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