[fic] Across The Line II
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hmsloop_hotspurTitle: Across the Line
Pairing: HH/WB
Rating: M
Part 2 of 3. The actual bed-sharing bit! Also the part where this fic gets its M rating.
A/N: This is the part I'm the most nervous about sharing. I haven't written anything approaching smut in years and the last time I did so I was an untested teenager. I'm not entirely satisfied with the last part, but I'm going to share it before I get cold feet and try to move on to the last part.
Apologies for angst, but given the source material, what else do you expect?
--
Bush left the cabin in a daze, half certain he had dreamt the exchange — perhaps he would wake up and find himself still asleep in the cable tier. But the wind on his face was too biting, the ache of hunger in his stomach too real for any of it to be a dream. He would sleep the night in his captain’s cabin, in his captain’s cot. The enormity of the transgression made his head swim.
He had slept beside Hornblower before, of course, but that had been Kingston. Things had been different in Kingston: Bush had nearly died from his wounds and was desperate to taste life again, Hornblower had been adrift and uncertain in his new role as commander. They had endured so much together — Sawyer, Buckland, the attack on the fort, the Spanish prisoners — that it was only natural that they should seek reassurance in each other. Months at sea without the wholesome company of women stirred strange desires in a man, urges that needed to be satisfied one way or another: that those desires were satisfied over a wild two day period in a locked room in one of the most expensive bawdy houses in Kingston was no one’s business but their own. Those two days had been a mad fever dream of lust and high spirits and when they were over Bush and Hornblower had parted as friends, solemnly swearing to never speak of it again.
Then why should Hornblower bring it up now? Bush did not know, and the not knowing bothered him. For three years he had kept his silence for the sake of their careers and out of loyalty to Hornblower; if the knowledge of what had happened ever reached the wrong ears they would be hauled before a court-martial and face disgrace and humiliation at best. Bush would weather it, as he weathered all things, but it would break Hornblower, of that Bush had no doubt. To be brought before a panel of superior officers and be ruthlessly interrogated until his most intimate secrets were exposed would shatter Hornblower, and to see his captain dishonoured and defeated would break Bush in turn. Bush did not fear many things, but he feared that particular fate above almost all else. So he kept his silence, and trusted Hornblower would do the same.
He knew Hornblower was ashamed of what had happened: Hornblower had never said as much, but Bush knew it to be true. The evidence was there, if a man only cared to look: it was in the way Hornblower shied from touching Bush, no longer willing to exchange the casual contact they’d shared aboard the Renown; it was in the way Hornblower no longer called Bush by his first name, even in private; it was in the way he coloured when he noticed Bush watching him bathe on the deck. So why had Hornblower mentioned Kingston?
It was useless, thinking in circles like this. The only possible solution had to be the simplest one, Bush decided, and that solution was obvious: Hornblower had brought up Kingston because it was the only time they had ever shared a bed. Still, he was dissatisfied, and no amount of hard work seemed to ease the gnawing worry that lurked in the back of his mind.
He was grateful when the wind picked up around the end of the afternoon watch and a brief squall swept in, the cold rain and rough seas soaking every man on deck. Bush grinned as the Hotspur bucked and pranced like a spirited filly in the seething seas; he loved dirty weather. He was still grinning when Hornblower appeared on the quarterdeck, but his smile faded at the sight of Hornblower’s green face. It would not do to seem as though he were mocking Hornblower’s misery.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, as cordially as if it was a calm night.
Hornblower grimaced, his hands settling behind his back in his usual stance. “I was informed you called me to announce you are shortening sail?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Bush. You may proceed.”
The men had been drilled and drilled and drilled again by Bush, and now that drilling paid off. Every man knew his station and the actions he must take, and with what seemed like very little effort the great canvases were hauled up and reefed, and the Hotspur eased a trifle in her mad dance, no longer in danger of carrying too much sail.
Bush turned to Hornblower when it was done and wondered for a moment if it was admiration he saw in those brown eyes. But that was nonsense; Bush was merely doing his duty.
The wind howled, the canvas creaking as the sails strained under their reefs. The rain was cold and soaking: Hornblower’s dark hair was plastered to his face and water dripped from his nose, and Bush knew he must look no better. He shivered, a trickle of rain finding its way down the back of his collar and down his back. The thought of a cosy cot, warmed by the body of another, no longer seemed so unappealing.
“I’ll see you when this lets up,” Hornblower said, with a nod to the dark sky, and smiled thinly at Bush.
Bush shifted uncomfortably. “Aye aye, sir,” he said. There was nothing else he could say.
The storm died towards the end of the second dogwatch, the clouds clearing away to reveal a waxing gibbous moon high in the sky. The sea was calm now, having spent its rage, and Bush found himself humming as he gathered some things from the sea chest still in his cabin and made his way to Hornblower’s cabin. The sentry at the door looked up at him with wide eyes, surprised to see Hotspur’s first lieutenant standing sopping wet and half-frozen in front him, but admitted him without so much as a word.
Hornblower was still awake, tucked up reading beneath a coverlet of roses, when Bush knocked on the door to his sleeping quarters. He looked up and smiled at the sight of Bush hovering anxiously on the threshold, clutching his nightshirt and housewife to his chest, soaked to the bone and dripping water.
“Undress and get in,” Hornblower ordered. “It’s a far sight warmer in here than it is out there.”
“Are you certain, sir?” Bush asked. This was a wild breach of protocol, and he knew were it not for the longstanding affection he held for his captain he would be back in the cable tier, sleeping with the rats.
Hornblower set his book aside. “Would you say I am attentive to the needs of this ship, Mr Bush?”
Bush was caught off guard by the question. “Of course, sir,” he said.
Hornblower fixed him with a hard look. “Then why would you expect me to be any less attentive to the needs of my officers and men?”
Bush could not argue with that. A ship was only as good as the men who sailed on her, and an unhappy or unhealthy crew were as much a danger to the safety of a ship as any storm or enemy vessel. Poor rest led to poor judgement, everyone knew that, and naturally Hornblower would not wish to have a first lieutenant whose good sense was compromised because of a foolish error.
“No, sir,” Bush answered. Then, feeling bold, he added: “I do wish you’d extend the same care to yourself, sir. You’re not looking as well as you should. Not enough sleep I should think, sir.”
It was a common concern for Bush, who secretly fretted over his captain as he might a wilful younger sibling, but he did not fret without cause. Ever since the battle with the Félicité Hornblower had seemed paler and more withdrawn than he had been in months, and Bush knew he could not have been sleeping more than an hour or two at night.
“I will sleep all the better knowing my first officer isn’t sharing his berth with rats,” Hornblower said, his tone dry. “And mind you don’t flood my cabin.”
A puddle of water had pooled at Bush’s feet. He grimaced and hung up his dripping oilskins to dry, along with his hat and jacket, all damp. The cabin was cold, and without his jacket to keep him warm he shivered and rubbed his hands together.
“Sir, would you—” he began, but Hornblower had already turned on his side in the cot to face the bulkhead, affording Bush the smallest of privacies as he stripped off his wet things and pulled his dry nightshirt over his head. He lay his clothes over Hornblower’s sea chest, unsure of where else to put them.
“Put out the light when you come in,” Hornblower said, pulling back the covers for Bush to climb in, and so Bush blew out the lantern and swung himself into bed. The cot creaked dangerously as he settled himself on his side, his back to Hornblower, and he lay there very still on the edge of the bed, unable to deny the pleasurable feeling that arose from sharing a bed.
“You’re frozen,” grumbled Hornblower.
“Sorry, sir,” said Bush. “It was cold. Wind freshened a trifle after you left. Froze my bloody boll—” He caught himself. “My apologies, sir,” he said, shamefaced, and shifted, moving to cast aside the covers. “I’ll get out of bed.”
“Belay that,” growled Hornblower. The cot swung as he turned over, and then Bush felt a warm body press up against his back, an arm reaching around his waist, anchoring them together. “There, now. You ought to be warmer soon.”
It was much better lying like this, Bush thought happily. Hornblower was pressed against him from shoulder to ankle, his hand warm and heavy on Bush’s stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so safe or secure. Hornblower must have felt it too, because he curled his body tighter around Bush, his breath hot on the back of Bush’s neck.
“Thank you, sir,” Bush said quietly, realising as soon as he’d spoken that Hornblower was already asleep. Smiling, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, Hornblower’s arm a reassuring weight on his waist.
He awoke to the dim sound of six bells to find the cabin awash in pale moonlight and Hornblower fast asleep in his arms. It was strange to see him so unguarded; in sleep Hornblower still looked so very young — even with the dark shadow of his beard — but the lines of weariness and worry on his face were ill-suited for one not yet thirty and Bush felt a strange sorrow in his breast to see it. He pressed his face into Hornblower’s hair, anxious to provide some small measure of solace, and Hornblower stirred.
“William?” he asked, eyes shut, voice muddled with sleep. Bush shifted in the cot, intending to get up, but it was impossible to move from beneath Hornblower, who lay sprawled across him.
“Sir,” he whispered, “I should get up. What if I’m needed on deck?”
Hornblower growled in displeasure and tightened his hold on Bush. “They know where you are,” he mumbled, nestling closer. “Go back to sleep.”
It was the easiest thing in the world to obey and slip back into contented sleep. Morning came all too soon in the form of an anxious midshipman knocking on the stateroom door and enquiring if the first lieutenant was inside. Bush untangled himself from Hornblower and extracted himself from the cot, careful to not dump his sleeping captain on the cold deck. He dressed in the dark, his clothes still damp from the night before, and hurried up on deck for the numbing middle watch.
He did not return to Hornblower’s cabin when his watch ended, not wishing to disturb his captain’s rest, and instead spent the morning in happy idleness, mending his socks and shirts by the light of a horn lantern around the wardroom table. He might have even indulged himself in a pipeful of tobacco had his stock not run out, so good were his spirits, but he consoled himself with a cup of weak coffee at breakfast. If the other men noticed his cheeriness, they were polite enough to not remark upon it.
Dawn arrived shortly before Bush appeared on the quarterdeck for the forenoon watch, leaving behind it a vivid streak of scarlet on the horizon that dissipated like blood in water as the sun climbed higher. The sea was lively, the wind brisk, the sky a sharp, cloudless blue that made Bush think of his boyhood days in the Mediterranean. It was a good day for sailing, and Hotspur seemed to agree. Even with her hull patched like an old coat she cut through the water as with the ease and grace only small ships are capable of possessing.
Hornblower was cheery when he appeared on the quarterdeck, looking better slept than he had in months.
“Good morning, Mr Bush,” he said, with something of a conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes.
“Good morning, sir,” Bush said, biting back a smile. “You slept well, I trust?”
“I did.” He stepped close to Bush. “As, I trust, did you,” he said in a low voice. Bush met his eyes and nodded. A smile escaped the tight line of Hornblower’s mouth, and in spite of himself Bush found himself grinning too, as though they were no longer King’s officers but rather two boys who’d successfully raided an orchard. Then they remembered themselves and sobered up, and the two mischievous boys sharing a joke once again became the two serious men standing on the quarterdeck discussing the endless technical details of maintaining a sloop-of-war.
The day progressed smoothly, spoiled only by a squabble belowdecks when one of the Resolves tried to pick a fight with one of the Hotspurs, but an emphatic threat from Bush to suspend rum rations for all parties involved was enough to stop any thought of fighting for the day. Rum and tobacco were all that stood between Heaven and Hell to the ordinary seaman, and they knew better than to risk one of the only pleasures they could indulge in. To ensure his point was made Bush also threatened to take any seaman caught fighting and bundle him up in a hammock together with his adversary until they got along, and no sooner had the threat been uttered were the two men shaking hands as if they were old friends.
Later, over dinner in the gunroom, Bush related the story to some of the other men, who laughed and agreed that it would make a fine punishment.
“No man likes sharing a bed that small,” pronounced Thatcher, the Resolve’s purser, not looking up from the little book he was sketching in. Several other members of the gunroom nodded in agreement.
“No man likes being that well acquainted with his fellow,” laughed Wallis.
Bush thought of Hornblower, and flushed. It had been cramped in that cot — Bush was well built and though Hornblower was lanky it had still been a tight fit for two grown men — but it had been warm and snug, and try as he might Bush wanted nothing more than to lie in that bed again, if only to feel that safe and comforted feeling he’d felt the night before. It was a curious thing to sleep beside someone, knowing that they cared if you lived or died. Bush did not flatter himself that Hornblower held any deep affection for him, but he knew that Hornblower cared for his well-being enough to share a bed, and that meant more to Bush than could be expressed in simple words. Bush had never made friends easily — too concerned with shipboard matters to care for the inane trifles of the wardroom or gunroom — but he fancied that friendship with Hornblower, trying though it could be at times, was worth the friendship of ten other men.
The moon was full, the night cold and clear. Bush stood on the quarterdeck, humming quietly to himself. The wind in the rigging and the creak of Hotspur’s timbers as she made her way through the dark sea were a soothing lullaby to Bush’s ears. From belowdecks came the faint strains of a fiddle and the distant thump of dancing, punctuated with raucous laughter: the sounds of a happy ship, with a good captain who cared for his men. If Bush had ever been asked to imagine a Heaven, he might have described a scene much like this one, but as no one had ever asked him such a question he gave no thought to the notion. All he knew was that he was very nearly sorry when eight bells struck and he was relieved of his watch.
Hornblower’s cabin was awash in moonlight when Bush stepped inside. The door to the stateroom was open, but there was no light within; Hornblower was asleep. Still, Bush dared not venture further without confirmation, too disciplined to ever make presumptions of his captain.
“Sir?” he asked gently, knocking on the stateroom door. There was a rustle of bedclothes and a grunt of annoyance.
“Get in,” Hornblower said, his voice muffled by blankets and pillow.
Bush undressed in the silvery gloom of the stateroom and hung his outer clothes up exactly as he had the night before. To his surprise, he saw that his sea chest had been brought up to the cabin, his nightshirt folded neatly on top. It gave him an odd pleasure to see his things arranged beside Hornblower’s, but he was too weary to pursue that thought any further and focused instead on undressing. Neckcloth went first, then waistcoat, followed by shoes, stockings, and breeches. Shirt and woolen underclothes were last, and he folded them all up carefully and placed them on his sea chest. As he shook out his nightshirt, the night air cool on his bare skin, he became sharply aware that he was being watched, and turned around to see Hornblower looking at him, as though he were transfixed by the sight before him.
“Sir?” he asked nervously. He did not know why Hornblower should be watching him with such intensity; it was not as if Hornblower had not seen him naked before.
Hornblower rolled over to face away from him. “For a moment there I thought — oh, never mind.”
“Sir?”
“In the moonlight you looked almost like a statue, I suppose, I don’t know.” Then, with an air of indifference, he added, “I’m tired, forgive me.”
There was nothing to forgive; Bush felt subtly pleased at the compliment. He was not certain what sort of statue Hornblower was imagining, but it was nonetheless flattering to be compared to one. Perhaps Hornblower meant one of those old Grecian statues, the heroic-looking ones that never seemed to have any clothes on. That would be most flattering indeed.
Bush held no illusions about his appearance; he knew he was no great beauty, but he knew his strength and rugged looks were attractive to some. He rather liked how he looked; he thought his face an honest reflection of who he was as a man. When he looked in a looking glass he saw what he was: an honest, capable man, hardened and tempered by years at sea — all the things he was — and this pleased him. Still, it flattered him that Hornblower should think him more than the rough and unsophisticated man he was, and he almost smiled at the thought of it. He pulled his nightshirt over his head and with a grunt of effort swung himself into the cot, arranging himself with his back to Hornblower’s.
They lay in silence for some time, listening to the sounds of the ship: the groaning of the hull, the faint merriment of the crew. Finally Bush spoke, unable to keep curiosity at bay any longer.
“Did you really mean that, sir?” he asked, rolling over. “About my looking like a statue, I mean.”
There was a heavy pause and then Hornblower turned on his side, facing Bush. There was a troubled look about him: a look not dissimilar to the one Bush had seen on that first night in Kingston, when not even the prettiest girls in Kingston’s finest whorehouse could distract him.
“I suppose I did mean it,” he said stiffly. “You were standing in the moonlight there, and… for a moment it seemed as if you were carved from marble. It put me in mind of some ancient hero: Nisus, perhaps. Pylades. Damon, even.”
Bush did not know these heroes Hornblower spoke of, but he flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, a curious sort of warmth spreading through his body. Then, feeling daring: “I’ve always thought someone should paint you, sir.”
“Me?” Hornblower’s surprise was so genuine that Bush could not help but smile.
“Look at you, sir. You’d make a fine portrait, there’s no doubting it, what with your looks…”
“My looks?”
It never failed to astonish Bush how blind Hornblower was to his own good looks, but Bush knew better than to make his captain ill at ease by trying to correct him, and stayed his course. “There ought to be portraits of you, sir,” he said. “You’ve a noble face.” Hornblower scoffed at the compliment. “I mean that, sir,” Bush said, stubborn to the bone.
“Noble?” Hornblower laughed. “Look at me. My nose is too long, my face too thin.”
Bush felt a flash of irritation to hear Hornblower’s contempt. “I meant what I said,” he said, refusing to surrender. With all his courage he reached out and cupped Hornblower’s face, gently stroking Hornblower’s cheek with his thumb. “Someone ought to paint you, sir.”
The wry smile disappeared. “You mean that, don’t you, Bush?” Hornblower asked quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
The room was quiet now; only the creak of the ship and their own breathing could be heard. Bush was suddenly aware of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. The air hung with the heavy disquiet of the moment as a ship is brought round into the wind, the terrifying moment before she misses stays or makes her tack, and Bush shivered. Hornblower’s cheek was rough with stubble beneath his hand, and without thinking he traced the soft curve of Hornblower’s mouth with his thumb and shifted closer.
He could see Hornblower’s pale face in the half-darkness, watching him. His eyes were impossibly dark, almost black, and the intensity with which he watched Bush was disconcerting. It was the fearful determination of a man going into battle and Bush felt his heart quicken, acutely aware of just how intimate their positions had become. They were pressed together, breathing heavily, and Bush knew he should leave, get out of the cot before something worse happened, but he could not move. He was caught in a current that he could not escape. He ached, not from the pains of everyday, but from months of desire, of putting his wants aside for the good of the service, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw Hornblower close, but like a bridegroom on his wedding night he faltered at the next step.
It was Hornblower who broke the silence. Hornblower, who with a sharp intake of breath blurted, “Do you want to—?”
“Yes. Yes,” gasped Bush, moving to lie on his back. Hornblower fumbled beneath the blankets and tugged at Bush’s nightshirt, pulling it up above his waist — they had neither the time nor privacy for anything else — and propped himself up on one elbow. “Christ,” Bush swore as he felt those long fingers curl around him and stroke. He threw an arm over Hornblower’s shoulders, holding him in place, desperate for the feeling of another body against his own.
It was awkward and inelegant in the cot — Bush’s elbow collided painfully with the bulkhead and Hornblower winced when Bush’s fingers dug into his shoulder— but it didn’t matter. The softness of Hornblower’s hand, the warmth of his body, the press of his leg between Bush’s — it was intoxicating, and it was not long before Bush pressed his face into Hornblower’s shoulder and came with a muffled, shuddering gasp. He struggled for breath, unable to move, reeling from the swell of sudden emotion that had swept over him so suddenly. He had never sought, as some men do, to unlay their emotions like so many strands of rope, but as he lay there clinging to Hornblower, gasping like a drowning man, he tried to make sense of the feelings that eddied and swirled around him and threatened to drag him under. There was affection, certainly — that was obvious — but there was fear there too: fear at having given in to the urges he had forsworn, fear at having crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. But greater than that was relief — relief that Hornblower did not regret Kingston, relief that he was willing, even eager, to touch Bush again.
It was a lifetime until he could breathe again, and when he opened his eyes he found Hornblower watching him with an anxious expression.
“Are you well?” he asked.
Bush nodded, winded. “Never better, sir.”
Hornblower looked as lost as he was, and Bush remembered how hesitant and shy he had been in Kingston. The marriage bed had not emboldened him in this regard, it would seem, for even now he hesitated before Bush, too self-conscious to be courageous.
“Would you…” he began with diffidence, and frowned, suddenly uncertain. “Would you touch me?”
“Of course, sir,” Bush said, before Hornblower had a chance to doubt himself, and reached beneath the blankets for Hornblower’s nightshirt. It was wet, and Bush realised with distress Hornblower must have cleaned his hand on it. “Your shirt,” he explained, when Hornblower noticed his hesitation.
Humiliation coloured Hornblower’s features. “I didn’t know where else to—” he began, but Bush shook his head.
“It’s alright, sir,” Bush said soothingly. “Let’s get it off you.”
A weary smile played at the corners of Hornblower’s mouth. “I can’t have you accusing me of uncleanliness,” he said, sitting up and pulling it over his head.
“No, sir,” agreed Bush, helping him out of the nightshirt and dropping it to the floor. He eased Hornblower onto his back and tucked himself beside him, his head on Hornblower’s bare shoulder. He ran a bold hand over Hornblower’s side, relearning the ridges of his ribs, the sharp angle of his hipbone, the soft line of hair on his stomach. Bush waited for a some indication that this brazen exploration was unwelcome and when it did not come he reached beneath the blankets and took Hornblower in hand. Hornblower made a soft noise and closed his eyes as Bush stroked him, almost teasingly slow.
“Faster, damn you,” Hornblower hissed, and Bush obliged, quickening his pace until Hornblower was gasping and clutching at the blankets. His brow was furrowed as if in concentration or pain, and Bush wanted for nothing more than to kiss him slowly and deeply, to distract him further and take him out of himself, but he knew he could not. They had only shared one kiss before, when they had been too intoxicated with drink and sex and each other to prevent it, and Bush still felt shame at the memory of how readily he had accepted it. Touching was one thing — the weakness of the flesh was excusable even as it was condemned — but kissing was far too great an intimacy to be shared between men. Bush had fumbled around in the dark with men before, but he’d never before been kissed by one: not until the moment Hornblower leaned down and kissed him as they lay abed together on that hot and humid night. It had been a mistake, a momentary lapse of judgement, and Bush had vowed he would not be so weak again.
Hornblower’s breath was coming quickly now, and he’d taken his bottom lip between his teeth. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, like a cable under too much tension, and yet Bush could feel him resisting his inevitable release, still too caught up in his own mind to find relief. Hornblower turned his heavy-lidded gaze to Bush, and Bush understood the crying need behind that look.
“William,” he whispered, his voice pleading and tender, and Bush knew he was lost. Laws and vows and articles be damned; Hornblower needed him, and he would deliver.
Lips met eager lips and then Hornblower was kissing him fiercely, all teeth and tongue and desperation, as if he wished to devour Bush, and Bush found himself returning the kiss with the same fervour. For all his phlegmatic temperament, Bush was a man in whom secret passion ran hot, and with his defences lowered at last he gave himself wholly over to Hornblower, redoubling his efforts, as determined a lover as he was a fighter.
It did not take long before Hornblower arched into Bush’s touch, and collapsed with a soft cry against the pillows, spilling wet and warm into Bush’s hand as relief swept through him. Bush slowed his hand, kissing him gently through it, until at last Hornblower broke away, gasping for air, his expression utterly blank, his mind very far away. Bush kissed his rough cheek then and carefully extracted himself from the cot, going over to the basin and wetting a flannel. Hornblower made no motion to stop him as Bush pulled the blankets back and sponged him them both clean. He did not say a word as Bush folded the soiled nightshirt and flannel up together and tucked them in the sea chest painted with the name Wm. Bush, he did not speak when Bush returned to the cot and tucked himself alongside, his head on Hornblower’s shoulder. The only indication he made that Bush was not unwelcome was taking Bush’s hand and pressing it against his heart, stroking it gently. It was not much of an indication, but Bush had been friends with Hornblower long enough to know that he often said through action what he could not say in words, and for just a moment Bush allowed himself to believe he was cared for, that he was loved. But it was easy for a man to lie to himself like this, lying next to the warm body of another, and so Bush put the thought away, contenting himself to lie next to his beloved friend for as long as duty allowed it.
He must have fallen asleep for when he awoke he was alone. He dressed quickly in the dark and entered the great cabin, where he found Hornblower wrapped in a dressing gown, standing by the stern windows and looking out to the interminable horizon. His hands dangled limp and useless at his sides, and it was terrible to see them so inactive. Hornblower’s hands were never still; to see them so now could only mean he was lost in his own mind. Bush did not know what it was that absorbed Hornblower so, but even his unimaginative mind could wager a guess at the emotions Hornblower grappled with: doubt; regret, perhaps — certainly shame. It was unbearable to watch.
“Sir?” he asked gently. There was little else to say.
There was a heavy silence, and then Hornblower turned, a desperate look on his face, and held out both his hands to Bush in supplication. He was so utterly lost that Bush crossed the room and took those long elegant hands between his own and kissed them, risking rejection, risking everything, if only to bring some reassurance to his captain. He looked up, expecting a rebuff, but it did not come; Hornblower leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. This was not the passionate, eager kiss of before — the sort to make the knees weak and the blood run hot — but something far more tender and bittersweet, and without understanding why, Bush knew it was a kiss of farewell.
He had never hoped for a future; it was easy for a man to believe in lies in the warm embrace of another, but Bush was too stubbornly practical to ever believe that Hornblower would wish for something more than which they had briefly shared. And yet somehow it still stung when Hornblower pulled away from him at last and stood there, resting his forehead against Bush’s.
“Bush,” he began, but Bush shook his head.
“There’s no need for any of that, sir,” he said. “Needs were met, nothing more. We needn’t speak of it again.”
Hornblower nodded, and Bush let go of his hands and stepped away. He tried not to look at Hornblower, tried forget that for a moment he’d imagined he was loved.
“William,” Hornblower said, and Bush told himself he imagined a note of sorrow in his voice.
“Nothing to be said, sir,” he said, and then, as a pathetic comfort, he added, “Perhaps in another life.”
Hornblower nodded again, and turned back to the windows, his hands still at his sides. Bush scolded himself for his soft heart and collected his things from where he’d hung them and pulled them on. He could not afford to waste time on sentiment and foolish dreams. Hornblower had told him once that they were King’s officers, not actresses, and yet here Bush was, allowing wishful thinking to get in the way of his duty. It was unacceptable, and he would do better, for Hornblower's sake if not his own.
As he jammed his hat on his head and turned once more to look at the melancholy figure standing by the windows he heard Hornblower speak once more, in a voice so low and quiet he nearly missed it.
“Perhaps,” Hornblower said, more to the sea than anyone else. Bush pretended he had not heard and shut the door behind him as he left, desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and his whirling thoughts.
Pairing: HH/WB
Rating: M
Part 2 of 3. The actual bed-sharing bit! Also the part where this fic gets its M rating.
A/N: This is the part I'm the most nervous about sharing. I haven't written anything approaching smut in years and the last time I did so I was an untested teenager. I'm not entirely satisfied with the last part, but I'm going to share it before I get cold feet and try to move on to the last part.
Apologies for angst, but given the source material, what else do you expect?
--
Bush left the cabin in a daze, half certain he had dreamt the exchange — perhaps he would wake up and find himself still asleep in the cable tier. But the wind on his face was too biting, the ache of hunger in his stomach too real for any of it to be a dream. He would sleep the night in his captain’s cabin, in his captain’s cot. The enormity of the transgression made his head swim.
He had slept beside Hornblower before, of course, but that had been Kingston. Things had been different in Kingston: Bush had nearly died from his wounds and was desperate to taste life again, Hornblower had been adrift and uncertain in his new role as commander. They had endured so much together — Sawyer, Buckland, the attack on the fort, the Spanish prisoners — that it was only natural that they should seek reassurance in each other. Months at sea without the wholesome company of women stirred strange desires in a man, urges that needed to be satisfied one way or another: that those desires were satisfied over a wild two day period in a locked room in one of the most expensive bawdy houses in Kingston was no one’s business but their own. Those two days had been a mad fever dream of lust and high spirits and when they were over Bush and Hornblower had parted as friends, solemnly swearing to never speak of it again.
Then why should Hornblower bring it up now? Bush did not know, and the not knowing bothered him. For three years he had kept his silence for the sake of their careers and out of loyalty to Hornblower; if the knowledge of what had happened ever reached the wrong ears they would be hauled before a court-martial and face disgrace and humiliation at best. Bush would weather it, as he weathered all things, but it would break Hornblower, of that Bush had no doubt. To be brought before a panel of superior officers and be ruthlessly interrogated until his most intimate secrets were exposed would shatter Hornblower, and to see his captain dishonoured and defeated would break Bush in turn. Bush did not fear many things, but he feared that particular fate above almost all else. So he kept his silence, and trusted Hornblower would do the same.
He knew Hornblower was ashamed of what had happened: Hornblower had never said as much, but Bush knew it to be true. The evidence was there, if a man only cared to look: it was in the way Hornblower shied from touching Bush, no longer willing to exchange the casual contact they’d shared aboard the Renown; it was in the way Hornblower no longer called Bush by his first name, even in private; it was in the way he coloured when he noticed Bush watching him bathe on the deck. So why had Hornblower mentioned Kingston?
It was useless, thinking in circles like this. The only possible solution had to be the simplest one, Bush decided, and that solution was obvious: Hornblower had brought up Kingston because it was the only time they had ever shared a bed. Still, he was dissatisfied, and no amount of hard work seemed to ease the gnawing worry that lurked in the back of his mind.
He was grateful when the wind picked up around the end of the afternoon watch and a brief squall swept in, the cold rain and rough seas soaking every man on deck. Bush grinned as the Hotspur bucked and pranced like a spirited filly in the seething seas; he loved dirty weather. He was still grinning when Hornblower appeared on the quarterdeck, but his smile faded at the sight of Hornblower’s green face. It would not do to seem as though he were mocking Hornblower’s misery.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, as cordially as if it was a calm night.
Hornblower grimaced, his hands settling behind his back in his usual stance. “I was informed you called me to announce you are shortening sail?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Bush. You may proceed.”
The men had been drilled and drilled and drilled again by Bush, and now that drilling paid off. Every man knew his station and the actions he must take, and with what seemed like very little effort the great canvases were hauled up and reefed, and the Hotspur eased a trifle in her mad dance, no longer in danger of carrying too much sail.
Bush turned to Hornblower when it was done and wondered for a moment if it was admiration he saw in those brown eyes. But that was nonsense; Bush was merely doing his duty.
The wind howled, the canvas creaking as the sails strained under their reefs. The rain was cold and soaking: Hornblower’s dark hair was plastered to his face and water dripped from his nose, and Bush knew he must look no better. He shivered, a trickle of rain finding its way down the back of his collar and down his back. The thought of a cosy cot, warmed by the body of another, no longer seemed so unappealing.
“I’ll see you when this lets up,” Hornblower said, with a nod to the dark sky, and smiled thinly at Bush.
Bush shifted uncomfortably. “Aye aye, sir,” he said. There was nothing else he could say.
The storm died towards the end of the second dogwatch, the clouds clearing away to reveal a waxing gibbous moon high in the sky. The sea was calm now, having spent its rage, and Bush found himself humming as he gathered some things from the sea chest still in his cabin and made his way to Hornblower’s cabin. The sentry at the door looked up at him with wide eyes, surprised to see Hotspur’s first lieutenant standing sopping wet and half-frozen in front him, but admitted him without so much as a word.
Hornblower was still awake, tucked up reading beneath a coverlet of roses, when Bush knocked on the door to his sleeping quarters. He looked up and smiled at the sight of Bush hovering anxiously on the threshold, clutching his nightshirt and housewife to his chest, soaked to the bone and dripping water.
“Undress and get in,” Hornblower ordered. “It’s a far sight warmer in here than it is out there.”
“Are you certain, sir?” Bush asked. This was a wild breach of protocol, and he knew were it not for the longstanding affection he held for his captain he would be back in the cable tier, sleeping with the rats.
Hornblower set his book aside. “Would you say I am attentive to the needs of this ship, Mr Bush?”
Bush was caught off guard by the question. “Of course, sir,” he said.
Hornblower fixed him with a hard look. “Then why would you expect me to be any less attentive to the needs of my officers and men?”
Bush could not argue with that. A ship was only as good as the men who sailed on her, and an unhappy or unhealthy crew were as much a danger to the safety of a ship as any storm or enemy vessel. Poor rest led to poor judgement, everyone knew that, and naturally Hornblower would not wish to have a first lieutenant whose good sense was compromised because of a foolish error.
“No, sir,” Bush answered. Then, feeling bold, he added: “I do wish you’d extend the same care to yourself, sir. You’re not looking as well as you should. Not enough sleep I should think, sir.”
It was a common concern for Bush, who secretly fretted over his captain as he might a wilful younger sibling, but he did not fret without cause. Ever since the battle with the Félicité Hornblower had seemed paler and more withdrawn than he had been in months, and Bush knew he could not have been sleeping more than an hour or two at night.
“I will sleep all the better knowing my first officer isn’t sharing his berth with rats,” Hornblower said, his tone dry. “And mind you don’t flood my cabin.”
A puddle of water had pooled at Bush’s feet. He grimaced and hung up his dripping oilskins to dry, along with his hat and jacket, all damp. The cabin was cold, and without his jacket to keep him warm he shivered and rubbed his hands together.
“Sir, would you—” he began, but Hornblower had already turned on his side in the cot to face the bulkhead, affording Bush the smallest of privacies as he stripped off his wet things and pulled his dry nightshirt over his head. He lay his clothes over Hornblower’s sea chest, unsure of where else to put them.
“Put out the light when you come in,” Hornblower said, pulling back the covers for Bush to climb in, and so Bush blew out the lantern and swung himself into bed. The cot creaked dangerously as he settled himself on his side, his back to Hornblower, and he lay there very still on the edge of the bed, unable to deny the pleasurable feeling that arose from sharing a bed.
“You’re frozen,” grumbled Hornblower.
“Sorry, sir,” said Bush. “It was cold. Wind freshened a trifle after you left. Froze my bloody boll—” He caught himself. “My apologies, sir,” he said, shamefaced, and shifted, moving to cast aside the covers. “I’ll get out of bed.”
“Belay that,” growled Hornblower. The cot swung as he turned over, and then Bush felt a warm body press up against his back, an arm reaching around his waist, anchoring them together. “There, now. You ought to be warmer soon.”
It was much better lying like this, Bush thought happily. Hornblower was pressed against him from shoulder to ankle, his hand warm and heavy on Bush’s stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so safe or secure. Hornblower must have felt it too, because he curled his body tighter around Bush, his breath hot on the back of Bush’s neck.
“Thank you, sir,” Bush said quietly, realising as soon as he’d spoken that Hornblower was already asleep. Smiling, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, Hornblower’s arm a reassuring weight on his waist.
He awoke to the dim sound of six bells to find the cabin awash in pale moonlight and Hornblower fast asleep in his arms. It was strange to see him so unguarded; in sleep Hornblower still looked so very young — even with the dark shadow of his beard — but the lines of weariness and worry on his face were ill-suited for one not yet thirty and Bush felt a strange sorrow in his breast to see it. He pressed his face into Hornblower’s hair, anxious to provide some small measure of solace, and Hornblower stirred.
“William?” he asked, eyes shut, voice muddled with sleep. Bush shifted in the cot, intending to get up, but it was impossible to move from beneath Hornblower, who lay sprawled across him.
“Sir,” he whispered, “I should get up. What if I’m needed on deck?”
Hornblower growled in displeasure and tightened his hold on Bush. “They know where you are,” he mumbled, nestling closer. “Go back to sleep.”
It was the easiest thing in the world to obey and slip back into contented sleep. Morning came all too soon in the form of an anxious midshipman knocking on the stateroom door and enquiring if the first lieutenant was inside. Bush untangled himself from Hornblower and extracted himself from the cot, careful to not dump his sleeping captain on the cold deck. He dressed in the dark, his clothes still damp from the night before, and hurried up on deck for the numbing middle watch.
He did not return to Hornblower’s cabin when his watch ended, not wishing to disturb his captain’s rest, and instead spent the morning in happy idleness, mending his socks and shirts by the light of a horn lantern around the wardroom table. He might have even indulged himself in a pipeful of tobacco had his stock not run out, so good were his spirits, but he consoled himself with a cup of weak coffee at breakfast. If the other men noticed his cheeriness, they were polite enough to not remark upon it.
Dawn arrived shortly before Bush appeared on the quarterdeck for the forenoon watch, leaving behind it a vivid streak of scarlet on the horizon that dissipated like blood in water as the sun climbed higher. The sea was lively, the wind brisk, the sky a sharp, cloudless blue that made Bush think of his boyhood days in the Mediterranean. It was a good day for sailing, and Hotspur seemed to agree. Even with her hull patched like an old coat she cut through the water as with the ease and grace only small ships are capable of possessing.
Hornblower was cheery when he appeared on the quarterdeck, looking better slept than he had in months.
“Good morning, Mr Bush,” he said, with something of a conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes.
“Good morning, sir,” Bush said, biting back a smile. “You slept well, I trust?”
“I did.” He stepped close to Bush. “As, I trust, did you,” he said in a low voice. Bush met his eyes and nodded. A smile escaped the tight line of Hornblower’s mouth, and in spite of himself Bush found himself grinning too, as though they were no longer King’s officers but rather two boys who’d successfully raided an orchard. Then they remembered themselves and sobered up, and the two mischievous boys sharing a joke once again became the two serious men standing on the quarterdeck discussing the endless technical details of maintaining a sloop-of-war.
The day progressed smoothly, spoiled only by a squabble belowdecks when one of the Resolves tried to pick a fight with one of the Hotspurs, but an emphatic threat from Bush to suspend rum rations for all parties involved was enough to stop any thought of fighting for the day. Rum and tobacco were all that stood between Heaven and Hell to the ordinary seaman, and they knew better than to risk one of the only pleasures they could indulge in. To ensure his point was made Bush also threatened to take any seaman caught fighting and bundle him up in a hammock together with his adversary until they got along, and no sooner had the threat been uttered were the two men shaking hands as if they were old friends.
Later, over dinner in the gunroom, Bush related the story to some of the other men, who laughed and agreed that it would make a fine punishment.
“No man likes sharing a bed that small,” pronounced Thatcher, the Resolve’s purser, not looking up from the little book he was sketching in. Several other members of the gunroom nodded in agreement.
“No man likes being that well acquainted with his fellow,” laughed Wallis.
Bush thought of Hornblower, and flushed. It had been cramped in that cot — Bush was well built and though Hornblower was lanky it had still been a tight fit for two grown men — but it had been warm and snug, and try as he might Bush wanted nothing more than to lie in that bed again, if only to feel that safe and comforted feeling he’d felt the night before. It was a curious thing to sleep beside someone, knowing that they cared if you lived or died. Bush did not flatter himself that Hornblower held any deep affection for him, but he knew that Hornblower cared for his well-being enough to share a bed, and that meant more to Bush than could be expressed in simple words. Bush had never made friends easily — too concerned with shipboard matters to care for the inane trifles of the wardroom or gunroom — but he fancied that friendship with Hornblower, trying though it could be at times, was worth the friendship of ten other men.
The moon was full, the night cold and clear. Bush stood on the quarterdeck, humming quietly to himself. The wind in the rigging and the creak of Hotspur’s timbers as she made her way through the dark sea were a soothing lullaby to Bush’s ears. From belowdecks came the faint strains of a fiddle and the distant thump of dancing, punctuated with raucous laughter: the sounds of a happy ship, with a good captain who cared for his men. If Bush had ever been asked to imagine a Heaven, he might have described a scene much like this one, but as no one had ever asked him such a question he gave no thought to the notion. All he knew was that he was very nearly sorry when eight bells struck and he was relieved of his watch.
Hornblower’s cabin was awash in moonlight when Bush stepped inside. The door to the stateroom was open, but there was no light within; Hornblower was asleep. Still, Bush dared not venture further without confirmation, too disciplined to ever make presumptions of his captain.
“Sir?” he asked gently, knocking on the stateroom door. There was a rustle of bedclothes and a grunt of annoyance.
“Get in,” Hornblower said, his voice muffled by blankets and pillow.
Bush undressed in the silvery gloom of the stateroom and hung his outer clothes up exactly as he had the night before. To his surprise, he saw that his sea chest had been brought up to the cabin, his nightshirt folded neatly on top. It gave him an odd pleasure to see his things arranged beside Hornblower’s, but he was too weary to pursue that thought any further and focused instead on undressing. Neckcloth went first, then waistcoat, followed by shoes, stockings, and breeches. Shirt and woolen underclothes were last, and he folded them all up carefully and placed them on his sea chest. As he shook out his nightshirt, the night air cool on his bare skin, he became sharply aware that he was being watched, and turned around to see Hornblower looking at him, as though he were transfixed by the sight before him.
“Sir?” he asked nervously. He did not know why Hornblower should be watching him with such intensity; it was not as if Hornblower had not seen him naked before.
Hornblower rolled over to face away from him. “For a moment there I thought — oh, never mind.”
“Sir?”
“In the moonlight you looked almost like a statue, I suppose, I don’t know.” Then, with an air of indifference, he added, “I’m tired, forgive me.”
There was nothing to forgive; Bush felt subtly pleased at the compliment. He was not certain what sort of statue Hornblower was imagining, but it was nonetheless flattering to be compared to one. Perhaps Hornblower meant one of those old Grecian statues, the heroic-looking ones that never seemed to have any clothes on. That would be most flattering indeed.
Bush held no illusions about his appearance; he knew he was no great beauty, but he knew his strength and rugged looks were attractive to some. He rather liked how he looked; he thought his face an honest reflection of who he was as a man. When he looked in a looking glass he saw what he was: an honest, capable man, hardened and tempered by years at sea — all the things he was — and this pleased him. Still, it flattered him that Hornblower should think him more than the rough and unsophisticated man he was, and he almost smiled at the thought of it. He pulled his nightshirt over his head and with a grunt of effort swung himself into the cot, arranging himself with his back to Hornblower’s.
They lay in silence for some time, listening to the sounds of the ship: the groaning of the hull, the faint merriment of the crew. Finally Bush spoke, unable to keep curiosity at bay any longer.
“Did you really mean that, sir?” he asked, rolling over. “About my looking like a statue, I mean.”
There was a heavy pause and then Hornblower turned on his side, facing Bush. There was a troubled look about him: a look not dissimilar to the one Bush had seen on that first night in Kingston, when not even the prettiest girls in Kingston’s finest whorehouse could distract him.
“I suppose I did mean it,” he said stiffly. “You were standing in the moonlight there, and… for a moment it seemed as if you were carved from marble. It put me in mind of some ancient hero: Nisus, perhaps. Pylades. Damon, even.”
Bush did not know these heroes Hornblower spoke of, but he flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, a curious sort of warmth spreading through his body. Then, feeling daring: “I’ve always thought someone should paint you, sir.”
“Me?” Hornblower’s surprise was so genuine that Bush could not help but smile.
“Look at you, sir. You’d make a fine portrait, there’s no doubting it, what with your looks…”
“My looks?”
It never failed to astonish Bush how blind Hornblower was to his own good looks, but Bush knew better than to make his captain ill at ease by trying to correct him, and stayed his course. “There ought to be portraits of you, sir,” he said. “You’ve a noble face.” Hornblower scoffed at the compliment. “I mean that, sir,” Bush said, stubborn to the bone.
“Noble?” Hornblower laughed. “Look at me. My nose is too long, my face too thin.”
Bush felt a flash of irritation to hear Hornblower’s contempt. “I meant what I said,” he said, refusing to surrender. With all his courage he reached out and cupped Hornblower’s face, gently stroking Hornblower’s cheek with his thumb. “Someone ought to paint you, sir.”
The wry smile disappeared. “You mean that, don’t you, Bush?” Hornblower asked quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
The room was quiet now; only the creak of the ship and their own breathing could be heard. Bush was suddenly aware of his own heart, beating loudly in his ears. The air hung with the heavy disquiet of the moment as a ship is brought round into the wind, the terrifying moment before she misses stays or makes her tack, and Bush shivered. Hornblower’s cheek was rough with stubble beneath his hand, and without thinking he traced the soft curve of Hornblower’s mouth with his thumb and shifted closer.
He could see Hornblower’s pale face in the half-darkness, watching him. His eyes were impossibly dark, almost black, and the intensity with which he watched Bush was disconcerting. It was the fearful determination of a man going into battle and Bush felt his heart quicken, acutely aware of just how intimate their positions had become. They were pressed together, breathing heavily, and Bush knew he should leave, get out of the cot before something worse happened, but he could not move. He was caught in a current that he could not escape. He ached, not from the pains of everyday, but from months of desire, of putting his wants aside for the good of the service, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw Hornblower close, but like a bridegroom on his wedding night he faltered at the next step.
It was Hornblower who broke the silence. Hornblower, who with a sharp intake of breath blurted, “Do you want to—?”
“Yes. Yes,” gasped Bush, moving to lie on his back. Hornblower fumbled beneath the blankets and tugged at Bush’s nightshirt, pulling it up above his waist — they had neither the time nor privacy for anything else — and propped himself up on one elbow. “Christ,” Bush swore as he felt those long fingers curl around him and stroke. He threw an arm over Hornblower’s shoulders, holding him in place, desperate for the feeling of another body against his own.
It was awkward and inelegant in the cot — Bush’s elbow collided painfully with the bulkhead and Hornblower winced when Bush’s fingers dug into his shoulder— but it didn’t matter. The softness of Hornblower’s hand, the warmth of his body, the press of his leg between Bush’s — it was intoxicating, and it was not long before Bush pressed his face into Hornblower’s shoulder and came with a muffled, shuddering gasp. He struggled for breath, unable to move, reeling from the swell of sudden emotion that had swept over him so suddenly. He had never sought, as some men do, to unlay their emotions like so many strands of rope, but as he lay there clinging to Hornblower, gasping like a drowning man, he tried to make sense of the feelings that eddied and swirled around him and threatened to drag him under. There was affection, certainly — that was obvious — but there was fear there too: fear at having given in to the urges he had forsworn, fear at having crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. But greater than that was relief — relief that Hornblower did not regret Kingston, relief that he was willing, even eager, to touch Bush again.
It was a lifetime until he could breathe again, and when he opened his eyes he found Hornblower watching him with an anxious expression.
“Are you well?” he asked.
Bush nodded, winded. “Never better, sir.”
Hornblower looked as lost as he was, and Bush remembered how hesitant and shy he had been in Kingston. The marriage bed had not emboldened him in this regard, it would seem, for even now he hesitated before Bush, too self-conscious to be courageous.
“Would you…” he began with diffidence, and frowned, suddenly uncertain. “Would you touch me?”
“Of course, sir,” Bush said, before Hornblower had a chance to doubt himself, and reached beneath the blankets for Hornblower’s nightshirt. It was wet, and Bush realised with distress Hornblower must have cleaned his hand on it. “Your shirt,” he explained, when Hornblower noticed his hesitation.
Humiliation coloured Hornblower’s features. “I didn’t know where else to—” he began, but Bush shook his head.
“It’s alright, sir,” Bush said soothingly. “Let’s get it off you.”
A weary smile played at the corners of Hornblower’s mouth. “I can’t have you accusing me of uncleanliness,” he said, sitting up and pulling it over his head.
“No, sir,” agreed Bush, helping him out of the nightshirt and dropping it to the floor. He eased Hornblower onto his back and tucked himself beside him, his head on Hornblower’s bare shoulder. He ran a bold hand over Hornblower’s side, relearning the ridges of his ribs, the sharp angle of his hipbone, the soft line of hair on his stomach. Bush waited for a some indication that this brazen exploration was unwelcome and when it did not come he reached beneath the blankets and took Hornblower in hand. Hornblower made a soft noise and closed his eyes as Bush stroked him, almost teasingly slow.
“Faster, damn you,” Hornblower hissed, and Bush obliged, quickening his pace until Hornblower was gasping and clutching at the blankets. His brow was furrowed as if in concentration or pain, and Bush wanted for nothing more than to kiss him slowly and deeply, to distract him further and take him out of himself, but he knew he could not. They had only shared one kiss before, when they had been too intoxicated with drink and sex and each other to prevent it, and Bush still felt shame at the memory of how readily he had accepted it. Touching was one thing — the weakness of the flesh was excusable even as it was condemned — but kissing was far too great an intimacy to be shared between men. Bush had fumbled around in the dark with men before, but he’d never before been kissed by one: not until the moment Hornblower leaned down and kissed him as they lay abed together on that hot and humid night. It had been a mistake, a momentary lapse of judgement, and Bush had vowed he would not be so weak again.
Hornblower’s breath was coming quickly now, and he’d taken his bottom lip between his teeth. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, like a cable under too much tension, and yet Bush could feel him resisting his inevitable release, still too caught up in his own mind to find relief. Hornblower turned his heavy-lidded gaze to Bush, and Bush understood the crying need behind that look.
“William,” he whispered, his voice pleading and tender, and Bush knew he was lost. Laws and vows and articles be damned; Hornblower needed him, and he would deliver.
Lips met eager lips and then Hornblower was kissing him fiercely, all teeth and tongue and desperation, as if he wished to devour Bush, and Bush found himself returning the kiss with the same fervour. For all his phlegmatic temperament, Bush was a man in whom secret passion ran hot, and with his defences lowered at last he gave himself wholly over to Hornblower, redoubling his efforts, as determined a lover as he was a fighter.
It did not take long before Hornblower arched into Bush’s touch, and collapsed with a soft cry against the pillows, spilling wet and warm into Bush’s hand as relief swept through him. Bush slowed his hand, kissing him gently through it, until at last Hornblower broke away, gasping for air, his expression utterly blank, his mind very far away. Bush kissed his rough cheek then and carefully extracted himself from the cot, going over to the basin and wetting a flannel. Hornblower made no motion to stop him as Bush pulled the blankets back and sponged him them both clean. He did not say a word as Bush folded the soiled nightshirt and flannel up together and tucked them in the sea chest painted with the name Wm. Bush, he did not speak when Bush returned to the cot and tucked himself alongside, his head on Hornblower’s shoulder. The only indication he made that Bush was not unwelcome was taking Bush’s hand and pressing it against his heart, stroking it gently. It was not much of an indication, but Bush had been friends with Hornblower long enough to know that he often said through action what he could not say in words, and for just a moment Bush allowed himself to believe he was cared for, that he was loved. But it was easy for a man to lie to himself like this, lying next to the warm body of another, and so Bush put the thought away, contenting himself to lie next to his beloved friend for as long as duty allowed it.
He must have fallen asleep for when he awoke he was alone. He dressed quickly in the dark and entered the great cabin, where he found Hornblower wrapped in a dressing gown, standing by the stern windows and looking out to the interminable horizon. His hands dangled limp and useless at his sides, and it was terrible to see them so inactive. Hornblower’s hands were never still; to see them so now could only mean he was lost in his own mind. Bush did not know what it was that absorbed Hornblower so, but even his unimaginative mind could wager a guess at the emotions Hornblower grappled with: doubt; regret, perhaps — certainly shame. It was unbearable to watch.
“Sir?” he asked gently. There was little else to say.
There was a heavy silence, and then Hornblower turned, a desperate look on his face, and held out both his hands to Bush in supplication. He was so utterly lost that Bush crossed the room and took those long elegant hands between his own and kissed them, risking rejection, risking everything, if only to bring some reassurance to his captain. He looked up, expecting a rebuff, but it did not come; Hornblower leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. This was not the passionate, eager kiss of before — the sort to make the knees weak and the blood run hot — but something far more tender and bittersweet, and without understanding why, Bush knew it was a kiss of farewell.
He had never hoped for a future; it was easy for a man to believe in lies in the warm embrace of another, but Bush was too stubbornly practical to ever believe that Hornblower would wish for something more than which they had briefly shared. And yet somehow it still stung when Hornblower pulled away from him at last and stood there, resting his forehead against Bush’s.
“Bush,” he began, but Bush shook his head.
“There’s no need for any of that, sir,” he said. “Needs were met, nothing more. We needn’t speak of it again.”
Hornblower nodded, and Bush let go of his hands and stepped away. He tried not to look at Hornblower, tried forget that for a moment he’d imagined he was loved.
“William,” Hornblower said, and Bush told himself he imagined a note of sorrow in his voice.
“Nothing to be said, sir,” he said, and then, as a pathetic comfort, he added, “Perhaps in another life.”
Hornblower nodded again, and turned back to the windows, his hands still at his sides. Bush scolded himself for his soft heart and collected his things from where he’d hung them and pulled them on. He could not afford to waste time on sentiment and foolish dreams. Hornblower had told him once that they were King’s officers, not actresses, and yet here Bush was, allowing wishful thinking to get in the way of his duty. It was unacceptable, and he would do better, for Hornblower's sake if not his own.
As he jammed his hat on his head and turned once more to look at the melancholy figure standing by the windows he heard Hornblower speak once more, in a voice so low and quiet he nearly missed it.
“Perhaps,” Hornblower said, more to the sea than anyone else. Bush pretended he had not heard and shut the door behind him as he left, desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and his whirling thoughts.
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Date: 2019-07-27 01:08 am (UTC)But please know that whatever it was you were feeling nervous about, you really really needn't.
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Date: 2019-07-27 03:56 am (UTC)The evidence was there, if a man only cared to look: Ah, but is it indeed shame? Or is it Hornblower desperately trying to keep back from the cliff-edge he would gladly jump from? The one can look so much like the other, after all. Feel so much like the other, in some cases.
Oh, that coverlet of roses! <3 <3 <3
Bush likes being spooned! He likes it SO MUCH. They’re both just so happy about getting to sleep together — such a profound pleasure for both of them. I'm just so happy for both of them.
Hornblower sent for Bush’s sea-chest! OMG THEY WERE
SHIPMATESCABINMATESThis convo about statues and portraits… Bush’s vanity makes me smile, it's so endearing! But, they’re both so clumsy at this — the only thing that saves them is their utter sincerity. Which is almost heartbreaking, they're so earnest.
And that whole smut scene is so intense — they may be as repressed as fuck, but they feel things with every ounce of their beings.
But then:
Laws and vows and articles be damned; Hornblower needed him, and he would deliver. I may make jokes about these two fucking because their duty made them do it, but my jokes are just cover for how earnestly I am there for it.
and for just a moment Bush allowed himself to believe he was cared for, that he was loved. But it was easy for a man to lie to himself like this, lying next to the warm body of another, and so Bush put the thought away, contenting himself to lie next to his beloved friend for as long as duty allowed it. MURDER ME WHERE I FUCKING STAND, WHY DON’T YOU.
He was so utterly lost that Bush crossed the room and took those long elegant hands between his own and kissed them, risking rejection, risking everything, if only to bring some reassurance to his captain. ASDFJK, WHAT, YOUR FIRST MURDER ATTEMPT DIDN’T MURDER ME ENOUGH?
He had never hoped for a future; it was easy for a man to believe in lies in the warm embrace of another, but Bush was too stubbornly practical to ever believe that Hornblower would wish for something more than which they had briefly shared. BELIEVE, BUSH. BELIEVE.
And as if Bush trying to tell Hornblower nothing needs to be said wasn’t painful enough:
He tried not to look at Hornblower, tried forget that for a moment he’d imagined he was loved. FUCKING GODDAMN FUCK
…and yet here Bush was, allowing wishful thinking to get in the way of his duty. It was unacceptable, and he would do better, for Hornblower's sake if not his own. BUT…!? DUTY...!! HOW COULD DUTY DO ME A DIRTY LIKE THIS?
…desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and his whirling thoughts. And don’t think I didn’t notice that he’s leaving himself INSIDE that room when he shuts that door. DON'T THINK I DIDN'T NOTICE
In short, that was an aggravated murder in the first degree, and I hope you're feeling very proud of yourself.
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Date: 2019-07-27 06:56 am (UTC)Is it shame? Is it not? Is it perhaps both? Is not just the fear of rejection, but the fear of acceptance?
Ah the coverlet. I had to sneak that detail in somewhere. I don't really explore in this fic what it means to the both of them, but let's just say it means a lot.
There are few things finer in this world than having someone very dear to you hold you, especially if you've been apart for some time, either by physical distance or emotional distance. (And for the record, 'I'm cold' is a very good ploy to get a beloved friend to spoon you.) And for both of them they're just so happy.
(OH MY GOD THEY WERE SHIPMATES.) That made me smile, thanks for that.
I don't know how versed you are on Greek/Roman myth but if you want a bit of background all the heroes Hornblower mentions are mentioned very specifically. Nisus is a character from the Aeneid -- he and his beloved friend Euryalus are presented in the Aeneid as a couple, and both die tragically. Pylades is a character from the Oresteian mythos -- he is Orestes' closest friend and follows Orestes as they are pursued by Furies, seeking to punish Orestes for the murder of his mother* (*not without reason and also a god kind of made him do it.) Damon is a figure best known for his friendship with Pythias, a friendship considered for a very long time to be the epitome of how friends should be (the usual "I won't go without you" nonsense.) Hornblower has a classical education. He uses classical figures to understand his relationship to Bush.
And yes, they're very clumsy. (But if you've seen the backside of certain Greek statues, you'd understand why Hornblower made that particular comparison.) And Bush is a little vain -- but then again, it's nice to be compared to art. I'm glad the earnestness shone through. They're trying so desperately to be brave and say what they feel, but they don't know how.
The smut. Oh I was so nervous about that part. And yes, they do feel things so deeply, despite how they try to hide it. We only see Bush's POV here, but for Hornblower imagine that intensity but thousandfold. There's a reason Hornblower doesn't talk after: he physically can't.
Listen, I too am here for the "duty made them fuck" trope. It's 90% of what I write. And, quite frankly, it's the only way I can see Hornblower getting Bush into bed (or indeed getting into bed with him.) At the very least, it's how Bush excuses it. Never mind that he wants to kiss Hornblower, it just Isn't Done, but if Hornblower needs him... then it's his duty. Or at least a good excuse.
I DIDN'T MEAN TO MURDER YOU, I'M SORRY!
Oh I'm glad you felt something about that part. I knew I couldn't use dialogue here, so I hoped to get the emotion across through action instead. Seems I did :-)
"FUCKING GODDAMN FUCK" is the best comment I've ever received on my writing. I want to get that needlepointed and put on my wall.
Blasted duty. I swear by the time I'm finished with this fic I'm just going to be typing "duty" endlessly over and over again.
I love it when I write and I come off sounding cleverer than I am! (I was trying to get that across, but thank you for articulating it like that, I wasn't sure exactly what I was saying only that it sounded good.)
Oh thank you ever so much for your comment. It means so much that my writing made someone feel things. It's nice to have someone tell you that they liked your story, but it's another to have someone actually have a reaction to it that involves all caps. I'm sorry I ended you on the angst part, the next bit is better :-)
no subject
Date: 2019-07-27 06:32 pm (UTC)And likewise, the way you make Bush a faulty narrator! I'm used to Hornblower being the one who can't honestly evaluate the people around him to save his life, but Bush is so deeply "nice things don't happen in the Service, and when they do, they have to be paid for twice with interest," that he just... can't... bring himself to believe that Hornblower loves him. However much it may feel like it.
...eh, but maybe he's right to pull back from the possibility that this will all work out nicely for them both: after all, Hornblower is unlikely to propose that they uncomplicatedly enjoy themselves from here to England since they have to share a cot anyway, officers with benefits, what happens in the stateroom stays in the stateroom.
(OR WILL HE? I presume the next chapter is when we finally get to hear Hornblower's thoughts on all this. Which I am DYING to know -- cf Bush being a faulty narrator.)
No, I did not know who these heroes were -- I kept meaning to look them up, but I was always too busy READING. I did indeed read the works in question when I was in college -- my college prided itself on making a feint at a classical education -- but most of the details have long since faded. (Which is inconvenient, when writing characters with a classical education!) I should have guessed that the heroes in question were parts of m/m couples -- or were ambiguously so, depending on one's lenses. Very fitting for Hornblower's mental state, whether he admitted it or not!
DUTY. I'll never relinquish the headcanon that Bush is a devoted service sub at heart. Which he frames in the language of loyalty and duty.
And of course you may needlepoint FUCKING GODDAMN FUCK for your wall: I think it would work up very nicely in the style of tumblr's shitpostsampler. ;-)
And you're forgiven for the murder. I'll even forgive you for a second murder, should Chapter 3 take me that way. (Though I'm relieved to hear that it may not end on a note of such raw suffering!)
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Date: 2019-07-27 09:53 pm (UTC)"Officers with benefits" that made me laugh, thank you. But yes, a lot of Bush's hesitation isn't without cause. Love is a fine sentiment, but this isn't the Love Boat. This is a warship.
I can't answer that question just yet ;-) Just know all this angst isn't without some kind of reward. (The very first baby draft of this was very un-angsty and unsexy, all they did was cuddle, but as I rewrote it I swear the characters got better ideas about what would happen.)
I have an almost obsessive knowledge of Greek mythology (mythology in general fascinates me.) My classical education is mostly self-taught, but I've been fortunate enough in much of my life to be in an environment where that was encouraged (my university was/is a top place for classics study.) If you ever need help, let me know! I'm not particularly strong on Latin or Ancient Greek, but my beloved friend is good with those things, and mythology/history I am good at.
DUTY. Yeah... I'm going to have to agree with you there.
Haha, yes. Or get it on pillows and frighten my relatives when they come over.
I will try not to murder you a second time. There is definitely suffering in part 3 but I hope it's less bad. I am pleased that people seem to be reacting to this quite emotionally. Very few people have ever seen my writing, so it's quite gratifying to know I can make people feel things.
(P.S. I see you've found me on Tumblr. Hello! I do follow you, but from my main account. If you haven't already figured me out I can give you my username, but I warn you, I am far less dignified over there than I am on my sideblog!)
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Date: 2019-07-28 01:14 am (UTC)Yeah, but... It is the Love Boat, really.
(No, wait, that's the one I'm writing.)
(The very first baby draft of this was very un-angsty and unsexy, all they did was cuddle, but as I rewrote it I swear the characters got better ideas about what would happen.)
And excellent ideas they were!
And I'll be sure to hit you up if I need help with classical things, or second-hand help with classical languages. It comes up every now and then. (But I am not going to read Decline and Fall for this fandom, not, not, not!)
so it's quite gratifying to know I can make people feel things.
You are very good at making people feel things! And the language in this is quite lovely, too -- I wasn't quoting out the turns of phrase that I admire, but I did admire plenty of them.
(P.S. No, I have no idea what your main blog is! And being dign'fied is in no way a prerequisite to my enjoying a blog.)
no subject
Date: 2019-07-28 04:58 am (UTC)(Really though, this IS the Love Boat. Why else would we all be on the page labelled HM Sloop Hotspur if we didn't THINK it was the Love Boat.)
I... have been tempted to read Decline and Fall if only for an epistemological appreciation of the development of historical understanding in Europe. (Oof, sorry, that was the academic in me rearing its ugly head.) And, y'know, fandom.
Oh, thank you :-) It's such a big confidence boost.
(I can shoot you a message, if you like!)
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Date: 2019-07-28 03:44 pm (UTC)Well... some of the people who subscribe to this page aren't slashers at all, and I hope that they feel as welcome as anyone! But yes, your point is well-taken: even among the gen works in this fandom, there's a preponderance of what I'd call love stories.
Well, if you do read Decline and Fall, I'll want to hear all about it.
And yes, please shoot me a message! Unless you prefer to be mysterious, of course. :-)
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Date: 2019-07-29 01:05 am (UTC)And yes, this is true, and I hope they feel welcome too. I know that my gen stories tend to be fairly love-y, and I should try to branch out a bit more, but it's so fun. Even if saying love stories makes me feel like I'm writing Harlequin romance novels. (Not that there's anything wrong with writing romance, I know a successful romance writer who's written 23 books, and she loves what she does.)
I'll let you know if I do read that :-)
(I do like being mysterious! But I'll forego it this time.)
no subject
Date: 2019-07-30 12:16 am (UTC)I'm not so sure I believe in prescriptive shoulds about writing. Life is short; write about what you most want to write about. I could write screeds about that, but... Life is short; write about what you most want to write about.
I, by the way, am having great fun with Navigatio Britannica -- thank you for putting me on to it.
(And hooray! Secrets! The fun kind, even!)
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Date: 2019-07-30 09:19 am (UTC)This is of course very true. It's why I gave up the respectability* of writing original fiction and started writing fanfic again despite swearing off it**. (Apparently what I most want to write about one of the paragons of modern naval literature pining for his best friend. Go figure that one out.)
Excellent! I love research, which is probably why I enjoy writing historical fiction. I'm enjoying what you're learning from it -- I tried that First Sunday trick today with mixed results (mostly due to my mental long division skills not being as sharp as they once were.)
(Haha, the only secret I am truly hiding is that I am a young whippersnapper!)
*or at least I TOLD myself it was more respectable
**but then I learned to have fun
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Date: 2019-07-31 04:36 pm (UTC)I gave up origfic mostly because I ran out of conviction that I had original stories worth telling. And then it turned out that I vastly prefer the community around fanfic, anyway -- with origfic, publishing a story was dropping it into a black hole, but with fanfic, I'm sometimes so lucky as to have convos and make friends after. (And the pay was about the same for the two, frankly.)
First Sunday: the book has every step of the long division written out in its sample problems, but I used a calculator for my test cases, because I'm lazy. :-P
Now I'm learning a method for figuring out tide tables from scratch -- I'm probably going to have to pull up some tide tables and moon charts for the maritime places I've lived (and maybe for places the Hotspur hangs out) to check my work.
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Date: 2019-07-31 07:46 pm (UTC)I don't know about that, I think everyone has some perspective they can offer with original work, but I agree that the community aspect of fanfic is more fun. I think it's a lot to do with the fact that it's done for the love of the thing rather than anything else. I won't ever give up my original work (I love my characters too much) but I'm finding fic writing is very good for honing my voice and I'm having fun, so win-win.
I just enjoy practicing long division. To each their own :-)
Oooh that sounds very cool! Let us know what you find out!
P.S. I am still beavering away at the last chapter but it might be a little while. My beloved is visiting (it's a distance thing) and we're going on holiday so I might not be able to work as fast as before.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-31 08:08 pm (UTC)And hooray for having an origfic verse that you love, and still enjoying writing Hornblower fic, too. Win-win is a delight. :-)
Oh, granted, there is a certain aesthetic beauty to long division -- if I don't have a calculator at hand I certainly take real pleasure in doing it longhand. But if I'm testing a proposition and just want to get to a yes/no quickly and the calculator is right there... ;-)
Tides -- here you go! Once I was able to figure out the terminology, it was a fairly straightforward chapter. Navigatio Britannica: Tides
And it destroys me to say it (what with my lying here murdered and all), but beloveds are more important than stories: take all the time you need. And have a lovely time together!