Horatio/Bush AU
I wrote this for conanthebarbie, and she quite nicely suggested that I post it here for your reading pleasure. It's inspired by The Decemberists' song
The Legionnaire's Lament - and when I say "inspired", I do mean "inspired", not "song fic". :) Also I know less than nothing about the French Foreign Legion, so it's clearly not going to be historically accurate.
Title: Oasis
Author:edoraslass
Rated: G
Slashy implications
Clearly, nothing here is mine
It’s hot - no, “hot” doesn’t even begin to describe it, but Horatio can’t be bothered to think of another word.
He’s homesick, almost desperately so, and doing his best to hide it, but he suspects he’s not having any luck. One of the other men - an older man with the hard-bitten look of an seasoned campaigner whose company just joined theirs, Horatio doesn’t remember his name - keeps tossing curious glances in Horatio’s direction.
It’s unnerving, and Horatio vows to ignore the scrutiny, it won’t do any good to be concerned with what another man thinks of him, but he can’t quite manage it, so instead Horatio distracts himself by setting up his lean-to. It won’t deflect the heat rising from the sands, but it will give him a spot to hide from the sun, just for a short while.
Finished, Horatio sets his pack on the ground, leans against it, and closes his eyes as he tilts his head back. Rain, he thinks pointlessly. Warm summer rain, the lapping of the river against the bank, the splashing of fountains and the smell of a newly-watered garden -
“Don’t think about it.” The voice is unfamiliar, almost a growl but not unfriendly, and when Horatio cautiously opens his eyes, he’s not entirely surprised to find the man who was watching him sitting there. “It won’t help to dwell on it.”
“What makes you think I was dwelling on anything?” Horatio asks, less belligerently than he would if the air wasn’t shimmering with heat but belligerently enough to make the other man laugh.
“I can see it in your face,” he says with a sly smile that makes Horatio’s stomach clench involuntarily. “You are thinking of - “ he makes a show of pondering, “-water.”
Horatio almost smiles despite himself. “Of course I am,” he admits. “What else would I be thinking of in this godforsaken part of the world?”
The man makes a questioning gesture, and Horatio nods, moving over to share his shade. “Good food,” he says, “good wine, a soft bed - a good woman.”
Horatio looks away; his gaze is caught by something in the distance - a palm tree? Surely not. He blinks, and it’s gone. Another goddamn mirage. “No woman,” he says, glancing down at his feet. “Not any more.”
“Told her you weren’t coming back, did you?”
Horatio just nods, and tries to look at the man without staring at his mouth, but that’s another thing he can’t quite manage, so he rests his arms on his updrawn knees and stares at his own hands.
“Ah well,” the other says with a shrug, “woman are overrated. Here -” he holds out a small bottle. “It’ll help you relax.” He looks relaxed enough for both of them, the corner of that somehow mesmerizing mouth turned up as if in anticipation of a smile, sharp blue eyes slightly unfocused, but still somehow managing to never waver from Horatio’s face.
Horatio accepts- wine or water, he doesn’t care which it is; he’s only mildly surprised to realize it’s laudanum. “I don’t know your name,” he says, already feeling the drug sink into his bones.
“Bush,” the other man says, and his fingers linger briefly on Horatio’s as he takes the bottle from Horatio’s, somehow hotter than the desert sun pounding down on them. “William Bush.”
The Legionnaire's Lament - and when I say "inspired", I do mean "inspired", not "song fic". :) Also I know less than nothing about the French Foreign Legion, so it's clearly not going to be historically accurate.
Title: Oasis
Author:edoraslass
Rated: G
Slashy implications
Clearly, nothing here is mine
It’s hot - no, “hot” doesn’t even begin to describe it, but Horatio can’t be bothered to think of another word.
He’s homesick, almost desperately so, and doing his best to hide it, but he suspects he’s not having any luck. One of the other men - an older man with the hard-bitten look of an seasoned campaigner whose company just joined theirs, Horatio doesn’t remember his name - keeps tossing curious glances in Horatio’s direction.
It’s unnerving, and Horatio vows to ignore the scrutiny, it won’t do any good to be concerned with what another man thinks of him, but he can’t quite manage it, so instead Horatio distracts himself by setting up his lean-to. It won’t deflect the heat rising from the sands, but it will give him a spot to hide from the sun, just for a short while.
Finished, Horatio sets his pack on the ground, leans against it, and closes his eyes as he tilts his head back. Rain, he thinks pointlessly. Warm summer rain, the lapping of the river against the bank, the splashing of fountains and the smell of a newly-watered garden -
“Don’t think about it.” The voice is unfamiliar, almost a growl but not unfriendly, and when Horatio cautiously opens his eyes, he’s not entirely surprised to find the man who was watching him sitting there. “It won’t help to dwell on it.”
“What makes you think I was dwelling on anything?” Horatio asks, less belligerently than he would if the air wasn’t shimmering with heat but belligerently enough to make the other man laugh.
“I can see it in your face,” he says with a sly smile that makes Horatio’s stomach clench involuntarily. “You are thinking of - “ he makes a show of pondering, “-water.”
Horatio almost smiles despite himself. “Of course I am,” he admits. “What else would I be thinking of in this godforsaken part of the world?”
The man makes a questioning gesture, and Horatio nods, moving over to share his shade. “Good food,” he says, “good wine, a soft bed - a good woman.”
Horatio looks away; his gaze is caught by something in the distance - a palm tree? Surely not. He blinks, and it’s gone. Another goddamn mirage. “No woman,” he says, glancing down at his feet. “Not any more.”
“Told her you weren’t coming back, did you?”
Horatio just nods, and tries to look at the man without staring at his mouth, but that’s another thing he can’t quite manage, so he rests his arms on his updrawn knees and stares at his own hands.
“Ah well,” the other says with a shrug, “woman are overrated. Here -” he holds out a small bottle. “It’ll help you relax.” He looks relaxed enough for both of them, the corner of that somehow mesmerizing mouth turned up as if in anticipation of a smile, sharp blue eyes slightly unfocused, but still somehow managing to never waver from Horatio’s face.
Horatio accepts- wine or water, he doesn’t care which it is; he’s only mildly surprised to realize it’s laudanum. “I don’t know your name,” he says, already feeling the drug sink into his bones.
“Bush,” the other man says, and his fingers linger briefly on Horatio’s as he takes the bottle from Horatio’s, somehow hotter than the desert sun pounding down on them. “William Bush.”