hmsindefatigable | welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

Rainwater dripped from Horatio's uniform to the floorboards as he trudged belowdeck, shaking with the bone-deep cold the winter rain and the harsh wind in the rigging had left him with even once his punishment had concluded. His legs and arms ached, the palms of his hands were raw from the harsh rope used for the rigging, and the once-lively curls of his hair, now drenched with a combination of rainwater and ocean spray, clung to the edges of his face. The usual bawdy ruckus in the enlisted men's quarters was much too loud, doing nothing for the ache in his temples.

All he wanted to do was change clothes, climb under many blankets, and hope to god Simpson would stay out of the mids' quarters long enough for him to catch at least some rest. Of course, the previous day's wounds also had to be cleaned, lest any of the open cuts decorating his face were to become infected, so that would cut into any amount of time he'd find to sleep, too.

Please, God, don't have him be here. Please. I need to rest. I'm sore enough as it is.

To Horatio's surprise and great relief, all of the hammocks were empty when he opened the door and closed it behind himself. It was all the better, seeing as he still wasn't quite comfortable stripping down in front of other men and desperately needed to change into something dry. He wasted no time in shucking off each sopping wet layer where he stood, but took great care in spreading his drenched uniform out to dry on the floorboards afterwards - it would reflect even more poorly upon him to report for duty tomorrow in a crumpled uniform with footprints on it than it had to report in the deeply bruised state that had earned him the miserable punishment he'd just returned from.

With his uniform set out to dry as best he could, Horatio wrung a few drops of water from his queue, changed into a dry shirt and breeches, and climbed into his hammock at long last - but as soon as he reached for the wool blanket bunched up on the other end, the doorknob twisted. Dammit! He immediately went limp and slowed his breathing in an attempt to create the impression that he was sleeping - provided it was Simpson at all, perhaps being 'asleep' would be enough to spare him from a beating over some made-up reason that essentially amounted to his being present in the room at the same time as the bloody tyrant.

The door opened, then one foot, followed by the other, contacted the floorboards. Horatio cracked one eye open so slightly it almost remained shut altogether, his heart racing behind his sternum - only to realize to his great relief that the figure wasn't the mids' shared tormentor, it was Kennedy.

"Archie." The hammock creaked as Horatio sat up and offered a faint smile in greeting. The deep purple bruises dappling his skin and the swelling on both sides of his face had undoubtedly gotten worse since the last time Archie had seen them, but, lacking a mirror, Horatio wasn't certain just how bad it was, although he was sure he must look utterly pathetic.

Hardly how he'd expected his first week in His Majesty's royal navy to transpire. Welcome to purgatory, indeed.

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Horatio starts to open his mouth to object, then closes it again - Archie seems set on this, and Archie knows Simpson and his cruel tactics better than he does. He presses his lips together and hesitates, then nods. "Alright. If you're sure."

The thought of Simpson entering the cabin stays with him, however, enough to fill Horatio's chest with a deep sense of unease. He half feels compelled to lock the door, severe as the punishment for doing so would be. He can't take another beating. The man just about killed him last time, and he's still amazed that the delicate bones of his nose didn't break after being repeatedly slammed against the table. He remembers the taste of fresh blood in his mouth too vividly, can still feel the echoes of Simpson's hard kicks to his chest and sides, and is in no hurry to feel either again. If this is what awaits him every day, it would be much better to simply be dead.

Even worse than the possibility of a second attack is the thought of having to watch him do the same to Archie. Perhaps his friend is simply more sensitive to the same abuses they all endure, sure, but Simpson seems to prefer him as a target, and that alone is enough to make Horatio fairly certain that Kennedy has endured these kinds of beatings before, too - presumably with greater savagery than even he himself faced the previous night.

Archie is clearly just as nervous as he is, if not moreso; suddenly it seems to be of the greatest importance that he think of something reassuring to say.

"Clayton will probably be in soon," Horatio attempts, and hopes he sounds confident in his own claim.

He doesn't sound confident at all, but even if he had, it wouldn't have helped much. Archie gives him a tremulous smile and nods, unable, at first, to form words without fear of his voice breaking.

"Yes, I expect he shall," he says at last, and shakes himself off, looking around. He won't leave Horatio here alone, but he can't, can't be caught sitting here at his bedside like an anxious -

An anxious mother, he tells himself firmly before his mind can go to worse places. With a sigh, he gets to his feet, looking down at Horatio in his hammock.

"I should get some rest myself." Who knows what torment Jack will have for him, or both of them, tonight? Sleep deprivation isn't his only trick, but it does seem to be one of his favorites of late.

"A good idea, Mr. Kennedy." Horatio relaxes in his hammock, at last allowing the canvas to cradle his back instead of standing upright, but his eyes remain on the other as Archie gets up.

It's probably for the best that he returns to his own hammock - Horatio already fears that Archie will somehow see into his soul, that somehow he himself will give away his awful, unnatural thoughts and leave his new friend horrified and disgusted. Then he will be left entirely alone, without a single soul for company. It is the only way in which he can see his situation onboard the Justinian plausibly becoming any more miserable than it already is.

And yet, it isn't without concern that he watches Archie settle in. He's wrought with nerves, and that could cause a fit if he tries to go to sleep. Son of a doctor he may be, but Horatio had never seen such a thing before he joined the Justinian's crew a few days ago, and he doesn't know what to do when they happen apart from what he observed from Clayton.

He can't just ask Archie if he thinks he'll be alright going to sleep; the fits are understandably a sensitive issue and Horatio gets the sense that they're a point of embarrassment. He himself could stay awake in the hopes of stopping a potential episode before it happens, but his bones ache terribly and he's very cold and sorely in need of sleep. At the very least, he can try to keep Archie's mind off of the looming threat so that he falls asleep less anxious than he is at the moment - so Horatio racks his brain for something to say, some benign point of insignificant conversation.

"How long have you been aboard the Justinian, Archie?"

It's something of a relief to leave Horatio's side, even as it pains him. Much as he longs to stay there, comforting Horatio as best he can, with every passing moment he becomes that much more certain that the other man will see through him, that his true feelings will become clear no matter how he tries to hide them.

He undresses with his back turned - shamefully, like a boy, but he can't stand the thought of Horatio catching his eye as he removes his uniform and changes into his nightclothes. Then he splashes his face and climbs into his own hammock, all without meeting Horatio's eyes.

The cabin is quiet, or as quiet as it gets at sea, nothing but the creaking of the ship, the splash of waves against the side, and the not-so-distant shouts of the men above and abaft. Archie settles in, curling and uncurling his hands in an effort to ease the tension and hoping against hope he won't fall into another fit tonight.

Horatio's voice is unexpected, but he recognizes the question for the attempt at distraction that it is, and smiles tiredly into the dark, considering the question.

"Four months or so." He laughs a little, surprised. It's not a particularly happy laugh. "It feels like longer."

Horatio presses his lips together and spends a few moments processing the answer before he replies. Four months of this. How did he survive?

"Time is odd that way," he says at last, only to silently curse himself for his failure to come up with a better response to such a clear reference to their shared torment a second after the words leave his lips. A few moments of quiet pass before Horatio tries again, reaching down and pulling his blanket up to his collarbone with one hand as he speaks.

"Have you always wanted to be a seaman?"

Now he's just making Horatio feel worse. Archie squeezes his eyes shut with a quiet sigh. Is he fated to make poor choices at every turn, when it comes to Hornblower?

But still, Horatio doesn't give up talking to him, and Archie struggles to concentrate on what he's saying.

"I don't know that wanting had much to do with it," he says thoughtfully. "I joined as a ship's boy when I was ten - I haven't really known anything else."

"Even younger than twelve," Horatio murmurs, smiling wistfully. "And myself joining at seventeen."

He falls quiet for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling despite being unable to see it through the darkness and silently asking himself the same question - he still isn't quite sure why he joined, and views those who do with some degree of envy - to know what one wants with such certainty must be a wonderful thing indeed. To make something of himself, he supposes, is a general answer, yet even then, he's not quite sure why he chose the navy as the avenue through which he would do so.

He's still worried about Simpson, of course - but he's also tired, and after hours on end of bombardment by the January rain as he clung to the rigging, even the midly uncomfortable embrace of his hammock has become soothing. Horatio does his best to keep his eyes open, though, attempting to stay as alert as he can. He needs to remain awake until he knows Archie has fallen asleep - it's the least he can do to repay the other's kindness, and even if he didn't owe his friend a debt of gratitude, concern alone would be enough of a motivator.

Archie murmurs in sleepy acknowledgement. Yes, Horatio had joined the Navy late, but he's hardly the first to have done so. And even from what little he's seen, Archie has the feeling that Horatio won't be held back for long by his lack of experience.

"You'll catch up," he says drowsily, and yawns. Despite everything that had happened - or perhaps because of everything - he's exhausted. There's still a thread of tension running through him, a part of him just waiting for the door to crash open and Jack to appear, but even that isn't enough of a threat to keep him awake forever. Not after last night, when he'd been forced to wake Horatio up again and again - until the fit that had put an end to that. Archie himself had fought to stay awake as long as he could, terrified that he wouldn't wake and Jack would discover that he hadn't been doing as he was ordered.

He yawns again, turning his head and straining to see the shape of Horatio's head in the darkness of his hammock.

"You must be tired, Horatio. Aren't you?"

Horatio smiles wryly, even though he knows Archie can't see his expression in the darkness. "A little."

It's a lie and he's sure Archie knows it - he's exhausted, but at least Kennedy seems to be on the verge of falling asleep, and his duty will soon be done. Caring, ever-suffering Kennedy. The concern touches Horatio more than he'd like to admit, fills him with a small degree of warmth he hugs close to his chest, hoping it will never be discovered. What has a soul as bright, as wonderful as Archie's done to deserve Simpson's cruelty? He himself has at least committed a sin worthy of punishment - but Archie! He hasn't even seen him drink.

The contagion of the other's yawn finally catches up with him although he tries to stifle it; eventually he surrenders and just hopes it's quiet enough to go undetected.

Horatio, Archie would argue, had done nothing remotely worthy of Simpson's wrath - could never do anything to deserve such viciousness. He's so new to the service, so eager to do well - the men already look up to him - he's smart and kind and gentle and eager to learn, and Archie only wishes he wasn't too much of a coward to stand up to Jack himself, to save Horatio from further suffering. He would, if only he could - but even the thought of doing such a thing makes him quake in fear, and he hates himself for his spinelessness, lying there in the dark.

But for the moment, at least, Jack is not present, and there's no threat to either of them; there's only Horatio and Archie and the dark closeness of the cabin. Their hammocks are slung close together, and for a moment Archie feels an impossible impulse to reach out, to take Horatio's hand in his, a warm comfort in the dark.

He can't, of course. Could never do such a thing. He shifts instead, nestling deeper into his hammock, and smiles at the telltale sound of Horatio stifling a yawn.

"Sleep well, Hornblower."

Horatio can't help but to smile as he himself gets comfortable, tucking the sides of his blanket under himself in a small effort to preserve a little more body heat. "Good night, Kennedy."

Thank you, Archie.

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welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

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