoulders. “How many years has it been, since we last said goodbye?”
John smiled and laid a hand on Morrison’s arm, squeezing as he so often had as a young, smooth-cheeked boy, the admiration no less present now, even if it was now tempered with the caution of experience, more than the Commodore would have preferred to see. “Too many, sir,” he replied. “Far too many.”
Morrison remembered that sir.
He remembered the boy who’d once said it so.
The HMS Triton had been Morrison’s second craft, a 24-gun frigate, a truly gorgeous lady. He’d been second mate, twenty-six years old, and it had been a true education in seamanship. The Captain was a rough man but fair, even if he could be found in his cups a bit too often than was seemly. The other officers had been friendly chaps, the regular crewmen as rough and tumble as any he'd ever encounter.
And then, of course, there had been John.
Little Johnny, some of the crew liked to call him, and he’d been on the ship since he was nine. He’d worked every job a cabin boy was expected to, peeling potatoes in the kitchens early in the mornings, running cannon and shot through the narrow passages between the gun decks in battle as a young thing, helping load and fire as he got too tall to fit through the passages, standing watch at the helm with the older crewmen late at night. He seemed not so much tireless as driven, as he was determined, the crew said. Every man on the ship was quite fond of him, looking on him as a little brother or a son.
But he’d grown up quite a bit from his early days as a scrawny Irish orphan by the time of Lieutenant Morrison’s arrival, and it hadn’t taken long into their first sail for the young officer to figure out that some of the intentions amongst his fellows towards the fifteen-year-old were less than charitable.
“I bet he fucks like a French whore,” one of the others who’d come aboard with Morrison, an Ensign, had joked one night over cards and ale. “Care to enlighten me?”
“I do not take kindly to my officers buggering my cabin boys,” the Captain had yawned.
The first mate, a Londoner who’d risen on his family’s fortune rather than his own merit, grinned. “The captain does not allow it of any boy under fourteen.”
“Is he not older than that?”
“Tall, perhaps, but we take him for no more than fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Fair game he is, then. Why is he still a virgin?”
“He is slippery, that one,” the Captain had replied quite seriously, shuffling the deck for another deal. “Little Johnny is a right greased pig when he wishes to be.”
“Grease?” the Ensign scoffed. “Who said anything about grease? Hot and tight, that’s just the thing for a independent brat such as him!”
Everyone had laughed at that, including the Captain, and a lively discussion was struck. A discussion that continued far into the night and ended in a bet - whoever could capture him first would keep exclusive rights.
Morrison hadn’t waited until sunrise.
Deep in the night watch, everyone else stumbling back to their bunks, he’d found the lad sleeping in a coil of rope on the deck, his short jacket tucked around him, at peace, unaware that his virginity had just been gambled away. It made the young Lieutenant’s guts hurt, thinking of it. He’d had men before, Morrison had, ashore and shipside, but he had never once taken a lad in such a callous manner.
He stood there for a moment, wondering if this was truly the proper course of action. He wanted the boy, something alluring about him, those blue eyes and smooth, long limbs. But this....
It was not the time for contemplation, however. A light drizzle had began to fall around him, starting to soak the red of his uniform jacket, and John shivered in his sleep.
Morrison dropped to a knee, supple black boots flexing around the white of his breeches, and he’d touched a soft hand to the boy’s face.
“Lad,” the lieutenant whispered as those beautiful blue eyes blinked open, staring up at him in confusion. “Sweet boy, I need you to come with me now.”
“Why, sir? I mean... I mean, where, sir?”
“Someplace I can keep you safe,” he murmured and rose, lifting Johnny up with him. "Come, lad, come with me..."
He’d taken him back to his tiny little cabin, the one afforded to him by rank and position. There was hardly more than a bunk and a cupboard for his extra clothes and meager possessions, but he’d lit the lamp and watched those keen eyes take it all in.
“Why am I here, sir?” Johnny finally asked.
Morrison hesitated only a moment before answering, starting to work on the silver buttons of his coat to cover some of his own uncertainty. “I would have you with me from now on, lad, to attend to whatever I may need.”
“In your cabin, sir?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” Morrison told him, looking up for a moment, seeing confusion there, and then went back to his buttons. He had half a mind to let John go, not force this on him, release him, not subject him so young to...but the course of action had been set. He risked losing face with the crew if he did not follow through now...
Goddamn your feeble heart, he told himself. You are a commissioned officer, by hell, and you will act as one...
“Where you shall sleep henceforth, near to my hand.”
Johnny had shifted a bit. “What...what are my duties, sir?”
“For the moment?” Morrison asked gently, and got a small, wary nod in return. “Help me undress.”
Those young fingers had been uncertain that first night, undoing buttons and stays and straps and ties, removing red wool and stiff leather, cravat and loose linen blouse, laying each piece over the back of the cabin’s single chair, smoothing each down with care. When he got to the waistband of the Lieutenant’s soft white breeches, he’d paused, laying a hand over the bulge Morrison could not prevent.
“Sir?” he asked, wide eyes flicking up in the candlelight. “Sir, I do not know...”
His gut clenched again, and the young officer had the boy stand, lean back against the bulkhead. “Do not know what, John?”
“What...how to...this, lieutenant, sir, I respect you with all my heart, but...”
Morrison slipped his breeches down and adding them to Johnny’s neat little pile, trying not to let his resolve crack. “Remove your own clothes, John,” he ordered quietly.
“Sir...” and the lad was blushing furiously, staring at the older man’s nudity. “Sir, please...”
And he looked so lost, so torn, that Morrison held out a hand and gave more than he should have given. He drew the boy in to his chest and kissed him, right on the top of his head, running a hand through his hair, thick and tangled with salt as it was. “I demand nothing of you tonight, John. And fi you truly wish to leave, the way will not be barred to you. But know this, dear boy, if it is not me, it will be another, perhaps Ensign Keller...”
Johnny pressed his face close, burrowing it into Morrison’s shoulder, belying a fear his words tried to conceal. “I see things, sometimes, during the watch,” he swallowed. “Would you...”
“I would, John,” Morrison admitted, stroking his scalp lightly once, and then moving away, swinging up into his bunk. “But tonight, tonight I do not ask that of you. Only that you remove your clothes, and come sleep beside me.”
“And what if I wish to sleep on the floor instead,?”
“You may sleep on the floor, if that is what you truly want,” Morrison agreed, settling in to his sheets, “but 'tis a cold place, lad.”
The boy clenched a fist again, clearly warring with himself, and for a moment, the lieutenant forgot how to breathe, hoping against hope...then that hand unclenched and John was pulling off his clothes.
His feet were cold as he slipped in next to Morrison, and it took the older man a few moments to sort them out, move around, reach for his light to extinguish it, and then it was dark. Just him and the boy, skin against skin, back to chest, breaths loud in the small space, and Morrison laid a hand around John’s side, letting it ease up under his arm, around to his front, against the lean, thin ribs of his chest. He’d have to make sure the boy got more to eat from now on, get him a new set of clothes, perhaps even speak to the Captain about allowing him to apprentice as a midshipman...
“Lieutenant Morrison?” Johnny asked quietly.
“What is it, lad?”
“I...you are very warm, sir.”
He laid a soft kiss to the back of the boy’s head. “As are you, my boy...”
“Yours, sir?”
“Mine,” he confirmed, hugging him a little tighter, realizing himself that it was true and he would not see it another way. “You shall always be mine, John Smith...”
“Oh, god, sir...”
...sir...
“Sir?”
Morrison blinked, remembering himself, remembering where he was, where they were, who this man standing in front of him truly was.
His sweet Johnny had grown up from that gangly lad he had been, then the eager midshipman, the determined ensign and his advancement beyond, destined for great things until his crime, his imprisonment, his escape, his turn to piracy...he wanted to understand what his boy had become.
He needed to understand the depth of his own mistakes.
“I was thinking about our first night together,” Morrison rumbled, and watched John’s eyes flare. “Do you ever think about it, John, our days together on the Triton?”
John smiled back, the echo of what they had eventually shared there together coming out in that soft blue. “Those were some of the dearest days of my life, Russell. The very dearest.”
“You and I together, my friend, we were an unstoppable force,” Morrison mused, patting him on the shoulder and moving away to a sideboard, where he had his usual decanter of good rum at the ready. “You were the very best at anything you put your mind to.”
“I was never as good as you, Russell,” the pirate replied, coming over next to him, taking the proffered drink. “And I never shall be.”
Morrison chuckled. “Rumor has it you’d have the Caribbean ablaze, if you so desired.”
“I am no murderer, sir.” Amber liquid swirled in John’s cut crystal glass, his hand moving it slowly. “And I have no wish to burn this region to the ground. I only desire my freedom,” he said quietly, and drank deep. “Only my freedom.”
“Have you found it, my lad?”
John drained the rest of his glass, and set it down carefully, and when he looked back up, Morrison got the strangest feeling that he wasn’t talking to an old lover anymore, but the man his lover had become; the pirate, the rogue, the criminal. He let his cloak fall open, tossing it over his shoulder, a silver broach gleaming on his shoulder and an empty scabbard hanging down one lean leg. “Why did you call me here, Russell? I have not heard from you in nearly fifteen years, since the goddamned conviction...”
“Yes, my lad, that was a terrible blow. I am truly sorry for the way I behaved through all of it,” he admitted, sipping thoughtfully, remembering his heartbreak when he’d heard the news, the way he'd warred with himself, whether to defend his protoge, his lover, against those charges of theft. The evidence had been overwhelming, though, and all John's protestations of innocence had seemed but lies. So, so many lies... “I was infuriated that you had betrayed my trust in such a manner, that you had betrayed the Navy, your King...and then when you shirked your punishment and escaped...”
“...Russ, please...” John groaned.
“But after the governor of Port Royal was killed a year and half or so ago,” the Commodore sighed, “we had more information come to light about some of his activities, his culpability, how he had set you up for a crime he committed...” John was staring at him now, those blue eyes huge, wondering, seeking the truth before it came, his mind racing ahead, and Morrison set down his own glass and stepped in, stepped towards his boy. “I saw the case reopened, and secured for you a pardon.”
“A...a pardon?” he breathed, nearing, hand out, falling on the smooth red wool of Morrison’s jacket. “Russell, you...”
“Yes, my darling boy,” he murmured, drawing him closer, letting his fingers run up into that silver hair as John’s own found their way past the medals and buttons, past all the dross, to his hip, resting, trembling. “I have for you a pardon, a signed letter of apology from Parliment itself, a commission to the rank you should hold, a Captain in my fleet, your rightful place in the world...”
John’s eyes held him, disbelief spreading there, disbelief and wonder, and as his lips parted in a soundless sigh, the Commodore gripped harder and pulled his boy in for a kiss.
It had been nearly fifteen years since last they met as lovers, but John responded to him as he always had, submitting at the first brush of lips, melting into it, molding himself against Morrison’s chest, desire washing out of him in waves so strong it left the older man reeling, clinging to him as he had as a boy of fifteen...
But only for a moment.
Then Morrison found himself shoved away, suspicion back in his boy’s eyes, and he felt his heart nearly break, aching for all the life John had lived. It had to be hell, betrayed and wary, commanding nothing but cutthroats and deserters, forced to kill, forced to do terrible things to survive, without honor or glory or love.
“My poor John,” he whispered, and John ran a big hand back across his scalp, tugging the edge of his long braid over his shoulder.
“What is the price of such a thing, Russell? Surely the Crown does not so easily admit to a mistake, even one such as mine.”
Morrison nodded, remembering the terms as they were presented. “Your crew, John. Your crew...”
That hand tightened on the braid. “I will not sign any accord that lands them in prison, Russell. I will not.”
“I know,” he chuckled. He knew they were but common criminals, the men who his lover sailed with now, but John was so protective, so invested, in his crew that some consideration had to be given to them. The Commodore had put significant political capital on the table to secure them safe passage. “I know how loyal you are to your men. It’s the sign of a good commander. I am glad to know that your instincts have not atrophied during this exile of yours.”
“Then what of my crew, Russell? What shall become of them?”
“They will go free, if they swear an oath to turn from piracy...”
“Good, good,” he said, smiling again. “Could I perhaps...”
Morrison held up a hand, needing to finish. “All but one, John. The one who murdered the Governor. His life is forfeit under this accord. His life will be the price of your freedom. Templeton Peck...”
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: More pirates! Lots more pirates, hooray!
Russell Morrison remembers that gangly cabin boy, John Smith, when the pirate captain presents himself in Barbados...
Commodore Russell Morrison, commander of the fleet in the West Indies, general officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, knight of the real,, legend of the age, rose the moment the wide oaken door of his office swung wide open, liveried guards sweeping in to flank its girth.
He smiled to himself and ran an unconscious hand down his resplendent Navy red.
He’d hardly dared to hope that the pirates would allow his emissary to live, much less take his message all the way to their captain. He had not been expecting a reply so swiftly, brought ashore two days before deadline and presented at the fort itself. And least of all had he believed that he would be standing here, on the given day at the given time, awaiting the arrival of...
“Commodore Morrison,” one of the guards boomed, and saluted smartly.
Morrison returned that salute at his leisure. “Did you secure my guest, soldier?” he asked, drumming a finger on the polished surface.
“I have been nothing but secure since setting foot on your docks, Commodore,” a familiar voice laughed. ‘Twas louder and deeper but no less sweet to his ears as it had been the very first day he heard it. “You may see the evidence of that yourself.”
And there he was, John Smith, his Johnny, once upon a time, standing in his doorway, smiling, ever so slightly. The man had a big, well-traveled sea cloak cast up tight around his shoulders, revealing nothing but a pair of polished leather sea boots, a dark tricome atop his now-silver hair, flowing in a long braid down his back, without wig. Unadorned as always, nothing more needed than his presence alone. Older, he was, than their last parting, but those blue eyes were no less keen. What a Captain he would have made, Morrison thought with a small pang of regret, remembering all the events past that had come between them, everything that could come between them now...
“Indeed,” he smiled back, coming around the edge of the grand desk. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, to do, but the guards were watching, and the slightest gesture or word wrong would lead to immeasurable gossip across the fleet. John’s lips twitched slightly, holding back from a smile, as if he was thinking the selfsame thought.
It wouldn’t last long, though.
So Morrison waved his hand again. “Leave us,” he said to the guards, affecting boredom. “Captain Smith and I have much to discuss this day, and your presence is not needed.”
The guards looked at each other, clearly wondering if they should leave such a high-ranking officer alone with such an infamous pirate, and John was smiling openly now.
“You checked my weapons at the armory, lads. I can do no harm to your Commodore,” he told them softly. “And you would do well to follow his orders. Would not do to spend a night in the brig or an eternity at the bottom of the harbor, now would it?”
The guards both looked at Morrison, who was barely holding back his smile. But as they filed out and closed the massive door behind them, it was John’s warm laughter that filled the space around them.
Letting himself be drawn in by that laughter, those bewitching blue eyes, Morrison gathered John in, slapping him heartily on the back.
“God’s breath, my boy, it is good to see you!” the older man laughed, relishing that brief embrace, letting John pull back and laying his hands on those strong shoulders. “How many years has it been, since we last said goodbye?”
John smiled and laid a hand on Morrison’s arm, squeezing as he so often had as a young, smooth-cheeked boy, the admiration no less present now, even if it was now tempered with the caution of experience, more than the Commodore would have preferred to see. “Too many, sir,” he replied. “Far too many.”
Morrison remembered that sir.
He remembered the boy who’d once said it so.
The HMS Triton had been Morrison’s second craft, a 24-gun frigate, a truly gorgeous lady. He’d been second mate, twenty-six years old, and it had been a true education in seamanship. The Captain was a rough man but fair, even if he could be found in his cups a bit too often than was seemly. The other officers had been friendly chaps, the regular crewmen as rough and tumble as any he'd ever encounter.
And then, of course, there had been John.
Little Johnny, some of the crew liked to call him, and he’d been on the ship since he was nine. He’d worked every job a cabin boy was expected to, peeling potatoes in the kitchens early in the mornings, running cannon and shot through the narrow passages between the gun decks in battle as a young thing, helping load and fire as he got too tall to fit through the passages, standing watch at the helm with the older crewmen late at night. He seemed not so much tireless as driven, as he was determined, the crew said. Every man on the ship was quite fond of him, looking on him as a little brother or a son.
But he’d grown up quite a bit from his early days as a scrawny Irish orphan by the time of Lieutenant Morrison’s arrival, and it hadn’t taken long into their first sail for the young officer to figure out that some of the intentions amongst his fellows towards the fifteen-year-old were less than charitable.
“I bet he fucks like a French whore,” one of the others who’d come aboard with Morrison, an Ensign, had joked one night over cards and ale. “Care to enlighten me?”
“I do not take kindly to my officers buggering my cabin boys,” the Captain had yawned.
The first mate, a Londoner who’d risen on his family’s fortune rather than his own merit, grinned. “The captain does not allow it of any boy under fourteen.”
“Is he not older than that?”
“Tall, perhaps, but we take him for no more than fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Fair game he is, then. Why is he still a virgin?”
“He is slippery, that one,” the Captain had replied quite seriously, shuffling the deck for another deal. “Little Johnny is a right greased pig when he wishes to be.”
“Grease?” the Ensign scoffed. “Who said anything about grease? Hot and tight, that’s just the thing for a independent brat such as him!”
Everyone had laughed at that, including the Captain, and a lively discussion was struck. A discussion that continued far into the night and ended in a bet - whoever could capture him first would keep exclusive rights.
Morrison hadn’t waited until sunrise.
Deep in the night watch, everyone else stumbling back to their bunks, he’d found the lad sleeping in a coil of rope on the deck, his short jacket tucked around him, at peace, unaware that his virginity had just been gambled away. It made the young Lieutenant’s guts hurt, thinking of it. He’d had men before, Morrison had, ashore and shipside, but he had never once taken a lad in such a callous manner.
He stood there for a moment, wondering if this was truly the proper course of action. He wanted the boy, something alluring about him, those blue eyes and smooth, long limbs. But this....
It was not the time for contemplation, however. A light drizzle had began to fall around him, starting to soak the red of his uniform jacket, and John shivered in his sleep.
Morrison dropped to a knee, supple black boots flexing around the white of his breeches, and he’d touched a soft hand to the boy’s face.
“Lad,” the lieutenant whispered as those beautiful blue eyes blinked open, staring up at him in confusion. “Sweet boy, I need you to come with me now.”
“Why, sir? I mean... I mean, where, sir?”
“Someplace I can keep you safe,” he murmured and rose, lifting Johnny up with him. "Come, lad, come with me..."
He’d taken him back to his tiny little cabin, the one afforded to him by rank and position. There was hardly more than a bunk and a cupboard for his extra clothes and meager possessions, but he’d lit the lamp and watched those keen eyes take it all in.
“Why am I here, sir?” Johnny finally asked.
Morrison hesitated only a moment before answering, starting to work on the silver buttons of his coat to cover some of his own uncertainty. “I would have you with me from now on, lad, to attend to whatever I may need.”
“In your cabin, sir?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” Morrison told him, looking up for a moment, seeing confusion there, and then went back to his buttons. He had half a mind to let John go, not force this on him, release him, not subject him so young to...but the course of action had been set. He risked losing face with the crew if he did not follow through now...
Goddamn your feeble heart, he told himself. You are a commissioned officer, by hell, and you will act as one...
“Where you shall sleep henceforth, near to my hand.”
Johnny had shifted a bit. “What...what are my duties, sir?”
“For the moment?” Morrison asked gently, and got a small, wary nod in return. “Help me undress.”
Those young fingers had been uncertain that first night, undoing buttons and stays and straps and ties, removing red wool and stiff leather, cravat and loose linen blouse, laying each piece over the back of the cabin’s single chair, smoothing each down with care. When he got to the waistband of the Lieutenant’s soft white breeches, he’d paused, laying a hand over the bulge Morrison could not prevent.
“Sir?” he asked, wide eyes flicking up in the candlelight. “Sir, I do not know...”
His gut clenched again, and the young officer had the boy stand, lean back against the bulkhead. “Do not know what, John?”
“What...how to...this, lieutenant, sir, I respect you with all my heart, but...”
Morrison slipped his breeches down and adding them to Johnny’s neat little pile, trying not to let his resolve crack. “Remove your own clothes, John,” he ordered quietly.
“Sir...” and the lad was blushing furiously, staring at the older man’s nudity. “Sir, please...”
And he looked so lost, so torn, that Morrison held out a hand and gave more than he should have given. He drew the boy in to his chest and kissed him, right on the top of his head, running a hand through his hair, thick and tangled with salt as it was. “I demand nothing of you tonight, John. And fi you truly wish to leave, the way will not be barred to you. But know this, dear boy, if it is not me, it will be another, perhaps Ensign Keller...”
Johnny pressed his face close, burrowing it into Morrison’s shoulder, belying a fear his words tried to conceal. “I see things, sometimes, during the watch,” he swallowed. “Would you...”
“I would, John,” Morrison admitted, stroking his scalp lightly once, and then moving away, swinging up into his bunk. “But tonight, tonight I do not ask that of you. Only that you remove your clothes, and come sleep beside me.”
“And what if I wish to sleep on the floor instead,?”
“You may sleep on the floor, if that is what you truly want,” Morrison agreed, settling in to his sheets, “but 'tis a cold place, lad.”
The boy clenched a fist again, clearly warring with himself, and for a moment, the lieutenant forgot how to breathe, hoping against hope...then that hand unclenched and John was pulling off his clothes.
His feet were cold as he slipped in next to Morrison, and it took the older man a few moments to sort them out, move around, reach for his light to extinguish it, and then it was dark. Just him and the boy, skin against skin, back to chest, breaths loud in the small space, and Morrison laid a hand around John’s side, letting it ease up under his arm, around to his front, against the lean, thin ribs of his chest. He’d have to make sure the boy got more to eat from now on, get him a new set of clothes, perhaps even speak to the Captain about allowing him to apprentice as a midshipman...
“Lieutenant Morrison?” Johnny asked quietly.
“What is it, lad?”
“I...you are very warm, sir.”
He laid a soft kiss to the back of the boy’s head. “As are you, my boy...”
“Yours, sir?”
“Mine,” he confirmed, hugging him a little tighter, realizing himself that it was true and he would not see it another way. “You shall always be mine, John Smith...”
“Oh, god, sir...”
...sir...
“Sir?”
Morrison blinked, remembering himself, remembering where he was, where they were, who this man standing in front of him truly was.
His sweet Johnny had grown up from that gangly lad he had been, then the eager midshipman, the determined ensign and his advancement beyond, destined for great things until his crime, his imprisonment, his escape, his turn to piracy...he wanted to understand what his boy had become.
He needed to understand the depth of his own mistakes.
“I was thinking about our first night together,” Morrison rumbled, and watched John’s eyes flare. “Do you ever think about it, John, our days together on the Triton?”
John smiled back, the echo of what they had eventually shared there together coming out in that soft blue. “Those were some of the dearest days of my life, Russell. The very dearest.”
“You and I together, my friend, we were an unstoppable force,” Morrison mused, patting him on the shoulder and moving away to a sideboard, where he had his usual decanter of good rum at the ready. “You were the very best at anything you put your mind to.”
“I was never as good as you, Russell,” the pirate replied, coming over next to him, taking the proffered drink. “And I never shall be.”
Morrison chuckled. “Rumor has it you’d have the Caribbean ablaze, if you so desired.”
“I am no murderer, sir.” Amber liquid swirled in John’s cut crystal glass, his hand moving it slowly. “And I have no wish to burn this region to the ground. I only desire my freedom,” he said quietly, and drank deep. “Only my freedom.”
“Have you found it, my lad?”
John drained the rest of his glass, and set it down carefully, and when he looked back up, Morrison got the strangest feeling that he wasn’t talking to an old lover anymore, but the man his lover had become; the pirate, the rogue, the criminal. He let his cloak fall open, tossing it over his shoulder, a silver broach gleaming on his shoulder and an empty scabbard hanging down one lean leg. “Why did you call me here, Russell? I have not heard from you in nearly fifteen years, since the goddamned conviction...”
“Yes, my lad, that was a terrible blow. I am truly sorry for the way I behaved through all of it,” he admitted, sipping thoughtfully, remembering his heartbreak when he’d heard the news, the way he'd warred with himself, whether to defend his protoge, his lover, against those charges of theft. The evidence had been overwhelming, though, and all John's protestations of innocence had seemed but lies. So, so many lies... “I was infuriated that you had betrayed my trust in such a manner, that you had betrayed the Navy, your King...and then when you shirked your punishment and escaped...”
“...Russ, please...” John groaned.
“But after the governor of Port Royal was killed a year and half or so ago,” the Commodore sighed, “we had more information come to light about some of his activities, his culpability, how he had set you up for a crime he committed...” John was staring at him now, those blue eyes huge, wondering, seeking the truth before it came, his mind racing ahead, and Morrison set down his own glass and stepped in, stepped towards his boy. “I saw the case reopened, and secured for you a pardon.”
“A...a pardon?” he breathed, nearing, hand out, falling on the smooth red wool of Morrison’s jacket. “Russell, you...”
“Yes, my darling boy,” he murmured, drawing him closer, letting his fingers run up into that silver hair as John’s own found their way past the medals and buttons, past all the dross, to his hip, resting, trembling. “I have for you a pardon, a signed letter of apology from Parliment itself, a commission to the rank you should hold, a Captain in my fleet, your rightful place in the world...”
John’s eyes held him, disbelief spreading there, disbelief and wonder, and as his lips parted in a soundless sigh, the Commodore gripped harder and pulled his boy in for a kiss.
It had been nearly fifteen years since last they met as lovers, but John responded to him as he always had, submitting at the first brush of lips, melting into it, molding himself against Morrison’s chest, desire washing out of him in waves so strong it left the older man reeling, clinging to him as he had as a boy of fifteen...
But only for a moment.
Then Morrison found himself shoved away, suspicion back in his boy’s eyes, and he felt his heart nearly break, aching for all the life John had lived. It had to be hell, betrayed and wary, commanding nothing but cutthroats and deserters, forced to kill, forced to do terrible things to survive, without honor or glory or love.
“My poor John,” he whispered, and John ran a big hand back across his scalp, tugging the edge of his long braid over his shoulder.
“What is the price of such a thing, Russell? Surely the Crown does not so easily admit to a mistake, even one such as mine.”
Morrison nodded, remembering the terms as they were presented. “Your crew, John. Your crew...”
That hand tightened on the braid. “I will not sign any accord that lands them in prison, Russell. I will not.”
“I know,” he chuckled. He knew they were but common criminals, the men who his lover sailed with now, but John was so protective, so invested, in his crew that some consideration had to be given to them. The Commodore had put significant political capital on the table to secure them safe passage. “I know how loyal you are to your men. It’s the sign of a good commander. I am glad to know that your instincts have not atrophied during this exile of yours.”
“Then what of my crew, Russell? What shall become of them?”
“They will go free, if they swear an oath to turn from piracy...”
“Good, good,” he said, smiling again. “Could I perhaps...”
Morrison held up a hand, needing to finish. “All but one, John. The one who murdered the Governor. His life is forfeit under this accord. His life will be the price of your freedom. Templeton Peck...”
