welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

[misterhornblower]

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.

Comments

[misterhornblower]

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.

[mrmidshipmankennedy]

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."

[misterhornblower]

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.