Harboured and Encompassed, Chapter 4 part 2
Because Live Journal won't let me post a 3460 word chapter as one post (*gives LJ the side eye*), I'm splitting this chapter into two parts.
Title: Harboured and Encompassed
Author: BBCPhile
Chapter: 4/25 (to read chapter 1, (to read the first half of chapter 4, click here)
Word Count: 3463
Pairing: Horatio Hornblower/Archie Kennedy
AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9135700/chapters/21302393
Summary: All Horatio wanted from his internship at the National Maritime Museum’s special collections was some time alone with the Nelson-era naval manuscripts. He didn’t expect to fall in love with one of the library patrons, an exuberant, confident actor about to make his film debut in a Napoleonic naval period piece.
All Archie wanted was to leave the nightmare of RADA and Simpson far behind, and to start preparing for the role that would change his life. The last thing he expected was to fall for an adorably gangly, socially awkward naval history nerd who worked the special collections desk.
But how do you navigate a new relationship when the past won’t stay in the past?
Trigger Warning: Nightmare of past rape attempt (to skip it, don’t read the section in italics from the section break through the word “NO!”)
The table edge bit into his back. His fingers scrabbled at its surface, grasping for anything he could use as a weapon. He glanced furtively around the small room. The door was too far away. He was trapped.
“Did you think you could get away that easily?” Simpson growled, his face so close to Archie’s that the stench of sour beer filled Archie’s nose and mouth until he could taste it. “Jack’s missed you, boy.” He grabbed Archie’s shoulders, fingernails stabbing through his shirt, and shoved him down. Archie’s knees hit the floor with a force that made white lights burst before his eyes. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. He knew what that would cause. Archie closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see to know the next step of Jack’s game. “Come on, lad. Do what you’re best at.”
He heard the zipper and the rustle of fabric. Smelled the stench of his flesh. Felt the press of it against his lips. He couldn’t. Not this time. He clenched his mouth shut and turned his face.
“Open up, you little whore.” Long fingers wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. The finger pads dug into his flesh. “I said, open up, boy!” Archie tried to yank the fingers away, to scratch them, anything to relieve his burning pressure building up in his lungs. The fingers wouldn’t move. Spots crowded his eyes. The edges of his vision went gray. He couldn’t think, couldn’t run, couldn’t move, couldn’t see anything but the fury in Jack’s eyes.
“Trying to fight me, are you? I’ll show you who’s in charge, you little--”
“NO!” Archie screamed as he shot up to a sitting position, arms flailing. His hands flew up to his neck as he choked and coughed.
“Archie! What’s wrong?”
A warm arm wrapped around his back, its hand resting gently on his shoulder.
“Shhhhhh, Archie. It’s alright.”
The thumb started slowly stroking his shoulder as he gasped, savouring the blissful rush of air into his lungs.
The pressure in Archie’s chest began to lift. Shapes began to coalesce. A sofa. A coffee table. Warm, brown eyes in an angular, worried face. Simpson wasn’t here. That meant . . .
Oh God .
The world blurred as his eyes filled with tears he couldn’t fight. Archie swallowed hard and hunched forward, his head buried in his hands, as he tried to control his breathing. Horatio leaned forward with him, his other hand resting lightly on Archie’s upper arm.
Archie closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warm support of Horatio’s arm, on the tender motion of his hands, on the sound of his voice, still murmuring reassurances. He let Horatio’s gift of compassion and comfort wash away the stains and stench of the nightmare.
“Would you like to talk?” Horatio whispered once Archie’s ragged gasps had quieted.
Archie shook his head.
“Alright.” Horatio continued to rub soothing circles into his shoulders.
Gradually, Archie stopped shaking. His breathing calmed. His heartbeat slowed. His terror leaked out of his body along with his pride. He was empty, save for bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and started to lie back down, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Horatio let go of Archie and shifted to the floor to give him room.
“Did you want to go back to sleep?”
“God, no!” Archie groaned. “Not just yet.” He was in no rush to repeat that humiliating display . But he had to do something to distract himself, and soon. If only his brain would cooperate instead of spinning in endless circles like a hamster wheel. “Any other suggestions?”
Horatio pressed his lips together as he considered their options. “We could start on your education in the ways of the Royal Navy. I have a documentary on my laptop you might find interesting . . . or calming, at least.”
Archie turned his head and gave Horatio a wry smile. “Anchors away.” He hoped his words contained the thanks he wasn’t yet ready to voice.
Horatio nodded and squeezed Archie’s shoulder. “First, dinner. Back in a moment.”
Archie watched with a fond smile as Horatio strode purposefully off to the kitchen and began clattering around in the cabinets. A man with a mission. How could anyone exude such seriousness and conviction in Truth and Right, even in the simple act of getting food ready? And he was still here: he hadn’t discharged his duty as a Good Samaritan and then exited, pursued by bear. Archie shook his head. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. Hope had landed him here, with one more fit and nightmare to add to the growing tally.
Archie looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps to see Horatio reappear carrying a tray, which he placed on the table in front of them. It held a plate of chicken teriyaki, a bowl of rice, and a bowl of miso soup. Archie’s stomach lurched. “Horatio, this is . . . I can’t--”
Horatio shook his head. “When you’re ready. It’ll keep.”
Archie swallowed, then nodded.
Horatio looked around him, his head cocked, his hand cupped around his chin, as he tapped a finger against his lip. “Linen closet?”
Archie narrowed his eyes and tilted his to head to look at Horatio straight on. Horatio raised his eyebrows, impatiently waiting for the answer. Archie rolled his eyes and hoisted himself partly off the sofa to point down the hallway. “Across from the loo. What do you want it for?”
Horatio took off without answering. Apparently once Horatio had a mission in mind, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Archie shook his head and lay back to stare at the ceiling.
A fleece blanket was rudely thrust into his mise-en-scène . The words “I DON’T JUST ARRIVE, I MAKE AN ENTRANCE” stood out in white against its dark blue background.
Archie stared incredulously at Horatio, who was still holding the blanket out to him expectantly, before he doubled over, howling with laughter.
Minutes later, Archie calmed down enough to wipe the tears from his eyes and look up, to see Horatio standing over him, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “It’s a blanket? In case you get cold,” he explained.
Which promptly set Archie off again.
“For God’s sake, Archie. Just . . . just take the blanket.”
And really, what was there to say to that?
Archie took it from Horatio’s outstretched hand, shoulders still shaking with laughter, and draped it over himself before lying back down.
Horatio folded himself into the armchair and pulled out his computer from the leather shoulder bag at his feet. He loaded the documentary with a few clicks and placed the laptop on the coffee table behind their food. Almost immediately, he began fidgeting, trying to turn the chair and position himself so he could see the screen without also having his gangly limbs block Archie’s view.
After half a minute of watching the show not on the screen, Archie sighed dramatically and sat up. “Alright, that’s it. Come on over.”
Horatio froze. “ . . . what?”
“You heard,” Archie said, testing out his cheekiest grin. “There’s plenty of room. You can even have some of this blanket you’ve become so fond of.” He scooched over, then gestured at the space to his left. “It’s all yours.”
Horatio looked at Archie, then the open spot on the sofa, and then Archie again, before smiling hesitantly. He rose and joined Archie to perch on the edge of his seat, fingers drumming on his knee. He looked more like he was awaiting a prison sentence than sitting beside someone he’d just cuddled for the better part of half an hour.
Archie rolled his eyes. “I’m not contagious, Horatio.”
“What?! Archie, that’s not . . . I mean . . . of course . . . Oh hell--” Horatio trailed off when he realised Archie was grinning.
“Horatio, it’s fine,” Archie said, bumping shoulders with him. “Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. And feel free to interrupt with navy trivia. I’m all ears.”
Still slightly pouting from being teased, Horatio hit the play button on the computer and leaned back, his plate of food in his lap. Horatio’s miffed expression fell away the instant the words “Life at Sea in the Age of Sail: The Napoleonic Wars” flashed onto the screen.
Ten minutes later, Archie was at his wit’s end. The reenactments and production values were cringe-worthy, and the presenter desperately needed a crash-course in acting: his delivery was almost as painfully over-dramatic as the script. After the announcer had asserted “No quarter is expected. None will be given” with the gravitas worthy of the “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” speech from the Scottish Play, Archie couldn’t hold it back anymore. He opened his mouth to Mystery Science Theatre the whole affair, and to hell with the consequences, when Horatio spoke.
“That’s a frigate! They could carry anywhere from 20-44 guns. Faster than a ship of the line, so they were essential in a fight. They often functioned as scouts or convoy escorts as well! Worthing and Griffith started out as midshipmen on a frigate!”
Archie grinned, his irritation suddenly forgotten. This was a new, excitable version of Horatio: his hands had been flying to illustrate his points almost as quickly as his mouth.
Watching him would be much more fun than the documentary.
“What’s that one?”
Horatio’s answering smile made Archie’s question worthwhile. “Oh! That’s a ship of the line! First rate, I should think! Largest and most destructive, but also the slowest and least responsive. Triple-decker, 100-120 guns, with a crew of over 800.”
Horatio continued supplementing the documentary by answering Archie’s questions and introducing his own commentary, including an animated rant about the presenter’s oversimplification of Pellew’s engagement with the Droits de l’Homme . It was the highlight of the experience, second only to watching Horatio splutter after Archie’s crack about putting Rear Admirals in charge of poop decks.
After detailing the nuances of the hierarchy in the navy, the documentary shifted to discussing life aboard ship.
“The lieutenants stand watch, apart from the First Lieutenant on a ship of the line, of course. Watches are in seven shifts: five four-hours shifts and two two-hour shifts,” Horatio explained.
He leaned over and passed Archie the bowl of soup and a spoon, then continued. “Those standing watch are responsible for the ship and its crew during that time. First watch runs from 8pm until midnight, and so on.”
By the time Horatio had finished explaining the dog watches, Archie discovered he had drained his bowl. Horatio handed him the rice.
After a few bites, Archie’s eyes began to feel heavy as the strain of the day caught up with him. He set the bowl down on the tray, and leaned back, pulling the blanket up a bit further and letting himself become boneless under its weight. He couldn’t quite tell where he ended and the cushions began. The static that had crackled in the back of his mind began to fade. Something about “eight bells” emanated from the tinny speakers as his eyes drifted shut.
Title: Harboured and Encompassed
Author: BBCPhile
Chapter: 4/25 (to read chapter 1, (to read the first half of chapter 4, click here)
Word Count: 3463
Pairing: Horatio Hornblower/Archie Kennedy
AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9135700/chapters/21302393
Summary: All Horatio wanted from his internship at the National Maritime Museum’s special collections was some time alone with the Nelson-era naval manuscripts. He didn’t expect to fall in love with one of the library patrons, an exuberant, confident actor about to make his film debut in a Napoleonic naval period piece.
All Archie wanted was to leave the nightmare of RADA and Simpson far behind, and to start preparing for the role that would change his life. The last thing he expected was to fall for an adorably gangly, socially awkward naval history nerd who worked the special collections desk.
But how do you navigate a new relationship when the past won’t stay in the past?
Trigger Warning: Nightmare of past rape attempt (to skip it, don’t read the section in italics from the section break through the word “NO!”)
The table edge bit into his back. His fingers scrabbled at its surface, grasping for anything he could use as a weapon. He glanced furtively around the small room. The door was too far away. He was trapped.
“Did you think you could get away that easily?” Simpson growled, his face so close to Archie’s that the stench of sour beer filled Archie’s nose and mouth until he could taste it. “Jack’s missed you, boy.” He grabbed Archie’s shoulders, fingernails stabbing through his shirt, and shoved him down. Archie’s knees hit the floor with a force that made white lights burst before his eyes. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. He knew what that would cause. Archie closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see to know the next step of Jack’s game. “Come on, lad. Do what you’re best at.”
He heard the zipper and the rustle of fabric. Smelled the stench of his flesh. Felt the press of it against his lips. He couldn’t. Not this time. He clenched his mouth shut and turned his face.
“Open up, you little whore.” Long fingers wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. The finger pads dug into his flesh. “I said, open up, boy!” Archie tried to yank the fingers away, to scratch them, anything to relieve his burning pressure building up in his lungs. The fingers wouldn’t move. Spots crowded his eyes. The edges of his vision went gray. He couldn’t think, couldn’t run, couldn’t move, couldn’t see anything but the fury in Jack’s eyes.
“Trying to fight me, are you? I’ll show you who’s in charge, you little--”
“NO!” Archie screamed as he shot up to a sitting position, arms flailing. His hands flew up to his neck as he choked and coughed.
“Archie! What’s wrong?”
A warm arm wrapped around his back, its hand resting gently on his shoulder.
“Shhhhhh, Archie. It’s alright.”
The thumb started slowly stroking his shoulder as he gasped, savouring the blissful rush of air into his lungs.
The pressure in Archie’s chest began to lift. Shapes began to coalesce. A sofa. A coffee table. Warm, brown eyes in an angular, worried face. Simpson wasn’t here. That meant . . .
Oh God .
The world blurred as his eyes filled with tears he couldn’t fight. Archie swallowed hard and hunched forward, his head buried in his hands, as he tried to control his breathing. Horatio leaned forward with him, his other hand resting lightly on Archie’s upper arm.
Archie closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warm support of Horatio’s arm, on the tender motion of his hands, on the sound of his voice, still murmuring reassurances. He let Horatio’s gift of compassion and comfort wash away the stains and stench of the nightmare.
“Would you like to talk?” Horatio whispered once Archie’s ragged gasps had quieted.
Archie shook his head.
“Alright.” Horatio continued to rub soothing circles into his shoulders.
Gradually, Archie stopped shaking. His breathing calmed. His heartbeat slowed. His terror leaked out of his body along with his pride. He was empty, save for bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and started to lie back down, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Horatio let go of Archie and shifted to the floor to give him room.
“Did you want to go back to sleep?”
“God, no!” Archie groaned. “Not just yet.” He was in no rush to repeat that humiliating display . But he had to do something to distract himself, and soon. If only his brain would cooperate instead of spinning in endless circles like a hamster wheel. “Any other suggestions?”
Horatio pressed his lips together as he considered their options. “We could start on your education in the ways of the Royal Navy. I have a documentary on my laptop you might find interesting . . . or calming, at least.”
Archie turned his head and gave Horatio a wry smile. “Anchors away.” He hoped his words contained the thanks he wasn’t yet ready to voice.
Horatio nodded and squeezed Archie’s shoulder. “First, dinner. Back in a moment.”
Archie watched with a fond smile as Horatio strode purposefully off to the kitchen and began clattering around in the cabinets. A man with a mission. How could anyone exude such seriousness and conviction in Truth and Right, even in the simple act of getting food ready? And he was still here: he hadn’t discharged his duty as a Good Samaritan and then exited, pursued by bear. Archie shook his head. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. Hope had landed him here, with one more fit and nightmare to add to the growing tally.
Archie looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps to see Horatio reappear carrying a tray, which he placed on the table in front of them. It held a plate of chicken teriyaki, a bowl of rice, and a bowl of miso soup. Archie’s stomach lurched. “Horatio, this is . . . I can’t--”
Horatio shook his head. “When you’re ready. It’ll keep.”
Archie swallowed, then nodded.
Horatio looked around him, his head cocked, his hand cupped around his chin, as he tapped a finger against his lip. “Linen closet?”
Archie narrowed his eyes and tilted his to head to look at Horatio straight on. Horatio raised his eyebrows, impatiently waiting for the answer. Archie rolled his eyes and hoisted himself partly off the sofa to point down the hallway. “Across from the loo. What do you want it for?”
Horatio took off without answering. Apparently once Horatio had a mission in mind, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Archie shook his head and lay back to stare at the ceiling.
A fleece blanket was rudely thrust into his mise-en-scène . The words “I DON’T JUST ARRIVE, I MAKE AN ENTRANCE” stood out in white against its dark blue background.
Archie stared incredulously at Horatio, who was still holding the blanket out to him expectantly, before he doubled over, howling with laughter.
Minutes later, Archie calmed down enough to wipe the tears from his eyes and look up, to see Horatio standing over him, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “It’s a blanket? In case you get cold,” he explained.
Which promptly set Archie off again.
“For God’s sake, Archie. Just . . . just take the blanket.”
And really, what was there to say to that?
Archie took it from Horatio’s outstretched hand, shoulders still shaking with laughter, and draped it over himself before lying back down.
Horatio folded himself into the armchair and pulled out his computer from the leather shoulder bag at his feet. He loaded the documentary with a few clicks and placed the laptop on the coffee table behind their food. Almost immediately, he began fidgeting, trying to turn the chair and position himself so he could see the screen without also having his gangly limbs block Archie’s view.
After half a minute of watching the show not on the screen, Archie sighed dramatically and sat up. “Alright, that’s it. Come on over.”
Horatio froze. “ . . . what?”
“You heard,” Archie said, testing out his cheekiest grin. “There’s plenty of room. You can even have some of this blanket you’ve become so fond of.” He scooched over, then gestured at the space to his left. “It’s all yours.”
Horatio looked at Archie, then the open spot on the sofa, and then Archie again, before smiling hesitantly. He rose and joined Archie to perch on the edge of his seat, fingers drumming on his knee. He looked more like he was awaiting a prison sentence than sitting beside someone he’d just cuddled for the better part of half an hour.
Archie rolled his eyes. “I’m not contagious, Horatio.”
“What?! Archie, that’s not . . . I mean . . . of course . . . Oh hell--” Horatio trailed off when he realised Archie was grinning.
“Horatio, it’s fine,” Archie said, bumping shoulders with him. “Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. And feel free to interrupt with navy trivia. I’m all ears.”
Still slightly pouting from being teased, Horatio hit the play button on the computer and leaned back, his plate of food in his lap. Horatio’s miffed expression fell away the instant the words “Life at Sea in the Age of Sail: The Napoleonic Wars” flashed onto the screen.
Ten minutes later, Archie was at his wit’s end. The reenactments and production values were cringe-worthy, and the presenter desperately needed a crash-course in acting: his delivery was almost as painfully over-dramatic as the script. After the announcer had asserted “No quarter is expected. None will be given” with the gravitas worthy of the “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” speech from the Scottish Play, Archie couldn’t hold it back anymore. He opened his mouth to Mystery Science Theatre the whole affair, and to hell with the consequences, when Horatio spoke.
“That’s a frigate! They could carry anywhere from 20-44 guns. Faster than a ship of the line, so they were essential in a fight. They often functioned as scouts or convoy escorts as well! Worthing and Griffith started out as midshipmen on a frigate!”
Archie grinned, his irritation suddenly forgotten. This was a new, excitable version of Horatio: his hands had been flying to illustrate his points almost as quickly as his mouth.
Watching him would be much more fun than the documentary.
“What’s that one?”
Horatio’s answering smile made Archie’s question worthwhile. “Oh! That’s a ship of the line! First rate, I should think! Largest and most destructive, but also the slowest and least responsive. Triple-decker, 100-120 guns, with a crew of over 800.”
Horatio continued supplementing the documentary by answering Archie’s questions and introducing his own commentary, including an animated rant about the presenter’s oversimplification of Pellew’s engagement with the Droits de l’Homme . It was the highlight of the experience, second only to watching Horatio splutter after Archie’s crack about putting Rear Admirals in charge of poop decks.
After detailing the nuances of the hierarchy in the navy, the documentary shifted to discussing life aboard ship.
“The lieutenants stand watch, apart from the First Lieutenant on a ship of the line, of course. Watches are in seven shifts: five four-hours shifts and two two-hour shifts,” Horatio explained.
He leaned over and passed Archie the bowl of soup and a spoon, then continued. “Those standing watch are responsible for the ship and its crew during that time. First watch runs from 8pm until midnight, and so on.”
By the time Horatio had finished explaining the dog watches, Archie discovered he had drained his bowl. Horatio handed him the rice.
After a few bites, Archie’s eyes began to feel heavy as the strain of the day caught up with him. He set the bowl down on the tray, and leaned back, pulling the blanket up a bit further and letting himself become boneless under its weight. He couldn’t quite tell where he ended and the cushions began. The static that had crackled in the back of his mind began to fade. Something about “eight bells” emanated from the tinny speakers as his eyes drifted shut.