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"A Different Hornbook" - Hornblower Fic
A Different Hornbook
By Lokei
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Hornblower, Maria/Horatio
Summary: She teaches a different lesson in the moonlight.
Disclaimer: CSF wrote them, I just try to make up for the way he treated them!
Author’s Note: for the Kink/Cliché challenge, prompt: writing. Many thanks go to the brilliant beta skills of
romanticalgirl, who buffed this to its present shine.
Words: 1,169
= = =
She sees so little of him.
Even in sleep, Horatio curls himself away from her, long limbs held close to his chest in the habit of one accustomed to skinny hammocks and bunks. He is never home long enough to remember where he is when he wakes up in the mornings, and never comfortable enough to spread himself out in slumber. One slender shoulder sticks out from the loosened collar of his nightshirt and Maria debates pulling the blanket up and over him. She debates closing the shutters and going back to sleep.
She does none of these things.
She does see so little of him, after all, and though she knows he means the kindnesses he says, she also knows they’re an effort for him, something he must remind himself to do, as she imagines he must once have steeled himself to ascend the ropes to the top of the ship.
Rigging, Maria reminds herself fiercely. To reach the crow’s nest.
The right words are important to him. All words must be, she thinks, or perhaps he would not use them so sparingly.
So instead, she props herself up on an elbow and lets her eyes trace over him in the washed moonlight that sifts through the half-open shutters. Every instant is precious, every tiny movement of his chest as he breathes, every shadow of the dark curls which tumble in an abandon he would hate in his conscious moments and which are all the dearer to her for being a crack in his well-bound façade.
The only concession her Horry makes to being on land is how deeply he sleeps. She thinks he must not sleep well aboard ship, always keeping one ear and one eye half open for disturbances to his crew, his command. She likes to think that he sleeps so well here because he knows himself to be safe, and not because he is trying to dream his way back to the sea.
Seeing him so trusting here in her bed, deeply asleep with his loosened hair and bare shoulder, she dares to imagine what it would be like if the peace came again, and he could be home with her more often, perhaps even always. Surely he could find a role at the Admiralty, stay here on land and keep her company? In the moonlight it does not seem so impossible, and she lets her mind wander to the kinds of conversations they might have, if he were really and truly here, and not merely an infrequent visitor.
Horatio might tell her over dinner of the way other captains demanded their loads of grain and rum and powder from him at his post at the shipyard, and then she might tell him of her students. She could tell him about Jasper and his lisp when he reads his alphabet from his hornbook, or the way little Sarah Ann traces each letter so carefully with her finger, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she concentrates on reading like her big brother, Andrew.
Thinking of Sarah Ann’s little fingers, Maria smiles and holds her own work-roughened hand up in the moonlight. The silver beams are kind, hiding the torn cuticles and slimming her knuckles with generous shadows. Ever so lightly, she rests her fingertips on her husband’s bare shoulder, and waits breathlessly to see if he will stir.
As his stillness holds and settles into her through their brief connection, Maria smiles and begins to trace on his shoulder blade with her index finger, as carefully as ever Sarah Ann might over the yellow horn of her palmer.
And then, Maria writes, one painstaking letter at a time, we would come to bed, and you would hold me, not yourself. The children would be asleep, just as they are now, but you would be awake and looking just so, looking right at me.
Horatio stirs and Maria freezes, her hand trembling barely an inch from the nape of his neck. If he were to wake-but he does not, and she dares not complete the thought. Instead, he settles onto his back, the soft curls of his hair brushing against her outstretched fingers in an involuntary caress that makes her breath catch in her throat.
The shirt he wears has shifted even as he did, and now a sizeable portion of his collarbone and chest is exposed through the wide-open neck. Eschewing the false modesty and decorum which might halt a finer lady than herself, Maria studies him intently. Her hand drifts inexorably back to the clean lines of the bones underneath his skin, pale below the tan which ends at his collar and unmarked save for the round scar high on his shoulder which Horatio refuses to discuss.
She skirts round the mark and lets her fingers sweep softly across their parchment once again, writing the words she never seems to be able to adequately express with pen and ink.
Sometimes the way you look at me, Maria begins, then shakes her head and starts her thought again. I am so proud of you, Horatio. She puts an extra flourish on the end of the ‘O’ that brings her across his collarbone to the hollow at his throat and then brings her fingers back to the margin of her text, where the folded linen throws soft shadows over her invisible words.
So proud that you’re the Captain, and I the Captain’s wife, she adds, scrupulously honest, for there is great pleasure in being known to be married to such a successful and dashing Naval man. But you are Captain even here, where you should be just yourself. Across the breakfast table, I meet the Captain’s eyes. The Captain does not see me so well as the Lieutenant did.
Horatio stirs again and Maria draws back as he frowns in his sleep, looking so much the Captain that it brings a sting to her eyes. She holds her breath and her being as still as possible until the frown smoothes away and he gives a small huff in his slumber. The innocent sound echoes little Horatio’s nighttime exhalations and Maria’s eyes prick anew, this time with more pleasant emotions. So much nicer to hear two sets of breaths in this house besides her own.
Having made her decision, Maria moves closer one last time, letting the words float to the air as they trace along his bones, each touch firmer than the last.
“I miss my poor Lieutenant,” she whispers to his shoulder, the words reaching his skin a mere breath before her lips do.
This time when he stirs, Maria does not pull back. As the moonlight slides across the bed and away, just as surely as her husband soon will, Maria holds him close and hopes to keep enough of him within her that when she must once more resort to writing with pen and paper, she will bear the right words to bring him home to her again.
By Lokei
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Hornblower, Maria/Horatio
Summary: She teaches a different lesson in the moonlight.
Disclaimer: CSF wrote them, I just try to make up for the way he treated them!
Author’s Note: for the Kink/Cliché challenge, prompt: writing. Many thanks go to the brilliant beta skills of
romanticalgirl, who buffed this to its present shine.
Words: 1,169
= = =
She sees so little of him.
Even in sleep, Horatio curls himself away from her, long limbs held close to his chest in the habit of one accustomed to skinny hammocks and bunks. He is never home long enough to remember where he is when he wakes up in the mornings, and never comfortable enough to spread himself out in slumber. One slender shoulder sticks out from the loosened collar of his nightshirt and Maria debates pulling the blanket up and over him. She debates closing the shutters and going back to sleep.
She does none of these things.
She does see so little of him, after all, and though she knows he means the kindnesses he says, she also knows they’re an effort for him, something he must remind himself to do, as she imagines he must once have steeled himself to ascend the ropes to the top of the ship.
Rigging, Maria reminds herself fiercely. To reach the crow’s nest.
The right words are important to him. All words must be, she thinks, or perhaps he would not use them so sparingly.
So instead, she props herself up on an elbow and lets her eyes trace over him in the washed moonlight that sifts through the half-open shutters. Every instant is precious, every tiny movement of his chest as he breathes, every shadow of the dark curls which tumble in an abandon he would hate in his conscious moments and which are all the dearer to her for being a crack in his well-bound façade.
The only concession her Horry makes to being on land is how deeply he sleeps. She thinks he must not sleep well aboard ship, always keeping one ear and one eye half open for disturbances to his crew, his command. She likes to think that he sleeps so well here because he knows himself to be safe, and not because he is trying to dream his way back to the sea.
Seeing him so trusting here in her bed, deeply asleep with his loosened hair and bare shoulder, she dares to imagine what it would be like if the peace came again, and he could be home with her more often, perhaps even always. Surely he could find a role at the Admiralty, stay here on land and keep her company? In the moonlight it does not seem so impossible, and she lets her mind wander to the kinds of conversations they might have, if he were really and truly here, and not merely an infrequent visitor.
Horatio might tell her over dinner of the way other captains demanded their loads of grain and rum and powder from him at his post at the shipyard, and then she might tell him of her students. She could tell him about Jasper and his lisp when he reads his alphabet from his hornbook, or the way little Sarah Ann traces each letter so carefully with her finger, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she concentrates on reading like her big brother, Andrew.
Thinking of Sarah Ann’s little fingers, Maria smiles and holds her own work-roughened hand up in the moonlight. The silver beams are kind, hiding the torn cuticles and slimming her knuckles with generous shadows. Ever so lightly, she rests her fingertips on her husband’s bare shoulder, and waits breathlessly to see if he will stir.
As his stillness holds and settles into her through their brief connection, Maria smiles and begins to trace on his shoulder blade with her index finger, as carefully as ever Sarah Ann might over the yellow horn of her palmer.
And then, Maria writes, one painstaking letter at a time, we would come to bed, and you would hold me, not yourself. The children would be asleep, just as they are now, but you would be awake and looking just so, looking right at me.
Horatio stirs and Maria freezes, her hand trembling barely an inch from the nape of his neck. If he were to wake-but he does not, and she dares not complete the thought. Instead, he settles onto his back, the soft curls of his hair brushing against her outstretched fingers in an involuntary caress that makes her breath catch in her throat.
The shirt he wears has shifted even as he did, and now a sizeable portion of his collarbone and chest is exposed through the wide-open neck. Eschewing the false modesty and decorum which might halt a finer lady than herself, Maria studies him intently. Her hand drifts inexorably back to the clean lines of the bones underneath his skin, pale below the tan which ends at his collar and unmarked save for the round scar high on his shoulder which Horatio refuses to discuss.
She skirts round the mark and lets her fingers sweep softly across their parchment once again, writing the words she never seems to be able to adequately express with pen and ink.
Sometimes the way you look at me, Maria begins, then shakes her head and starts her thought again. I am so proud of you, Horatio. She puts an extra flourish on the end of the ‘O’ that brings her across his collarbone to the hollow at his throat and then brings her fingers back to the margin of her text, where the folded linen throws soft shadows over her invisible words.
So proud that you’re the Captain, and I the Captain’s wife, she adds, scrupulously honest, for there is great pleasure in being known to be married to such a successful and dashing Naval man. But you are Captain even here, where you should be just yourself. Across the breakfast table, I meet the Captain’s eyes. The Captain does not see me so well as the Lieutenant did.
Horatio stirs again and Maria draws back as he frowns in his sleep, looking so much the Captain that it brings a sting to her eyes. She holds her breath and her being as still as possible until the frown smoothes away and he gives a small huff in his slumber. The innocent sound echoes little Horatio’s nighttime exhalations and Maria’s eyes prick anew, this time with more pleasant emotions. So much nicer to hear two sets of breaths in this house besides her own.
Having made her decision, Maria moves closer one last time, letting the words float to the air as they trace along his bones, each touch firmer than the last.
“I miss my poor Lieutenant,” she whispers to his shoulder, the words reaching his skin a mere breath before her lips do.
This time when he stirs, Maria does not pull back. As the moonlight slides across the bed and away, just as surely as her husband soon will, Maria holds him close and hopes to keep enough of him within her that when she must once more resort to writing with pen and paper, she will bear the right words to bring him home to her again.