FIC: World Enough and Time (1/1) PG Hornblower
TITLE: World Enough and Time
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Originally written for the aos_challenge "Kisses" prompt.
It’s never easy.
Not the first time they do it, and never any of the times after. It is always plotted and planned, never impulsive. It is always sneaky and deceitful, always hidden. It is like rats hiding in the darkness, lurking just out of sight. It is all those things that seem wrong in the face of it, but it is also how it is, every time.
Including this one.
They are a day out of Kingston, the crew is tired and worn but full of the energy that comes from victory, the hope of money in their pocket and a port where they can waste it on alcohol and women, gambling and whatever else they can find in the jungles and in the towns, whores and rum and cards and dice just waiting on the horizon.
Buckland runs the ship without seeking anyone’s advice, his body rigid with distrust and suspicion, his eyes avoiding Hornblower as if he were the face of God himself, too bright and brilliant to look into, too afraid of being damned.
As it serves, that is fine by Horatio. He sits on a stool next to a cot that sways slightly in the smooth waters, the rocking motion not frantic enough, not desperate enough to keep up with the racing beat of Horatio’s heart. He is careful not to touch, though his fingers do not leave the canvas of the cot, tracing along the rough stitched seam as it moves.
Buckland has not thought to give him a watch, preferring to give it to midshipmen who no longer cower in fear now that Sawyer is dead and Wellard is at the bottom of the sea, so he sits there without moving, without looking up at Clive as he comes in and checks dressings, muttering under his breath and more sober than he has been the entire voyage. It’s interesting, Horatio thinks, as he feels punch drunk and hazy, as if he’s been soaked in the ship’s ever-dwindling supply of rum.
Men are dying around him. He can hear them as he sits. One of the powder monkeys fetches a few things for him, and he tries to concentrate on the words that swim in front of his eyes and read, recite passages that mean nothing to him and everything to the man at his side. He searches for inflection beyond the thickness of despair that seems to clog his throat, but cannot find anything, so he reads in the softest of voices, praying silently to whomever might listen that Archie can hear beyond what Hornblower can manage to say, as he always has.
Bush is moved after an hour or so, swept into a cleaner room to heal. Archie stays put, the cot still moving, though Archie’s body stays as still as death, his chest barely moving unless a fit of coughing soaks his bandages with blood and he leans his head to the side, vomiting blood and what little else remains in his stomach onto the deck.
“You will be fine, Archie.” He chokes on the words, his voice nearly breaking on the last. He swallows and takes a deep breath, struggling for equilibrium in the stench of death and spilled blood. “You will be fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Horatio.” Archie’s voice is weak and barely supports the laughter in it, but it would not be Archie without the irreverent humor. “Or you have a very strange definition of fine.”
“Accusing your superior officer of lying is a dangerous crime, Mr. Kennedy.” He reaches out, his hand leaving the canvas to stroke along the back of Archie’s hand, his skin bloodless beneath his tan.
“I excel in those, Mr. Hornblower. Or had you failed to notice the little spot of mutiny?”
Horatio stands, his fingers threading through Archie’s, entangled oddly as he bends down, brushing sun-bleached hairs off Archie’s damp skin. “Hush.”
“Being silent won’t make it go away, Horatio.”
“Silence has bought us time, Archie. Always.”
“Sometimes…” He pauses, struggling to breathe for a moment before exhaling shakily. “Sometimes there is no time left.”
“There is now.”
“No, Horatio. There’s not.”
“There is.” He gives Archie a look that he knows brooks no argument. They’ve fought this fight before, a hundred times, nearly as many times as there have been nights and moments and stolen seconds, and always Archie is silent and Horatio takes it as a victory for the moment. His free hand slides down to Archie’s forehead and then his cheek, his breath shaky as he leans in, resting his forehead against Archie’s. “There has to be.”
“And woe and betide any who dare not listen to Horatio Hornblower, eh?” Archie smiles, the soft curve of his lips turning to a grimace as he coughs again. Horatio steps back, unable to look away even as Archie’s body heaves, the motion causing the cot to sway wildly, storm-tossed on silent seas. Archie sinks back and blood stains the bandages even darker, the red seeping past the darkened outline into fresh territory, turning white and yellow to red then purple then black. “Giving orders to time and God, are you? No wonder Sawyer thought you were a mutineer.”
“Archie.” He presses his fingers to Archie’s lips carefully. He cannot listen to the humor at this moment, cannot hear anything at all. “Quiet.”
“No time left, Horatio. Have to say it all while I can.”
He lays his forehead against Archie’s again, breathing his breath, offering his own in return. They are silent for a long time, neither moving. Archie makes a soft noise and Horatio nods against him, his mouth moving carefully over Archie’s. As kisses go, it is little like one, more ghost than substance, but it serves in the moment, as open and honest as they’ve ever been at sea, no fear in a room of dead men. “No need, Archie.” Archie drifts off into a light, restless sleep as Horatio whispers the words, more meaning in them than any verse or poem he could butcher on Archie’s behalf. “You’ve already said it all.”
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Originally written for the aos_challenge "Kisses" prompt.
It’s never easy.
Not the first time they do it, and never any of the times after. It is always plotted and planned, never impulsive. It is always sneaky and deceitful, always hidden. It is like rats hiding in the darkness, lurking just out of sight. It is all those things that seem wrong in the face of it, but it is also how it is, every time.
Including this one.
They are a day out of Kingston, the crew is tired and worn but full of the energy that comes from victory, the hope of money in their pocket and a port where they can waste it on alcohol and women, gambling and whatever else they can find in the jungles and in the towns, whores and rum and cards and dice just waiting on the horizon.
Buckland runs the ship without seeking anyone’s advice, his body rigid with distrust and suspicion, his eyes avoiding Hornblower as if he were the face of God himself, too bright and brilliant to look into, too afraid of being damned.
As it serves, that is fine by Horatio. He sits on a stool next to a cot that sways slightly in the smooth waters, the rocking motion not frantic enough, not desperate enough to keep up with the racing beat of Horatio’s heart. He is careful not to touch, though his fingers do not leave the canvas of the cot, tracing along the rough stitched seam as it moves.
Buckland has not thought to give him a watch, preferring to give it to midshipmen who no longer cower in fear now that Sawyer is dead and Wellard is at the bottom of the sea, so he sits there without moving, without looking up at Clive as he comes in and checks dressings, muttering under his breath and more sober than he has been the entire voyage. It’s interesting, Horatio thinks, as he feels punch drunk and hazy, as if he’s been soaked in the ship’s ever-dwindling supply of rum.
Men are dying around him. He can hear them as he sits. One of the powder monkeys fetches a few things for him, and he tries to concentrate on the words that swim in front of his eyes and read, recite passages that mean nothing to him and everything to the man at his side. He searches for inflection beyond the thickness of despair that seems to clog his throat, but cannot find anything, so he reads in the softest of voices, praying silently to whomever might listen that Archie can hear beyond what Hornblower can manage to say, as he always has.
Bush is moved after an hour or so, swept into a cleaner room to heal. Archie stays put, the cot still moving, though Archie’s body stays as still as death, his chest barely moving unless a fit of coughing soaks his bandages with blood and he leans his head to the side, vomiting blood and what little else remains in his stomach onto the deck.
“You will be fine, Archie.” He chokes on the words, his voice nearly breaking on the last. He swallows and takes a deep breath, struggling for equilibrium in the stench of death and spilled blood. “You will be fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Horatio.” Archie’s voice is weak and barely supports the laughter in it, but it would not be Archie without the irreverent humor. “Or you have a very strange definition of fine.”
“Accusing your superior officer of lying is a dangerous crime, Mr. Kennedy.” He reaches out, his hand leaving the canvas to stroke along the back of Archie’s hand, his skin bloodless beneath his tan.
“I excel in those, Mr. Hornblower. Or had you failed to notice the little spot of mutiny?”
Horatio stands, his fingers threading through Archie’s, entangled oddly as he bends down, brushing sun-bleached hairs off Archie’s damp skin. “Hush.”
“Being silent won’t make it go away, Horatio.”
“Silence has bought us time, Archie. Always.”
“Sometimes…” He pauses, struggling to breathe for a moment before exhaling shakily. “Sometimes there is no time left.”
“There is now.”
“No, Horatio. There’s not.”
“There is.” He gives Archie a look that he knows brooks no argument. They’ve fought this fight before, a hundred times, nearly as many times as there have been nights and moments and stolen seconds, and always Archie is silent and Horatio takes it as a victory for the moment. His free hand slides down to Archie’s forehead and then his cheek, his breath shaky as he leans in, resting his forehead against Archie’s. “There has to be.”
“And woe and betide any who dare not listen to Horatio Hornblower, eh?” Archie smiles, the soft curve of his lips turning to a grimace as he coughs again. Horatio steps back, unable to look away even as Archie’s body heaves, the motion causing the cot to sway wildly, storm-tossed on silent seas. Archie sinks back and blood stains the bandages even darker, the red seeping past the darkened outline into fresh territory, turning white and yellow to red then purple then black. “Giving orders to time and God, are you? No wonder Sawyer thought you were a mutineer.”
“Archie.” He presses his fingers to Archie’s lips carefully. He cannot listen to the humor at this moment, cannot hear anything at all. “Quiet.”
“No time left, Horatio. Have to say it all while I can.”
He lays his forehead against Archie’s again, breathing his breath, offering his own in return. They are silent for a long time, neither moving. Archie makes a soft noise and Horatio nods against him, his mouth moving carefully over Archie’s. As kisses go, it is little like one, more ghost than substance, but it serves in the moment, as open and honest as they’ve ever been at sea, no fear in a room of dead men. “No need, Archie.” Archie drifts off into a light, restless sleep as Horatio whispers the words, more meaning in them than any verse or poem he could butcher on Archie’s behalf. “You’ve already said it all.”