Fic: By the Hand Led (2/3)
TITLE: By the Hand Led (2/3)
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 1125
PAIRING: AK, HH
WARNINGS: None
DISCLAIMER: Hornblower and characters belong to ITV and the Forester estate.
SUMMARY: Horatio and Kennedy devise a secret language. Part 2: A difficult day has Horatio seeking connection. (Pts 1 & 3)
Falling into their hammocks side by side the next night, Horatio was less sanguine about his prospects. He'd been tricked by Cleveland into a hunt for a hammock ladder, and worse, Archie hadn't told him it was a goose chase. He didn't figure it out until he made a fool of himself asking the men, and been bottled by Lieutenant Chadd for not being on deck.
He'd spent most of the rest of the watch stationed far across the long quarterdeck from Kennedy, and not been sorry for it. Combined with the start of a winter squall just in time to soak him to the bone before they could come off watch, Horatio was back to feeling out of place and out of sorts.
He stared up at the deck beams and resolutely refused to look in Kennedy's direction until the lamps had been extinguished again for the night and he didn't have to.
"Horatio." He wasn't in a mood for conversation and turned over on his side. A cold hand shook him a little, tried to coax him over, but he resisted. "Horatio, come on. It was just a poke. Don't be such a snot..."
"Kennedy, matchboxes!" one of the other mids barked, Hether, he thought.
With this curious command, Archie shut up immediately, though Horatio could hear the boy hadn't settled. He heard a loud sigh, and then the quiet rustle as Kennedy rifled through the coats they'd hung nearby. A few moments later, he was shaken again, and when he didn't react, something was shoved under his arm.
Unable to resist, he squirmed around, and discovered the three bits of fabric. In the pitch black of the berth, he could not quite tell by touch which of the flags he had been given, though he did try, calculating the possible combinations from the shape of the piecework, and trying to remember each number's pass phrases.
He fell asleep before he could work it out, and woke only reluctantly, when his hammock was firmly jostled.
Shaken by a familiar hand of course, and his first blinking sight was Kennedy's lantern-lit face, wearing a smile that was less impish than normal, almost sheepish. Horatio's heart was not prepared to withstand much assault, and he knew he'd already forgiven Archie. He felt his own lips turn up at the corners.
"You got my message then?" Archie shrugged on a coat and began doing up the buttons.
Horatio looked around, then retrieved the scattered flags and studied them, trying to discern their original arrangement. Making a guess, he rummaged for the paper with the codes. 'Apology'. Horatio made a face, and waved the flags at the other mid. "Now I have. Thank you much. I can hardly be expected to read your signals blind in the dark, can I?"
"I suppose it wasn't the best thought out. But I had to shut up, and I didn't want you to go to sleep upset with me." Archie handed him his own coat, and made a gesture offering to help Horatio with his still damp and tangled hair.
"Perhaps you should find a different method for relaying your after hours regrets, then." He turned around to let Kennedy start on his queue.
"Already planning my future errors, how very foresightful, Mr. Hornblower." Kennedy's hands were very careful, but they always were, smoothing his curls easier than he had ever managed them himself. "Well let's see, nighttime dispatches... I can hardly signal you with lanterns, or even candles. I fear our messmates would not care for drums either. No, I might have to resign myself to saving my apologies for morning. As well as any more pleasant communications.
"Which would not be wholly bad, you need more sleep, Horatio." Archie finished tying his ribbon, and spun him about, brushing an abrupt, but gentle thumb over the top of his cheekbone. "I don't want to be accused of blackening your eyes." A quick grin, a soft slap on the face, and the boy was off again, scrambling for a share of the coffee, leaving Horatio, as usual, struggling not to be left behind.
Kennedy's spirits were not much dimmed by the squall that resumed soon after they went up. Horatio, on the other hand, was quickly miserable. He had little tolerance for cold, and had never in his life been forced to stand about in sleeting rain. Officers could not cower under what shelter there was, nor would dignity allow him to huddle too deeply into his coat.
Not that he had much pride left, after the tossing of Justinian in the rough surf had him gagging over the taffrail before the third glass. The other mids wasted no time in mocking him for his weak stomach, but Eccleston took pity on him after another two hours of sliding about the deck in sodden boots, periodically retching.
The lieutenant sent most of the watch below somewhat early and Clayton helped Archie put him to bed. Horatio had no will to protest the mollycoddling. He did not begin to feel better though, until Archie slid into the neighboring hammock, and took his hand in the dark.
It was enough, that simple point of contact. A slowly warming hand in his, squeezing hard as the ship groaned and heeled, holding tight so that their beds swung in unison, a gentle oasis in the growing storm. Those fingers, that palm, the constant pressure, became a focus, blotting out the pain in his head, the tossing in his belly.
Horatio was not alone, that hand proved it. He wanted to talk to Archie, to chase away the doubts and the melancholy and the nausea. To bathe himself in the other boy's good humor, even in the jokes at his expense.
Unable, not even certain Kennedy was still awake, he stroked his five-fingered talisman instead. He slid his thumb back and forth over the tendons and bones, finding every scar, counting every segment, rubbing the tough and peeling fingertips.
His brain refused to submit to sleep, rambling instead to codes and ciphers, signal flags and drum beats. After some thought he began to experiment, tapping out patterns on nails and knuckles, devising a system that could be spelled with just his thumb, playing Kennedy's hand like a harpsichord. Refining his whimsy into an efficient signaling system was just the sort of challenge his mind found soothing.
He drifted off still pressing and tapping, and when he woke with empty hands, felt oddly bereft.
1 & 3
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 1125
PAIRING: AK, HH
WARNINGS: None
DISCLAIMER: Hornblower and characters belong to ITV and the Forester estate.
SUMMARY: Horatio and Kennedy devise a secret language. Part 2: A difficult day has Horatio seeking connection. (Pts 1 & 3)
Falling into their hammocks side by side the next night, Horatio was less sanguine about his prospects. He'd been tricked by Cleveland into a hunt for a hammock ladder, and worse, Archie hadn't told him it was a goose chase. He didn't figure it out until he made a fool of himself asking the men, and been bottled by Lieutenant Chadd for not being on deck.
He'd spent most of the rest of the watch stationed far across the long quarterdeck from Kennedy, and not been sorry for it. Combined with the start of a winter squall just in time to soak him to the bone before they could come off watch, Horatio was back to feeling out of place and out of sorts.
He stared up at the deck beams and resolutely refused to look in Kennedy's direction until the lamps had been extinguished again for the night and he didn't have to.
"Horatio." He wasn't in a mood for conversation and turned over on his side. A cold hand shook him a little, tried to coax him over, but he resisted. "Horatio, come on. It was just a poke. Don't be such a snot..."
"Kennedy, matchboxes!" one of the other mids barked, Hether, he thought.
With this curious command, Archie shut up immediately, though Horatio could hear the boy hadn't settled. He heard a loud sigh, and then the quiet rustle as Kennedy rifled through the coats they'd hung nearby. A few moments later, he was shaken again, and when he didn't react, something was shoved under his arm.
Unable to resist, he squirmed around, and discovered the three bits of fabric. In the pitch black of the berth, he could not quite tell by touch which of the flags he had been given, though he did try, calculating the possible combinations from the shape of the piecework, and trying to remember each number's pass phrases.
He fell asleep before he could work it out, and woke only reluctantly, when his hammock was firmly jostled.
Shaken by a familiar hand of course, and his first blinking sight was Kennedy's lantern-lit face, wearing a smile that was less impish than normal, almost sheepish. Horatio's heart was not prepared to withstand much assault, and he knew he'd already forgiven Archie. He felt his own lips turn up at the corners.
"You got my message then?" Archie shrugged on a coat and began doing up the buttons.
Horatio looked around, then retrieved the scattered flags and studied them, trying to discern their original arrangement. Making a guess, he rummaged for the paper with the codes. 'Apology'. Horatio made a face, and waved the flags at the other mid. "Now I have. Thank you much. I can hardly be expected to read your signals blind in the dark, can I?"
"I suppose it wasn't the best thought out. But I had to shut up, and I didn't want you to go to sleep upset with me." Archie handed him his own coat, and made a gesture offering to help Horatio with his still damp and tangled hair.
"Perhaps you should find a different method for relaying your after hours regrets, then." He turned around to let Kennedy start on his queue.
"Already planning my future errors, how very foresightful, Mr. Hornblower." Kennedy's hands were very careful, but they always were, smoothing his curls easier than he had ever managed them himself. "Well let's see, nighttime dispatches... I can hardly signal you with lanterns, or even candles. I fear our messmates would not care for drums either. No, I might have to resign myself to saving my apologies for morning. As well as any more pleasant communications.
"Which would not be wholly bad, you need more sleep, Horatio." Archie finished tying his ribbon, and spun him about, brushing an abrupt, but gentle thumb over the top of his cheekbone. "I don't want to be accused of blackening your eyes." A quick grin, a soft slap on the face, and the boy was off again, scrambling for a share of the coffee, leaving Horatio, as usual, struggling not to be left behind.
Kennedy's spirits were not much dimmed by the squall that resumed soon after they went up. Horatio, on the other hand, was quickly miserable. He had little tolerance for cold, and had never in his life been forced to stand about in sleeting rain. Officers could not cower under what shelter there was, nor would dignity allow him to huddle too deeply into his coat.
Not that he had much pride left, after the tossing of Justinian in the rough surf had him gagging over the taffrail before the third glass. The other mids wasted no time in mocking him for his weak stomach, but Eccleston took pity on him after another two hours of sliding about the deck in sodden boots, periodically retching.
The lieutenant sent most of the watch below somewhat early and Clayton helped Archie put him to bed. Horatio had no will to protest the mollycoddling. He did not begin to feel better though, until Archie slid into the neighboring hammock, and took his hand in the dark.
It was enough, that simple point of contact. A slowly warming hand in his, squeezing hard as the ship groaned and heeled, holding tight so that their beds swung in unison, a gentle oasis in the growing storm. Those fingers, that palm, the constant pressure, became a focus, blotting out the pain in his head, the tossing in his belly.
Horatio was not alone, that hand proved it. He wanted to talk to Archie, to chase away the doubts and the melancholy and the nausea. To bathe himself in the other boy's good humor, even in the jokes at his expense.
Unable, not even certain Kennedy was still awake, he stroked his five-fingered talisman instead. He slid his thumb back and forth over the tendons and bones, finding every scar, counting every segment, rubbing the tough and peeling fingertips.
His brain refused to submit to sleep, rambling instead to codes and ciphers, signal flags and drum beats. After some thought he began to experiment, tapping out patterns on nails and knuckles, devising a system that could be spelled with just his thumb, playing Kennedy's hand like a harpsichord. Refining his whimsy into an efficient signaling system was just the sort of challenge his mind found soothing.
He drifted off still pressing and tapping, and when he woke with empty hands, felt oddly bereft.
1 & 3