[fic] Across The Line III
Sep. 12th, 2019 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnsl posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hmsloop_hotspurTitle: Across the Line
Pairing: HH/WB
Rating: M (This part is... T? I think.)
Part 3 of 3. Finally.
A/N: Honestly, I'm so done with this fic I don't even care if this part is ok. (That's a lie, I absolutely do, but I finished it this afternoon and I'm running on an adrenaline high.)
Apologies for angst. Apologies for bad attempts at humour. Apologies for everything.
—
Bush had been just shy of ten when his father died. It had been a slow death — cancer of the stomach, the doctor said — and when his death came it had seemed a relief. Bush’s mother had wept, of course, for she had five children under the age of ten to feed and clothe and take care of, but Bush had not cried. He had loved his father, and missed him terribly, but he had merely felt hollow in the days that followed, like someone had come along and scraped out his insides, leaving behind nothing more than a shell.
He felt that hollowness now, standing on the quarterdeck as the Hotspur wended her way homewards beneath a slate grey sky. Everything around him seemed muted: the sounds, sights, smells of a warship seeming distant and faint; the men of the ship as unreal as actors on a stage. He found himself longing for action, for the thunder of a broadside and the roar of battle, if only to feel alive again, and consoled himself with the knowledge that such a feeling would pass. Sorrow, after all, was just as fleeting and short-lived as happiness, and only a foolish man believed he could cling to either for very long.
He saw Hornblower only once that day. He was quieter and more withdrawn than usual, his face carefully blank as he listened to Bush deliver his report on the Hotspur’s condition. There was a small bruise on his lower lip where a kiss had left its mark, and Bush’s face burned to see it. Hornblower must have noticed the flush in Bush’s cheeks for he stopped talking and touched the bruise, turning his head in silent shame so that he might not have to look Bush in the eye. They sat in painful silence for some time, bound by something they could not name, until at last Bush summoned his courage and spoke.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Hornblower said, still touching his lip. Bush rose and made for the door. “Bush,” Hornblower called, when Bush was no more than a foot from the door.
“Sir?” He could not bring himself to look back.
“I—” Hornblower began, and for a moment a bright spark of hope leapt in Bush, but that hope died when he heard Hornblower clear his throat. “Never mind. Carry on, Mr Bush.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, and left, a dull ache in his stomach.
He wanted to retreat to his cabin, but that was an impossibility; in his eagerness he had ensured the one place he could always retreat to was no longer available to him. For the first time in his time aboard the Hotspur he became aware of just how small and cramped she was. There were few places a man might go for a moment of privacy, even fewer where he might go to nurse a tender heart. Without being conscious of how he made his way there, Bush found himself amidst the cable tiers where he had slept not three nights before. Here, at least, there was quiet — the sound of his approach had sent any idlers scurrying — and here at last he could sink to the floor and put his head in his hands to wallow in his misery without fearing that the men might stumble upon their first lieutenant in such a state.
He’d never had a friend like Hornblower before. There had been friends, of course — few men go their lives without making a single friend — but their friendship had been little more than the natural camaraderie found between men who work and sleep and eat together for months on end. There had never been a friend for whom he felt such profound affection as he did Hornblower. He remembered the first day they met — how odd Hornblower had seemed, how aloof in manner and how melancholy in appearance. By all rights they ought never to have been friends, too different in temperament and outlook to ever get along. And yet somehow, months later, it was Hornblower who had cradled Bush’s face as he lay wounded on the deck of the Renown; it was Hornblower who had visited him in hospital, bringing with him a gift of fruit; it was Hornblower who had kissed him the night before they were to part forever.
Strange, that of all the things that passed in those wild days the kiss should be the one memory that returned to him time and again, as vivid as though it were yesterday. It was all so clear: the candles, guttering in pools of wax; the sound of rain on the roof; Hornblower, his hair loose and curling around his shoulders, propped up on one elbow, regarding Bush with a kind of fond fascination. Bush had smiled up at him then, and Hornblower had reached out and smoothed Bush’s damp hair from his forehead. And then he’d leaned down and kissed Bush, more gently than Bush had ever been kissed by anyone, and in spite of himself, Bush had returned it with an ardour that left them both shaken and breathless.
And now he had kissed Hornblower for the last time. He rubbed his face and exhaled heavily. Life in the service meant many partings, but Bush had never expected to part from Hornblower in this fashion. He did not know what was worse: to have lived a life never holding Hornblower in his arms, or to have held him for four precious nights and not one night more.
No, he did know, but the knowing did not ease his heart. He ought to never have slept a moment in Hornblower’s bed, not when each minute was so dear. The memory of the quiet joy he’d felt on waking to find Hornblower asleep in his arms was as bitter as it was sweet, but he could not let it go, not just yet.
He remained sequestered in the cable tier until duty demanded he return to the quarterdeck for the afternoon watch. If any tears were shed they were lost amidst the lonely dark; the stiff-backed lieutenant who appeared on the quarterdeck ten minutes later wore a face so unyielding it might well have been made of stone. He stood apart from himself: it was not his voice bellowing at the men, it was not his feet endlessly pacing the quarterdeck. He felt nothing, not the bite of the wind nor the sting of the cold — only the dull ache in his stomach reminding him he was alive. Bush was not a man given to peculiar flights of imagination, but if he had been prone to such Gothic imaginings he might have considered himself a ghost, without form or substance, trapped in a purgatory of his own making.
He ate his dinner quickly, the meal as palatable and filling as paper, and rushed off in search of one of the spare hammocks he had turned his nose up at earlier. They still stank vilely, rotted with age, but he took one to the purser and had it mended and cleaned to the best of the man’s ability and menaced the midshipmen into giving up a portion of their berth. When the second dogwatch ended he had his sea chest sent for and shaved in a small tarnished mirror hung on the bulkhead. He barely recognised his own reflection; this wild, unkempt man was not who he knew himself to be. Since his earliest days as a midshipman he had always taken pains to appear neat in his appearance: the son of a lord might be excused slovenly habits, but the son of a tailor would not be. He rubbed his rough chin and looked his reflection sternly in the eye. It would not do to continue in this fashion, allowing himself to be overruled by sentiment like a lovesick girl. He would do better, if not for his own sake, than for Hornblower’s sake — Hornblower, to whom he owed so much and had repaid so miserably.
He shaved and dressed for bed, ignoring the nervous young Resolves who eyed him warily. No doubt stories of his fearsome temper had already made their way around the midshipmen’s berth, just as stories of first lieutenants had when he’d been a boy. How they’d laugh if they knew the ogre they feared had a heart just as tender as any of theirs. Bush swung himself into his hammock and pulled his blanket over his head, counselling himself that the next day would be easier.
He dreamt that night: lurid, indecent dreams of Hornblower — the taste of his skin and the strength of his hands, the softness of his thighs and warmth of his mouth — and woke panting and desperate for release. But the realisation that he lay surrounded by snoring midshipmen was like cold water over the head, and with a groan he hauled himself out of bed and dressed in the dark to stalk the quarterdeck until the middle watch began.
Another life, he’d said to Hornblower. But what life was there but this one? Bush had no answer; he could scarcely imagine an existence outside the Navy. He had been at sea since he’d been no more than a boy and could not imagine any other life but this. He was not sure he wanted to; he loved the rules and traditions, the hard work, the discipline — he had been made for a life at sea, and did not think he could enjoy any other life. And yet some part of him longed for a life that was different, a life that was his own, unbound from the fate that had been decided for him when he was twelve. A life, perhaps, where he might be free to give affection and receive it in kind.
He shook the thought off like water from a jacket. It was all nonsense, of course. There was no other life but the one he’d been given and there was no sense in longing for something that would never come true. Other men might wish for gold or fame or true love but he would not be one of them. He would not spend his life dreaming of someone who would never be his.
Having resolved himself in this way, Bush threw himself into his work with the fervour only the desperate possess. He did not care that it was the middle watch when all was quiet, there could not be a single moment of idleness, not a single moment where memories and dreams could distract him from his tasks. In a curious moment of perspicuity Bush understood Hornblower and his queer moods — thinking all the time was maddening. He longed for a fight, longed for the clarity of battle, where living and dying became the only two thoughts in a man’s head. So wild and whirling were his thoughts that it took young Orrock reminding him twice that his watch was relieved and not quailing at the look he received in return for Bush to finally remove himself from the quarterdeck.
He breakfasted alone, something about his expression warning off anyone who tried to sit near him. Breakfast was a miserable affair — with as many men aboard as they had food was running low, and the salt beef, though not spoiled, had an unpleasant green tinge to it and a tang that carried even through the thick smear of mustard — but it was the way of the service, and Bush did not think on it long. The life of a man at sea was nasty, brutish, and short, and to imagine it was anything else was foolhardy; though Bush was not a natural philosopher he innately understood that sorrow followed happiness as night followed day — there was consequence for everything, and he accepted that, difficult though it could be. He had been happy for those few short hours with Hornblower, now, it seemed, he was to be unhappy. It was the way of things, and only a fool would try and fight it. Besides, it would pass, as all things did, and life would return to normal — they always did, in one way or another.
He did not have to wait long; the wind picked up sharply after breakfast and by two bells of the forenoon watch an awful November storm had swept down upon them. The wind howled, the sea raged, and it was all Bush could do to keep his footing on the quarterdeck as the storm played with Hotspur like a child with a toy. Hornblower appeared on the deck, seasick and miserable as usual, but his countenance bore something else as well, a dreadful sort of melancholic look that worsened when Bush greeted him with a cordial smile and informed him of the course of action they would be taking.
“Very good, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. The mark on his lip had deepened to a dark purple, and Bush blushed to see it. Hornblower noticed Bush staring, and shamefaced, turned away to walk to the other side of the quarterdeck, but as he did so a wave struck Hotspur hard across the beam, and he stumbled. On instinct, they reached for each other and Bush caught Hornblower as he fell, nearly losing his own footing in the process. Hornblower clung to the collar of Bush’s oilskin as he struggled to find his feet again, his face white.
“No harm done, sir,” said Bush as Hornblower found purchase on the slick deck and stood to his full height once more. Bush’s hand lingered at Hornblower’s waist, unwilling to let him go just yet. Perhaps Hornblower understood, for one hand remained clutching Bush’s oilskin, steadying himself as the ship tossed and reared. How long they stood like that Bush could not tell — a lifetime, a few seconds, it all seemed the same — but at last he released Hornblower and stepped away, refusing to indulge in his weakness. Hornblower removed his hand from Bush’s oilskin and resumed his usual stance, and for all the world it seemed like the moment had never happened at all.
Hornblower did not quit the quarterdeck until the storm eased, some six hours later, and Bush went below soon after to assess any damage that may have occurred. The belly of the ship was abuzz with activity — Hotspur had taken on water during the storm, despite her patching, and every man aboard her would be relieved to see England again. The metallic clank of the pumps and the hammering of the carpenters’ mates as they drove softwood wedges into a split seam were an infernal symphony to Bush’s ears, and he was very glad indeed when a messenger appeared, summoning him to the great cabin to make his report as soon as the first dogwatch ended.
He found Hornblower at his desk in his frigid, dark cabin, shivering as he tried to warm his hands over a small spirit lantern. It was clear his oilskin had done little to keep him dry for his clothes were dark with water; Hornblower had not spent the last half hour in the foetid warmth of the lower decks and had not been able to dry out as Bush had. Bush felt a queer twinge of sympathy at the sight — Hornblower’s face was pale and drawn with fatigue and cold, and his attempts to disguise his shivering were not convincing — but like any good first officer Bush did not mention this for fear of damaging his captain’s dignity and delivered his report with the grace and professionalism to be expected of a man so suited to the role of first lieutenant. Hornblower received it with a detached air, his gaze distant and unfocused, nodding his head to indicate his approval but keeping his silence; it was clear he was too cold to expend any unnecessary effort on anything so trivial as speech.
At last Bush finished his report, and waited for Hornblower to speak, but he did not. “Will that be all, sir?” he asked, trying not to fidget. Hornblower nodded, and Bush made to leave, but as he reached for the door he heard Hornblower rise to his feet.
“I wish to God you’d never touched me,” said Hornblower, the pain in his voice dulling any anger that such words might have held, and Bush’s heart broke.
“Sir,” he murmured.
“I wish to God you’d never touched me. I had no notion of this sort of thing until you, could scarcely imagine it, let alone desire it. But you, you touched me, and…” There was resentment now in that voice, and despair too, and Bush turned to see Hornblower pacing before the stern windows, his hands twisting behind his back, head bowed. “You ought to have let me be — why didn’t you let me be? They could hang us for what we’ve done, and they’d have the right of it, too. If we were to pursue this, it would go against everything we have sworn to uphold and protect as officers of the King; you know as well as I that love has no place where duty is concerned — it does not conquer all. There may come a day I must send you to certain death, and God help me, I must do it, no matter how I may feel on the matter. If I am struck down in battle, you must be able to assume command without so much as a second thought for me. We cannot afford to allow our judgement to be clouded by sentiment.” He stopped his pacing before the middle windows, his back to Bush, as though he could not bear the sight of him.
Bush bristled. “I do not doubt your devotion to duty, sir,” he said. “Do not doubt mine.”
Hornblower’s shoulders drooped. “I do not,” he said quietly. “But we are not free men, Bush. Our lives are not our own. We might never share anything more than a handful of hours, stolen in the dark of night, and against this we would wager our careers, our reputations, our very lives. And yet I want… oh, but I have always wanted too much.” He laughed bleakly. “It’s folly, don’t you see? It’s utter folly.”
But it wasn’t. Impossibly, hearing Hornblower’s doubts had put Bush’s to rest; he was no gambler — he did not understand the logic of probability and chance as Hornblower did — but even he knew that a slim chance was better than no chance at all. To surrender now, even in the face of such terrible odds, was nothing short of cowardice, and Bush would not stand for it, not when what lay at stake was so precious. He crossed the room and took his place beside Hornblower, as though they stood on the quarterdeck. Hornblower made no acknowledgement of Bush’s presence at his shoulder, and Bush had to restrain himself from reaching out and touching his captain’s shoulder. It would not do to act so rashly, not when Hornblower still doubted his judgement.
Still, he would say what he had to; he was not willing to let this go, not without speaking truly.
“It’s not folly, sir,” he said. “Not to me.”
Hornblower’s face was unreadable as he stared out to sea, but here and there his mask had slipped; Bush could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth, the fixed gaze. With dreadful insight Bush understood the torments of the past few days were nothing compared to what Hornblower must have endured: alone, and without the hubbub of a busy ship to distract him. He placed a gentle hand on his captain’s shoulder, all too aware that such boldness might as easily be taken as an act of insolence as one of kindness, but Hornblower turned to face Bush, as easily as a ship wearing round in a good wind, and Bush saw just how dangerously close Hornblower was to breaking.
“I have tried to forget Kingston,” said Hornblower. “Heaven only knows how I have tried! But I cannot. I told myself what happened there was nothing more than a passing fancy, a— a curiosity that required answering. I told myself it would be easier if I wed Maria, that marriage would cure me of this — this wanting — and I might have believed it too.” His voice was soured with bitterness. “But when you touched me again, by God, how you showed me for a liar.”
“Forgive me, sir.” There was nothing else he could say.
“I have tried to do right by my wife, be a good husband, a good man, and yet…” Hornblower grimaced, shame colouring his cheeks. “I cannot forget. I know Kingston meant little to you, and yet to me…” He cleared his throat and looked at Bush, a grim defiance in his eyes, as though he expected Bush to mock him. “You must understand, I did not have anyone to call a friend in my youth — my books kept me company enough, and I had no interest in puerile tomfoolery. The years most men forge associations that will last them a lifetime I spent as a prisoner in Spain, and when I was released I had no understanding of how a man might go about making friends. I told myself that Kingston was different because I’d never known a friend like you, because I’d never…” He trailed off.
“Been with a man,” Bush offered.
Hornblower scoffed, and turned his face back to the sea. “Anyone,” he scoffed, and then a trifle defensive, added, “I expect you could tell.”
Hornblower had been shy and hesitant that first night, it was true, but Bush had chalked it up to a combination of drunkenness and nerves — if he’d dwelled on it further, he might have reached the conclusion that Hornblower was nervous because he’d never been with a man, but Bush had not pursued that particular line of thought and so he’d never considered the possibility. That it had been Hornblower’s first experience of anything… Bush wondered what he might have done differently had he known and quickly concluded it was for the best he hadn’t known; any tenderness he might have lavished on Hornblower would have been unnaturally forced and embarrassing for them both. No, better that it happened as it did, where tenderness had sprung not out of some sense of obligation, but out of genuine affection.
“I couldn’t tell, sir,” said Bush.
If Hornblower was caught off-guard by this, he kept it carefully hidden. “I see,” he said carefully, but Bush knew him well enough to tell that he was embarrassed for having revealed so intimate a secret. “You must think less of me, now.”
“There’s no sin in innocence, sir.”
Hornblower’s mouth twisted. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen, sir. But it didn’t mean anything. None of it has ever meant anything, not until you.” He reached up and took Hornblower’s half-frozen face between his hands, turning it towards himself, and Hornblower leaned in to the touch, his eyes closed. The mask had slipped: here now, before Bush, stood a man tormented and afraid, trembling from cold. “I do not regret Kingston. I do not regret you. Sir—” He took a steadying breath. “You are the best man I know, sir. There is no one I’d rather serve under: if I was given the choice between serving as flagship captain to Lord Nelson and serving here as your first lieutenant, I would choose the Hotspur a thousand times over.” Hornblower laughed lightly at that, his eyes still shut, but Bush gave him a stern glare regardless. “I mean that, sir. It has been the greatest honour of my life to serve as your first officer. It has been a greater honour still to be your friend.”
Hornblower opened his eyes, that familiar determined look once more in them, but this time Bush could see the uncertainty in it too.
“I do not want to wait for another life,” Hornblower said softly. “I do not want to live my life regretting what could have been if only I’d been brave.”
Words were not enough to explain the swell of feeling that rose within Bush: passion and tenderness, fear and resolve, they were all emotions too great for him to express, and so he did the only thing he could.
“Sir,” he breathed, as soft as an endearment, and with all his courage, leaned in and kissed his captain.
Hornblower tensed up in surprise, too startled to return the kiss at first, but when Bush deepened the kiss he allowed it, and tentatively began to kiss back. But then he broke away and took a jerky half-step backwards, breaking free of Bush’s grasp.
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Sir?” asked Bush, sick with terror.
“It — it isn’t right,” said Hornblower, wringing his hands in desperation. “I cannot force my will on you like this. I cannot take liberties with your devotion.”
Bush caught Hornblower’s hands, stilling them between his own. “You do not force your will on me,” he said gently, stroking those long elegant fingers that he’d admired for so very long. “I want this too, sir, don’t you see?” Hornblower wavered, desire and diffidence warring in his expression, but Bush’s mind was made up. “I want this,” he promised, and pressed his lips to Hornblower’s.
He’d meant it as a gentle kiss, one to reassure Hornblower of his devotion and loyalty, but Hornblower made a soft noise of pleasure and Bush knew he was lost beyond all reason. He let go of Hornblower’s hands, seizing his friend by the collar and hauling him close. It was a heady thing, how easily Hornblower surrendered to the kiss, how he yielded beneath Bush’s touch, his self-control ebbing away as the kiss deepened and he allowed himself to be lost in it. Bush kissed him fiercely, his own self-restraint long gone, and clung to Hornblower as a man might cling to ratlines in a storm. He pawed at Hornblower’s jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, and Hornblower shrugged out of it, allowing it to fall to the floor before reaching up and cupping Bush’s face, his thumb brushing over Bush’s cheek as he returned the kiss with an ardour that left Bush giddy. It was an impossible, wondrous thing to be held this way and kissed with such fervency, and Bush ran his hands over Hornblower’s shoulders, feeling the damp linen and wool and the warmer skin and muscle below, and it was too much; he wanted to touch Hornblower — touch all of him — and all this clothing was frustrating. His hands were shaking with need as he found Hornblower’s waistcoat and began to unbutton it; like a man dying for lack of water his only thought now was the slaking of his thirst, and it preoccupied and filled his mind until he could think of nothing else but the feeling of Hornblower’s skin beneath his hands. He had never known need like this, never wanted something so badly before, and Hornblower wanted it too, for his clever fingers were now working away at Bush’s neckcloth, blindly wrestled with the tight knot. They were both struggling for breath, kissing clumsily as they tried in vain to focus on two things at once, but Bush did not care. It felt like madness — it felt like a dream — and only the warmth of Hornblower’s mouth and the cool buttons beneath Bush’s fingers reminded him that this was real, that he was stood in the great cabin, kissing his captain as he undressed him, and at that last thought the cold reality of what he was doing washed over Bush, and he broke the kiss, releasing Hornblower.
“Bush?” asked Hornblower, confused, but Bush shook his head, too lightheaded and weak to make any sense. His heart was racing as though he’d raced from the orlop to the maintop and back, and he fumbled about for support, his knees going out from under him. “Easy, man, easy,” said Hornblower, catching Bush before he could stumble and easing him into the cabin’s only chair. “There, now. Are you well?”
Bush could only chuckle at the absurdity of it; a half hour ago his chief concern had been the repairs required to ensure the Hotspur remained seaworthy — a moment ago it had been trying to divest his captain of his clothes. As if thinking the same thing Hornblower glanced down at his half-unbuttoned waistcoat, seeing it for the first time, and blushed hotly. “I see,” he said, embarrassed but amused, and when he looked at Bush again there was an oddly satisfied smile on his face. He reached out and stroked Bush’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, and Bush caught Hornblower’s hand in his own and brought it to his lips. He lightly kissed the knuckles first, before turning the hand over to brush against the soft skin of the wrist, lingering over the spot where the faint pulse of Hornblower’s heart was strongest, and when he pressed his lips against it Hornblower inhaled sharply. Fearing he had gone too far, Bush unhanded Hornblower and tried to rise from the chair, but Hornblower put his newly freed hand on Bush’s shoulder and holding him fast, artlessly straddled him.
“Sir,” protested Bush, too preoccupied with the sensation of Hornblower in his lap to effect any kind of serious objection.
“Quiet,” ordered Hornblower, and leaned down to kiss Bush tenderly, silencing any further protest that might have been made. It was not right or fit or proper to kiss his captain like this, and Bush knew that if he’d had any wits about him he ought to have stopped this lunacy before it ever started, but he also knew that if given the chance to start over he would have not changed a thing. It was utterly subversive of discipline to be seated like this beneath his captain, and a part of Bush baulked at the notion of it, yet still a greater part of him revelled in the transgression, as he sensed Hornblower did. It was like a miracle that Hornblower should want to be kissed by him, that he should want to kiss Bush in return, and so swept away by passion was Bush that he gathered Hornblower in his arms and drew him closer still. Hornblower made no objection; his own hands were wrapped around Bush’s shoulders, one arm anchoring them together, the other hand gripped tightly in Bush’s hair, keeping his head tilted upwards. It was all too much, sitting there with Hornblower wrapped around him, and Bush felt so adrift that he wondered distantly if he’d slipped the cable at last. But no, he wasn’t dead; the weight and warmth of Hornblower’s body was real enough, as was the sudden heat that bloomed between his legs whenever Hornblower rubbed against him. He was hard in his breeches, as was Hornblower, but neither of them cared, too content to do anything but kiss and touch and feel — for too long they had lived lives of loneliness and deprivation, never knowing a gentle touch or a kind word, and now that the tender affection they had craved for so long was within reach they surfeited themselves with it. They would pay for this indulgence in time, Bush knew, but for once in his life he found he did not care; there were some things in life worth any price. Happiness, as warm and golden as sunshine, blossomed within him, and he smiled as Hornblower kissed him.
At last Hornblower drew away, and looked down at Bush with the same serious countenance he wore on the quarterdeck. But his hand still stroked the back of Bush’s neck and he did not move from Bush’s lap, and so whatever severity he meant to import with his expression was lost. Bush beamed up at him, too happy to speak.
“This is not to be an everyday occurrence,” warned Hornblower, as stern as a schoolmaster. “It will be irregular at best.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Bush, grinning stupidly. His chin felt raw and his thighs ached from bearing so much of Hornblower’s weight, but he was too satisfied to care.
“And you cannot expect to win my favour in this way. I cannot and will not be seen playing favourites. Whatever my attachment to you, it will not interfere with our professional association.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush knew Hornblower would not play favourites; if anything, he would be harder on Bush now than before, and Bush welcomed it — he was a man who enjoyed order and discipline, who enjoyed working to an exacting standard.
Hornblower frowned. “We must be careful,” he said gravely, and gone was Bush’s smile at those words. “If anyone were to catch wind of this… if my wife…” At the thought of Maria his face crumpled and he swallowed hard. “She must never know of this. It would break her heart.”
Bush felt a sudden pity for Mrs Hornblower. He knew she loved her husband — albeit in a clumsy, smothering manner — and he could not begin to imagine the heartbreak a woman might feel when she learned she was not enough for her husband, that she would never be enough, and for no better reason than that she was a woman.
“We will be careful, sir,” Bush promised, touching Hornblower’s cheek. “For everyone’s sake. Besides,” he added, “Your good lady has nothing to fear from me. She is secure in her position; only she is capable of bearing you children or taking your name — it is she, not I, whose name will be by yours in the history books. A mistress might want for wealth or children or your name: I want for nothing more than to be your friend, sir, in whatever capacity you may require.”
Hornblower sighed and rested his forehead against Bush’s. “I am not worthy of your loyalty, Bush,” he said.
There was no sense in trying to correct him; Bush had been familiar with Hornblower long enough to know that it was impossible to change Hornblower’s opinion of himself.
“It’s not a question of worth, sir,” he said, nudging Hornblower’s long nose with his own. “My loyalty is yours.”
Hornblower nodded and pressed a quick kiss to Bush’s lips before remembering himself. He cleared his throat and straightened up as much as he could, still seated on Bush’s lap as he was. “We should return to our respective duties, Mr Bush,” he said, and just like that he was the captain again. But there was a kindliness in his words that had not been there before, and it pleased Bush to no end to hear it.
“Very good, sir,” he said and released Hornblower, who climbed off the chair and pulled Bush to his feet. There was a shared smile and a quick readjustment of breeches, and then Hornblower picked up his jacket from the floor and pulled it on before doing up his waistcoat. The room suddenly seemed very cold and dark, and Bush shivered, no longer warmed by Hornblower’s body. Rain was still drumming on the skylight, and Bush realised he would soon be standing watch on the quarterdeck in that wretched weather. He straightened his neckcloth; physical discomfort was a small price to pay for the pleasure of the last half hour.
“So we are committed to this course of action, then,” Hornblower said, cutting into Bush’s thoughts.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower nodded gravely. “It will be a tricky thing, this. No margin for error: if either one of us fails we will be dashed on the rocks before you can say Jack Robinson. And we cannot allow this to interfere with our duty. We must be vigilant; if discipline should suffer in the slightest way we must call it off.”
“Of course, sir,” agreed Bush.
“Then we are in accordance.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was as solemn as any oath Bush had ever sworn, and he reached out and pressed Hornblower’s hand. Hornblower looked down and a faint smile played over his mouth.
“You do know, of course, Mr Bush, that I cannot have my first lieutenant sleeping with the midshipmen?” Hornblower said, and Bush’s heart sank.
“Not this again, sir,” he pleaded. “I had nowhere else to go.”
Hornblower was doing his very best to look cross, but it was not particularly convincing, and Bush tried not to laugh. “I will not have you sleeping there again tonight,” he said. “Report here at the end of the first watch. You can share my cot until we reach England, are we clear?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And stop grinning like an idiot, you aren’t meant to be enjoying this.” But Hornblower himself was smiling now, and so Bush merely saluted.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said again.
“Oh, dismissed,” grumbled Hornblower, too fond to be truly annoyed, and Bush obeyed, still grinning as he closed the door behind him.
Outside of the cabin the realities of life aboard a warship reasserted themselves. He had not had a chance to eat since the morning, but he had no choice to content himself with dry biscuit wheedled from the cook; he did not have the time for a proper meal. There were still a great many things to be done before the start of his watch —reports to be heard, inspections to be made — and Bush was reminded once again that much of life in the Navy was little more than cleaning up after messes. He was almost relieved when it was time to bundle up and return to the quarterdeck; rain or no rain, the fresh air was a welcome relief after time spent breathing in the stench of two hundred men. He was grateful, too, that it was dark — Hornblower’s rough face had rubbed his own raw, and there would no doubt be questions. That was something they would need to take into consideration, and as Bush considered it he felt that same warm happiness that he had felt earlier. There was an undeniable pleasure that arose from the thought of kissing Hornblower again, and though Bush knew as well as any man that nothing in life was certain the fact that Hornblower wanted to kiss him again pleased him to no end. The thought carried him through the long, cold watch, and he struggled to look serious when his watch was relieved and he was free to return to Hornblower’s cabin.
Hornblower was asleep when Bush entered the stateroom. His moral courage nearly failed him at the realisation, some part of him clamouring to be away and not impose on his friend. And yet he would not; he had made a promise and would keep it.
“Sir,” he whispered to the darkness, standing by Hornblower’s bed.
The cot creaked as Hornblower rolled over. “Bush,” came his voice, soft with sleep, and Bush reached for him in the dark, finding his hand and gripping it tight. “You’ve come.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hornblower squeezed his hand. “Your hand is cold.”
“A cold night, sir.”
“It’s warmer here.” It seemed to Bush that there was hope in Hornblower’s voice, and that hope sustained him and gave him courage.
“I left my things in the midshipmen’s berth,” he said apologetically.
His hand was squeezed once more. “Never mind that,” said Hornblower. “Come to bed.”
Bush let go of Hornblower and hurriedly stripped down to his shirt. “Sir?” he said, when he had set his things on the deck.
“Come here,” Hornblower said, and Bush did, fumbling in the dark to find the edge of the cot and with a grunt hoisted himself in. Hornblower was on his side, facing the wall, and cautiously, Bush settled himself behind him, just as Hornblower had the first night, but he did not reach out, unwilling to be bold.
“Is this alright, sir?” he whispered.
Hornblower grunted. “You could at least put an arm over me,” he complained, and Bush obediently wrapped an arm around Hornblower’s chest. Hornblower responded by grasping Bush’s hand and shifting closer until they were pressed together from head to toe.
“Better, sir?” asked Bush.
“It will suffice,” said Hornblower drily, and Bush hid his smile in Hornblower’s shoulder. The fabric was rough beneath his cheek and Bush realised Hornblower was still in his shirt. Oh, God, the nightshirt. It was still tucked away in Bush’s sea chest. He would have to clean it tomorrow and return it with great apology.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bush, appalled at his forgetfulness.
“You remembered,” said Hornblower, archly.
“Sir, I—”
Hornblower sighed. “Never mind the nightshirt,” he said, and squeezed Bush’s hand to reassure him. “Better that I have you here than it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bush. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Bush,” said Hornblower.
It had been a long day, and Bush was exhausted, but he did not want to sleep, not just yet. A strange and astonishing thought had come over him: in all the years Hornblower had been his friend he had never once considered that the loyalty and duty he felt toward Hornblower might be returned. It was a bewildering notion that Hornblower should care enough to look after him, but the evidence was there; after all, Hornblower had been concerned enough with Bush’s welfare to see to it that he did not have to sleep in the cable tier, and cared enough about him to even share his bed. It frightened Bush to think his fondness for his captain might be returned — he, who had so little to offer — and wondered if Hornblower felt the same way. Perhaps he did, perhaps he had been fond of Bush for a very long time too: Bush remembered the fear in Hornblower’s voice when he’d called out to Bush after the battle on the Renown. Had he cared then? Bush did not know, and he did not need to know; there were some questions that did not require answers. It was enough that they should end as they were now, with Hornblower beside him and somewhere in the wild, uncertain future, the promise of tender affection to be taken and given freely in return.
It was enough.
Pairing: HH/WB
Rating: M (This part is... T? I think.)
Part 3 of 3. Finally.
A/N: Honestly, I'm so done with this fic I don't even care if this part is ok. (That's a lie, I absolutely do, but I finished it this afternoon and I'm running on an adrenaline high.)
Apologies for angst. Apologies for bad attempts at humour. Apologies for everything.
—
Bush had been just shy of ten when his father died. It had been a slow death — cancer of the stomach, the doctor said — and when his death came it had seemed a relief. Bush’s mother had wept, of course, for she had five children under the age of ten to feed and clothe and take care of, but Bush had not cried. He had loved his father, and missed him terribly, but he had merely felt hollow in the days that followed, like someone had come along and scraped out his insides, leaving behind nothing more than a shell.
He felt that hollowness now, standing on the quarterdeck as the Hotspur wended her way homewards beneath a slate grey sky. Everything around him seemed muted: the sounds, sights, smells of a warship seeming distant and faint; the men of the ship as unreal as actors on a stage. He found himself longing for action, for the thunder of a broadside and the roar of battle, if only to feel alive again, and consoled himself with the knowledge that such a feeling would pass. Sorrow, after all, was just as fleeting and short-lived as happiness, and only a foolish man believed he could cling to either for very long.
He saw Hornblower only once that day. He was quieter and more withdrawn than usual, his face carefully blank as he listened to Bush deliver his report on the Hotspur’s condition. There was a small bruise on his lower lip where a kiss had left its mark, and Bush’s face burned to see it. Hornblower must have noticed the flush in Bush’s cheeks for he stopped talking and touched the bruise, turning his head in silent shame so that he might not have to look Bush in the eye. They sat in painful silence for some time, bound by something they could not name, until at last Bush summoned his courage and spoke.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Hornblower said, still touching his lip. Bush rose and made for the door. “Bush,” Hornblower called, when Bush was no more than a foot from the door.
“Sir?” He could not bring himself to look back.
“I—” Hornblower began, and for a moment a bright spark of hope leapt in Bush, but that hope died when he heard Hornblower clear his throat. “Never mind. Carry on, Mr Bush.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, and left, a dull ache in his stomach.
He wanted to retreat to his cabin, but that was an impossibility; in his eagerness he had ensured the one place he could always retreat to was no longer available to him. For the first time in his time aboard the Hotspur he became aware of just how small and cramped she was. There were few places a man might go for a moment of privacy, even fewer where he might go to nurse a tender heart. Without being conscious of how he made his way there, Bush found himself amidst the cable tiers where he had slept not three nights before. Here, at least, there was quiet — the sound of his approach had sent any idlers scurrying — and here at last he could sink to the floor and put his head in his hands to wallow in his misery without fearing that the men might stumble upon their first lieutenant in such a state.
He’d never had a friend like Hornblower before. There had been friends, of course — few men go their lives without making a single friend — but their friendship had been little more than the natural camaraderie found between men who work and sleep and eat together for months on end. There had never been a friend for whom he felt such profound affection as he did Hornblower. He remembered the first day they met — how odd Hornblower had seemed, how aloof in manner and how melancholy in appearance. By all rights they ought never to have been friends, too different in temperament and outlook to ever get along. And yet somehow, months later, it was Hornblower who had cradled Bush’s face as he lay wounded on the deck of the Renown; it was Hornblower who had visited him in hospital, bringing with him a gift of fruit; it was Hornblower who had kissed him the night before they were to part forever.
Strange, that of all the things that passed in those wild days the kiss should be the one memory that returned to him time and again, as vivid as though it were yesterday. It was all so clear: the candles, guttering in pools of wax; the sound of rain on the roof; Hornblower, his hair loose and curling around his shoulders, propped up on one elbow, regarding Bush with a kind of fond fascination. Bush had smiled up at him then, and Hornblower had reached out and smoothed Bush’s damp hair from his forehead. And then he’d leaned down and kissed Bush, more gently than Bush had ever been kissed by anyone, and in spite of himself, Bush had returned it with an ardour that left them both shaken and breathless.
And now he had kissed Hornblower for the last time. He rubbed his face and exhaled heavily. Life in the service meant many partings, but Bush had never expected to part from Hornblower in this fashion. He did not know what was worse: to have lived a life never holding Hornblower in his arms, or to have held him for four precious nights and not one night more.
No, he did know, but the knowing did not ease his heart. He ought to never have slept a moment in Hornblower’s bed, not when each minute was so dear. The memory of the quiet joy he’d felt on waking to find Hornblower asleep in his arms was as bitter as it was sweet, but he could not let it go, not just yet.
He remained sequestered in the cable tier until duty demanded he return to the quarterdeck for the afternoon watch. If any tears were shed they were lost amidst the lonely dark; the stiff-backed lieutenant who appeared on the quarterdeck ten minutes later wore a face so unyielding it might well have been made of stone. He stood apart from himself: it was not his voice bellowing at the men, it was not his feet endlessly pacing the quarterdeck. He felt nothing, not the bite of the wind nor the sting of the cold — only the dull ache in his stomach reminding him he was alive. Bush was not a man given to peculiar flights of imagination, but if he had been prone to such Gothic imaginings he might have considered himself a ghost, without form or substance, trapped in a purgatory of his own making.
He ate his dinner quickly, the meal as palatable and filling as paper, and rushed off in search of one of the spare hammocks he had turned his nose up at earlier. They still stank vilely, rotted with age, but he took one to the purser and had it mended and cleaned to the best of the man’s ability and menaced the midshipmen into giving up a portion of their berth. When the second dogwatch ended he had his sea chest sent for and shaved in a small tarnished mirror hung on the bulkhead. He barely recognised his own reflection; this wild, unkempt man was not who he knew himself to be. Since his earliest days as a midshipman he had always taken pains to appear neat in his appearance: the son of a lord might be excused slovenly habits, but the son of a tailor would not be. He rubbed his rough chin and looked his reflection sternly in the eye. It would not do to continue in this fashion, allowing himself to be overruled by sentiment like a lovesick girl. He would do better, if not for his own sake, than for Hornblower’s sake — Hornblower, to whom he owed so much and had repaid so miserably.
He shaved and dressed for bed, ignoring the nervous young Resolves who eyed him warily. No doubt stories of his fearsome temper had already made their way around the midshipmen’s berth, just as stories of first lieutenants had when he’d been a boy. How they’d laugh if they knew the ogre they feared had a heart just as tender as any of theirs. Bush swung himself into his hammock and pulled his blanket over his head, counselling himself that the next day would be easier.
He dreamt that night: lurid, indecent dreams of Hornblower — the taste of his skin and the strength of his hands, the softness of his thighs and warmth of his mouth — and woke panting and desperate for release. But the realisation that he lay surrounded by snoring midshipmen was like cold water over the head, and with a groan he hauled himself out of bed and dressed in the dark to stalk the quarterdeck until the middle watch began.
Another life, he’d said to Hornblower. But what life was there but this one? Bush had no answer; he could scarcely imagine an existence outside the Navy. He had been at sea since he’d been no more than a boy and could not imagine any other life but this. He was not sure he wanted to; he loved the rules and traditions, the hard work, the discipline — he had been made for a life at sea, and did not think he could enjoy any other life. And yet some part of him longed for a life that was different, a life that was his own, unbound from the fate that had been decided for him when he was twelve. A life, perhaps, where he might be free to give affection and receive it in kind.
He shook the thought off like water from a jacket. It was all nonsense, of course. There was no other life but the one he’d been given and there was no sense in longing for something that would never come true. Other men might wish for gold or fame or true love but he would not be one of them. He would not spend his life dreaming of someone who would never be his.
Having resolved himself in this way, Bush threw himself into his work with the fervour only the desperate possess. He did not care that it was the middle watch when all was quiet, there could not be a single moment of idleness, not a single moment where memories and dreams could distract him from his tasks. In a curious moment of perspicuity Bush understood Hornblower and his queer moods — thinking all the time was maddening. He longed for a fight, longed for the clarity of battle, where living and dying became the only two thoughts in a man’s head. So wild and whirling were his thoughts that it took young Orrock reminding him twice that his watch was relieved and not quailing at the look he received in return for Bush to finally remove himself from the quarterdeck.
He breakfasted alone, something about his expression warning off anyone who tried to sit near him. Breakfast was a miserable affair — with as many men aboard as they had food was running low, and the salt beef, though not spoiled, had an unpleasant green tinge to it and a tang that carried even through the thick smear of mustard — but it was the way of the service, and Bush did not think on it long. The life of a man at sea was nasty, brutish, and short, and to imagine it was anything else was foolhardy; though Bush was not a natural philosopher he innately understood that sorrow followed happiness as night followed day — there was consequence for everything, and he accepted that, difficult though it could be. He had been happy for those few short hours with Hornblower, now, it seemed, he was to be unhappy. It was the way of things, and only a fool would try and fight it. Besides, it would pass, as all things did, and life would return to normal — they always did, in one way or another.
He did not have to wait long; the wind picked up sharply after breakfast and by two bells of the forenoon watch an awful November storm had swept down upon them. The wind howled, the sea raged, and it was all Bush could do to keep his footing on the quarterdeck as the storm played with Hotspur like a child with a toy. Hornblower appeared on the deck, seasick and miserable as usual, but his countenance bore something else as well, a dreadful sort of melancholic look that worsened when Bush greeted him with a cordial smile and informed him of the course of action they would be taking.
“Very good, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. The mark on his lip had deepened to a dark purple, and Bush blushed to see it. Hornblower noticed Bush staring, and shamefaced, turned away to walk to the other side of the quarterdeck, but as he did so a wave struck Hotspur hard across the beam, and he stumbled. On instinct, they reached for each other and Bush caught Hornblower as he fell, nearly losing his own footing in the process. Hornblower clung to the collar of Bush’s oilskin as he struggled to find his feet again, his face white.
“No harm done, sir,” said Bush as Hornblower found purchase on the slick deck and stood to his full height once more. Bush’s hand lingered at Hornblower’s waist, unwilling to let him go just yet. Perhaps Hornblower understood, for one hand remained clutching Bush’s oilskin, steadying himself as the ship tossed and reared. How long they stood like that Bush could not tell — a lifetime, a few seconds, it all seemed the same — but at last he released Hornblower and stepped away, refusing to indulge in his weakness. Hornblower removed his hand from Bush’s oilskin and resumed his usual stance, and for all the world it seemed like the moment had never happened at all.
Hornblower did not quit the quarterdeck until the storm eased, some six hours later, and Bush went below soon after to assess any damage that may have occurred. The belly of the ship was abuzz with activity — Hotspur had taken on water during the storm, despite her patching, and every man aboard her would be relieved to see England again. The metallic clank of the pumps and the hammering of the carpenters’ mates as they drove softwood wedges into a split seam were an infernal symphony to Bush’s ears, and he was very glad indeed when a messenger appeared, summoning him to the great cabin to make his report as soon as the first dogwatch ended.
He found Hornblower at his desk in his frigid, dark cabin, shivering as he tried to warm his hands over a small spirit lantern. It was clear his oilskin had done little to keep him dry for his clothes were dark with water; Hornblower had not spent the last half hour in the foetid warmth of the lower decks and had not been able to dry out as Bush had. Bush felt a queer twinge of sympathy at the sight — Hornblower’s face was pale and drawn with fatigue and cold, and his attempts to disguise his shivering were not convincing — but like any good first officer Bush did not mention this for fear of damaging his captain’s dignity and delivered his report with the grace and professionalism to be expected of a man so suited to the role of first lieutenant. Hornblower received it with a detached air, his gaze distant and unfocused, nodding his head to indicate his approval but keeping his silence; it was clear he was too cold to expend any unnecessary effort on anything so trivial as speech.
At last Bush finished his report, and waited for Hornblower to speak, but he did not. “Will that be all, sir?” he asked, trying not to fidget. Hornblower nodded, and Bush made to leave, but as he reached for the door he heard Hornblower rise to his feet.
“I wish to God you’d never touched me,” said Hornblower, the pain in his voice dulling any anger that such words might have held, and Bush’s heart broke.
“Sir,” he murmured.
“I wish to God you’d never touched me. I had no notion of this sort of thing until you, could scarcely imagine it, let alone desire it. But you, you touched me, and…” There was resentment now in that voice, and despair too, and Bush turned to see Hornblower pacing before the stern windows, his hands twisting behind his back, head bowed. “You ought to have let me be — why didn’t you let me be? They could hang us for what we’ve done, and they’d have the right of it, too. If we were to pursue this, it would go against everything we have sworn to uphold and protect as officers of the King; you know as well as I that love has no place where duty is concerned — it does not conquer all. There may come a day I must send you to certain death, and God help me, I must do it, no matter how I may feel on the matter. If I am struck down in battle, you must be able to assume command without so much as a second thought for me. We cannot afford to allow our judgement to be clouded by sentiment.” He stopped his pacing before the middle windows, his back to Bush, as though he could not bear the sight of him.
Bush bristled. “I do not doubt your devotion to duty, sir,” he said. “Do not doubt mine.”
Hornblower’s shoulders drooped. “I do not,” he said quietly. “But we are not free men, Bush. Our lives are not our own. We might never share anything more than a handful of hours, stolen in the dark of night, and against this we would wager our careers, our reputations, our very lives. And yet I want… oh, but I have always wanted too much.” He laughed bleakly. “It’s folly, don’t you see? It’s utter folly.”
But it wasn’t. Impossibly, hearing Hornblower’s doubts had put Bush’s to rest; he was no gambler — he did not understand the logic of probability and chance as Hornblower did — but even he knew that a slim chance was better than no chance at all. To surrender now, even in the face of such terrible odds, was nothing short of cowardice, and Bush would not stand for it, not when what lay at stake was so precious. He crossed the room and took his place beside Hornblower, as though they stood on the quarterdeck. Hornblower made no acknowledgement of Bush’s presence at his shoulder, and Bush had to restrain himself from reaching out and touching his captain’s shoulder. It would not do to act so rashly, not when Hornblower still doubted his judgement.
Still, he would say what he had to; he was not willing to let this go, not without speaking truly.
“It’s not folly, sir,” he said. “Not to me.”
Hornblower’s face was unreadable as he stared out to sea, but here and there his mask had slipped; Bush could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth, the fixed gaze. With dreadful insight Bush understood the torments of the past few days were nothing compared to what Hornblower must have endured: alone, and without the hubbub of a busy ship to distract him. He placed a gentle hand on his captain’s shoulder, all too aware that such boldness might as easily be taken as an act of insolence as one of kindness, but Hornblower turned to face Bush, as easily as a ship wearing round in a good wind, and Bush saw just how dangerously close Hornblower was to breaking.
“I have tried to forget Kingston,” said Hornblower. “Heaven only knows how I have tried! But I cannot. I told myself what happened there was nothing more than a passing fancy, a— a curiosity that required answering. I told myself it would be easier if I wed Maria, that marriage would cure me of this — this wanting — and I might have believed it too.” His voice was soured with bitterness. “But when you touched me again, by God, how you showed me for a liar.”
“Forgive me, sir.” There was nothing else he could say.
“I have tried to do right by my wife, be a good husband, a good man, and yet…” Hornblower grimaced, shame colouring his cheeks. “I cannot forget. I know Kingston meant little to you, and yet to me…” He cleared his throat and looked at Bush, a grim defiance in his eyes, as though he expected Bush to mock him. “You must understand, I did not have anyone to call a friend in my youth — my books kept me company enough, and I had no interest in puerile tomfoolery. The years most men forge associations that will last them a lifetime I spent as a prisoner in Spain, and when I was released I had no understanding of how a man might go about making friends. I told myself that Kingston was different because I’d never known a friend like you, because I’d never…” He trailed off.
“Been with a man,” Bush offered.
Hornblower scoffed, and turned his face back to the sea. “Anyone,” he scoffed, and then a trifle defensive, added, “I expect you could tell.”
Hornblower had been shy and hesitant that first night, it was true, but Bush had chalked it up to a combination of drunkenness and nerves — if he’d dwelled on it further, he might have reached the conclusion that Hornblower was nervous because he’d never been with a man, but Bush had not pursued that particular line of thought and so he’d never considered the possibility. That it had been Hornblower’s first experience of anything… Bush wondered what he might have done differently had he known and quickly concluded it was for the best he hadn’t known; any tenderness he might have lavished on Hornblower would have been unnaturally forced and embarrassing for them both. No, better that it happened as it did, where tenderness had sprung not out of some sense of obligation, but out of genuine affection.
“I couldn’t tell, sir,” said Bush.
If Hornblower was caught off-guard by this, he kept it carefully hidden. “I see,” he said carefully, but Bush knew him well enough to tell that he was embarrassed for having revealed so intimate a secret. “You must think less of me, now.”
“There’s no sin in innocence, sir.”
Hornblower’s mouth twisted. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen, sir. But it didn’t mean anything. None of it has ever meant anything, not until you.” He reached up and took Hornblower’s half-frozen face between his hands, turning it towards himself, and Hornblower leaned in to the touch, his eyes closed. The mask had slipped: here now, before Bush, stood a man tormented and afraid, trembling from cold. “I do not regret Kingston. I do not regret you. Sir—” He took a steadying breath. “You are the best man I know, sir. There is no one I’d rather serve under: if I was given the choice between serving as flagship captain to Lord Nelson and serving here as your first lieutenant, I would choose the Hotspur a thousand times over.” Hornblower laughed lightly at that, his eyes still shut, but Bush gave him a stern glare regardless. “I mean that, sir. It has been the greatest honour of my life to serve as your first officer. It has been a greater honour still to be your friend.”
Hornblower opened his eyes, that familiar determined look once more in them, but this time Bush could see the uncertainty in it too.
“I do not want to wait for another life,” Hornblower said softly. “I do not want to live my life regretting what could have been if only I’d been brave.”
Words were not enough to explain the swell of feeling that rose within Bush: passion and tenderness, fear and resolve, they were all emotions too great for him to express, and so he did the only thing he could.
“Sir,” he breathed, as soft as an endearment, and with all his courage, leaned in and kissed his captain.
Hornblower tensed up in surprise, too startled to return the kiss at first, but when Bush deepened the kiss he allowed it, and tentatively began to kiss back. But then he broke away and took a jerky half-step backwards, breaking free of Bush’s grasp.
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Sir?” asked Bush, sick with terror.
“It — it isn’t right,” said Hornblower, wringing his hands in desperation. “I cannot force my will on you like this. I cannot take liberties with your devotion.”
Bush caught Hornblower’s hands, stilling them between his own. “You do not force your will on me,” he said gently, stroking those long elegant fingers that he’d admired for so very long. “I want this too, sir, don’t you see?” Hornblower wavered, desire and diffidence warring in his expression, but Bush’s mind was made up. “I want this,” he promised, and pressed his lips to Hornblower’s.
He’d meant it as a gentle kiss, one to reassure Hornblower of his devotion and loyalty, but Hornblower made a soft noise of pleasure and Bush knew he was lost beyond all reason. He let go of Hornblower’s hands, seizing his friend by the collar and hauling him close. It was a heady thing, how easily Hornblower surrendered to the kiss, how he yielded beneath Bush’s touch, his self-control ebbing away as the kiss deepened and he allowed himself to be lost in it. Bush kissed him fiercely, his own self-restraint long gone, and clung to Hornblower as a man might cling to ratlines in a storm. He pawed at Hornblower’s jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, and Hornblower shrugged out of it, allowing it to fall to the floor before reaching up and cupping Bush’s face, his thumb brushing over Bush’s cheek as he returned the kiss with an ardour that left Bush giddy. It was an impossible, wondrous thing to be held this way and kissed with such fervency, and Bush ran his hands over Hornblower’s shoulders, feeling the damp linen and wool and the warmer skin and muscle below, and it was too much; he wanted to touch Hornblower — touch all of him — and all this clothing was frustrating. His hands were shaking with need as he found Hornblower’s waistcoat and began to unbutton it; like a man dying for lack of water his only thought now was the slaking of his thirst, and it preoccupied and filled his mind until he could think of nothing else but the feeling of Hornblower’s skin beneath his hands. He had never known need like this, never wanted something so badly before, and Hornblower wanted it too, for his clever fingers were now working away at Bush’s neckcloth, blindly wrestled with the tight knot. They were both struggling for breath, kissing clumsily as they tried in vain to focus on two things at once, but Bush did not care. It felt like madness — it felt like a dream — and only the warmth of Hornblower’s mouth and the cool buttons beneath Bush’s fingers reminded him that this was real, that he was stood in the great cabin, kissing his captain as he undressed him, and at that last thought the cold reality of what he was doing washed over Bush, and he broke the kiss, releasing Hornblower.
“Bush?” asked Hornblower, confused, but Bush shook his head, too lightheaded and weak to make any sense. His heart was racing as though he’d raced from the orlop to the maintop and back, and he fumbled about for support, his knees going out from under him. “Easy, man, easy,” said Hornblower, catching Bush before he could stumble and easing him into the cabin’s only chair. “There, now. Are you well?”
Bush could only chuckle at the absurdity of it; a half hour ago his chief concern had been the repairs required to ensure the Hotspur remained seaworthy — a moment ago it had been trying to divest his captain of his clothes. As if thinking the same thing Hornblower glanced down at his half-unbuttoned waistcoat, seeing it for the first time, and blushed hotly. “I see,” he said, embarrassed but amused, and when he looked at Bush again there was an oddly satisfied smile on his face. He reached out and stroked Bush’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, and Bush caught Hornblower’s hand in his own and brought it to his lips. He lightly kissed the knuckles first, before turning the hand over to brush against the soft skin of the wrist, lingering over the spot where the faint pulse of Hornblower’s heart was strongest, and when he pressed his lips against it Hornblower inhaled sharply. Fearing he had gone too far, Bush unhanded Hornblower and tried to rise from the chair, but Hornblower put his newly freed hand on Bush’s shoulder and holding him fast, artlessly straddled him.
“Sir,” protested Bush, too preoccupied with the sensation of Hornblower in his lap to effect any kind of serious objection.
“Quiet,” ordered Hornblower, and leaned down to kiss Bush tenderly, silencing any further protest that might have been made. It was not right or fit or proper to kiss his captain like this, and Bush knew that if he’d had any wits about him he ought to have stopped this lunacy before it ever started, but he also knew that if given the chance to start over he would have not changed a thing. It was utterly subversive of discipline to be seated like this beneath his captain, and a part of Bush baulked at the notion of it, yet still a greater part of him revelled in the transgression, as he sensed Hornblower did. It was like a miracle that Hornblower should want to be kissed by him, that he should want to kiss Bush in return, and so swept away by passion was Bush that he gathered Hornblower in his arms and drew him closer still. Hornblower made no objection; his own hands were wrapped around Bush’s shoulders, one arm anchoring them together, the other hand gripped tightly in Bush’s hair, keeping his head tilted upwards. It was all too much, sitting there with Hornblower wrapped around him, and Bush felt so adrift that he wondered distantly if he’d slipped the cable at last. But no, he wasn’t dead; the weight and warmth of Hornblower’s body was real enough, as was the sudden heat that bloomed between his legs whenever Hornblower rubbed against him. He was hard in his breeches, as was Hornblower, but neither of them cared, too content to do anything but kiss and touch and feel — for too long they had lived lives of loneliness and deprivation, never knowing a gentle touch or a kind word, and now that the tender affection they had craved for so long was within reach they surfeited themselves with it. They would pay for this indulgence in time, Bush knew, but for once in his life he found he did not care; there were some things in life worth any price. Happiness, as warm and golden as sunshine, blossomed within him, and he smiled as Hornblower kissed him.
At last Hornblower drew away, and looked down at Bush with the same serious countenance he wore on the quarterdeck. But his hand still stroked the back of Bush’s neck and he did not move from Bush’s lap, and so whatever severity he meant to import with his expression was lost. Bush beamed up at him, too happy to speak.
“This is not to be an everyday occurrence,” warned Hornblower, as stern as a schoolmaster. “It will be irregular at best.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Bush, grinning stupidly. His chin felt raw and his thighs ached from bearing so much of Hornblower’s weight, but he was too satisfied to care.
“And you cannot expect to win my favour in this way. I cannot and will not be seen playing favourites. Whatever my attachment to you, it will not interfere with our professional association.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush knew Hornblower would not play favourites; if anything, he would be harder on Bush now than before, and Bush welcomed it — he was a man who enjoyed order and discipline, who enjoyed working to an exacting standard.
Hornblower frowned. “We must be careful,” he said gravely, and gone was Bush’s smile at those words. “If anyone were to catch wind of this… if my wife…” At the thought of Maria his face crumpled and he swallowed hard. “She must never know of this. It would break her heart.”
Bush felt a sudden pity for Mrs Hornblower. He knew she loved her husband — albeit in a clumsy, smothering manner — and he could not begin to imagine the heartbreak a woman might feel when she learned she was not enough for her husband, that she would never be enough, and for no better reason than that she was a woman.
“We will be careful, sir,” Bush promised, touching Hornblower’s cheek. “For everyone’s sake. Besides,” he added, “Your good lady has nothing to fear from me. She is secure in her position; only she is capable of bearing you children or taking your name — it is she, not I, whose name will be by yours in the history books. A mistress might want for wealth or children or your name: I want for nothing more than to be your friend, sir, in whatever capacity you may require.”
Hornblower sighed and rested his forehead against Bush’s. “I am not worthy of your loyalty, Bush,” he said.
There was no sense in trying to correct him; Bush had been familiar with Hornblower long enough to know that it was impossible to change Hornblower’s opinion of himself.
“It’s not a question of worth, sir,” he said, nudging Hornblower’s long nose with his own. “My loyalty is yours.”
Hornblower nodded and pressed a quick kiss to Bush’s lips before remembering himself. He cleared his throat and straightened up as much as he could, still seated on Bush’s lap as he was. “We should return to our respective duties, Mr Bush,” he said, and just like that he was the captain again. But there was a kindliness in his words that had not been there before, and it pleased Bush to no end to hear it.
“Very good, sir,” he said and released Hornblower, who climbed off the chair and pulled Bush to his feet. There was a shared smile and a quick readjustment of breeches, and then Hornblower picked up his jacket from the floor and pulled it on before doing up his waistcoat. The room suddenly seemed very cold and dark, and Bush shivered, no longer warmed by Hornblower’s body. Rain was still drumming on the skylight, and Bush realised he would soon be standing watch on the quarterdeck in that wretched weather. He straightened his neckcloth; physical discomfort was a small price to pay for the pleasure of the last half hour.
“So we are committed to this course of action, then,” Hornblower said, cutting into Bush’s thoughts.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower nodded gravely. “It will be a tricky thing, this. No margin for error: if either one of us fails we will be dashed on the rocks before you can say Jack Robinson. And we cannot allow this to interfere with our duty. We must be vigilant; if discipline should suffer in the slightest way we must call it off.”
“Of course, sir,” agreed Bush.
“Then we are in accordance.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was as solemn as any oath Bush had ever sworn, and he reached out and pressed Hornblower’s hand. Hornblower looked down and a faint smile played over his mouth.
“You do know, of course, Mr Bush, that I cannot have my first lieutenant sleeping with the midshipmen?” Hornblower said, and Bush’s heart sank.
“Not this again, sir,” he pleaded. “I had nowhere else to go.”
Hornblower was doing his very best to look cross, but it was not particularly convincing, and Bush tried not to laugh. “I will not have you sleeping there again tonight,” he said. “Report here at the end of the first watch. You can share my cot until we reach England, are we clear?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And stop grinning like an idiot, you aren’t meant to be enjoying this.” But Hornblower himself was smiling now, and so Bush merely saluted.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said again.
“Oh, dismissed,” grumbled Hornblower, too fond to be truly annoyed, and Bush obeyed, still grinning as he closed the door behind him.
Outside of the cabin the realities of life aboard a warship reasserted themselves. He had not had a chance to eat since the morning, but he had no choice to content himself with dry biscuit wheedled from the cook; he did not have the time for a proper meal. There were still a great many things to be done before the start of his watch —reports to be heard, inspections to be made — and Bush was reminded once again that much of life in the Navy was little more than cleaning up after messes. He was almost relieved when it was time to bundle up and return to the quarterdeck; rain or no rain, the fresh air was a welcome relief after time spent breathing in the stench of two hundred men. He was grateful, too, that it was dark — Hornblower’s rough face had rubbed his own raw, and there would no doubt be questions. That was something they would need to take into consideration, and as Bush considered it he felt that same warm happiness that he had felt earlier. There was an undeniable pleasure that arose from the thought of kissing Hornblower again, and though Bush knew as well as any man that nothing in life was certain the fact that Hornblower wanted to kiss him again pleased him to no end. The thought carried him through the long, cold watch, and he struggled to look serious when his watch was relieved and he was free to return to Hornblower’s cabin.
Hornblower was asleep when Bush entered the stateroom. His moral courage nearly failed him at the realisation, some part of him clamouring to be away and not impose on his friend. And yet he would not; he had made a promise and would keep it.
“Sir,” he whispered to the darkness, standing by Hornblower’s bed.
The cot creaked as Hornblower rolled over. “Bush,” came his voice, soft with sleep, and Bush reached for him in the dark, finding his hand and gripping it tight. “You’ve come.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hornblower squeezed his hand. “Your hand is cold.”
“A cold night, sir.”
“It’s warmer here.” It seemed to Bush that there was hope in Hornblower’s voice, and that hope sustained him and gave him courage.
“I left my things in the midshipmen’s berth,” he said apologetically.
His hand was squeezed once more. “Never mind that,” said Hornblower. “Come to bed.”
Bush let go of Hornblower and hurriedly stripped down to his shirt. “Sir?” he said, when he had set his things on the deck.
“Come here,” Hornblower said, and Bush did, fumbling in the dark to find the edge of the cot and with a grunt hoisted himself in. Hornblower was on his side, facing the wall, and cautiously, Bush settled himself behind him, just as Hornblower had the first night, but he did not reach out, unwilling to be bold.
“Is this alright, sir?” he whispered.
Hornblower grunted. “You could at least put an arm over me,” he complained, and Bush obediently wrapped an arm around Hornblower’s chest. Hornblower responded by grasping Bush’s hand and shifting closer until they were pressed together from head to toe.
“Better, sir?” asked Bush.
“It will suffice,” said Hornblower drily, and Bush hid his smile in Hornblower’s shoulder. The fabric was rough beneath his cheek and Bush realised Hornblower was still in his shirt. Oh, God, the nightshirt. It was still tucked away in Bush’s sea chest. He would have to clean it tomorrow and return it with great apology.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bush, appalled at his forgetfulness.
“You remembered,” said Hornblower, archly.
“Sir, I—”
Hornblower sighed. “Never mind the nightshirt,” he said, and squeezed Bush’s hand to reassure him. “Better that I have you here than it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bush. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Bush,” said Hornblower.
It had been a long day, and Bush was exhausted, but he did not want to sleep, not just yet. A strange and astonishing thought had come over him: in all the years Hornblower had been his friend he had never once considered that the loyalty and duty he felt toward Hornblower might be returned. It was a bewildering notion that Hornblower should care enough to look after him, but the evidence was there; after all, Hornblower had been concerned enough with Bush’s welfare to see to it that he did not have to sleep in the cable tier, and cared enough about him to even share his bed. It frightened Bush to think his fondness for his captain might be returned — he, who had so little to offer — and wondered if Hornblower felt the same way. Perhaps he did, perhaps he had been fond of Bush for a very long time too: Bush remembered the fear in Hornblower’s voice when he’d called out to Bush after the battle on the Renown. Had he cared then? Bush did not know, and he did not need to know; there were some questions that did not require answers. It was enough that they should end as they were now, with Hornblower beside him and somewhere in the wild, uncertain future, the promise of tender affection to be taken and given freely in return.
It was enough.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 01:02 am (UTC)And just for the record, I am SO down for anything else you want to set in this 'verse. SO down for it.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 05:13 am (UTC)I've spent the last month and a half agonising over this piece. (It doesn't help that I've had almost no time off to actually sit down and write the bloody thing.) It worked out better than I'd hoped, I think. I'm slightly disappointed I didn't murder you for a third time, but I suppose it's best :-)
THE KISSING. We had to get through the angst to get to the kissing, I'm afraid, and there I'm afraid I stretched the limits of believability -- Hornblower talking about his feelings? Pff. As if. But I wanted it to work out so badly between them. And it did. And then I couldn't get them to stop kissing, and every time I thought about this story it would just be kissing and them not wanting to do anything else (get OFF Bush's lap, Hornblower, you have a ship to run! Much as we'd all like you to stay there.)
May the winds be foul for England! I mean, considering it's taken them a week now to cross the Bay of Biscay... they're pretty close to Brittany right now, if not a day away from Plymouth.
And speaking of Plymouth: Maria. I don't know if I'll ever write it, but Maria essentially knows. I couldn't bear it if she didn't. She knows her husband loves her (even if he doesn't know it himself) but she also knows they don't share the same kind of connection that he shares with Bush. I think as soon as Hotspur lands in England Maria goes to Bush and gives him a speech about "please sleep with my husband and stop him from being so moody."
And I don't care, but she lives in this verse. Canon can kiss my artichokes. She lives, and she goes on to become Lady Hornblower, and she goes on to live a fairly happy life with her husband and his husband.
P.S. I very much hope this satisfied your "only one bed" request. I never meant for it to be so angsty - or so long - but the characters had other ideas, I swear.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 06:36 pm (UTC)Hornblower talking about his feelings -- he normally never would, of course, so that he did... God, he must have been in agony. I understand that it must feel to you like you were pushing credibility/characterization, but from out here, it's such a clear signal of how desperately he needs relief from the pain he's in, and thus by implication, just how extreme that pain must be. And of course once he starts, he can't stop. Which is too often the case when one cracks a rigidly barred floodgate. And he didn't just out with it, either -- he's been biting the words back ever since the event itself, while the pressure to speak kept growing. No, be assured: it works.
And Bush is so brave. So, so brave. I love that Hornblower's own doubts give Bush clarity -- that's such a gorgeous turn in the narrative right there. If it's for himself, that's one thing -- he can deny his own desires for an eternity, if need be -- but he can't have Hornblower torturing himself like that. GodDAMN but I love Bush so much. And you do such a beautiful job by him.
KISSING. KISSING KISSING K I S S I N G. K I S S I N G. I was frankly envious of how well you wrote the kissing. Bush is feeling SO MUCH. I just. *flails*
...they're pretty close to Brittany right now, if not a day away from Plymouth. NO. I was just reading yesterday about square-rigged ships could only just barely beat upwind, so I am using all my utmost weather-controlling skills to make the wind FOUL FOR ENGLAND. They're gonna be stuck where they are for WEEKS.
(God, now I'm imagining their last night sleeping together before making port.)
She knows her husband loves her (even if he doesn't know it himself)... He does! That's super-clear to me in Hotspur -- I understand exactly how Hornblower's brain works that he doubts himself so much, but it's undeniable that he worries about her and shows SUCH care about her feelings. He does love her, even if he can't recognize it in himself. And I'm SUPER pleased that in this timeline she lives to be Lady Hornblower and has a happy life with her husband and husband-in-law. (Husband-in-duty? Husband-in-service? Hm.)
P.S. I very much hope this satisfied your "only one bed" request. I never meant for it to be so angsty - or so long - but the characters had other ideas, I swear. Dear god, but you satisfied it! It was a flippant request, a passing idea that I hadn't the LEAST idea what to do with. And you developed it so well, and so thoroughly! Made it so rich! So vibrant! Never apologize for the length of this, it was just exactly right (and I would happily read twice as much again if you felt like writing it!) Really, this makes me so happy, and it's the cherry on top that I can say it was my prompt that sparked it.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-13 09:36 pm (UTC)He does talk about his feelings a bit in canon, but it's very rare. There are little snippets throughout Lieutenant where he's just on the verge of sharing his feelings around Bush - he gets very emotional over his mistake with the heated shot, then again towards the end when they're in Portsmouth together when he's all-atwitter over Maria, as well as a few other places. In this case, he's been bottling up how he feels for years, and he just can't take it anymore. It was bad enough when he was simply serving alongside Bush, but he survived because he lied to himself and threw himself into his work and denied himself the friendship he wanted so badly. But when they fuck on the second night it reopens the wound and then it's pure agony because he wants this so badly but he cannot ask for it, and it's this awful mess of fear and yearning and pain and it comes out as anger because he doesn't know how else to express it, but he has to express it, or he will go mad. And once he starts, he can't stop, and he's embarrassed and humiliated by it but he has to say it.
I'm so very glad it works though. There are a few lines in there I found actually painful when writing because of the emotion hiding behind them was too great. I think that came across, so I'm happy.
Bush loves him. He's not really familiar with the concept of love, and probably wouldn't frame it as such just yet, but he loves Hornblower. It's unbearable for him to see Hornblower in pain, and he knows that if he doesn't act this suffering will only get worse, so he does the selfless thing and makes a very big gamble. (And I love him too, and I'm glad you think I did him justice.)
K I S S I N G. SO MUCH KISSING. I'm glad you thought I wrote it well! They've been holding back from each other for so long, and when they finally get a chance they let go of their self-control and allow themselves to be swept away by it. It isn't entirely carnal either, it's far more about being as physically close as they can be and just feeling that closeness.
Haha, but remember, it's a very small, stinky sloop right now and she's still damaged from her fight with the French ship. (But it will probably take them a little longer to get home, it's true, especially in the Biscay which is notorious for bad weather.)
Oof, that last night is going to be very bittersweet. As is the night before they go their separate ways.
(I'm still trying to work out if they get back together on the Lydia, but that's another story for another time.)
Maria! As I said, in this verse she finds out pretty early on about where she stands with her husband, and it makes things better for them because Hornblower no longer has to feel like he's faking around her - she knows, and it's okay for him to be who he needs to be. I think she will make a good Lady -- she might not have the airs and graces of someone born into aristocracy but she is very capable at running an estate and I like to think she grows in confidence when she learns she has something to offer Hornblower beyond homemaking and children. (And she gets on with her husband-in-duty when she realises he wants the same things she wants for Hornblower, which means they can gang up on him.)
Yay!
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 03:22 am (UTC)Haha, but remember, it's a very small, stinky sloop right now and she's still damaged from her fight with the French ship. Yes, the whole POINT is that it's a very small stinky sloop right now! If it was a big roomy totally-enough-space-for-200-men rated ship, Hornblower and Bush wouldn't be kissing!
Oof, that last night is going to be very bittersweet. As is the night before they go their separate ways. Goddamn, as much as I love Crisis for it's slashy bits, when you're trying to write a Bush/Hornblower Hotspur-era HEA, Crisis looms out there like a THREAT.
But just to be clear, I'd eat it up with a spoon if you wrote either of those nights for this 'verse.
Considering letting Lydia continue to be a vale of tears, are you?
I adore your Maria ideas. And you know what the September prompt is? Marriage. You could write about Maria and her husband and her husband-in-duty. *chinhands*
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 04:43 am (UTC)This is of course true. And this may of course lead to more kissing because oh dear, there's nowhere for the first lieutenant to go do his paperwork, save the captain's cabin, and alas, that gunroom table is getting rather full, I suppose he might have to go eat dinner elsewhere. (I can guarantee you they are going to be finding every excuse in the book to spend time together over the next little while.)
I... still haven't read Crisis (or Atropos or Commodore or Lord or Admiral because the latter two have minimal/no Bush and altogether too much Barbara.) But I do know the 'perfect officer' quote. And I do know at some point they go their separate ways because Bush has to go off to Trafalgar with the Saucy Temeraire (is he still onboard when Hotspur sinks?) and Hornblower has to go off to do... stuff. And fight pirates or something and nearly sink Nelson. But they do part and it will be emotional even if they refuse to admit to it, but at the same time this relationship is very fluid -- they know from the get-go they won't always be together, so they take what they can get when the getting is good. It *is* a HEA, it's just a complicated HEA.
And shh, let me write Kingston first :-)
Lydia is always going to be a vale of tears. But I've written a short bit about the end there that makes it less vale of tears-y so maybe it isn't SO bad.
Oooh good one. I can see it now: "Maria's opinions on having the press skewer her as being another Lady Hamilton when in fact she's Lord Hamilton*."
(*who, from what I can tell, was either the most oblivious man in history or knew exactly what was going on with his wife and Nelson, given how fondly he wrote to Nelson, and that apparently he died holding Nelson's hand. They apparently called themselves the 'three in one' which I, with my modern sensibilities, side-eye hard, but that's speculation for another time.)
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 05:11 pm (UTC)(I can guarantee you they are going to be finding every excuse in the book to spend time together over the next little while.) And they are both going to be shaven whistle-clean at all times from here to England, no reason, la la, standards must be kept up!
Crisis: Yes, Bush is still first lieutenant when Hotspur sinks -- it happens not two days after the change in command. Hornblower has to testify at Bush's court martial. Also, Crisis has Hornblower and Bush sleeping together again, and we're all fans of that.
I really enjoyed Admiral. Mind you, I felt Bush's absence like a missing tooth, but two of my very favorite Hornblower stories are in there. And by "very favorite" I mean "I howled with laughter and made
And fight pirates or something and nearly sink Nelson. He becomes a SPY. He has a SPY MISSION. Which we don't get to hear about, because the novel stops while the spy mission is still being set up. Fighting pirates is in Admiral, although as I recall it's less pirates and more slavers and Bonapartists? Maybe the people who abduct Hornblower and carry him off to their jungle lair are pirates -- I'd have to go back and check their affiliation.
It *is* a HEA, it's just a complicated HEA. *thinks of all the travails of canon still waiting for them, and wibbles a little bit*
And shh, let me write Kingston first :-) YAAYYYYY
Lydia is always going to be a vale of tears. But I've written a short bit about the end there that makes it less vale of tears-y so maybe it isn't SO bad. MORE YAYYYY. I want to see all the bits you've written. And all the bits you're planning on writing, too. Gimme gimme!
I can see it now: "Maria's opinions on having the press skewer her as being another Lady Hamilton when in fact she's Lord Hamilton*." As I said, I want all the stories!
Lord Hamilton: Everything I know about the Hamiltons I learned from Black Sails fandom, but can we rule out that Lord Hamilton had his own thing going with Nelson? And that's why he didn't mind Nelson's thing with his wife?
They apparently called themselves the 'three in one' which I, with my modern sensibilities, side-eye hard... Why do you side-eye it? I'm missing a piece of your train of thought there. Or are you alluding to the possibility that all three of them had things with both of the others?
You know, somewhere in canon there's a bit where Hornblower has the shuddering horrors of being publicly linked with a mistress like SOME naval captains he won't name -- was that meant to be a shout-out to Nelson and the Hamiltons, do you think?
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 06:01 pm (UTC)Standards must be observed, naturally. Which is all fine and good but doesn't explain why the captain and first lieutenant are wearing each other's waistcoats.
Oh shit. Poor boy. TWO DAYS?? I thought that was the case but I didn't realise just how bad it was.
I will get around to reading Admiral eventually. My feelings on Barbara are complicated: I've come to the conclusion I like her on her own but not when she's trying to do the 'loving wife' routine - she's quite fun when she's stirring shit up and bossing Hornblower around, like she did on the Lydia. I've been toying around with an idea about Captain Bush in the West Indies, but we'll see how that goes.
Hey, at least we get canon snuggles in Flying Colours. There's that to look forward to. And Commodore quarter gallery shenanigans.
Hmm, I could post some snippets over on my page. If you like. No guarantees they'll ever evolve into anything, of course.
Yeah, that's why I side-eye the fact they called themselves 'three in one' because... really? To my modern mind it sounds rather throuple-ish. Of course, we'll never know, but it is a curious state of affairs. (I need to read more on Nelson, to be honest. I don't know a huge amount about him other than he was a tactical genius and he was unfortunately very supportive of the slave trade, and also a 5'4" shrimp.)
(Also speaking of three people all living together, that's also what Cornwallis did - he never married and so he retired to his estate with his best friend and his best friend's wife and child - the wife was a woman named Mary Anne Whitby who would go on to conduct breeding experiments on silkworms to aid Darwin in his theory of natural selection.)
And I'm usually missing a piece of my train of thought. So don't worry there.
Almost certainly. There were a good number of caricatures skewering the Hamiltons and Nelson - one in particular depicted Lord Hamilton being too obsessed with his antiquities to notice what was going on. It's something I wish Forester had touched on - by the time of Flying Colours Hornblower is famous, so it follows that he would potentially be caricatured.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 07:25 pm (UTC)she's quite fun when she's stirring shit up and bossing Hornblower around... Oh, good! I predict you'll like her Admiral story then. :-D
Yay, snippets!
I did know about Cornwallis, actually -- it was one of the things I was thinking about when I was writing the Tegmore 'verse. You could set up house with your best friend, if you wanted -- there was social space for that.
And ooh, the question of how Hornblower would be caricatured! If only I was a better artist, that would be fun to play with, maybe.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 07:50 pm (UTC)I think my biggest issue with Forester's characterisation of Barbara is he doesn't lean into the Not Like Other Girls enough. She's Not Like Other Girls until... she's Mrs Perfect Wife. So I'm glad to hear she causes some trouble later on.
I should have known! I apologise for telling you things you already knew :-) But yes, there was the social space for setting up house with your best friend. It was easier for women to get away with, because while they might face social ridicule or criticism at least there there's nothing illegal potentially going on. (Ladies of Llangollen, for instance.)
Oh, I wish I could draw better. I did write something once about someone cartooning Bush/Barbara/Hornblower, but written is far different from drawn.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 08:18 pm (UTC)It's the last hurrah of the Hotspur. Oh, but they have another seven months yet. Even if they do spend a couple of months of that in dock, repairing her transom.
I actually have huge problems with Not Like Other Girls, including the way Forester deployed it. But that's a separate rant for a separate place. I can agree, however, that Barbara is at her best when she has her own opinions about things.
And no worries about telling me things I already know! There's a ton of stuff I don't know, and it can be fun to natter about things we both know. :-)
Have I seen what you've written about Bush/Barbara/Hornblower cartoons?
no subject
Date: 2019-09-15 08:51 am (UTC)(THAT BEING SAID: I have yet to come across any examples of officers being caught together during the Napoleonic era. According to a historian at the Maritime Museum in Greenwich who gave a talk on queer history in the Royal Navy there aren't any officer/officer courts martial recorded, only officer/sailor, or sailor/sailor. Which as the historian pointed out is probably because officers had more privacy. So it's not out of the realm of possibility they could get up to all sorts of nonsense so long as they were careful.)
Ooh yeah, that's right. It sort of gets glossed over, doesn't it? Well, all the better for me.
Oh, I realise that probably came out like I was supporting the Not Like Other Girls trope. God, no, I can't stand it. My issue is that Forester plays with it while not going all the way -- if you're going to have some 19th century adventuress gallivanting about trying to start affairs with married men then take it all the way. Barbara Isn't Like Other Girls, Look She's Fighting At Waterloo, See How Superior She Is To Maria Who Only Wants A House And Babies And Is Boring.
This is true!
*looks guilty* It's very lumpy and short but it's on my DW now.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-15 06:16 pm (UTC)Oo, I would have liked to have heard that talk at the Maritime Museum! And yes, that sounds legit -- more privacy, and more reason to associate in private, to boot.
We hear nothing about the last seven months of the Hotspur, beyond the incident of Bush showing up wasted at the Hornblowers' door, ecstatic that NO ONE got any prize money, and accidentally giving Maria reason to believe that Hornblower is keeping secrets from her. (Which she takes very well, being Maria.) So yes, you have ample room to work with there!
I suspect we're talking at cross purposes wrt the "Not Like Other Girls" trope. The heart of that trope is a willingness to throw other women under the bus in the quest for male approval. It's very much a male fantasy: the ideal woman is one who not only prefers to do "male" things that you like, thereby not annoying you with her icky female interests, but one who also repudiates alliances with women in the same stroke, cleaving to men like you for her social validation. So when Forester goes on about how "mannish" Barbara is, how well she fits herself into the male world of the Lydia, and how she likewise spends her time associating with men and not with women, that's the heart of the "Not Like Other Girls" trope. (Maria, in contrast, is considered repulsive in her loyalties to her sex: not only does she have her own domestic world in which Hornblower is superfluous, but she also maintains her relationship with her mother. As I recall, there's also a suspicion that she associates with other officers' wives while he's away at sea: again, she unforgivably draws strength from alliances with her gender. In Atropos, too, we see her in the company of other women.)
That Barbara eventually becomes a doting wife is actually just the logical extension of the "Not Like Other Girls" trope -- she gets all her validation from men, so of course she becomes the ideal wife, finding fulfillment in his child, in perfectly understanding and supporting his going off to war (even unto gifting him weapons to do so), in putting aside her life in Smallbridge to join him in his posting in Le Havre... Marie is similar: not a single female alliance in sight, getting all her approval from men, and taking up weapons to stand at Hornblower's side in battle, even dying for him. And of course both Barbara and Marie could give a fuck for the woman Hornblower already has at home: they get their social validation from men, not women.
Anyway, given that the heart of the trope is rejecting women and femininity in the quest for male approval, the remedy isn't to become more atypically mannish, but to forge alliances with women. Which is why I so badly want the Maria x Barbara story hinted at in A Ship of the Line. Maria shows every sign of forming an alliance with Barbara there, and the godmother relationship suggests that it might actually have come to fruit.
So, yes, I enjoy it when Barbara tells Hornblower to fuck off (as she does in Admiral, as she does at the end of Lord), but what I crave is her telling Hornblower to fuck off to the point of herself forging a bond with another woman.
...and that's the rant I wasn't going to make, sorry.
Anyway, back to cheerier topics: hurrah, more fic! *does the more fic dance*
no subject
Date: 2019-09-15 07:29 pm (UTC)The talk was really quite good -- there wasn't that much information that I didn't already know, but it validated my own knowledge. (That being said, I had no idea George Villiers was Lord Admiral!) There was an interesting point made, however, that I keep circling back to -- how until the farce of Wilde's trial and the ensuing fear that men together were acting inappropriately it was a lot more acceptable for men to be physically affectionate with each other ('Kiss me, Hardy') and so naturally I wonder just *how* much that affection could be shown publicly without inciting suspicion. (Which reminds me, I need to share that picture I found with two naval officers holding hands.)
See, this is why I shouldn't be allowed to write anything at 2am when I get home from work. Yes, yes, I agree wholeheartedly. I wasn't really working with a clear definition there so I got a bit muddled. I think the biggest issue I have with Barbara is she's so anachronistic (also her name sticks out like a sore thumb in her family.) She's a 20th century male fantasy in a 19th century world -- not saying that such women didn't exist, of course, but as far as I know a single woman such as herself would have been scorned for preferring the company of men -- it would be suspicious. I'm not particularly well-versed in Austen, but to my mind that's what lends her work such reality, that there are women with deep emotional attachments to other women. And I agree on Marie, she is there just for men. She is passive, she gives her body to Hornblower both to comfort him and later to die for him. Neither her nor Barbara care for other women. And even Maria, to a certain extent, exists only for her husband, but she at least finds company in other women. And yes, I do want the Barbara/Maria story, although I fear there that's still just Barbara interacting with another woman for a man's benefit.
(This is just making me want to work on my gender-swap story, which always ends up being very funny because the male versions of Marie and Barbara exist ONLY to be there for women.)
No, don't apologise for the rant. I need to get better at nailing down definitions before I expound on them.
*does the more fic cringe*
no subject
Date: 2019-09-15 07:53 pm (UTC)Yes, Barbara is SUCH a 20th c. male fantasy -- she may be "mannish" for 1808, but there's nothing about her that's unfeminine for 1937.
And yes, I do want the Barbara/Maria story, although I fear there that's still just Barbara interacting with another woman for a man's benefit. Oh, it could be, certainly. I think it's up to the author whether it is, though.
(This is just making me want to work on my gender-swap story, which always ends up being very funny because the male versions of Marie and Barbara exist ONLY to be there for women.) Yay, more stories!
*does the more fic cringe* Hush, that ficlet was the high point of my morning. Your fic brings genuine pleasure to other people, and you have my permission to tell yourself that as often as you need to.