[fic] Solace and Comfort (excerpt)
Apr. 24th, 2019 03:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hmsloop_hotspurA fill for the April prompts, "Comfort." I started this story back in September, but only recently pulled it out again. Unfortunately, I'm unlikely to finish it during April, but part of what I wrote this month suits the prompts, so...
Title: Solace and Comfort (excerpt)
Pairings: Hornblower/Bush (implied)
Rating: G
Part of the Tegmore 'verse, betweencolebaltblue's Salt and Oakum and my own To Remember Roses.
Hornblower spends his days at the turret window and his nights at whist, gravitating to Bush's room in between. Until the morning when something breaks, something in Hornblower's mind shredding and tearing until it rends into two, beating itself to pieces against nothing. He seems unable to do anything about it, standing there at his turret window, gazing uselessly at the sodden countryside. If he still had a ship to command, he might force himself into some kind of action, for the crew's sake if not his own. But he is a captain who has lost his ship, and he only stands and stares, the cold seeping through his bones, dimly aware that something has gone terribly wrong, and powerless to do anything about it.
It is Brown who eventually comes and finds him, long past sunset, his candle replacing the dark beyond the window with a reflection of Hornblower's own visage, ghoul-like and monstrous. "Go away," Hornblower orders. "Go away, I said!"
It is Bush who comes next, the thunk of his step as reliable as clockwork. Bush, all steadiness and competence, embodying every virtue that Hornblower lacks. It is nearly painful to look at that open, honest face next to his own in the window, and this time when ordered to go away, neither face does. Instead, there are questions that Hornblower does not know how to answer -- no, which are scarcely worth the attempt of an answer. Bush touches his arm, startling him from his reverie. He takes Hornblower's hands and earnestly bids him to come away, and Hornblower knows that if he does not, Bush will stay there with him all night. The prospect of it exhausts him.
It is a long journey down the spiral stairs to the first floor. Hornblower vaguely feels shame that he made Bush struggle up the long winding staircase, but the shame is a distant feeling, comfortable in its familiarity, and it does not trouble him overmuch.
"Keep going, sir," Bush encourages him, and a hand touches his shoulder. It presses heavily into him for support as Bush comes down another step behind him, and the heaviness of it, the realness of it, starts Hornblower walking again. He descends gingerly, mindful of the steps and Bush's slow progress behind him, careful not to dislodge Bush's hand.
It is Hornblower's room they go into, not Bush's, and Hornblower watches distantly as Bush seats him by the fire, settling a blanket around his shoulders, and draws up another chair opposite him. Bush takes Hornblower's hands in his, and gently chafes them. "Sir," he says, and Hornblower aches for the worry in his voice. Hornblower watches himself try to do something about it; Hornblower watches himself fail.
Brown does something with the fire, rustles quietly in another part of the room. There is a knock, and at a word from Brown, Bush leaves to conduct a whispered negotiation at the door. Hornblower almost feels his absence.
Then Bush is taking his seat again, taking Hornblower's hands in his again. This time there is something unnaturally real about Bush's hands, about the meaty warm breadth of them, so tenderly clasping Hornblower's thin and chilled ones. Bush's thick nails are trimmed close, the tips clean and bone-white, the beds pink with life. Two cuticles are split deep and reddened, damaged by his labours on the boat, and it seems grossly unfair that Bush should be bothered by such petty hurts. Warmth is returning to Hornblower's own hands, and Hornblower regards the returning of sensation -- inconvenient, awkward, and painful -- with a growing sense of horror.
He tries to retrieve his hands, but Bush grips them firmly, prevents him from drawing back beneath the shelter of his blanket. It leaves him exposed and open when the feeling breaks over him -- grief and despair and utter mortification -- and he doubles over Bush's hands, clinging to them for an anchor. Bush hangs on with equal conviction, and the only thing that makes the tumult of feeling bearable is the memory of the nightmare coach, Bush taking strength from Hornblower's hand in his -- or was even that only Hornblower taking strength from Bush? Hornblower tries desperately to breathe. Bush's hands are wet against his face.
Eventually everything stills again, but the calm is not the chill silence of before: instead, the world is painfully raw and vivid, the fire loud in his ear, its heat drawing tight the skin of his cheek. Hornblower rests his face in Bush's hands, too cowardly to face his judgement. He strokes Bush's hands with his fingers, traces the shift from tender flesh to rough callus. Then Bush turns his hand in his to caress Hornblower's face, his thumb stroking Hornblower's cheek, and for a moment there is nothing that could be more natural.
Title: Solace and Comfort (excerpt)
Pairings: Hornblower/Bush (implied)
Rating: G
Part of the Tegmore 'verse, between
colebaltblue's Salt and Oakum and my own To Remember Roses. Hornblower spends his days at the turret window and his nights at whist, gravitating to Bush's room in between. Until the morning when something breaks, something in Hornblower's mind shredding and tearing until it rends into two, beating itself to pieces against nothing. He seems unable to do anything about it, standing there at his turret window, gazing uselessly at the sodden countryside. If he still had a ship to command, he might force himself into some kind of action, for the crew's sake if not his own. But he is a captain who has lost his ship, and he only stands and stares, the cold seeping through his bones, dimly aware that something has gone terribly wrong, and powerless to do anything about it.
It is Brown who eventually comes and finds him, long past sunset, his candle replacing the dark beyond the window with a reflection of Hornblower's own visage, ghoul-like and monstrous. "Go away," Hornblower orders. "Go away, I said!"
It is Bush who comes next, the thunk of his step as reliable as clockwork. Bush, all steadiness and competence, embodying every virtue that Hornblower lacks. It is nearly painful to look at that open, honest face next to his own in the window, and this time when ordered to go away, neither face does. Instead, there are questions that Hornblower does not know how to answer -- no, which are scarcely worth the attempt of an answer. Bush touches his arm, startling him from his reverie. He takes Hornblower's hands and earnestly bids him to come away, and Hornblower knows that if he does not, Bush will stay there with him all night. The prospect of it exhausts him.
It is a long journey down the spiral stairs to the first floor. Hornblower vaguely feels shame that he made Bush struggle up the long winding staircase, but the shame is a distant feeling, comfortable in its familiarity, and it does not trouble him overmuch.
"Keep going, sir," Bush encourages him, and a hand touches his shoulder. It presses heavily into him for support as Bush comes down another step behind him, and the heaviness of it, the realness of it, starts Hornblower walking again. He descends gingerly, mindful of the steps and Bush's slow progress behind him, careful not to dislodge Bush's hand.
It is Hornblower's room they go into, not Bush's, and Hornblower watches distantly as Bush seats him by the fire, settling a blanket around his shoulders, and draws up another chair opposite him. Bush takes Hornblower's hands in his, and gently chafes them. "Sir," he says, and Hornblower aches for the worry in his voice. Hornblower watches himself try to do something about it; Hornblower watches himself fail.
Brown does something with the fire, rustles quietly in another part of the room. There is a knock, and at a word from Brown, Bush leaves to conduct a whispered negotiation at the door. Hornblower almost feels his absence.
Then Bush is taking his seat again, taking Hornblower's hands in his again. This time there is something unnaturally real about Bush's hands, about the meaty warm breadth of them, so tenderly clasping Hornblower's thin and chilled ones. Bush's thick nails are trimmed close, the tips clean and bone-white, the beds pink with life. Two cuticles are split deep and reddened, damaged by his labours on the boat, and it seems grossly unfair that Bush should be bothered by such petty hurts. Warmth is returning to Hornblower's own hands, and Hornblower regards the returning of sensation -- inconvenient, awkward, and painful -- with a growing sense of horror.
He tries to retrieve his hands, but Bush grips them firmly, prevents him from drawing back beneath the shelter of his blanket. It leaves him exposed and open when the feeling breaks over him -- grief and despair and utter mortification -- and he doubles over Bush's hands, clinging to them for an anchor. Bush hangs on with equal conviction, and the only thing that makes the tumult of feeling bearable is the memory of the nightmare coach, Bush taking strength from Hornblower's hand in his -- or was even that only Hornblower taking strength from Bush? Hornblower tries desperately to breathe. Bush's hands are wet against his face.
Eventually everything stills again, but the calm is not the chill silence of before: instead, the world is painfully raw and vivid, the fire loud in his ear, its heat drawing tight the skin of his cheek. Hornblower rests his face in Bush's hands, too cowardly to face his judgement. He strokes Bush's hands with his fingers, traces the shift from tender flesh to rough callus. Then Bush turns his hand in his to caress Hornblower's face, his thumb stroking Hornblower's cheek, and for a moment there is nothing that could be more natural.