[fic] Fair Seas
Jun. 24th, 2019 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hmsloop_hotspurJune has been a hectic crazy month but somehow this story came along to me fully formed one day mid-work and I sat down on my lunch break and wrote it out. As there were no official prompts this month, I retro-prompted myself with the word 'compass.'
Written with complete disregard to the events of Commodore. I have only the vaguest notion of what goes on there, so something something post Flying Colours with blatant indifference to the actual plot.
Set in the same 'verse as April's story (kinda, vaguely.)
Title: Fair Seas
Pairings: Hornblower & Bush (the slash is in there, but not officially)
Rating: G
It was the perfect day for sailing: bright and balmy and clear, with a fresh breeze and fair seas. Hornblower had woken Bush early in the morning to suggest taking advantage of the day, and Bush had been happy to oblige. Secretly he’d been pleased that Hornblower wished to spend time alone with him and even more pleased to show off the tidy sailing dinghy he’d had made with his new earnings as commissioner. She was a neat little thing, twelve feet in length, and handled tidily under practically any condition. He’d named her Hotspur in honour of the first ship he’d served on as first officer and who’d been lost under a foolish captain’s command. Hornblower had been rather flustered when Bush had told him the name, but he’d looked pleased nonetheless.
It was delightful to be at sea again together, perhaps even more delightful than when Hornblower had turned up on his doorstep two days before, having finally accepted Bush’s invitation to his home in Sheerness. The timing could not have been better; Bush’s eldest sister, who kept house for him, was off in Sussex to attend their youngest sister through her lying-in, giving them more privacy than they’d ever had. They could do whatever they fancied, whenever they fancied it, and the freedom of it was intoxicating.
Best of all, they could go sailing.
Bush had packed a basket: bread and wine and good cheese and potted fish. They ate and drank on the rocks of a secluded cove and discussed the finer technical points of sailing, and for an hour they forgot about the war raging on the continent that would call them back to action one way or another before the year was out. It was the peace that had come to them on the Loire, and even Bush, ever suspicious of unexpected happiness, found himself at ease.
They were a handful of miles from Sheerness still, hugging the coastline, when Bush decided to consult the chart he’d brought with him to determine the best course around a particularly disagreeable outcropping of rocks, allowing Hornblower to man the tiller. He stretched the chart over his knees and was fumbling in his coat pocket for his compass when he felt the cool warmth of leather brush against his fingers and heard a sickening plop over his shoulder.
He swore and looked over the gunwales only to see the compass sinking slowly, just out of reach.
“What is it?” Hornblower asked, brow furrowing in concern.
Bush grimaced. “Dropped it into the drink. Look, it’s down there.”
Hornblower leaned over and they both watched as the compass disappeared into the depths of the sea.
“How deep is it here?” Hornblower asked.
“Three fathoms, I believe.” Bush said, examining his chart. “Oh no, sir, you mustn’t,” he protested as Hornblower stood and began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Home is near and I can get a new one.”
“Nonsense,” Hornblower said, pulling his shirt over his head and wriggling out of his trousers. “Take the tiller.”
Bush did. “Sir…” he began, but it was futile.
“Heave to and wait for me,” Hornblower commanded, and dived into the water with barely a splash. Bush watched on with concern; if something should happen to Hornblower, he would not be able to effect a rescue. He had never learned to swim, and though he might have floundered about in the water for a while with two legs, with one he was as good as dead.
The sea was a glassy green, and he kept a firm hand on the tiller keeping the Hotspur hove to as he watched Hornblower dive. He was an elegant swimmer, strong and sure in his ability, and for a brief moment Bush wondered how it felt to have such mastery. Then Hotspur nosed into the wind and her sails began to shiver, and Bush forgot about swimming altogether as he set her aright again.
After a minute Hornblower reappeared a yard off the Hotspur’s bow, spluttering. “I found it,” he crowed, triumphant. “I’ll bring it up.”
“Oh no, sir...” began Bush but Hornblower had already rolled over and disappeared back into the sea. He pulled his watch out of his pocket to mark the time.
The seconds stretched by like hours. Bush fidgeted as a minute passed by, then another, and just as he could bear it no more Hornblower appeared beside the boat, spitting seawater and laughing as he handed it over to Bush.
“Took your time, sir,” Bush said, grinning with relief as he tucked his watch away and put the compass back in his coat pocket.
Hornblower smiled. “Help me in, won’t you?”
Bush braced his good foot and with a grunt of effort hauled Hornblower in, who collapsed into the belly of the boat, breathing hard, chuckling to himself.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he confessed, sitting up and slicking his hair back.
“You most certainly are not, sir,” Bush admonished, and then seeing how Hornblower was shivering, pulled off his coat and wrapped it around his shoulders. He took Hornblower’s cold hands in his and rubbed them warm, and Hornblower’s smile became softer.
“Don’t do that again, sir,” warned Bush.
Hornblower laughed. “No promises,” he said, and Bush knew he could no more stop Hornblower than he could stop the tides from rising. With a shake of his head he trimmed Hotspur’s sails and set a course for home, trying not to laugh at the mischief in Hornblower’s smile.
Written with complete disregard to the events of Commodore. I have only the vaguest notion of what goes on there, so something something post Flying Colours with blatant indifference to the actual plot.
Set in the same 'verse as April's story (kinda, vaguely.)
Title: Fair Seas
Pairings: Hornblower & Bush (the slash is in there, but not officially)
Rating: G
It was the perfect day for sailing: bright and balmy and clear, with a fresh breeze and fair seas. Hornblower had woken Bush early in the morning to suggest taking advantage of the day, and Bush had been happy to oblige. Secretly he’d been pleased that Hornblower wished to spend time alone with him and even more pleased to show off the tidy sailing dinghy he’d had made with his new earnings as commissioner. She was a neat little thing, twelve feet in length, and handled tidily under practically any condition. He’d named her Hotspur in honour of the first ship he’d served on as first officer and who’d been lost under a foolish captain’s command. Hornblower had been rather flustered when Bush had told him the name, but he’d looked pleased nonetheless.
It was delightful to be at sea again together, perhaps even more delightful than when Hornblower had turned up on his doorstep two days before, having finally accepted Bush’s invitation to his home in Sheerness. The timing could not have been better; Bush’s eldest sister, who kept house for him, was off in Sussex to attend their youngest sister through her lying-in, giving them more privacy than they’d ever had. They could do whatever they fancied, whenever they fancied it, and the freedom of it was intoxicating.
Best of all, they could go sailing.
Bush had packed a basket: bread and wine and good cheese and potted fish. They ate and drank on the rocks of a secluded cove and discussed the finer technical points of sailing, and for an hour they forgot about the war raging on the continent that would call them back to action one way or another before the year was out. It was the peace that had come to them on the Loire, and even Bush, ever suspicious of unexpected happiness, found himself at ease.
They were a handful of miles from Sheerness still, hugging the coastline, when Bush decided to consult the chart he’d brought with him to determine the best course around a particularly disagreeable outcropping of rocks, allowing Hornblower to man the tiller. He stretched the chart over his knees and was fumbling in his coat pocket for his compass when he felt the cool warmth of leather brush against his fingers and heard a sickening plop over his shoulder.
He swore and looked over the gunwales only to see the compass sinking slowly, just out of reach.
“What is it?” Hornblower asked, brow furrowing in concern.
Bush grimaced. “Dropped it into the drink. Look, it’s down there.”
Hornblower leaned over and they both watched as the compass disappeared into the depths of the sea.
“How deep is it here?” Hornblower asked.
“Three fathoms, I believe.” Bush said, examining his chart. “Oh no, sir, you mustn’t,” he protested as Hornblower stood and began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Home is near and I can get a new one.”
“Nonsense,” Hornblower said, pulling his shirt over his head and wriggling out of his trousers. “Take the tiller.”
Bush did. “Sir…” he began, but it was futile.
“Heave to and wait for me,” Hornblower commanded, and dived into the water with barely a splash. Bush watched on with concern; if something should happen to Hornblower, he would not be able to effect a rescue. He had never learned to swim, and though he might have floundered about in the water for a while with two legs, with one he was as good as dead.
The sea was a glassy green, and he kept a firm hand on the tiller keeping the Hotspur hove to as he watched Hornblower dive. He was an elegant swimmer, strong and sure in his ability, and for a brief moment Bush wondered how it felt to have such mastery. Then Hotspur nosed into the wind and her sails began to shiver, and Bush forgot about swimming altogether as he set her aright again.
After a minute Hornblower reappeared a yard off the Hotspur’s bow, spluttering. “I found it,” he crowed, triumphant. “I’ll bring it up.”
“Oh no, sir...” began Bush but Hornblower had already rolled over and disappeared back into the sea. He pulled his watch out of his pocket to mark the time.
The seconds stretched by like hours. Bush fidgeted as a minute passed by, then another, and just as he could bear it no more Hornblower appeared beside the boat, spitting seawater and laughing as he handed it over to Bush.
“Took your time, sir,” Bush said, grinning with relief as he tucked his watch away and put the compass back in his coat pocket.
Hornblower smiled. “Help me in, won’t you?”
Bush braced his good foot and with a grunt of effort hauled Hornblower in, who collapsed into the belly of the boat, breathing hard, chuckling to himself.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he confessed, sitting up and slicking his hair back.
“You most certainly are not, sir,” Bush admonished, and then seeing how Hornblower was shivering, pulled off his coat and wrapped it around his shoulders. He took Hornblower’s cold hands in his and rubbed them warm, and Hornblower’s smile became softer.
“Don’t do that again, sir,” warned Bush.
Hornblower laughed. “No promises,” he said, and Bush knew he could no more stop Hornblower than he could stop the tides from rising. With a shake of his head he trimmed Hotspur’s sails and set a course for home, trying not to laugh at the mischief in Hornblower’s smile.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 03:35 pm (UTC)As I said, just lovely.
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Date: 2019-06-24 06:03 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it :)
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Date: 2019-06-24 06:16 pm (UTC)And yes, poor long-suffering Bush! Although there's nothing else he would rather be doing, either. I loved the touch with the coat and the hands. (OF COURSE THE HANDS)
Oh! And I meant to say (before it got knocked out of my head by how much I enjoyed the story) -- this doesn't conflict with anything in Commodore. We never hear about how Sheerness worked out. We mostly only know that Hornblower spent nearly a year ashore after coming back to England, that Bush is "available" to become Hornblower's flag captain, and that Hornblower at some point married Barbara (presumably after her official mourning of Leighton was over) and only recently bought an estate with her. Beyond that, anything is game.
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Date: 2019-06-24 06:38 pm (UTC)And yes, the hands. It always comes back to the hands. I appreciate that it's the one detail CSF consistently focussed on in the stories because after a point it starts to seem as though both Hornblower and Bush have a mutual thing for each other's hands, instead of, y'know, that being the one detail the author focuses on (do we know much about Bush's physical appearance? No! But we do know a lot about his hands.)
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Date: 2019-06-24 06:54 pm (UTC)Which Hornblower will note, every time he touches Bush's hands.
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Date: 2019-06-24 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 06:52 pm (UTC)