Resurrected stupid fluffy fic - 5 AUs
As an antidote to the last angst-fest, here are five AUs for Archie and Horatio that I would never write.
***
I know I love sport, but this would be a game too far:
The ball sailed a good three hundred yards through the air without seemingly the slightest effort being expended on it. But then Archie Kennedy’s arms, chest and shoulders carried such power that it took very little to transfer all that force to the flight of the little white sphere. Ian Woosnam had been the same, many of the cognoscenti avowed; if Archie could only refine his already impressive bunker play then he too might be successful at the Masters, that happy hunting ground for European golfers in the 80’s and 90’s. Those halcyon days were becoming distant now and Archie, star of the previous year’s Ryder cup, had great things expected of him.
His tall, rangy caddy had seen it all, of course, from Archie’s early days on the US college circuit to his astonishing debut at the Volvo PGA where he’d taken Wentworth by storm and had only lost to Jose Maria Olazabal at the first extra hole of the play off. Hornblower was happy just to fetch and carry, wipe the clubs and give the yardages, feed his man bananas or chocolate and guard him from the hordes of autograph hunters who sought to swamp him.
Particularly the female ones. Because if Archie was the young prince of the greens, his caddy was the sole king of the man’s heart.
***
Just plain silly:
“Where are my footer bags?” Hether rummaged under his bed, among his drawers.
“I bet that new bug Hornblower’s swiped them.” Clayton looked up from his copy of the Eagle with mischief in his eye. He had no idea where Hether’s kit had gone, but he liked to stir things.
“Oh, that ugly swine who was sick on the train coming here? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
Archie Kennedy shot up from his chair, where he had been reading the racier parts of Shakespeare. “I say you chaps, you should leave the little blighter alone.” The remark was incongruous, given that Hornblower was a good five inches taller than Kennedy.
“Cave,” Clayton hissed suddenly, “he’s on his way.”
A handsome - at least to Kennedy’s eyes - young man entered the room, looked around, spotted him and smiled.
The look was returned; as far as they both were concerned, this was going to be a marvellous term.
***
I suspect only the limeys/poms will get this:
“Your starter for ten. What is the more common term,” the honeyed voice of Bamber Gascoigne, clipped tones dripping with a sensual intellect, cut through the tension; things were at last under way, “for Ornithorhynchus anatinus?”
“Christ Church, Kennedy.” The voice over the loudspeaker sounded even more intimidating in the studio than it did through the medium of television.
“Duck billed p-platypus.” Archie Kennedy stammered slightly, surprised and nervous to be the first one on the programme to answer.
“Correct. Your bonus questions are all on Latin names for well known creatures. What is Acinonyx jubatus?”
Everyone looked at Archie; none of the team were zoologists and they all hoped that he would rescue them. He creased his brow - he knew that Gascoigne would be hurrying them soon, he could not let them down. “Cheetah,” he whispered across to his captain, Horatio Hornblower.
“Cheetah,” Horatio said decisively.
“Correct.”
Horatio looked over to Archie, smiling in gratitude.
Archie’s heart leapt - whatever the outcome of the quiz, he knew he had won the one thing that mattered - his friend’s heart.
***
This has potential:
Horatius beamed as his protégé left the arena; the man was bloodied but not bowed and most of the gore he was spattered with was not his own. He drew admiring glances from almost all he passed, his fair hair and blue eyes marking him out as being from those benighted isles far away. Non Angli, sed Angeli indeed.
As the slaves stripped, oiled and applied the strigel to the fighter, his master watched with hungry eyes. The precious olive oil, mingled with the warrior’s sweat, was carefully collected and preserved, but this would not be sold to some rich and spoiled woman for her to use as perfume. This highly prized unguent would anoint no-one’s torso but Horatius’ own.
***
This AU could never happen. No. Niet.
“Archie,” Horatio looked down from the bunk bed; it was unseasonably wet and cold outside - not a typical Spanish day at all. He felt in need of comfort and sought it from his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, confidante. Often he had come to that well and drunk of the camaraderie that Archie provided, the man being an endless source of cheer and good humour. Even when Archie had been ill he had been able to raise a smile on Horatio’s face.
“Yes, Horatio?” Archie looked up from his book, wondering if Horatio was bored and wanted to play one of the mad word games they had invented to pass the slow prison hours.
Horatio swallowed hard; it was a do or die moment. At this point he had to make his boldest thrust, after which Archie would not be a comrade; he would either be his lover or never talk to him again. Years it had taken him to pluck up the courage; it was now or not at all. “Archie, do you think it might be right to break one of His Majesty’s articles, in the name of love?”
Archie turned to face his friend, leaning his head up to see him clearly. “I do, should the circumstances be right. Oh do come down here, I’ll get a terrible crick in my neck if I have to do this.”
Horatio could feel a tingle of excitement slide up his spine; this was possibly an invitation. He came down, sat on the lower bunk. “Even Article twenty nine? The idea would not revolt you?”
“No - I have known many a decent officer who could not keep that particular law intact.” Archie smiled kindly. “What is this about?”
Horatio came and knelt by the side of his friend’s pallet. He gently laid his hand on his friend’s. “The feelings I have for you have gone beyond brotherhood; I burn with desire for you every night. It would be my fondest wish that you could share them with me. Tell me if that is possible?”
Archie smiled ruefully, patting Horatio’s hand. “Sorry old thing. Didn’t you know I have a fiancée back in Scotland, plus a mistress in Cadogan square? Don’t object to men with men but not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.” He put his head on one side like a little bird. “Thought about asking Styles?”
***
I know I love sport, but this would be a game too far:
The ball sailed a good three hundred yards through the air without seemingly the slightest effort being expended on it. But then Archie Kennedy’s arms, chest and shoulders carried such power that it took very little to transfer all that force to the flight of the little white sphere. Ian Woosnam had been the same, many of the cognoscenti avowed; if Archie could only refine his already impressive bunker play then he too might be successful at the Masters, that happy hunting ground for European golfers in the 80’s and 90’s. Those halcyon days were becoming distant now and Archie, star of the previous year’s Ryder cup, had great things expected of him.
His tall, rangy caddy had seen it all, of course, from Archie’s early days on the US college circuit to his astonishing debut at the Volvo PGA where he’d taken Wentworth by storm and had only lost to Jose Maria Olazabal at the first extra hole of the play off. Hornblower was happy just to fetch and carry, wipe the clubs and give the yardages, feed his man bananas or chocolate and guard him from the hordes of autograph hunters who sought to swamp him.
Particularly the female ones. Because if Archie was the young prince of the greens, his caddy was the sole king of the man’s heart.
***
Just plain silly:
“Where are my footer bags?” Hether rummaged under his bed, among his drawers.
“I bet that new bug Hornblower’s swiped them.” Clayton looked up from his copy of the Eagle with mischief in his eye. He had no idea where Hether’s kit had gone, but he liked to stir things.
“Oh, that ugly swine who was sick on the train coming here? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
Archie Kennedy shot up from his chair, where he had been reading the racier parts of Shakespeare. “I say you chaps, you should leave the little blighter alone.” The remark was incongruous, given that Hornblower was a good five inches taller than Kennedy.
“Cave,” Clayton hissed suddenly, “he’s on his way.”
A handsome - at least to Kennedy’s eyes - young man entered the room, looked around, spotted him and smiled.
The look was returned; as far as they both were concerned, this was going to be a marvellous term.
***
I suspect only the limeys/poms will get this:
“Your starter for ten. What is the more common term,” the honeyed voice of Bamber Gascoigne, clipped tones dripping with a sensual intellect, cut through the tension; things were at last under way, “for Ornithorhynchus anatinus?”
“Christ Church, Kennedy.” The voice over the loudspeaker sounded even more intimidating in the studio than it did through the medium of television.
“Duck billed p-platypus.” Archie Kennedy stammered slightly, surprised and nervous to be the first one on the programme to answer.
“Correct. Your bonus questions are all on Latin names for well known creatures. What is Acinonyx jubatus?”
Everyone looked at Archie; none of the team were zoologists and they all hoped that he would rescue them. He creased his brow - he knew that Gascoigne would be hurrying them soon, he could not let them down. “Cheetah,” he whispered across to his captain, Horatio Hornblower.
“Cheetah,” Horatio said decisively.
“Correct.”
Horatio looked over to Archie, smiling in gratitude.
Archie’s heart leapt - whatever the outcome of the quiz, he knew he had won the one thing that mattered - his friend’s heart.
***
This has potential:
Horatius beamed as his protégé left the arena; the man was bloodied but not bowed and most of the gore he was spattered with was not his own. He drew admiring glances from almost all he passed, his fair hair and blue eyes marking him out as being from those benighted isles far away. Non Angli, sed Angeli indeed.
As the slaves stripped, oiled and applied the strigel to the fighter, his master watched with hungry eyes. The precious olive oil, mingled with the warrior’s sweat, was carefully collected and preserved, but this would not be sold to some rich and spoiled woman for her to use as perfume. This highly prized unguent would anoint no-one’s torso but Horatius’ own.
***
This AU could never happen. No. Niet.
“Archie,” Horatio looked down from the bunk bed; it was unseasonably wet and cold outside - not a typical Spanish day at all. He felt in need of comfort and sought it from his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, confidante. Often he had come to that well and drunk of the camaraderie that Archie provided, the man being an endless source of cheer and good humour. Even when Archie had been ill he had been able to raise a smile on Horatio’s face.
“Yes, Horatio?” Archie looked up from his book, wondering if Horatio was bored and wanted to play one of the mad word games they had invented to pass the slow prison hours.
Horatio swallowed hard; it was a do or die moment. At this point he had to make his boldest thrust, after which Archie would not be a comrade; he would either be his lover or never talk to him again. Years it had taken him to pluck up the courage; it was now or not at all. “Archie, do you think it might be right to break one of His Majesty’s articles, in the name of love?”
Archie turned to face his friend, leaning his head up to see him clearly. “I do, should the circumstances be right. Oh do come down here, I’ll get a terrible crick in my neck if I have to do this.”
Horatio could feel a tingle of excitement slide up his spine; this was possibly an invitation. He came down, sat on the lower bunk. “Even Article twenty nine? The idea would not revolt you?”
“No - I have known many a decent officer who could not keep that particular law intact.” Archie smiled kindly. “What is this about?”
Horatio came and knelt by the side of his friend’s pallet. He gently laid his hand on his friend’s. “The feelings I have for you have gone beyond brotherhood; I burn with desire for you every night. It would be my fondest wish that you could share them with me. Tell me if that is possible?”
Archie smiled ruefully, patting Horatio’s hand. “Sorry old thing. Didn’t you know I have a fiancée back in Scotland, plus a mistress in Cadogan square? Don’t object to men with men but not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.” He put his head on one side like a little bird. “Thought about asking Styles?”