Hornblower Fic: Unfrozen
Of course, I only ever write fic when there are RL writing assignment deadlines looming. I'm sick like that. But! For the first time in ages, I've written something that is not sick and twisted (yet).
The poor boys have been created to suffer, I fear. But for now, there's some fluff:
TITLE: Unfrozen
AUTHOR: Donna Immaculata
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 1800
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie, pre-slash
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. I just take them out to play.
SUMMARY/NOTES: Horatio’s first weeks on board the Justinian have been miserable.
This is just a little bit of fluff to ease my way into the angst overkill that will follow soon(-ish).
Unfrozen
When all was said and done, it was a lump on his forehead that changed everything. Horatio had not been on the Justinian long, still trying to find his sea legs, his way around the ship and his bearings, when, amidst the bustle of the weekly gun practice, his life turned topsy-turvy.
Whilst the other mids shouted confident orders and moved about in a dance the steps of which eluded Horatio, he stood there, his hands cramped behind his back, his stomach reeling, his spine hurting. He could feel the strain of keeping his head high and his posture erect right down into his bone marrow, saw the men exchanging looks and smirks, though not daring to ridicule him openly in the presence of a lieutenant, saw Mr. Kennedy go through the motions of the dance just one gun along from his, and then one of the powder monkeys scurrying to and fro dropped the bag with gunpowder and, without any conscious thought, Horatio bent down to retrieve it.
Kennedy had bent down, too, reaching across the gun, one hand braced against its heavy bulk, and their heads bumped together. Horatio never understood why he hadn’t jerked back instantly; the force of his momentum must have carried him forward still. Kennedy was leaning in, as well, and then, suddenly, there was warmth and the slow, gentle sweep of his cheek against Kennedy’s. It was over in the blink of an eye: Horatio felt warm skin brush against his face; it was smooth and soft, with the merest hint of stubble, but the faint scratching only added to the sensation of -
He recoiled as though scalded, blinking against the pain that pulsed into life on his forehead. On the other side of the gun, Kennedy was straightening up, grinning and rubbing his head. “Ouch!” he said, and laughter vibrated in his voice. “My apologies, Mr Hornblower! It seems we wish to spare the Frogs the trouble of fighting us by knocking each other unconscious on board our own ship.”
And with these words, he turned away, shouting new orders, as though the world had not just stopped to turn. Horatio stood rooted to the spot, holding the bag in a deadened hand, until the snickering, a less than kind remark and a bellowed order brought him back to reality.
Tenderness, that was what it was. Horatio had spent the remainder of the day pushing the thought back into the deepest recess of his mind; he had been busy, he had not seen Kennedy for hours, and he had hoped that he had exhausted his body enough for Morpheus to catch him and carry him away as soon as he sank into his hammock. But Morpheus was a capricious fellow. He would never come when called, and he would always stay away when Horatio needed the oblivion of his company most. Horatio’s thoughts, so expertly subdued during the day, had the alarming tendency of shattering their restraints and stretching out their tendrils as soon as his body came to rest at night.
Never before had the press of bodies around him been so oppressive when he tried to dress for bed. He was acutely aware of the heat rising around him and within him. To make matters worse, Kennedy didn’t seem to find anything amiss; he was prattling away as usual, exchanging jokes and remarks with Hether and Cleveland. Kennedy didn’t seem to feel the need to press his hand against his own face, to contain the heat spreading from his cheek down and throughout his body. The lump of ice Horatio had been carrying with him ever since he had come aboard the Justinian had started to melt, despatching little rivulets of ice water from the pit of his stomach that made him shiver inside, but also made his skin tingle, as though he had just come back from the cold on a deep winter’s day.
Horatio had realised that this was the first time in his memory that he felt somebody else’s bare skin brush so intimately against his face.
His mother had died long before he was able to form more than vague memories of her caresses, and his father’s love for Horatio had never manifested itself in physical affection. Horatio had never missed it, either; how could he have missed something he never knew existed?
And now, the simplest, the most accidental of touches set his entire being alight. Horatio tossed from side to side, unable to find a position that wasn’t uncomfortable, restless thoughts descending upon him like birds of prey. How could this be? Kennedy hadn’t even done anything; he had not lingered, not even actively touched Horatio. Why had the sensation of tenderness imprinted itself onto his skin? He could feel, as though Kennedy were still next to him, the warmth of the boy’s face, the slide of damp skin against his, a puff of breath against his ear that made his spine tingle, from the nape of his neck all the way down to his tailbone, and the tickle of Kennedy’s hair against his nose. He wanted to press his face into that hair, soft and slightly sticky with sweat, and when he inhaled, he could still smell the scent radiating from Kennedy, and he wondered he had never before realised how clean the boy always smelled; even underneath the ubiquitous patina of grime and sweat, there was something clean and pure about him, and Horatio wanted to bury itself into it, because that was the only thing that was clean and pure on the whole hellish ship.
Horatio groaned and turned onto his other side. The moment his hammock stopped swinging wildly, he knew his mistake; he was now facing Kennedy, and the boy’s eyes were open and fixed upon Horatio. Horatio’s hand flew to his face and he covered the treacherous cheek with the flat of his palm.
“For pity’s sake, Hornblower,” Kennedy hissed, “what is the matter with you tonight?”
Horatio didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because his tongue had become affixed to his palate. He could just lie there, staring helplessly into those clear blue eyes that stared back, right into his soul.
Kennedy reached out a hand and touched Horatio’s fingers that he had still pressed against his face. He raised his head in concern. “Do you have a toothache?” he asked, closing his fingers around Horatio’s. “I can give you something for it, tomorrow, it’s in my sea chest. Mother made sure to give me clove oil before I left home, even though I’ve never in my life suffered from toothache. You can wash your mouth out with salt water, too, there’s plenty of that to be had here.” His grin widened, white teeth flashing in the darkness. “Or you could go and see Dr Hepplewhite tomorrow, if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it, he’ll only pull three or four of your teeth, and by that time you’ll be in so much pain you won’t be able to tell whether the aching one was among them. You’re better off on your own. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.”
Horatio had caught his breath again. “Kennedy!” he croaked, and, as that didn’t penetrate the boy’s ceaseless chatter, he repeated, more loudly: “Kennedy!”
Kennedy fell silent and Horatio was struck by how still his mobile face had become, like a brook caught by the hand of winter and frozen in his merry motion. In fact, he had seen this before, but he hadn’t noticed it, not really noticed it: if Kennedy wasn’t talking, laughing or chattering, or all three at the same time, he turned perfectly still and calm, like a statue. There was even something of a statue about his looks; his face had not yet lost its boyish roundness, but the promise of chiselled features lurked beneath the smooth skin.
The skin that Horatio so desperately longed to rub his face against.
“I don’t have a toothache,” he whispered, forcing the words out past his heart that fluttered in his throat. “I’m just... too tired to sleep.” That wasn’t a lie, not a real lie. He was tired, and he couldn’t sleep. He just had to bring these two concepts together and present them as one.
Kennedy flashed another grin that was almost too bright to pass unnoticed within the darkness of the midshipmen’s berth at this hour of night. “I know what you mean,” he whispered back, and Horatio could have sworn that Kennedy had shifted closer, even though he knew that was impossible. Perhaps it was the intensity of that bright gaze that drew him in and pulled him closer until he could feel the boy’s physical proximity. He had moved his hand away from his face, lifting it very carefully so as not to disturb Kennedy’s hand, like he wouldn’t want to disturb a beautiful butterfly perched atop his fingers. Kennedy had not pulled his hand away, following Horatio’s movement willingly. Trustingly, Horatio thought, and that thought, too, sent a jolt of warmth spreading through his belly.
Despite the presence of the other midshipmen, most of whom snored or grunted in their sleep, Horatio felt as though Kennedy and he were alone, as though only he and Kennedy were real, whilst the world around them dulled and paled and became insubstantial. Even the pain in his forehead had dulled.
Horatio startled when Kennedy lifted his hand off his and touched his fingers lightly to Horatio’s forehead and then to his own, as if he had just read Horatio’s mind. “How’s your head?” he asked. “I’ve got quite a bump here,” he indicated. “I never felt it at the time, but I can feel it now. We must have looked quite a fine pair!” Horatio smiled, and Kennedy beamed at him. “Oh, good!” Kennedy said, “I’ve been quite prepared to give up in despair.”
“Give up what?” Horatio’s face tensed.
“Give up the hope that you would ever wear an expression that is neither grim nor miserable, Mr Hornblower.”
Horatio exhaled. “I have been miserable.” He shouldn’t have admitted to it, but the dark night hour, the strange and sudden sensation of comradeship cast a spell over him that he was unable to shake off. Within the space of a few hours, he had grown older, he felt, suddenly understanding the meaning of intimacy, both physical and emotional, and, as he couldn’t have the first one, he longed for the second one even more strongly.
Kennedy was watching him intently. “I know,” he breathed. “But you no longer are, are you?”
There was only one possible answer to this question. Horatio shook his head and watched Kennedy’s face light up again.
The next day, Jack Simpson came back, and everything shattered.
The poor boys have been created to suffer, I fear. But for now, there's some fluff:
TITLE: Unfrozen
AUTHOR: Donna Immaculata
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 1800
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie, pre-slash
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. I just take them out to play.
SUMMARY/NOTES: Horatio’s first weeks on board the Justinian have been miserable.
This is just a little bit of fluff to ease my way into the angst overkill that will follow soon(-ish).
Unfrozen
When all was said and done, it was a lump on his forehead that changed everything. Horatio had not been on the Justinian long, still trying to find his sea legs, his way around the ship and his bearings, when, amidst the bustle of the weekly gun practice, his life turned topsy-turvy.
Whilst the other mids shouted confident orders and moved about in a dance the steps of which eluded Horatio, he stood there, his hands cramped behind his back, his stomach reeling, his spine hurting. He could feel the strain of keeping his head high and his posture erect right down into his bone marrow, saw the men exchanging looks and smirks, though not daring to ridicule him openly in the presence of a lieutenant, saw Mr. Kennedy go through the motions of the dance just one gun along from his, and then one of the powder monkeys scurrying to and fro dropped the bag with gunpowder and, without any conscious thought, Horatio bent down to retrieve it.
Kennedy had bent down, too, reaching across the gun, one hand braced against its heavy bulk, and their heads bumped together. Horatio never understood why he hadn’t jerked back instantly; the force of his momentum must have carried him forward still. Kennedy was leaning in, as well, and then, suddenly, there was warmth and the slow, gentle sweep of his cheek against Kennedy’s. It was over in the blink of an eye: Horatio felt warm skin brush against his face; it was smooth and soft, with the merest hint of stubble, but the faint scratching only added to the sensation of -
He recoiled as though scalded, blinking against the pain that pulsed into life on his forehead. On the other side of the gun, Kennedy was straightening up, grinning and rubbing his head. “Ouch!” he said, and laughter vibrated in his voice. “My apologies, Mr Hornblower! It seems we wish to spare the Frogs the trouble of fighting us by knocking each other unconscious on board our own ship.”
And with these words, he turned away, shouting new orders, as though the world had not just stopped to turn. Horatio stood rooted to the spot, holding the bag in a deadened hand, until the snickering, a less than kind remark and a bellowed order brought him back to reality.
Tenderness, that was what it was. Horatio had spent the remainder of the day pushing the thought back into the deepest recess of his mind; he had been busy, he had not seen Kennedy for hours, and he had hoped that he had exhausted his body enough for Morpheus to catch him and carry him away as soon as he sank into his hammock. But Morpheus was a capricious fellow. He would never come when called, and he would always stay away when Horatio needed the oblivion of his company most. Horatio’s thoughts, so expertly subdued during the day, had the alarming tendency of shattering their restraints and stretching out their tendrils as soon as his body came to rest at night.
Never before had the press of bodies around him been so oppressive when he tried to dress for bed. He was acutely aware of the heat rising around him and within him. To make matters worse, Kennedy didn’t seem to find anything amiss; he was prattling away as usual, exchanging jokes and remarks with Hether and Cleveland. Kennedy didn’t seem to feel the need to press his hand against his own face, to contain the heat spreading from his cheek down and throughout his body. The lump of ice Horatio had been carrying with him ever since he had come aboard the Justinian had started to melt, despatching little rivulets of ice water from the pit of his stomach that made him shiver inside, but also made his skin tingle, as though he had just come back from the cold on a deep winter’s day.
Horatio had realised that this was the first time in his memory that he felt somebody else’s bare skin brush so intimately against his face.
His mother had died long before he was able to form more than vague memories of her caresses, and his father’s love for Horatio had never manifested itself in physical affection. Horatio had never missed it, either; how could he have missed something he never knew existed?
And now, the simplest, the most accidental of touches set his entire being alight. Horatio tossed from side to side, unable to find a position that wasn’t uncomfortable, restless thoughts descending upon him like birds of prey. How could this be? Kennedy hadn’t even done anything; he had not lingered, not even actively touched Horatio. Why had the sensation of tenderness imprinted itself onto his skin? He could feel, as though Kennedy were still next to him, the warmth of the boy’s face, the slide of damp skin against his, a puff of breath against his ear that made his spine tingle, from the nape of his neck all the way down to his tailbone, and the tickle of Kennedy’s hair against his nose. He wanted to press his face into that hair, soft and slightly sticky with sweat, and when he inhaled, he could still smell the scent radiating from Kennedy, and he wondered he had never before realised how clean the boy always smelled; even underneath the ubiquitous patina of grime and sweat, there was something clean and pure about him, and Horatio wanted to bury itself into it, because that was the only thing that was clean and pure on the whole hellish ship.
Horatio groaned and turned onto his other side. The moment his hammock stopped swinging wildly, he knew his mistake; he was now facing Kennedy, and the boy’s eyes were open and fixed upon Horatio. Horatio’s hand flew to his face and he covered the treacherous cheek with the flat of his palm.
“For pity’s sake, Hornblower,” Kennedy hissed, “what is the matter with you tonight?”
Horatio didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because his tongue had become affixed to his palate. He could just lie there, staring helplessly into those clear blue eyes that stared back, right into his soul.
Kennedy reached out a hand and touched Horatio’s fingers that he had still pressed against his face. He raised his head in concern. “Do you have a toothache?” he asked, closing his fingers around Horatio’s. “I can give you something for it, tomorrow, it’s in my sea chest. Mother made sure to give me clove oil before I left home, even though I’ve never in my life suffered from toothache. You can wash your mouth out with salt water, too, there’s plenty of that to be had here.” His grin widened, white teeth flashing in the darkness. “Or you could go and see Dr Hepplewhite tomorrow, if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it, he’ll only pull three or four of your teeth, and by that time you’ll be in so much pain you won’t be able to tell whether the aching one was among them. You’re better off on your own. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.”
Horatio had caught his breath again. “Kennedy!” he croaked, and, as that didn’t penetrate the boy’s ceaseless chatter, he repeated, more loudly: “Kennedy!”
Kennedy fell silent and Horatio was struck by how still his mobile face had become, like a brook caught by the hand of winter and frozen in his merry motion. In fact, he had seen this before, but he hadn’t noticed it, not really noticed it: if Kennedy wasn’t talking, laughing or chattering, or all three at the same time, he turned perfectly still and calm, like a statue. There was even something of a statue about his looks; his face had not yet lost its boyish roundness, but the promise of chiselled features lurked beneath the smooth skin.
The skin that Horatio so desperately longed to rub his face against.
“I don’t have a toothache,” he whispered, forcing the words out past his heart that fluttered in his throat. “I’m just... too tired to sleep.” That wasn’t a lie, not a real lie. He was tired, and he couldn’t sleep. He just had to bring these two concepts together and present them as one.
Kennedy flashed another grin that was almost too bright to pass unnoticed within the darkness of the midshipmen’s berth at this hour of night. “I know what you mean,” he whispered back, and Horatio could have sworn that Kennedy had shifted closer, even though he knew that was impossible. Perhaps it was the intensity of that bright gaze that drew him in and pulled him closer until he could feel the boy’s physical proximity. He had moved his hand away from his face, lifting it very carefully so as not to disturb Kennedy’s hand, like he wouldn’t want to disturb a beautiful butterfly perched atop his fingers. Kennedy had not pulled his hand away, following Horatio’s movement willingly. Trustingly, Horatio thought, and that thought, too, sent a jolt of warmth spreading through his belly.
Despite the presence of the other midshipmen, most of whom snored or grunted in their sleep, Horatio felt as though Kennedy and he were alone, as though only he and Kennedy were real, whilst the world around them dulled and paled and became insubstantial. Even the pain in his forehead had dulled.
Horatio startled when Kennedy lifted his hand off his and touched his fingers lightly to Horatio’s forehead and then to his own, as if he had just read Horatio’s mind. “How’s your head?” he asked. “I’ve got quite a bump here,” he indicated. “I never felt it at the time, but I can feel it now. We must have looked quite a fine pair!” Horatio smiled, and Kennedy beamed at him. “Oh, good!” Kennedy said, “I’ve been quite prepared to give up in despair.”
“Give up what?” Horatio’s face tensed.
“Give up the hope that you would ever wear an expression that is neither grim nor miserable, Mr Hornblower.”
Horatio exhaled. “I have been miserable.” He shouldn’t have admitted to it, but the dark night hour, the strange and sudden sensation of comradeship cast a spell over him that he was unable to shake off. Within the space of a few hours, he had grown older, he felt, suddenly understanding the meaning of intimacy, both physical and emotional, and, as he couldn’t have the first one, he longed for the second one even more strongly.
Kennedy was watching him intently. “I know,” he breathed. “But you no longer are, are you?”
There was only one possible answer to this question. Horatio shook his head and watched Kennedy’s face light up again.
The next day, Jack Simpson came back, and everything shattered.