Fic: Revelation (HH)
.
Title: Revelation
Author: rosiespark
Characters: Archie Kennedy, William Bush, Dr Clive.
Warnings: Not a bit of fluff in sight. No smut either. Lots of angst, though.
Notes: Companion fic to The Simplest Gift. Thanks to fajrdrako for the quick beta and confidence boost, and to black_hound for the distinction between tow and oakum, and for the gorgeous icon.
Kennedy has barely made a sound of protest or complaint through all the laborious business of getting him into full dress uniform. Indeed, he seems to have withdrawn to some unreachable place, bearing every indignity with a pale set face, his eyes closed through most of it and his harsh breathing the only indication of the pain that their fumbling but well-meaning ministrations must be causing him. Had he not just witnessed Kennedy yet again refuse the doctor’s offer in no uncertain terms, Bush would have supposed him to be floating in a laudanum-induced haze. Clive’s universal panacea, he thinks, with a disapproving tightening of the mouth. Except that Naval uniforms were designed for fit active men, and on this particular occasion, he would have welcomed the use of the drug if it could have spared them the torment of the last half hour.
As it is, Kennedy’s display of close to flawless control coupled with the sheen of sweat on his bloodless face inexplicably bother Bush more than if he had flinched or complained. His uniform coat sets an unexpected hurdle, and Bush himself is sweating freely by the end of it, in spite of the early morning chill that pervades their dank little cell. He applies himself to his final task, but finds that his hands slip repeatedly on Kennedy’s fine hair, foiling his awkward attempts to fashion it into a serviceable queue. This too Kennedy bears uncomplainingly as Clive supports him in an upright position, half standing and half seated on the edge of the bed. Bush takes a moment to still the trembling of his mutinous hands, quelling the unwelcome memory of seeing Hornblower undertake this very same duty in the Renown’s wardroom. He manages to get the ends of black ribbon tied neatly and steps back with a curious sense of relief which he hopes is evident to no-one but himself.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Kennedy’s first words since the start of the whole unpleasant process are followed by a pause for breath, shallow and rasping. “Horatio always maintained it was like trying to comb a handful of tow.” The ghost of a smile on his face. “On deck, in a gale.”
Bush is thankful that he is able muster a smile in return, and Kennedy’s mouth curves in genuine amusement even as his eyelids droop closed in evident exhaustion. Not trusting himself to speak, Bush looks to Clive for guidance. The doctor’s tone is rallying. “Come, Mr Kennedy, let’s get you on your feet.”
Between them, they get Kennedy upright, and though he sways and has to hold on to both of them, he is at least able to keep his footing. His colour is bad but his face has the same sort of fierce concentration, inwardly directed, that Bush is familiar with from the previous night, when this diabolical bargain with fate was set in motion. They take a few steps towards the door, then swivel carefully as a trio, in a macabre parody of an infantry manoeuvre, and make their way back across the room, Kennedy gaining a measure of confidence and steadiness. And back again to the door of the cell, where Clive rattles the bars and calls for the marine guard which is to escort them through the building. Kennedy has insisted that he will walk to the courtroom. And Bush can only hope that his willpower will last long enough for him to get through the ordeal ahead.
The door is unlocked and swung open, and the way ahead is clear when Kennedy falters.
“Archie,” Bush says as gently as he can, in the voice he has not used since his sisters were children, when they would wake in the night and cry for a mother who was no longer there to sooth their nightmares.
And Kennedy turns towards him wildly, eyes wide, and his careful grip on Bush’s steadying arm suddenly tightens till his fingers bite painfully.
“They will let me see him before - before the end?”
There is no need to ask who he means. Unexpectedly, it is Clive who reassures him, saying with unwonted softness, “You can rely on that, Mr Kennedy. I will see to it.”
Kennedy’s grip relaxes fractionally, but something in his face moves Bush to say, “You will give us a moment, if you please, Dr Clive” in his best quarterdeck manner. He is gratified when Clive responds to the authority in his voice and withdraws to confer with the guard at the outer door.
And then he has attention to spare for nothing else as Kennedy leans into him, eyes fever-bright in his pale face, and says with an intensity that is startling, if not wholly unexpected, “Promise me this. Promise me you will look after him.”
Bush almost recoils physically. It is an absurd request. They are officers of His Majesty’s Navy, bound to their country’s service in time of war, not children engaged in some playtime adventure. Nor is it realistic, when an impenetrable shell of polite reserve is one of the most striking qualities of the man in question.
Before he can even begin to articulate these misgivings, Kennedy is speaking again.
“He will think he has no-one left in the world, William, and that is when he will most need his friends.”
It is Kennedy - no, Archie asking this of him. Archie, in the face of whose courage and endurance he is reduced to speechless admiration and something bordering on awe. Archie, who is about to lay his every last card on the table in a reckless bid to save his dearest friend from death and dishonour, and who stands to pay a terrible price should his gamble succeed. Bush hesitates, and the clifftop beckons again in his mind’s eye, the leap no longer seeming so terrifying.
“He has my friendship, Archie,” and when this does not seem to be enough, he adds, “I promise.”
Archie sags against him in relief, his breathing even more shallow and laboured, and Bush carefully supports him until he has regained his composure. A grave smile and a parting pressure of the hand is all the farewell that Bush can offer - he is not a demonstrative man and to his mind, any other gesture would smack of cheap theatrics.
Yet he cannot suppress a sharp sense of grief and of lost opportunities as he watches Kennedy tread carefully out of the cell with Clive at his side.
God forgive me, he thinks, remembering his initial impression of Kennedy, and the swift contempt with which he had dismissed him. The apparent loyalty of a certain section of the lower deck (the better men, as he later came to realise) had come as a surprise but he had suspected that the men followed Kennedy more out of loyalty towards Hornblower than from any respect that he might personally inspire. A sharp tongue and a pretty face, combined with the sort of heedless arrogance that owes more to birth and position than it does to any real quality - dear God, was he blind, that for an unconscionably long time aboard the Renown, that was all he had seen?
Alone in the barred cell, he sits on his cot and ponders opportunities denied to him. Opportunities which are lost without a doubt, if they ever existed, for even if any other outcome were possible from the testimony about to be given this morning by a man of great courage and loyalty, that same man’s heart, as well as his body and indeed the very breath in his lungs, already belongs irrevocably to another.
Fin.
Cross-posted to crumpeteers
Title: Revelation
Author: rosiespark
Characters: Archie Kennedy, William Bush, Dr Clive.
Warnings: Not a bit of fluff in sight. No smut either. Lots of angst, though.
Notes: Companion fic to The Simplest Gift. Thanks to fajrdrako for the quick beta and confidence boost, and to black_hound for the distinction between tow and oakum, and for the gorgeous icon.
Kennedy has barely made a sound of protest or complaint through all the laborious business of getting him into full dress uniform. Indeed, he seems to have withdrawn to some unreachable place, bearing every indignity with a pale set face, his eyes closed through most of it and his harsh breathing the only indication of the pain that their fumbling but well-meaning ministrations must be causing him. Had he not just witnessed Kennedy yet again refuse the doctor’s offer in no uncertain terms, Bush would have supposed him to be floating in a laudanum-induced haze. Clive’s universal panacea, he thinks, with a disapproving tightening of the mouth. Except that Naval uniforms were designed for fit active men, and on this particular occasion, he would have welcomed the use of the drug if it could have spared them the torment of the last half hour.
As it is, Kennedy’s display of close to flawless control coupled with the sheen of sweat on his bloodless face inexplicably bother Bush more than if he had flinched or complained. His uniform coat sets an unexpected hurdle, and Bush himself is sweating freely by the end of it, in spite of the early morning chill that pervades their dank little cell. He applies himself to his final task, but finds that his hands slip repeatedly on Kennedy’s fine hair, foiling his awkward attempts to fashion it into a serviceable queue. This too Kennedy bears uncomplainingly as Clive supports him in an upright position, half standing and half seated on the edge of the bed. Bush takes a moment to still the trembling of his mutinous hands, quelling the unwelcome memory of seeing Hornblower undertake this very same duty in the Renown’s wardroom. He manages to get the ends of black ribbon tied neatly and steps back with a curious sense of relief which he hopes is evident to no-one but himself.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Kennedy’s first words since the start of the whole unpleasant process are followed by a pause for breath, shallow and rasping. “Horatio always maintained it was like trying to comb a handful of tow.” The ghost of a smile on his face. “On deck, in a gale.”
Bush is thankful that he is able muster a smile in return, and Kennedy’s mouth curves in genuine amusement even as his eyelids droop closed in evident exhaustion. Not trusting himself to speak, Bush looks to Clive for guidance. The doctor’s tone is rallying. “Come, Mr Kennedy, let’s get you on your feet.”
Between them, they get Kennedy upright, and though he sways and has to hold on to both of them, he is at least able to keep his footing. His colour is bad but his face has the same sort of fierce concentration, inwardly directed, that Bush is familiar with from the previous night, when this diabolical bargain with fate was set in motion. They take a few steps towards the door, then swivel carefully as a trio, in a macabre parody of an infantry manoeuvre, and make their way back across the room, Kennedy gaining a measure of confidence and steadiness. And back again to the door of the cell, where Clive rattles the bars and calls for the marine guard which is to escort them through the building. Kennedy has insisted that he will walk to the courtroom. And Bush can only hope that his willpower will last long enough for him to get through the ordeal ahead.
The door is unlocked and swung open, and the way ahead is clear when Kennedy falters.
“Archie,” Bush says as gently as he can, in the voice he has not used since his sisters were children, when they would wake in the night and cry for a mother who was no longer there to sooth their nightmares.
And Kennedy turns towards him wildly, eyes wide, and his careful grip on Bush’s steadying arm suddenly tightens till his fingers bite painfully.
“They will let me see him before - before the end?”
There is no need to ask who he means. Unexpectedly, it is Clive who reassures him, saying with unwonted softness, “You can rely on that, Mr Kennedy. I will see to it.”
Kennedy’s grip relaxes fractionally, but something in his face moves Bush to say, “You will give us a moment, if you please, Dr Clive” in his best quarterdeck manner. He is gratified when Clive responds to the authority in his voice and withdraws to confer with the guard at the outer door.
And then he has attention to spare for nothing else as Kennedy leans into him, eyes fever-bright in his pale face, and says with an intensity that is startling, if not wholly unexpected, “Promise me this. Promise me you will look after him.”
Bush almost recoils physically. It is an absurd request. They are officers of His Majesty’s Navy, bound to their country’s service in time of war, not children engaged in some playtime adventure. Nor is it realistic, when an impenetrable shell of polite reserve is one of the most striking qualities of the man in question.
Before he can even begin to articulate these misgivings, Kennedy is speaking again.
“He will think he has no-one left in the world, William, and that is when he will most need his friends.”
It is Kennedy - no, Archie asking this of him. Archie, in the face of whose courage and endurance he is reduced to speechless admiration and something bordering on awe. Archie, who is about to lay his every last card on the table in a reckless bid to save his dearest friend from death and dishonour, and who stands to pay a terrible price should his gamble succeed. Bush hesitates, and the clifftop beckons again in his mind’s eye, the leap no longer seeming so terrifying.
“He has my friendship, Archie,” and when this does not seem to be enough, he adds, “I promise.”
Archie sags against him in relief, his breathing even more shallow and laboured, and Bush carefully supports him until he has regained his composure. A grave smile and a parting pressure of the hand is all the farewell that Bush can offer - he is not a demonstrative man and to his mind, any other gesture would smack of cheap theatrics.
Yet he cannot suppress a sharp sense of grief and of lost opportunities as he watches Kennedy tread carefully out of the cell with Clive at his side.
God forgive me, he thinks, remembering his initial impression of Kennedy, and the swift contempt with which he had dismissed him. The apparent loyalty of a certain section of the lower deck (the better men, as he later came to realise) had come as a surprise but he had suspected that the men followed Kennedy more out of loyalty towards Hornblower than from any respect that he might personally inspire. A sharp tongue and a pretty face, combined with the sort of heedless arrogance that owes more to birth and position than it does to any real quality - dear God, was he blind, that for an unconscionably long time aboard the Renown, that was all he had seen?
Alone in the barred cell, he sits on his cot and ponders opportunities denied to him. Opportunities which are lost without a doubt, if they ever existed, for even if any other outcome were possible from the testimony about to be given this morning by a man of great courage and loyalty, that same man’s heart, as well as his body and indeed the very breath in his lungs, already belongs irrevocably to another.
Fin.
Cross-posted to crumpeteers