Even in a daze, even in the discord of his own thoughts struggling to piece together what had obviously been missed, Horatio's mind catches instantly to that familiar voice.

It's James.

It isn't the Commodore, strangely enough. It isn't the crisp commanding voice that calls him 'Mr. Hornblower' and before whom he makes his report. It isn't the polished tones of a man commanding his fort, his fleet.

Instead, it's simply the man. It's the man who has kissed his throat delicately in the darkness. It's the man whose hair his own fingers have been tangled up in desperately. It's the man who spared him the echo of a smile in difficult moments. It's also, it would seem, the man who stuck beside him into the night while pain and fever began bleeding properly from his injured body.

For a few heartbeats, the sensation overwhelms him into stillness. There's enough difficulty in letting his gaze focus properly on James's features, in making himself settle into the room.

It's a little easier with James sitting beside him. It's a little easier when he lets his fingers settle more comfortably in the older man's.

It's still not perfectly easy.

"The-- The Hotspur--"