Fic: Interlude (HH)
Dec. 25th, 2005 09:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiespark.
Happy Christmas to my wonderful f-list - may your day be filled with family, friends and food!
Title: Interlude
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosiespark
Characters: Horatio Hornblower, Archie Kennedy, William Bush.
Summary: In which sleep proves to be elusive, for various reasons.
Rating: There’s implied smut.
Notes: Canon is conveniently vague on how long they spent in the Renown’s brig, so I’m assuming there was at least one night, during which this fic is set. Thanks, as always, tofajrdrako for a supremely intelligent, sensitive and helpful beta!
“My apologies, gentlemen. I seem to have lost the knack of sleeping,” Hornblower says quietly, ruefully even, and he settles back into his corner of the brig without further ado.
None of them have had more than a few snatched moments of sleep, and Kennedy’s store of patience, certainly not his foremost virtue, is apparently at an end. He sounds waspish as he says crossly to Hornblower, “It won’t work. You’ve lost the knack of sleeping when you’re upright.”
He has a point. Three times already in the interval between the striking of seven bells and the end of the second dog watch, Hornblower has started guiltily into wakefulness – unavoidably waking them all, closely quartered as they are in one miserable cell. This particular effect on a man’s mind and body of being sentenced to constant watch, on pain of death, had not previously occurred to Bush, but after over forty hours of enforced wakefulness under such a threat, it is hardly surprising that resisting sleep should come to seem the more natural state. Shifting his shoulders wearily against the iron grating at his back, he watches through half-closed lids as Kennedy takes a stand.
“It’s no use,” Kennedy is continuing doggedly. “You need to lie down, Horatio.”
Bush raises an eyebrow at Kennedy’s unseemly persistence. Though in truth this forward behaviour is nothing new: the fourth lieutenant can seemingly get away with statements that no-one else would dare voice, especially where Hornblower is concerned.
He can hear exasperation, as expected, in Hornblower’s reply, but it is mixed with an amused tolerance and even a touch of affection. “Lie down? Where?”
And indeed, no side of this squalid little section of the Renown’s brig is long enough to allow a man to stretch out, and they are unbearably cramped. And even if that were not the case, what Bush can see of the deck beneath them looks unsavoury enough that he imagines any man would baulk at laying down his head on it.
Kennedy is making a determined proposal that Hornblower seems to be opposing on grounds of unfairness, though his powers of resistance appear to somewhat worn down by lack of sleep. At Kennedy’s insistence, he finally agrees to lie down, with his head pillowed on Kennedy’s leg and only his back unavoidably resting on the filthy deck. As the only possible way of accommodating his lanky form within the confines of the brig’s narrow dimensions, he has had to draw his legs up and let them fall sideways against the side of the cell. His body is strangely twisted, yet relaxed at the same time, and Bush finds his position oddly vulnerable.
Kennedy has tipped his head back, out of the pool of light cast by the shaded lantern hanging just outside their cell. From his stillness, he would appear to be asleep. Propped in his own corner in a huddle of cramped limbs, Bush feels a barely recognised stab of jealousy at how comfortable his two junior lieutenants are with each other. The degree of familiarity and ease between the two of them is a luxury that he has not allowed himself since childhood. Like brothers, he thinks, as sleep weights his eyelids.
Or maybe not quite like brothers. Waking from uneasy slumber some indeterminate time later, Bush is frozen into immobility by the scene before him.
Hornblower has shifted in his sleep, turning his face inwards, towards Kennedy, so that one cheek lies cradled in the hollow of Kennedy’s hip. Hornblower is asleep, Bush would swear to it: the lax hand on the filthy floor bears testament to that. What holds Bush’s attention rapt are the idly caressing fingers combing through Hornblower’s dark hair. Kennedy is leaning forwards, bright hair catching the lamplight, his features set in quiet concentration as he runs his fingers gently through damp tumbled curls, smoothing out the salt-snarled tangles with a careful touch.
Bush’s first thought is that he should have known. He has sometimes wondered, watching them together, about the nature of the bond between the two men. “Go back a long way together, sir: they’ve served together for years, known each other since they were boys,” Matthews had once volunteered earnestly, no doubt sensing his curiosity. It would seem that he now has his answer. And maybe, in truth, he has known it all along. His gaze suddenly feeling like an intrusion, Bush closes his eyes hastily.
Without any preliminaries, Kennedy asks, “Did you sleep well, Mr Bush?”
The caustic tone cuts through any pretence of his still being asleep; he doesn’t know what it was that gave him away.
“Tolerably,” he says repressively, and Kennedy’s answering smile sets his teeth on edge. Dear God, he thinks in a rush of fury at Kennedy’s idiocy, does he imagine that everyone on the ship is blind? God knows, enough of the men aboard the Renown are Sawyer’s creatures that no corner of the ship is safe. Can Kennedy not see with what gleeful malice Sawyer would seize on any excuse to further discredit any of them?
He knows that he will earn no-one’s gratitude if he speaks, least of all Kennedy’s, but that is no justification for remaining silent. He says stiffly, “I imagine you have considered what the consequences would be should this come to the Captain’s notice.”
“I did not take you for an informer, Mr Bush,” Kennedy says pleasantly, conversationally even – they might almost be discussing whether the best biscuit comes from Deal or Deptford – but true to form, the smile that accompanies these words is one of his most offensive. As little as two days earlier, this might have been enough to deter Bush.
As it is, he returns a mirthless smile and replies levelly, “I would advise that you exercise rather more caution, Mr Kennedy.”
The flash of defiance in Kennedy’s eyes is not wholly unexpected, neither is his short laugh before he says, “Sawyer means to see us hang in Kingston.”
“Captain Sawyer,” Bush corrects automatically.
“He will paint the blackest picture possible,” Kennedy continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “Strung up at the yardarm, Mr Bush, all three of us.” Anger is plain in his soft voice. “And you advise caution?”
“For his sake, if not for your own,” Bush says with repressed violence, grimly keeping sight of his objective in the face of provocation.
The blue gaze becomes openly hostile, and Bush briefly mourns the fact that their earlier accord does not seem to have survived this latest development.
He tries again, driven by his need to make Kennedy see sense. While there is a chance, however slight, that they can escape being hanged for their part in this supposed mutiny, it seems beyond reckless to indulge in behaviour that could condemn the two of them outright. “You do each other no favours.” And then in desperation, as Kennedy continues to stare at him in faint derision, “Do you think he would thank you?”
Kennedy’s mouth twitches even as he looks demurely down at the deck. When he looks up again, his eyes are alight with something dangerous and the unbridled folly of his reply surpasses even Bush’s expectations.
“On the contrary, sir”, he says deliberately, with a slight and mocking smile on his lips, “I think you would find that he usually thanks me very prettily indeed.”
“For God’s sake, man! Have you no decency?” In his agitation, Bush forgets to keep his voice down and his furious exclamation puts paid to their exchange as Hornblower starts into wakefulness once more.
Placing a steadying hand on Hornblower’s shoulder, Kennedy says matter-of-factly, “You’re awake, then.” Again, that disturbing undercurrent of affection to otherwise commonplace words; Bush imagines it has been present all along but it has never seemed so dangerously noticeable.
Hornblower is blinking repeatedly, obviously disoriented by his surroundings as he struggles to sit up, but he replies gamely enough, “So it would seem, Archie.”
“We all are,” Bush interjects drily. He would risk witnessing no more tender indiscretions, no more inappropriate caresses.
Kennedy is speaking to Hornblower again, low and intimate, causing something to tighten in Bush’s chest. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine,” Hornblower says briskly. “I’m perfectly rested, thank you.” This is believable only if one discounts his pallor and the shadows like thumbprints under his eyes, and Kennedy is clearly not deceived by his assurances. A minor battle of wills ensues over Hornblower’s insistence that he and Kennedy should change places. Though clearly still exhausted in spite of his protestations to the contrary, Horatio carries the field this time through sheer immovable obstinacy. Kennedy accepts defeat with a typical lack of meekness and the words “Perfectly rested, you say? You’d starve, Horatio, if you had to make your living on the stage.” Bush is startled to find himself having to suppress a smile at Kennedy’s words.
They settle down again with Kennedy adopting Hornblower’s former supine position, and Hornblower looks to have fallen asleep again almost immediately, slumped in his corner with his head tilted against the dank side of the brig. Asleep or not, Kennedy is silent, for which Bush is grateful.
Bush closes his eyes, his thoughts running in well worn tracks that will not let him sleep: pointless speculation regarding what really happened the night of Captain Sawyer’s accident, and equally fruitless but even more desperate attempts to formulate a plausible defence for their inevitable courts-martial in Kingston. And try as he might to forget it, his thoughts keep returning to one thing only, to the image that remains indelible, jewel-bright in his mind’s eye, of the absorbed tenderness on the face of one man and the utter trust implicit in the unguarded repose of the other.
********************************
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
crumpeteers.
Happy Christmas to my wonderful f-list - may your day be filled with family, friends and food!
Title: Interlude
Author:
rosiesparkCharacters: Horatio Hornblower, Archie Kennedy, William Bush.
Summary: In which sleep proves to be elusive, for various reasons.
Rating: There’s implied smut.
Notes: Canon is conveniently vague on how long they spent in the Renown’s brig, so I’m assuming there was at least one night, during which this fic is set. Thanks, as always, to
fajrdrako for a supremely intelligent, sensitive and helpful beta!“My apologies, gentlemen. I seem to have lost the knack of sleeping,” Hornblower says quietly, ruefully even, and he settles back into his corner of the brig without further ado.
None of them have had more than a few snatched moments of sleep, and Kennedy’s store of patience, certainly not his foremost virtue, is apparently at an end. He sounds waspish as he says crossly to Hornblower, “It won’t work. You’ve lost the knack of sleeping when you’re upright.”
He has a point. Three times already in the interval between the striking of seven bells and the end of the second dog watch, Hornblower has started guiltily into wakefulness – unavoidably waking them all, closely quartered as they are in one miserable cell. This particular effect on a man’s mind and body of being sentenced to constant watch, on pain of death, had not previously occurred to Bush, but after over forty hours of enforced wakefulness under such a threat, it is hardly surprising that resisting sleep should come to seem the more natural state. Shifting his shoulders wearily against the iron grating at his back, he watches through half-closed lids as Kennedy takes a stand.
“It’s no use,” Kennedy is continuing doggedly. “You need to lie down, Horatio.”
Bush raises an eyebrow at Kennedy’s unseemly persistence. Though in truth this forward behaviour is nothing new: the fourth lieutenant can seemingly get away with statements that no-one else would dare voice, especially where Hornblower is concerned.
He can hear exasperation, as expected, in Hornblower’s reply, but it is mixed with an amused tolerance and even a touch of affection. “Lie down? Where?”
And indeed, no side of this squalid little section of the Renown’s brig is long enough to allow a man to stretch out, and they are unbearably cramped. And even if that were not the case, what Bush can see of the deck beneath them looks unsavoury enough that he imagines any man would baulk at laying down his head on it.
Kennedy is making a determined proposal that Hornblower seems to be opposing on grounds of unfairness, though his powers of resistance appear to somewhat worn down by lack of sleep. At Kennedy’s insistence, he finally agrees to lie down, with his head pillowed on Kennedy’s leg and only his back unavoidably resting on the filthy deck. As the only possible way of accommodating his lanky form within the confines of the brig’s narrow dimensions, he has had to draw his legs up and let them fall sideways against the side of the cell. His body is strangely twisted, yet relaxed at the same time, and Bush finds his position oddly vulnerable.
Kennedy has tipped his head back, out of the pool of light cast by the shaded lantern hanging just outside their cell. From his stillness, he would appear to be asleep. Propped in his own corner in a huddle of cramped limbs, Bush feels a barely recognised stab of jealousy at how comfortable his two junior lieutenants are with each other. The degree of familiarity and ease between the two of them is a luxury that he has not allowed himself since childhood. Like brothers, he thinks, as sleep weights his eyelids.
Or maybe not quite like brothers. Waking from uneasy slumber some indeterminate time later, Bush is frozen into immobility by the scene before him.
Hornblower has shifted in his sleep, turning his face inwards, towards Kennedy, so that one cheek lies cradled in the hollow of Kennedy’s hip. Hornblower is asleep, Bush would swear to it: the lax hand on the filthy floor bears testament to that. What holds Bush’s attention rapt are the idly caressing fingers combing through Hornblower’s dark hair. Kennedy is leaning forwards, bright hair catching the lamplight, his features set in quiet concentration as he runs his fingers gently through damp tumbled curls, smoothing out the salt-snarled tangles with a careful touch.
Bush’s first thought is that he should have known. He has sometimes wondered, watching them together, about the nature of the bond between the two men. “Go back a long way together, sir: they’ve served together for years, known each other since they were boys,” Matthews had once volunteered earnestly, no doubt sensing his curiosity. It would seem that he now has his answer. And maybe, in truth, he has known it all along. His gaze suddenly feeling like an intrusion, Bush closes his eyes hastily.
Without any preliminaries, Kennedy asks, “Did you sleep well, Mr Bush?”
The caustic tone cuts through any pretence of his still being asleep; he doesn’t know what it was that gave him away.
“Tolerably,” he says repressively, and Kennedy’s answering smile sets his teeth on edge. Dear God, he thinks in a rush of fury at Kennedy’s idiocy, does he imagine that everyone on the ship is blind? God knows, enough of the men aboard the Renown are Sawyer’s creatures that no corner of the ship is safe. Can Kennedy not see with what gleeful malice Sawyer would seize on any excuse to further discredit any of them?
He knows that he will earn no-one’s gratitude if he speaks, least of all Kennedy’s, but that is no justification for remaining silent. He says stiffly, “I imagine you have considered what the consequences would be should this come to the Captain’s notice.”
“I did not take you for an informer, Mr Bush,” Kennedy says pleasantly, conversationally even – they might almost be discussing whether the best biscuit comes from Deal or Deptford – but true to form, the smile that accompanies these words is one of his most offensive. As little as two days earlier, this might have been enough to deter Bush.
As it is, he returns a mirthless smile and replies levelly, “I would advise that you exercise rather more caution, Mr Kennedy.”
The flash of defiance in Kennedy’s eyes is not wholly unexpected, neither is his short laugh before he says, “Sawyer means to see us hang in Kingston.”
“Captain Sawyer,” Bush corrects automatically.
“He will paint the blackest picture possible,” Kennedy continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “Strung up at the yardarm, Mr Bush, all three of us.” Anger is plain in his soft voice. “And you advise caution?”
“For his sake, if not for your own,” Bush says with repressed violence, grimly keeping sight of his objective in the face of provocation.
The blue gaze becomes openly hostile, and Bush briefly mourns the fact that their earlier accord does not seem to have survived this latest development.
He tries again, driven by his need to make Kennedy see sense. While there is a chance, however slight, that they can escape being hanged for their part in this supposed mutiny, it seems beyond reckless to indulge in behaviour that could condemn the two of them outright. “You do each other no favours.” And then in desperation, as Kennedy continues to stare at him in faint derision, “Do you think he would thank you?”
Kennedy’s mouth twitches even as he looks demurely down at the deck. When he looks up again, his eyes are alight with something dangerous and the unbridled folly of his reply surpasses even Bush’s expectations.
“On the contrary, sir”, he says deliberately, with a slight and mocking smile on his lips, “I think you would find that he usually thanks me very prettily indeed.”
“For God’s sake, man! Have you no decency?” In his agitation, Bush forgets to keep his voice down and his furious exclamation puts paid to their exchange as Hornblower starts into wakefulness once more.
Placing a steadying hand on Hornblower’s shoulder, Kennedy says matter-of-factly, “You’re awake, then.” Again, that disturbing undercurrent of affection to otherwise commonplace words; Bush imagines it has been present all along but it has never seemed so dangerously noticeable.
Hornblower is blinking repeatedly, obviously disoriented by his surroundings as he struggles to sit up, but he replies gamely enough, “So it would seem, Archie.”
“We all are,” Bush interjects drily. He would risk witnessing no more tender indiscretions, no more inappropriate caresses.
Kennedy is speaking to Hornblower again, low and intimate, causing something to tighten in Bush’s chest. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine,” Hornblower says briskly. “I’m perfectly rested, thank you.” This is believable only if one discounts his pallor and the shadows like thumbprints under his eyes, and Kennedy is clearly not deceived by his assurances. A minor battle of wills ensues over Hornblower’s insistence that he and Kennedy should change places. Though clearly still exhausted in spite of his protestations to the contrary, Horatio carries the field this time through sheer immovable obstinacy. Kennedy accepts defeat with a typical lack of meekness and the words “Perfectly rested, you say? You’d starve, Horatio, if you had to make your living on the stage.” Bush is startled to find himself having to suppress a smile at Kennedy’s words.
They settle down again with Kennedy adopting Hornblower’s former supine position, and Hornblower looks to have fallen asleep again almost immediately, slumped in his corner with his head tilted against the dank side of the brig. Asleep or not, Kennedy is silent, for which Bush is grateful.
Bush closes his eyes, his thoughts running in well worn tracks that will not let him sleep: pointless speculation regarding what really happened the night of Captain Sawyer’s accident, and equally fruitless but even more desperate attempts to formulate a plausible defence for their inevitable courts-martial in Kingston. And try as he might to forget it, his thoughts keep returning to one thing only, to the image that remains indelible, jewel-bright in his mind’s eye, of the absorbed tenderness on the face of one man and the utter trust implicit in the unguarded repose of the other.
********************************
Cross-posted to
crumpeteers.