[for his_majestys_navy ] when your day is night alone ["1802"]

[midship]

Horatio is here for a reason. He had come this far from home on his own merit. He had been entrusted with his own command by the recommendation of competent men. He had kept all his own men on this next adventure off the love he had earned from them, one nerve-wracking day at a time.

But the Caribbean is still new. The particularities of the Caribbean haven't yet become a part of him.

For a man so willing to bend the rules of war, Horatio puts an odd amount of trust in the flags of other ships in the distance. He hasn't seen all the friendly British ships in the islands. He doesn't know on sight which old Dutch refits belonged to the King.

Quick as his mind is, it starts too late. Fast though he's acclimated to the warmer winds and stranger tides, it sinks his heart into his feet when struck colours are replaced by the unfamiliar dark of a Jolly Roger.

The battle comes like a tropical storm. More than ever, it's a blessing that he's got his own men with him, strong and certain and unflappable even in the hot waves and irregular volley of guns. Trusting them to trust his thoughts, even half-formed and shouted over the violence around them, is not unlike trusting himself.

It's better than trusting himself.

As much as the pain bursting through his shoulder ought to caution him, it's Matthews suddenly at his elbow that first brings his senses to him in the thick of battle. They can't hold their own in a little sloop with twenty guns. The decks are starting to seep red through the black of powder. The time has come to throw themselves back to the wind and cut their losses. The faces he knows are on too many crumpled bodies; the whistle of shot is too close to too many ears.

Maybe there's time for one last gambit. There's always an even chance that even these pirates will be taken aback by something bold at the last moment. Desperation always leaves space for invention. Backed into a corner is often where Horatio flourishes.

The thought is barely in his head, his lips barely parted, when the world goes black.

He won't remember when the mast came down. He won't remember when the Hotspur came crawling back into port, barely under her own power. He also won't remember what must have been horrendous pain of wood splintering off the mast and into his own side.

Comments

[his_majestys_navy]

Horatio is right; James spends too much time locked within the confines of Fort Charles and not enough time at sea. He has become an overseer, an administrator, to no small degree he is simply a figurehead. His lieutenants need time at sea, need to prove themselves as Commanders in order to obtain the promotion they deserve and so he rarely goes to sea. It's his duty, but even so, he misses the roll of the waves under his feet, the snap of sail as wind blows, the comforting rock of a hammock.

Once the Hotspur returns, then there will be plenty of opportunities. He can find many reasons to go to sea again, to take the Interceptor out, to feel the spray as she cuts through the water. He can see Horatio in command, see first-hand how his men take orders, he can see how the young man has grown and excelled in the heat of the Indies.

He is indescribably pleased with Horatio. He is quick and intelligent, and although as Commodore James has always denounced recklessness, he finds himself thinking of Horatio as courageous rather than foolhardy. He is, he knows, allowing his personal attachment to the young man to influence his view, but he is powerless to help it now. Even knowing that he is himself being unforgivably reckless, he wants to see Horatio on a quarterdeck, master of his ship, handsome and fulfilled.

That all requires the Hotspur returning. The last dispatches arrived two weeks ago, and since then, according to James' own observations, the weather has been good, the winds fair. Every day for the last three days he has found reasons to walk the battlements, lingering during inspections, watching the ocean. The horizon has been empty, far too empty.

It's on the morning of the fourth day when the cry goes up that there is a sail. James has to stop himself from racing up the stone steps to the battlement, heart in his throat. It must be the Hotspur, late but not unreasonably so, not when all manner of things can delay a ship. He forces his breathing to remain normal, ignores the sudden churning in his stomach, a strange feeling creeping over him as his hands touch the stones of the parapet.

Something's wrong.

Suddenly a cold flood fills his veins and he's reaching for his eyeglass.

"She's a mast down." Gilette says, at his elbow, "And low in the water."

"Get the launches." James hears himself say, feeling horribly detached in the moment, and he can feel Gilette's concerns eyes on him before he relays the order.

From the launch, the damage to the Hotspur is painfully clear. The fact she has made it back to Port Royal is a miracle in itself, and James finds himself offering a prayer of thanks despite his private misgivings. It's not the done thing for a Commodore to go aboard a stricken ship himself, and certainly not first, but protocol be damned, he is not going to pace back and forth and wait for Gilette to bring him news.

He is up and aboard the limping ship with his heart hammering, the smell of powder, blood, burnt wood and scorched sail is strong. There's not enough men on deck, and Horatio is no where to be seen.

And that's when he spots Matthews, pale-faced and blood-stained, emerging from the cabin.

That's when the world stops. Hours pass. Horatio is ashen-faced and unconscious when the surgeon pushes passed James and into the cabin, when the young man is taken carefully back to shore on a launch. Fort Charles is too far, so Horatio is taken to the house technically belonging to James. Someone spurs the housekeeper and the maids into action; hot water, bandages. It happens around him like a fever-dream, and it is only when Horatio groans that James feels himself snap back. He has seen men operated on, he has seen fellow officers lose limbs or eyes, he has seen them die.

None of that has come close to watching as long slivers of evil looking wood are dug out of Horatio's torso. It might have been years ago that his lips danced over that plane of skin, where flesh is now ripped and mottled with bruising. It's all that he can do to help hold Horatio down, all his weight on the young lieutenant's shoulders as smaller fragments of his beloved Hotspur are tugged from his body.

He feels sick to his stomach even after fresh bandages are wrapped around the thin, pale, feverish body, every breath shallow, and Horatio is made comfortable in a bed. James does not dare leave, he does not dare to look away for a moment, in case the next breath does not come. He doesn't turn to the door when it's opened, he does not even notice the strange look in Gilette's eyes when brandy is brought in. He only vaguely hears the door shut when the man leaves, and only then does he allow himself to reach out for Horatio's hand. Warm, still. That at least brings him hope.

"I should have assigned you more Marines. You should have had the Interceptor."

[midship]

It isn't so bad, at first. Kept still apart from a flurry of attempted bandaging, harried examination, Horatio's mind stays sunk in a deep unconsciousness that holds back the eddying pain.

It becomes more difficult when they start to move him. Pain laps greedily at the edges of his consciousness as his body is moved from cabin to launch, from launch to cart, from cart to bed. The haze of shock keeps more of it depressed, dull and distant, not quite breaching through to his waking mind.

Then, abruptly, it's all impossibly terrible.

His mind can't focus well enough to understand the staggering new pain of being cut into, much less the searing pain of having shrapnel dug out of his flesh. Fishing out the flecks of metal from the odd ricocheted ball aches, but it's nothing compared to the fire which races through him as long dark splinters of wood are worked out of his damaged flesh.

Barely conscious, his body groans without him. Trapped between pain and oblivion, his body twists and trembles without him, reeling against the new source of too much pain.

There's exhaustion on top of the rest once he's settled down, clean and snugly bandaged. The pieces of himself which grasp hesitantly at reality again claw for sleep over wakefulness. Were it someone else, Horatio might even be fascinated by the manner in which his own mind seems so intent on holding itself back safely from the ravages of the rest of his body.

Somewhere far away, one hand feels warmer than the other. Beyond the thick fog of fever and haze of almost-sleep, someone is speaking to him. His breath comes in a soft shudder, fingers twitching without conscious thought.

He might well be resting, now. Surely there's comfort in that.

[his_majestys_navy]

The surgeon had said that Horatio would sleep, that it would be hours until he woke, perhaps days. He would sleep and heal, and that was the best thing for him. James is uncertain that is the case, but he can acknowledge the fact that a little colour has returned to Horatio's face, and that, asleep, he can not be in pain.

Or so James hopes. The twitch of fingers against his hand may be a response to his words, it may be a spasm of pain or a result of whatever feverish dream Horatio may be suffering. But what can he do? Nothing more than sit here and wait for Horatio to come to.

There were others on the Hotspur who were injured. Too many. The surgeons of Fort Charles and Port Royal will have their work cut out for them, and Gilette and Groves will already be preparing the Dauntless to go out after the pirates. It makes James livid, rage boiling in him, to think that pirates would dare sail so close to Port Royal, that they would attack a Navy ship. He has no choice but to pursue, to scour the sea until he can find and destroy them.

Horatio would no doubt want to go with him. But when he wakes it will be weeks before he is strong enough to go back to his duties.

"I do not think this is what you should have done to get me back aboard a ship." He breathes, trying not to help helplessness and despair settle in his chest. "We were going to take the Interceptor to Nassau. The Governor there had concerns about pirates. Although it seems his concerns were not unfounded."

For a moment there is nothing, no sound but Horatio's breathing and James' own. James had won his rank as a pirate hunter, for helping to clear up the Carribean of the dregs of humanity. Clearly, he had failed in that. He had been too lax, he had let the rot back in and now Horatio paid the price for it.

"I am sorry Horatio. Groves or Gilette should have been with you. They know the nature of pirates in these waters. I should have sent the Dauntless out more regularly. There is no excuse. I have allowed this to happen through complacency."

His fingers moved, tracing the knuckles of Horatio's hand, bruised and still dark from powder. Could he leave Horatio like this? What if Horatio awoke, alone, in pain, and James was at sea, days or weeks away? Suppose Horatio never woke, and James was not with him?

The next breath James took was unsteady, but he fought the rising wave of misery. Men died. Good men died, men he cared for and admired, men who deserved better, they all died. If that was to be Horatio's fate, then there were some things that needed to be said.

"You may not believe it to be true, Aethalides, but you have already changed Fort Charles. You have changed me, no doubt. For the better, in both cases. And you would make a fine Captain; that is not simply the opinion of a besotted man. Governor Swann believes so, and the Admiralty would not ignore our joint recommendation."

He sucks in another breath, this as trembling as the first. "I was planning to give you the command of Hotspur permanently. I know you favour her. If she can be repaired, then I will. I think you would like that almost more than a promotion. But you must live, Horatio. You must live if you want to walk her decks again. I would have you show me why you love her so."

[midship]

It would be a great difficulty, when Horatio woke, to keep him resting like this. There were half a dozen ways his mind would be ready to convince himself up to his feet long before he ought to be.

There was his duty, of course. There was the constant pressing need to set himself to his useful purpose. There were the men he had been given the honor of commanding, and there were the men he had been given the honor of serving. There was a nation looming large at the edge of all his thoughts. There was defiance at the edges of these waters to be sorted back into the proper order of things.

More than that, there were the men who had not come home with them. There were names he would have to force himself to remember, searing bright in among the other lives his failures had cost. There were the men who were barely hanging on now, men who would be forever changed by the loss of limb and sense; men he needed to face properly under the weight of all their hurts.

There would be explaining himself to Commodore James Norrington.

And the simplest solution to all of that--the best answer for every burden which would be weighing heavy guilt on his shoulders--would be to return to sea. The only place in the world for penance would be back in the thick of it.

Horatio would argue for it when he awoke. He would fight tooth and nail to be once again fighting tooth and nail.

But all that would be when he awoke.

That much, for the moment, at least seemed more of a 'when' than an 'if.' For the moment, Horatio's chest is rising and falling with quiet regularity. What fight lingers in his veins is being used, clearly, in efforts to keep himself alive.

It may be hours yet before his mind allows itself to find proper consciousness again. Perhaps it means nothing, then, that his head shifts very slightly on his pillow toward the soft voice close at hand. Perhaps it's not even something worth noticing.

[his_majestys_navy]

James noticed. Horatio was the sole focus of his attention, like a man watching the horizon for land, how could he miss such a movement, as gentle as it is? For a moment his heart stills, hoping Horatio's eyes might open, but he remains asleep, his breathing soft but steady, and James allows himself to breathe again. He reaches forwards, fingertips gently stroking Horatio's dark curls off of his brow. The young man's skin is warm to the touch, even in the humid Caribbean air, but James fancies that Horatio is not as hot as he was when they took him off the limping ship.

His fingers linger, stroking gently in Horatio's hair. It is too tender, too intimate a gesture and he is well aware of that, but it comforts him, and he can only hope that Horatio can feel it in his dreams and know that he is cared for.

"The shipwrights will look over her. How long it will take to make her sailable again I do not know. There is almost as many holes in the Hotspur as there are in you, currently. But you will both be fit for service again, God willing."

God willing or not, James will not have a valuable ship lost under his name, nor a promising officer. But it is Horatio whom James Norrington the man cares more about, not a ship. But he knows about absolution. He knows the guilt that weighs on shoulders, the weight of lost souls and ruined lives, of fatherless children far away and women without husbands. James knows about all of those things.

There will be work to do in that regard, money to be collected and sent home, letters to write to the Admiralty. The Hotspur's logs will have to be updated, and while it would be Horatio's duty to do it, James would save him from it if he can. He will not have Horatio get out of bed only to collapse under the pressure of duty.

"I would stay here with you while you recover, but the attack on the Hotspur demands retaliation. I will not send anyone else in my stead, I could not. When we saw the sails on the horizon I do not think I have felt a greater joy since my first command. And then when the state of her was clear, I-" He stops, momentarily, voice threatening to falter, and he forces the emotion back down, his hand still in Horatio's hair, "I can not imagine losing anything would hurt as much as the thought that I had lost you."

[midship]

Fingers in his hair have, by and large, always been a pleasant enough thing. There were the brief moments of parental affection, the absent flicking of fingers over unruly curls to tame at the mop. There were the odd instances of having physical exertion, the wonderful sensation of having fingers tangled in his hair while bodies rutted and breath caught and lips dragged over freshly exposed skin.

This touch, soft and protective, is new. Even lost in sleep as he is, Horatio's entire being can't help twisting slightly in the direction of this flicker of tenderness.

It doesn't matter the words are too far away. It doesn't matter that he's barely sensible--that he couldn't begin to guess who was speaking to him from being the thick fog of his slowly fading fever.

The gentle touch is enough, steady and tangible through the haze. Words will return later. For now, all the matters is clinging to this grounding sensation. All that matters is making certain enough of him returns to this place where someone is looking out for him.

There's a tremble in the touch--or, perhaps, it's a tremble in the voice he can't quite here. Instinct has him attempting to roll over onto his side, closer to the source. In an instant, his entire side is on fire again, an unhappy groan catching in his lips.

[his_majestys_navy]

James should have been watching for that, not admiring Horatio's form. The surgeon had told him not to allow the young man to move. The rents in his torso had been closed, but pressure and movement would quickly open them again.

He was up on his feet in a moment; his hand moved, clamping down on Horatio's shoulder, pressing him gently but firmly back down onto the bed. He could see the tension and pain in that pale face, his own heart beating nineteen to the dozen. He wanted Horatio to feel better, even under Morpheus' control, to feel comfort knowing someone was with him, but he could not allow him to risk further hurt.

"You must rest, Horatio." He said, letting his hand move carefully from the lithe shoulder, back to Horatio's cheek. "Even a Commodore feels the sharp side of a surgeon's tongue."

The wrath of the surgeon was nothing, of course. Nothing in comparison to the guilt of knowing Horatio had been hurt further, and he had allowed it to happen. Allowed more hurt to be piled upon the young officer, allowed him and his men and his beloved ship to come to harm because of his own lack of foresight.

His knuckles gently brushed Horatio's cheek as James settled back into the chair, pulled close to the head of the bed. His bed, although barely used. It would have been far more pleasant to see Horatio in it under any other circumstances, but he could not change that. All he could do was atone for his failings.

"Sleep, Horatio. I will be here when you wake."

The afternoon sun was already low on the horizon, the room dark. Tomorrow's tides would not be favourable, but the day after he would have no choice but to take the Dauntless to sea. His quarry has too much of an advantage already.

He shouldn't sleep. He wants to stay up, to watch Horatio by lamp light, but emotional exhaustion has him in its hold. Try as it might, sleep can't loosen the tight grip of his hand on Horatio's.

[midship]

Being pressed down again helps. There's something oddly soothing about being held down, a firm familiar voice somewhere just beyond the haze.

This is the sort of caring Horatio is used to. This simply feels better for the half-certain conviction that somehow, inexplicably, impossibly, it's James Norrington looking after him.

The dawn is still a few hours off when consciousness properly finds Horatio again. His mind still feels incredibly foggy. The world doesn't quite sort into place even once his eyes begin blinking open. In part, of course, there's the simple impossibility of having been blasted into unconsciousness under the hot sun on the Hotspur's deck and, somehow, waking up in the dark of a comfortable bed on land.

His fingers twist against the ones holding onto his, breath coming in a low confused sort of noise.

[his_majestys_navy]

James has slept in chairs before. He's slept in much more uncomfortable places, actually, but his tall frame is crumpled slightly in sleep, head lolled forwards back slumped. But it isn't a deep sleep. Navy officers learn to be light sleepers in time. The change in Horatio's breathing as he wakes isn't quite enough to stir him, but that low noise seems to register, as does the tightening of the hand in his.

"Horatio?"

The muzziness clears as he forces himself to sit up straight, to reach over to the oil lamp, the gloom receding somewhat. Horatio seems unbelievably pale, even against the white sheets, although James hopes that is the effect of the moonlight.

"Horatio, please do not strain yourself. The surgeon has done as best as he can, but you will take time to heal."

But it does his heart so much good to see Horatio's eyes open, to see life in him, even if it is dazed and confused. His hand keeps hold of Horatio's, squeezing gently as he shifts, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

He doesn't want to strain him, he doesn't want Horatio to do too much, to exhaust himself and lapse back into unconsciousness. He will have to tell him everything, he knows that much, he will have to find out what Horatio remembers. But he is awake, and that is the most important thing to James at that moment.

[midship]

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--"

[his_majestys_navy]

It was cowardly perhaps to have wanted to avoid this. Not forever. Not even for a day, but just until he could be certain that Horatio's recovery was guaranteed. He had known men to come around and then to die because of bad news.

He would not lie to Horatio. He could not, in good conscious do such a thing. But perhaps he could spare him some pain and distress. That was his duty.

"She took heavy damage. She has lost a mast, much of her sail and rigging. I understand there is a great deal of water below decks. But we will save her if we can. She brought you home."

And for that James would do all he could to salvage her. He had already some idea that the spare mast from Interceptor could be made good. She would have to be hauled out the water, no doubt, but it might be possible.

"Your Mr Matthews will receive a commendation you can be sure. Without him I would have neither you, nor the ship, nor what crew remains."

His free hand moved, to the lieutenant's brow and brushed his hair from his face.

"This is not your doing, Horatio. I should not have sent a man inexperienced with pirates out alone. The guilt is mine."

[midship]

The Hotspur had been dismasted.

The first shudder that passes through Horatio is the simple shiver of mourning, a man wracked by the news of a loved one terribly injured. The second shiver brings his eyes flickering closed again, lips pressed firm together to prevent a sob escaping them as the first wracking of guilt settled into his tired limbs.

Men had died and the Hotspur had been dismasted on his watch.

He doesn't deserve the comfort of the fingers smoothing against his hair. He doesn't deserve the gentle offer of relief on the other man's lips.

"It was... m-my command, sir."

Taking too deep a breath hurts. His eyes squeeze firmer shut for a moment, fingers tight and unhappy around James's fingers.

(He doesn't deserve the small comfort of the man sitting beside him and caring for his hurts. He can't bring himself to let go yet.)

[his_majestys_navy]

"And you are my command."

The words are still gentle; unlike Horatio, James is well aware how close he came to not having any of them. He will take the Hotspur, demasted, he will take Horatio, injured. He will take on his shoulders every name that must be entered in Hotspur's log as fell in action. The guilt does not fall at the lieutenant's feet. It falls at is.

His fingers stroke, aware even in the darkness of the water gathering in Horatio's eyes.

"She was not lost, Horatio. I will not see you court maritalled. Not when you ordered the men to disengage." That was what Matthews had reported, that the order had been given the second before the mast was torn to shreds and their only commissioned officer had been incapacitated.

No, it was James' fault. He has sent Horatio out unsupported, he had failed to ensure the threat of pirates was controlled, he had failed to even provide them with a surgeon. Should anyone deserve a court martial, it was him.

"But I will see you recover, fully. I will see you take a command again, and I will see you earn your Captaincy. You are not the first man to ever come close to losing a ship."

[midship]

"It was-- too late."

There had already been so many losses when Horatio thought to turn them around. There had already been lives sacrificed to his inexperience and pride. It's impossible, with the battle so fresh in his entire being, not to feel stuck somewhere far away from the gentleness being offered.

"You trusted me."

His thoughts slam in a much more disjointed tumble than their usual flurry. There were so many sharper hurts among them than in the pain radiating softly through his side now.

"You trusted me, and I was-- too slow."

[his_majestys_navy]

James shakes his head. He has had Matthew's report, in brief, when Horatio had been taken ashore. From his account, it had appeared Horatio had little time to consider any other action that return fire. But he will have Horatio's side of things, in the fullness of time. Not now, when pain no doubt clouds his recollection.

"I trust you still, as do your men."

They had been more concerned with Horatio that with their own injuries, but James did not need that evidence to prove that the lieutenant was loved by the men who served him.

"I allowed you to go out unprepared, Horatio. The responsibility lies with me, and I will put it to rights as best I can. We will both learn from this, and we will both be expected to give our explanations to the admiral. But by then the foul creatures that did this will be at the end of a rope, God help me."

James clears his throat, jaw relaxing. He had not intended to sound so vehement. It was said now though, and he could not take back the words. He could not make them sound less angry, nor could he take back the implication that he would be leaving.

"I will be setting sail on the next favourable tide."

[midship]

Pellew had yelled, from time to time. His voice had rattled through to Horatio's core. It had been a very paternal sort of anger, the sound and fury of what felt like a force from on high.

It's different with James. The tension is half-familiar, a set jaw and a growling tone. It's just that there's also something half-strange in the anger. There's something he might even call protective about James's words.

He could almost allow them to soothe him for now. He could almost simply accept that his men--good, honest, earnest, foolish in their resolute devotion to such an imperfect officer--would hold onto their faith in him. He could almost sink back into oblivion knowing he wouldn't immediately be sent away or, worse still, sent back to a life on the shore.

Except.

To his credit, Horatio doesn't actually try to sit up properly. His fingers dig tighter at the hand in his own, blunt nails making half-moons in the commodore's skin.

"Will they l-let me on my feet by the next t-tide, sir?"

[his_majestys_navy]

Shouting is part and parcel of being an officer. You have to shout across a ship in bad weather, over guns, over the sounds of battle. Orders must be heard over whatever din there is aboard ship, but James has always favoured cold anger, quiet and cold. It seems less passionate, but that is not the case.

He is not angry at Horatio. Worried, frightened, yes but not angry. All his spite at the moment is saved for the pirates who ran false colours, who used the colours of the king to kill and maim his loyal servants, who dare to sail around the colonies as if it is their right.

This time Horatio moves, James' hand is not required to push him back into the bed, but his hand moves to the young man's shoulder even so. It's a weight meant not only to keep him still, but also to make him realise the gravity of his injuries.

It does not strike him at the moment that they are clinging to each other, holding tight like a man to driftwood.

"No, Horatio, they won't. You need to stay and rest, and recover. I saw the splinters they took out of you, and I can not condone you getting out of bed for several days. If you try I will demote you personally."

He says, and then he leans in, and for the first time in what feels like months, presses a kiss to Horatio's lips. "You are not to die, understood?"

[midship]

These words crash over Horatio like a crush of violent waves. They knock the breath from his chest, head shaking even as he allows himself to be held in place.

Having lips pressed to his brings the breath back into his lungs. Unfortunately, he can't quite keep that breath even and steady.

"Please-- Please."

James must understand. James must remember the intense panic of being a junior officer struggling under the weight of lost lives.

"Please don't-- make me stay here."

Not when there were men leaving. Not when James himself would be sailing to face the very men who had blown the Hotspur so close to pieces.

[his_majestys_navy]

James understands. The guilt does not ebb as rank increases, not when suddenly one has the responsibility for the health and well-being of several hundred men or more, not simply one gun crew or one ship. Norrington has the lives of over a thousand men on his shoulders, navy seaman and marines, and he knows the crushing weight of that responsibility.

"Listen," He says, pulling back so he can watch Horatio's face, watch his eyes and make sure the words sink in. "You must serve the memory of those men. You must serve to the best of your abilities, for as long and as hard as you can. God has their souls but you have their memories, and you must honour them. No one else, do you understand? You must be well, you must be fit for duty, or you disgrace them."

He will not order Horatio to stay ashore, not in so many words, not directly, not if he can get the lieutenant to understand by any other means. He knows Horatio wants to earn his atonement now, he wants to throw himself into work to survive the guilt, but he can not. If he were not so gravely injured, James would take him in a heartbeat.

But it is not to be.

"Do you understand? We will repair the Hotspur and you will have her again, but you are no use to me, or your men, or the Navy unless you recover. If you were better, if the surgeons were not concerned about your life, I would take you. This is not to punish you, I know you do not want to be left here."

[midship]

It's difficult to meet the other man's eyes. It isn't as difficult, of course, as it will be to meet the eyes of the men he'll need to face if he ever wants to walk the deck of a ship again.

A short, sharp breath helps him focus. It does nothing to cure his frown or the unhappy tension in his shoulders, but it's a start.

James is right, of course. It doesn't lessen the weight pressing down on Horatio's heart, but that certainly doesn't make reality less real. There is no rushing back and hoping for death. There is no dragging what's left of his men to their doom--or to watch him die and drag the names of the lost with him into the deep.

He can't help the briefly frustrated sigh that falls from his lips. He can't help the unhappily tight way his fingers cling just a bit too tight to the older man's.

If this is reality, it's far better that he isn't alone while growing accustomed to it.

"Ah-- Aye aye, sir." It isn't the most conviction he's ever spoken with. Still, no small part of that is the general tightness in his throat. "But will you not-- leave me something?"

It couldn't be that he simply had to lie here and wonder. Surely there was some penance he could make in his convalescence. Surely there was some task to set his mind to apart from hating every inch of himself.

[his_majestys_navy]

Horatio will have to learn to live with the heavy weight in his chest, he will have to learn to walk with it pressing down on his soul and the pain it will cause in the small hours of the night. James knows that Horatio barely sleeps as it is, that he sleeps lightly, but so do almost all officers. James rarely sleeps through the night- he normally hears each watch change.

No doubt Horatio will have even more sleepless nights in his future, but James can only pray that in the meantime, boredom will force him to sleep, to heal.

"I will leave you an entire study full of books, and a view of the sea, and all my affection." And the prospects of a newly repaired and refitted Hotspur. But James will not press that, not until he can speak to the shipwrights and ensure it.

"We could not carry you back to the fort," James says, after a moment. Horatio isn't likely to have noticed his surroundings, he would not recognise them even so. "So you are to recuperate in my lodgings. I shall have Matthews or Mr Wellard bring you news front the fort and the town. Is that not something enough for you?"

That at least is said with a rare smile, an arched eyebrow. Horatio is quiet, but that is not to say he does not make his demands. James is well aware of that.

[midship]

This is so, so much more than Horatio deserves.

Being brought into the strange new sanctuary of the commodore's home is overwhelming. Being offered the use of James's books, loved and prized things that they are, is beyond his merit after such a disastrous return. Being gently assured that a handful of those dearest to him were alive--were alive and capable of coming down to visit him under their own power--was far more than he deserved.

Being so simply handed James's affection and a gentle smile has his entire being trembling again.

"S-Sir."

What else is there to say? What else is left in his mind when this much overwhelms everything from his lips and mind?

[his_majestys_navy]

The 'sir' is enough to .ale him sigh again, albeit gently. But it will do and he will press Horatio for nothing more now. He must rest and this has probably already been too much exertion for a body still stressed and strained.

"The surgeons will have my head if you do not get more rest." James says, hand moving to once more brush through Horatio's hair. "I will stay with you as long as I can, until morning, I promise you that."

But then he would have to go. The sea and duty called to him, demanded he righted his mistakes and avenged lives lost or ruined. He would see that through even if he had to leave his heart here to recover alongside Horatio.

"Go to sleep, and I will remain here."

[midship]

This last kindness brings prickling tears of exhaustion to the corners of Horatio's eyes. It's difficult to move, but his less bandaged arm shifts to catch at the wrist of the hand smoothing his hair.

There's something painfully important about pressing his cheek into James's hand. There's the first step of absolution in fumbling his lips against the heel of James's palm.

"You won't... leave. W-Without waking me?"

He nearly manages to simply repeat the sentiment. The question tacks itself on without much conscious thought.

[his_majestys_navy]

James should have considered the question before he answered. Horatio needs rest. Once awake, James has little doubt Horatio will try and do something, even if it is simply sit up and read. He is simply not well enough for that yet.

But despite that, James nods into the darkness. "I will not go without telling you so."

He really has grown soft. Perhaps it is that gentle kiss that makes him even more so, makes his heart skip before settling back into its natural rhythm. Horatio has no doubt done something to him, although he can not easy say how or when the change happened, or if it is as simple as that.

There's enough room for James to sit up against the head-rest on Horatio's otherside, and he shifts to move there. At least then Horatio has some comfort in knowing James is close.

[midship]

Horatio doesn't deserve the quiet sanctuary of James's assurances. He doesn't deserve the odd safety of having the older man beside him. He doesn't deserve the firm promise that he won't be abandoned to wake up with only his tormenting thoughts for comfort.

His fingers scramble to stay firm around the hand nearest his. He won't risk sitting up properly for a kiss. He won't risk rolling over and sending fire through the hurt in his side.

He can't help clinging all the same.

"...thank you, James."

[his_majestys_navy]

Horatio doesn't need to move, not as James gently settles as close as he can, so his free hand can continue to gently stroke through the younger man's hair. He's going to stay there, stay close, until he has to leave. He'll make sure Horatio gets what sleep he can, and that is all he can do until the tides change.

Then he has to trust his heart to the surgeons, to the officers he is leaving behind. He will have stern words with Wellard and Matthews, leave strict instructions that Horatio should not leave his bed for at least a week.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to Horatio's forehead. There's no need for the thanks, but he will accept it, in the hope that Horatio will settle down, that the quiet in the room will help ease some of that pain and anxiety.

[midship]

There are many things Horatio doesn't deserve, in this moment. He doesn't deserve this gentle proximity. He doesn't deserve this genuine reassurance. He certainly doesn't deserve the light press of affection against his forehead.

He ought to punish himself, if James won't punish him.

But his body betrays him. Little though he deserves any grace, his neck arches slightly, lips offered half-blindly toward the commodore's.

One quiet kiss, and he'll sleep. One last moment of feeling certain he's home, and he'll let himself sink back into the odd oblivion.

[his_majestys_navy]

Horatio has no need to punish himself. No doubt he will attempt it, and as long as he doesn't go too far, and only tries once he's healed, James won't be too upset. This is Horatio, after all.

But for the meantime, he knows what Horatio is after, what the slight tip of his head means. He leans down, the kiss gentle and soft. He'd like to linger, to kiss Horatio more, longer, lingering over each.

He can't however. It would be wrong, it would disturb Horatio from his rest and he sorely needs that. He needs rest, and James has no intention of disturbing him.

[midship]

Guilt will settle on him in the morning. Rage at himself, at his own foolishness, will consume his quiet reflection when he's been left properly alone.

For now, Horatio melts with relief into the comfort of James's gentle kiss.

His fingers have to keep clinging tight to what fabric he can catch hold of. His face has to press into the warmth of the body close beside him.

His mind will drift into unconsciousness again, safe in the knowledge that he hasn't lost the new place he'd come to call 'home.'