Fic: There's the Rub
eglantine_br is suffering from LJ gremlins, so she asked me to post this on her behalf. And I'm very glad she did, because it's absolutely beautiful.
Title There's the Rub
Author Eglantine_br
Rating R
Word Count 1051
He stood cold in his bare feet, and the taste of the whiskey was still in his mouth. Horatio had found a kind way to see him. Always that. And that was something to rest against, solid as skin and heart. No matter what Archie did, Horatio saw the good. But Archie knew better. Archie had lied tonight. A lie of omission was still a lie.
“Take me to bed, Honeybee.” Archie said. He knew his voice was weary. Horatio stepped forward, and the light cast him into shadow, dark edged with wavering brightness. Archie shut his eyes and let the warm strength pull him close. He rested his head, feeling the wooly roughness of the jacket under his cheek.
Horatio's kiss was a warm question, as always, eager but soft. The mouth came to Archie's brow, his nose, his closed eyes.
The long strong hands were undoing Archie's shirt, and slipping it back, down and away. It fell to the floor, unregarded. Horatio's clothes joined and covered it.
“I'm sorry I threw my drink on you.” Horatio's voice was very faint and very near.
“I'm glad you did.” Archie said. “Allowed us to get away.”
He stepped toward the bed, but Horatio's arms did not release him. The nuzzling was headed down the front of Archie, his chest, his abdomen, lifting goosebumps. Oh, Horatio was going to-- but no.
“Bit too far South'ard,” Archie's voice shook.
Horatio spared not a glance. The dark curls and the soft mouth came over his flank, grazed his thigh, and continued down. Backed to the bed, Archie sat. Horatio knelt.
“S'all over your knee. Delicious. The ale, or ...something. Archie, You taste so...” The voice trailed off into sustained licking. Horatio was biting at the patella, rubbed his cheek over the round bone of it, intoxicated.
He was side on, between Archie's legs now. His hands were loving on the tendons of the knee, the soft hammock of skin between Horatio would know the name of that, Archie did not, cared not. Archie was content to work his own fingers into Horatio's hair, and rest his other leg warm along Horatio's bare back. The skin there was thin and hot. It was white as milk, in the dim room. All slow and delicious. No hurry. Another minute and he would insist on something more sensible. Soon.
Horatio blew a long breath over the top of Archie's thigh, stirring the skin to shiver, and the tiny hairs to rise. His mouth was moving now, up the thigh's inner curve. The skin different here. It was good, enough to make Archie gasp, and also, somehow, twitchingly ticklish. Archie subsided to the bed with a sound that was both giggle and groan.
Horatio was working his way up. He wandered his way to the aching straining center of Archie.
“Oh,”
Horatio lifted his head. His hand was on Archie's hipbone. A year back on the Indy had brought the belly and hipbone almost flush again, strong and healthy.
“Oh? Oh, yourself.”
Smiling Horatio lowered his head. He gave one meditative lick to the red and straining crest.
“Dammit, Horatio, please.”
Archie was moving in a slow squirm, his hands in fists at his sides. The slow feeling was gone, he needed-- Horatio must---
Horatio lifted his head and gave a close mouthed smile.
“Hmm? All right then.”
And he drew Archie into the heat of his mouth.
And the heat rose in Archie now, somewhere in the belly of him, the tightening, and he was pushing up, he had to. And he heard from a distance, his own voice calling.
Just as Archie could take no more, Horatio slid up along him. He rested above Archie, and his eyes were shadowed dark and huge. His mouth was soft kisses and half words of his own, and he was alongside, and all against, and he pressed splendidly, and they took the final waves together.
Horatio slept afterward. He loved the times when he did not have to get up. Usually Archie did too. The heat of skin, and a soft bed was such luxury. Tonight Archie felt the heat of Horatio's skin against him and the reflexive kick of his feet as sleep took him down. Archie had only to turn his head to watch Horatio. Horatio drew his eyebrows down, as if thinking hard. Sometimes his feet went, little abortive steps, as he walked in his dreams. So foolish and dear he looked. Archie placed a kiss between the eyebrows. Horatio did not wake.
Sleeping next to Horatio was warm and delicious. But there was another good thing about it. Archie did not sleep deeply. He lolled in the warm shallows, dozing, half waking. And it mostly kept Archie's own dreams away.
Because Archie walked in dreams too. He walked chained to a carts tail, a dead man in a line of dead men. Or he hid, under the jolly-boat, cast up, half burrowed in the sand. In his dream he lived again the moment when they lifted it away and he could only cower.
And sometimes he dreamed of Simpson. Simpson jumbled with El Ferrol, with the Bitche. Simpson, whose name had been in his mouth tonight. Archie had done what he thought right. No need to foul that child with the truth. But every choice was wrong sometimes. In his dreams he paid.
The dreams did not come every night anymore, or even every week. But they did come. And in his dreams Archie paid for his crimes, his lies. Horatio did not know. Another lie, that.
Bracey knew. Archie was not sure how. Once on watch though, late at night, he had spoken of it. Archie had stood with him, alone in the dark, and Bracegirdle had said “Mr Kennedy, I want you to know, the dreams will stop eventually.” He had nodded, mild as always, at Archie's open mouthed shock, and gone on to speak of other things.
Curled on his side, with his folded arm tucked under his head. He reached out with his free hand to push Horatio's hair back. He would resist as long as he could.
Title There's the Rub
Author Eglantine_br
Rating R
Word Count 1051
He stood cold in his bare feet, and the taste of the whiskey was still in his mouth. Horatio had found a kind way to see him. Always that. And that was something to rest against, solid as skin and heart. No matter what Archie did, Horatio saw the good. But Archie knew better. Archie had lied tonight. A lie of omission was still a lie.
“Take me to bed, Honeybee.” Archie said. He knew his voice was weary. Horatio stepped forward, and the light cast him into shadow, dark edged with wavering brightness. Archie shut his eyes and let the warm strength pull him close. He rested his head, feeling the wooly roughness of the jacket under his cheek.
Horatio's kiss was a warm question, as always, eager but soft. The mouth came to Archie's brow, his nose, his closed eyes.
The long strong hands were undoing Archie's shirt, and slipping it back, down and away. It fell to the floor, unregarded. Horatio's clothes joined and covered it.
“I'm sorry I threw my drink on you.” Horatio's voice was very faint and very near.
“I'm glad you did.” Archie said. “Allowed us to get away.”
He stepped toward the bed, but Horatio's arms did not release him. The nuzzling was headed down the front of Archie, his chest, his abdomen, lifting goosebumps. Oh, Horatio was going to-- but no.
“Bit too far South'ard,” Archie's voice shook.
Horatio spared not a glance. The dark curls and the soft mouth came over his flank, grazed his thigh, and continued down. Backed to the bed, Archie sat. Horatio knelt.
“S'all over your knee. Delicious. The ale, or ...something. Archie, You taste so...” The voice trailed off into sustained licking. Horatio was biting at the patella, rubbed his cheek over the round bone of it, intoxicated.
He was side on, between Archie's legs now. His hands were loving on the tendons of the knee, the soft hammock of skin between Horatio would know the name of that, Archie did not, cared not. Archie was content to work his own fingers into Horatio's hair, and rest his other leg warm along Horatio's bare back. The skin there was thin and hot. It was white as milk, in the dim room. All slow and delicious. No hurry. Another minute and he would insist on something more sensible. Soon.
Horatio blew a long breath over the top of Archie's thigh, stirring the skin to shiver, and the tiny hairs to rise. His mouth was moving now, up the thigh's inner curve. The skin different here. It was good, enough to make Archie gasp, and also, somehow, twitchingly ticklish. Archie subsided to the bed with a sound that was both giggle and groan.
Horatio was working his way up. He wandered his way to the aching straining center of Archie.
“Oh,”
Horatio lifted his head. His hand was on Archie's hipbone. A year back on the Indy had brought the belly and hipbone almost flush again, strong and healthy.
“Oh? Oh, yourself.”
Smiling Horatio lowered his head. He gave one meditative lick to the red and straining crest.
“Dammit, Horatio, please.”
Archie was moving in a slow squirm, his hands in fists at his sides. The slow feeling was gone, he needed-- Horatio must---
Horatio lifted his head and gave a close mouthed smile.
“Hmm? All right then.”
And he drew Archie into the heat of his mouth.
And the heat rose in Archie now, somewhere in the belly of him, the tightening, and he was pushing up, he had to. And he heard from a distance, his own voice calling.
Just as Archie could take no more, Horatio slid up along him. He rested above Archie, and his eyes were shadowed dark and huge. His mouth was soft kisses and half words of his own, and he was alongside, and all against, and he pressed splendidly, and they took the final waves together.
Horatio slept afterward. He loved the times when he did not have to get up. Usually Archie did too. The heat of skin, and a soft bed was such luxury. Tonight Archie felt the heat of Horatio's skin against him and the reflexive kick of his feet as sleep took him down. Archie had only to turn his head to watch Horatio. Horatio drew his eyebrows down, as if thinking hard. Sometimes his feet went, little abortive steps, as he walked in his dreams. So foolish and dear he looked. Archie placed a kiss between the eyebrows. Horatio did not wake.
Sleeping next to Horatio was warm and delicious. But there was another good thing about it. Archie did not sleep deeply. He lolled in the warm shallows, dozing, half waking. And it mostly kept Archie's own dreams away.
Because Archie walked in dreams too. He walked chained to a carts tail, a dead man in a line of dead men. Or he hid, under the jolly-boat, cast up, half burrowed in the sand. In his dream he lived again the moment when they lifted it away and he could only cower.
And sometimes he dreamed of Simpson. Simpson jumbled with El Ferrol, with the Bitche. Simpson, whose name had been in his mouth tonight. Archie had done what he thought right. No need to foul that child with the truth. But every choice was wrong sometimes. In his dreams he paid.
The dreams did not come every night anymore, or even every week. But they did come. And in his dreams Archie paid for his crimes, his lies. Horatio did not know. Another lie, that.
Bracey knew. Archie was not sure how. Once on watch though, late at night, he had spoken of it. Archie had stood with him, alone in the dark, and Bracegirdle had said “Mr Kennedy, I want you to know, the dreams will stop eventually.” He had nodded, mild as always, at Archie's open mouthed shock, and gone on to speak of other things.
Curled on his side, with his folded arm tucked under his head. He reached out with his free hand to push Horatio's hair back. He would resist as long as he could.