midship | [for his_majestys_navy ] L'Allemande

[for his_majestys_navy ] L'Allemande - Pecour ["1801"]

By and large, things have been going surprisingly well. The rhythm of the fort is becoming natural. The new names and faces are morphing into men he trusts with his life. The land is beginning to feel like half a home, punctuated with the odd reassuring touch of a stretch at sea. Best of all, the chain of command feels solid in his chest again--proper, solid; absolutely worth throwing his life down for.

Then comes the first invitation.

At sea, it had been easier to ignore the fact that most of his brother officers had come from a much higher rung on the social ladder. Out in the brine, after all, everyone's uniform began to grow threadbare. Everyone's diet was eventually forced to the same hard meal and cheap liquor. Everyone bled and screamed and died on the same planks of wood.

On land, it's easier to see who sends their uniforms away and who mends things themselves. It's easier to see who's spent their lives eating on fine china and who feels the delicacy of even sitting in a comfortable chair. Worst of all by far, on such a small island, it's impossible to avoid the slowly closing noose of high society.

Horatio is still reeling as he wanders along the now-familiar halls of the fort. The young women had been painfully insistent, like an irrepressible gale which threatened to swamp him where he stood. The other officers had handled the encounter manfully, cheerful and gracious and just a the right touch of suggestive to have the women tittering with glee. It should have been enough that the actual lords among them had agreed, but the women insisted--and the fact he had fumbled through an agreement sits now like a stone in his stomach.

The Commodore will know what to do. With any luck, 'what to do' will be to immediately send him off to sea.

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It's truly something to be seen. It lights a soul on fire, to have the world fall away so that the potential in one's gut can be pulled out of the imperfect vessel of one's station in the world. It's thrilling to serve someone who constantly wants--demands-one to be better than one was yesterday.

But this portion of his Commodore's expectations feels utterly impossible.

Most of the skills needed to be a good sailor could be learned and practiced until they were instinct. Many of the skills needed to be a capable leader of men could be as well. The stumbling point was entering the realm of his betters, where the rules were inscrutable and the enemy (inasmuch as there was one; Horatio was fairly certain the brief press of the woman's fingers against his arm had sunk his heart far faster than the sight of a French ship closing in fast from the horizon) could rarely be outwitted by a simple ruse de guerre.

And the dancing. Uncoordinated land-limbs with a tin ear and no training surely couldn't be expected to dance without being far more unacceptably rude than attempting to wrangle his way out of the invitation.

"Sir."

It wouldn't do to actually say any of that, of course. But James is a man who sees him. It's not a hopeless argument to pour into a syllable.

James watches. He watches the young man take the news with no small amount of terror. Practise says a good officer will hide his emotions as best he can, be as calm as a mill pond, and Horatio seems to struggle with hiding his displeasure or his excitement. His eyes stay front, but there's little tells, the widening of his eyes or the very slight parting of his lips, the way he swallows.

James probably shouldn't be watching so closely, but he needs to know his men, and Horatio is the newest into the fold.

Normally the young officers jump at a chance to go to such an event. Normally the ones who have been at sea for a long crossing long for a bit of company from the young ladies of society here. Horatio looks like he's been handed a death sentence.

"Sit down, Mr Hornblower, please." He says, gently. "Why does this distress you so?"

Breathing through fear in battle is easy. Steadiness with death on the horizon is as well. Keeping himself properly still in the face of an impending social event, however, seems impossible--at least, to the small extent Horatio's features ever truly shift to betray a pinch of his constant internal turmoil.

There's a visible tightness at the corners of his lips now, he knows. There's a slight dimple where his teeth have caught hold of the inside of his cheek as he moves with tensed limbs to sit as directed.

"It seems-- disingenuous, sir." His lips have to press together briefly, gaze dropping for a heartbeat as he marshals his arguments. "I expect her ladyship would be-- less offended to hear I had been called to sea than to-- discover she had invited me."

There's no real emphasis in his tone on the word 'me,' but the flicker of hurt in his shoulders (just a brief hunch, just a slight twitch; almost a matter of shifting in his chair more than feeling something wrench through his gut) is likely clear as day to a man as observant as James is of his men.

His brother officers at the Fort have been gentle enough, but Lord knows what the rest of the gentry here would think to find a country doctor's son had been mixed up with the collection of otherwise very eligible young men.

James eyebrows raise, a fair impression of Pellew's own expression in the face of Horatio's similar self-inflicted anxieties. He waits, to see if there is more, but it seems if there is, his young Lieutenant is playing it close to his breast. Very well, James understands that. Horatio is not the first young man to do well in the Navy from humble beginnings.

"You were specifically invited, do not think that our hostess is unaware of who you are." He says, trying to set out the position as well as he can. "You're a fine young man, intelligent, a capable officer, and the newest officer here to boot. There are no doubt many young ladies in Jamacia who would like an introduction. But this is not London, I promise you that you'll find us in short supply of Duchesses, Princesses, or any ladies of such a high station."

Miss Swann is perhaps the highest born, and after that their hostess, and her daughter, and then there are various daughters of Sirs and wealthy plantation owners. There may be some visiting dignitaries, but their little corner of the Empire is woefully short of that sort of lady. The fact is often bemoaned by the young officers stationed here.

James has never allowed it to concern him overmuch. There is his work, and that takes enough of his attention. Finding a wife and then having a family, that is his duty. But perhaps a little selfishly, he would much rather continue as he is, just for the moment, and allow himself to admire the fine young man in front of him, who doesn't allow himself to acknowledge his own successes.

The calm logic is almost a comfort. The absolute certainty in the commodore's features and shoulders (is there every anything but this easy confidence in the man?) is almost something to simply relax into as the opinion of his genuine better.

But first comes the shift in tack. Horatio had spent far too many years under an iron fist not to feel an almost compulsive need now to push against this new comparatively lenient hold.

"I imagine that makes them no less accustomed to the qualities of my brother officers."

That they could hold long, elegant conversation with members of the fairer sex. That they could sort out their forks and spoons without having to carefully watch others from the corner of their eyes. That they could not only appreciate the creaking noises others called music, but even organize their limbs into something graceful enough to be called a dance.

This isn't simply about his own mortification. This is about the good name of the officers James Norrington commands.

If Horatio were to ask any other officer directly under the Commodore, how many would say that James radiated easy confidence or was, in any way, lenient? Not many, certainly. And perhaps it is that response which alerts James to the fact he is allowing his... attraction to the normally brave and capable young man to eat into his normal discipline.

As much as he likes Horaito, he knows that he needs to treat him as he would any other. He knows he needs to be impartial with his officers, to show no undue favour. He also knows, very well, that the reason he favours Horatio is his own failing, and not Horatio's. He shouldn't punish the young Lieutenant for his own feelings.

"No, it does not. They are very much aware of what standard I expect from my men. Yourself included. I expect you to attend, Mr Hornblower, and I expect you to meet, nay exceed the virtues of your brothers."

A challenge. Horatio can face those at sea without a batting of an eyelash. On land, in social situations? That is different. James knows from his own table that the young man always hesitates over which cutlery to use.

"But I do not expect you to do so on your own. I shall assist you, as I can. If you are able to tell me what concerns you the most about such a task."

God, but he wants to make this man proud.

It isn't quite the same as wanting to make Pellew proud had been. This sits differently in Horatio's gut, somewhere far more confusing and far more consuming. The clear command brings a certain straightness to Horatio's spine, despite the twist beginning to edge down his lips.

There's no catching up to this. There's certainly no catching up to this before this evening.

"You should spend all day making me half so adequate as the rest at not stepping on a lady's toes, sir."

"Is that your greatest concern?" James asks, unable to quite stop the gentle amusement from pulling at the corners of his lips. He understands, he really does. There is nothing so mortifying as injuring a partner, James fully appreciates that.

"Come along then, you shall practise." Would he dare suggest any such thing to Groves or Gillette? No. But then again, he would not jump at such an opportunity either. But he's already standing, and despite the fact he hasn't thought this through, there is no way to take the words back, or deny the fact he is holding his hand out for Horatio.

"I've seen your sword drill. Your footwork is very good. Dancing is no different."

Injuring some gentle young woman tonight would be mortifying. The question is whether it would be more mortifying than this exact moment.

(James Norrington has beautiful fingers. They aren't as soft and delicate as the refinement of his features might suggest, but they're long and elegant as they stretch toward him now.)

"It seems-- entirely different, sir."

But there's really nothing to be done now. His commanding officer has deemed this the best course of action for correcting his deficiencies in the short time they have.

Which means, with an air of trepidation, that Horatio is carefully shifting to his feet and setting his hand in the older man's.

"Perhaps the problem is not so much in the feet than in the mindset of their owner?" James replies, still amused, and leads Horatio away from the desk into the clear center of the room.

Once there James turns to face him and offers him a gentle reassurance. "I promise you, Horatio, you aren't the first young man nervous about the prospect of dancing. You certainly won't be the last, but a little practice will help, I assure you."

"Shall we try the minuet?"

This can be managed. This can be survived. This is just like anything else he's been asked to do in the service of King and country--just like any other horrifying thing he had been ordered to do by this crisp firm voice.

"Aye aye, sir."

Maybe, without music, Horatio will be able to focus on finding his way through the movement. Maybe, with the strange tightness in his chest, his sheer will to please this man might drag him along into progress.

Grim determination is the right expression for a dance partner, right?

James can feel the tension, like the Lieutenant is reinforced with doweling. Like a sail in the wind, stiff and unyielding, far more so than James would have expected. He has seen the young man in a battle, filled with the energy of a man who knows what is required of him and has no fear.

This? Simple movements of the feet? Almost seem to be beyond him.

"Did you not go to dances before you joined the Navy?" Perhaps he shouldn't distract Horatio, but he wants to know. He wants to know what sort of family, even of the middling sort, wouldn't encourage their son to a dance? Even if it was only a small gathering, even if it was the same families over and over, surely that is preferable to never introducing their son to society at all?

Edited 2019-04-25 20:35 (UTC)

"One, sir. And then I-- had a tutor."

The memory is enough to drag Horatio's brows briefly together, knitted into the same boyish look of utter frustration he'd never been able to contain in his youth. Dropping his head for a beat smooths it slightly, but nothing can shake the memory of how utterly disappointed the émigré had been with his young charge.

"French was much easier."

"I had a dancing tutor." James will admit. After all, one will tutor their child in the scholarly arts with a tutor, it isn't so unusual to have someone also teach the social arts too. Especially in a busy household.

The fact that Horatio finds a language preferable, easier, over dancing is no surprise.

"That is because you are naturally inclined towards it." James says, before counting tempo again to make sure the steps are controlled, properly paced. "Dancing poses a challenge, which must be conquered. But you are doing better than you credit yourself for."

Well, a little better than James had expected. Horatio doesn't need to be the best man in the room, simply be able to stand and not step on his partners feet or fall on his face during the evening.

Breathing through a challenge set by his commanding officer is infinitely easier than trying to think through a dance. Following where James Norrington leads, after all, has become absolute second nature.

The shift of his fingers against the older man's is subtle but nonetheless an expression of nervous pleasure.

"This isn't quite so horrifying, sir."

"No, it isn't."

It is, in fact, very enjoyable, despite the scandalous nature of the act itself. But if he doesn't dwell on that, if he simply... allows this to be, and exist in the moment, it's incredibly pleasant. The slight change in pressure on his fingers shifts his gaze to Horatio's face, and while he still seems to be focusing harder than absolutely necessary, is that... a ghost of a smile? Or at least a brightness in his eyes?

"Of course, if you do not feel prepared enough for this evening, perhaps we could continue these lessons. So you are more confident for the next."

Well, that certainly bleeds the concentration right out of Horatio.

It still feels just a hair bold to meet the older man's gaze, but the lieutenant's eyes snap to the commodore's in an instant. Perhaps it's a painfully small thing, to have this man's undivided attention for a few lingering moments--but God, the wicked little places in his heart utterly crave it.

Breaking his concentration does immediately bring his foot down onto James's. Happily, the abject horror of complete embarrassment over it is sufficient distraction to stop him from saying anything painfully ridiculous. "--hm."

James' own answering smile is cut short, ended far before it's time as the foot hits his own. It's not the heaviest of steps, nor is it done in the heaviest of boots. It's plainly accidental, and it might well be James' own fault.

Too forward. Dancing is quite bad enough, but speaking so obviously about avoiding an engagement to spend time with another man, another officer, behind closed doors? Utterly unthinkable.

Although it proves a point. "I think... more practice is certainly required."

Seeing that rare smile vanish is always a bit of a dull, prickling pain. For once, Horatio can't quite dwell on the loss.

It's too overwhelming to think of stealing moments like this, with delicate contact and soft expressions. It's too fragile to let himself blunder through. (It's too difficult to hold himself back from leaning in against James's shoulder for a heartbeat, snug and perfectly content, a hair's breadth from the noose.)

"If it's-- required, sir."

Or if the commodore simply asked it of him, or hinted vaguely that it wouldn't be too much trouble.

James feels that gentle pressure, the momentary bliss of warmth that spreads from Horatio to himself. He should not find himself so inclined to lingering there, but there is something that encourages him to stay. It's something in Horatio's stance, something more at ease than he thinks he has ever known him to be on land before.

"It most certainly seems to be."

Required, or perhaps desired.

"But we may need to cut our lesson short for this evening. We have duties to attend to. Perhaps... tomorrow night."

There's no hardship in returning to his proper duties. Horatio had always been more than pleased to serve, no matter the hurts and terrors and incredibly cruelties which so often accompanied the service.

Still, leaving a moment alone with this man always disappoints something buried deep in his core.

"Tomorrow night, then."

Boldness at sea is natural enough. Boldness on shore takes something more. Whatever it is jolts through Horatio briefly as he takes a step back, prompting him to bring the commodore's hand to his lips as he half-bows.

It's almost simple respect. Almost.

The press of lips is a surprise, one that tugs a smile onto the Commodore's mouth before he has any chance to control it. He shouldn't feel a rush of pleasure, or be so charmed by such a gesture.

But he is.

"I'll look forward to it, Horatio."

Is the use of the man's first name too much? No, not if the way his heart beats in his chest is any indication. Dangerous, but not as bold as a kiss.

"Perhaps supper afterwards."

Nothing comes close to James Norrington smiling at him, startled but utterly pleased. Nothing comes close to the man gently speaking his given name.

"As you wish."

Pulling himself away is difficult--although less difficult than having to throw himself into a dance with women whose names he barely knew and who all seemed to be in on some lovely little secret he would never understand. With luck, at least, the memory of being smiled at and the lovely promise of more time together with the man he admired most in the world.

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[for his_majestys_navy ] L'Allemande - Pecour ["1801"]

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