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's jaw clenches the moment he sees the deep bruise stretching across much of his friend's side. Simpson! How could I have missed it? If I'd been paying more attention maybe this wouldn't be happening to begin with. The thought is momentarily wiped from his mind when Archie's eyes finally open, however. All he can think then is Thank God.

"I'm right here, Archie." Horatio swallows and removes the hand that had held Kennedy's arm when he was still convulsing to rests it over the one Archie is using to grasp his sleeve instead. Were the situation different, he probably wouldn't take such a risk, offer such an intimate gesture - but Archie is so clearly afraid and he himself is swept up in the moment to a degree that has momentarily robbed him of his usual self-restraint where these matters are concerned. To lay his hand over Kennedy's bent, rigid fingers is second nature, and he's half unaware that he's done as much, so focused is he on re-establishing verbal contact. "You're okay. Do you feel alright?"

Archie opens his mouth as if to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless babble that turns into a moan. He's drained both mentally and physically, exhausted and still anxious, and his eyes dart to the door again. It's clear who he's expecting to see there, especially when he raises one hand to push weakly at Horatio's chest. The other is still wrapped tightly in the cloth of his sleeve, however, making any attempt to shove him away useless even if he wasn't weak as a kitten.

"He'll find you..." he says, still watching the door to the cabin anxiously. "You can't...You have to leave..." Simpson's harsh words still echo in his head, as loudly as if the man was right there, standing over him. You're mine, Kennedy. I own you. You'd be dead if it wasn't for me. "P-please, Horatio, get away..."

"You know I can't do that. Just rest, Archie." The only word truly fit to describe the sight before him is heartbreaking - the bright, friendly face that greeted him despite the miserable rain and freezing gusts on his first day at sea has somehow been reduced to fearful exhaustion without even a shadow of its wonderful smile left, all because of that man. What right does he have to torment them? To torment Archie? "If he finds me, so be it. I'd be a poor friend to leave you alone."

There's no telling how badly Simpson hurt him - all he knows is that the bruise covering much of Archie's ribcage is massive enough to be the result of kicking, and the memory of how much force hit his side when he received a similar treatment is still fresh. He desperately wants to know when this happened, whether there was some sign that he missed - but Archie's still clearly quite rattled, and the last thing Horatio wants to do is send him into another fit, so he resolves to ask about the specifics later.

"Come. You should settle into your hammock if you feel ready to get up."

He could, though. Oh, Horatio could leave him quite easily, and no one would blame him - Archie certainly wouldn't. Not when he thinks of how roundly Jack had beaten Horatio just days before, how the newest midshipman seems to have attracted Jack's especial wrath, just as Archie himself had months ago. Horatio's already a target. He doesn't need to make things worse for himself.

But he knows, just as certainly, that Horatio wouldn't leave him. He's brave and loyal, and when he says he's willing to risk himself rather than leaving Archie alone, Archie knows he means it. It's simply not in him to abandon someone he thinks of as a friend - someone who needs him - even if it means putting himself in danger.

Archie shudders in mingled helplessness and relief. He wants Horatio to get out, to save himself, but at the same time the thought of him leaving again is almost too terrible to bear. Horatio's words barely register; the hammock is so far away, and Horatio is here and close and warm and Archie's so cold, so tired...He rolls half onto his side, whimpering as he inadvertently brushes his elbow against his tender ribs, and simply buries his face in Horatio's shirt, curling half in his lap and shutting out the world. It's the end of everything if Jack finds him like this now, but he's so shaken and hurt and frightened, and Horatio is so warm and comforting, he can't bring himself to care. Jack is clearly set on making him miserable, either way. What's the point of denying himself this small relief, when he knows the suffering will never end even if he does?

Horatio sees him flinch when his elbow moves past the area of the bruise and frowns, his brows furrowing as he very lightly sets a hand between Archie's shoulderblades. He is careful, for there is no way to tell if his fingers are resting over an unseen injury, and the last thing he wants to do is cause Archie any additional discomfort. He's suffered enough, more than enough.

Horatio stays still, perhaps a little awkwardly, as Kennedy tucks his face into the loose fabric of his shirt and leans into him more heavily. Were the circumstances different, Hornblower might enjoy this - but at the moment all he can think about is the fact that Archie is distressed, and scared, and weak, all because of that animal. Something has to be done.

Horatio pauses as his focus returns to the immediate, then carefully asks after a few moments: "How badly are you hurt, Archie?"

There's no response at first; Archie remains where he is, his face still hidden in the folds of Horatio's shirt. Everything's still a bit foggy, but after a moment the question, and its implications, break through his anguished thoughts.

He doesn't know. Horatio hasn't begun to guess what form Jack's torment of Archie takes; he thinks - must think - that Archie is merely a victim of beatings and smaller, everyday bedevilments, just like the rest of the mids.

And he must never learn otherwise.

A blessing, then, perhaps, that Jack had left physical evidence this time. Horatio will think him feeble and pathetic, to be brought so low by a single blow; he may withdraw from him after all, annoyed and contemptuous at Archie's sniveling over so little, when Horatio himself has borne so much worse. But it's better than the alternative.

Slowly, Archie reaches down, lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the entirety of the bruise Jack's boot had left on his side. Reluctantly, shamefully, he pulls his face away from Horatio's middle in order to speak.

"You see, it's not so bad." He attempts a smile - even succeeds - but his eyes are haunted, still, dull and lifeless. "I'll be f-fine, Horatio."

Good God. Horatio's jaw goes limp, his lips parting with silent worry as he studies the deep, angry contusion standing out so starkly against skin that is otherwise remarkably pale for a sailor's.

"Archie-...." he starts, only to trail off a moment later. It is that bad. And his eyes - Hornblower feels sick looking at his eyes, so broken and catatonic as to be almost unrecognizable, as if a different person has suddenly inhabited the body of the young man who greeted him in the rain. What did he do to you?

It is hard that to believe that he will really be fine, and harder still to pretend that he thinks Archie is telling the truth, or doing anything other than downplaying his own suffering. He relaxes the hand on the other's back now that he's fairly sure it's not resting over another bruise, letting the full weight of it settle over his spine in a way he hopes will be comforting. He cannot think of anything else to say.

Archie sighs quietly, his eyes sliding shut as Hornblower's hand presses reassuringly against his back. The fear that Jack could open the door and discover them any moment hasn't gone away; it is as present as it always is, a steady undercurrent of anxiety in the back of Archie's mind every moment he remains on the same ship as the man. But like this, huddled in Horatio's half-embrace, with only the two of them present, he almost feels like everything could be all right.

For a few moments, anyway, before the guilt and self-loathing take over once more. He can still hear Jack's voice ringing in his ears, berating him for his sick, unnatural proclivities. And now here he is, taking advantage of upstanding, innocent young Hornblower, curled in the lap of a man only trying to comfort a fellow crewmate.

It nearly kills him to draw away, but he does so at last, struggling up to sit on the floor beside Horatio. He sits there for a moment, his face red and turned shamefully away.

"Thank you, Horatio." His voice is quiet, subdued. "I'm sorry to have put you out like this." Surely Horatio has better things to do with his time than to coddle him.

"Don't worry about it, my friend. You have already done the same for me." Horatio offers a smile he hopes is reassuring and lightly rests his hand on Archie's shoulder for a few seconds, then withdraws it and puts it behind himself, leaning back with his weight in the heels of his hands, one leg extended forward and the other tucked beneath it.

He imagines Archie will get up when he's ready to stand, and resolves to remain in place on the hard floor until that time lest his shipmate try to get to his feet before he's ready in an attempt to keep up. Poor Archie, Horatio thinks as he studies what little of the other's face he can see when his head is turned away from him, He's done nothing to deserve this.

He allows a few seconds of silence to pass before at last speaking up in a low whisper. "Something has to be done about this, Archie. You know it as well as I."

Edited 2018-08-10 20:57 (UTC)

Of course he would think that. Of course he would say such a thing. Horatio is still a newcomer to the ship; he's still optimistic. He still believes things could change.

Archie knows better. He gazes half over his shoulder with a tired smile, his eyes still downcast.

"You're a Justinian now, Mr. Hornblower." He flashes Horatio a quick look, wry and ironic and so, so sad. "There's nothing to be done. You heard him - this is the way of things, aboard this ship."

He sighs again, and starts the slow, awkward process of pushing himself to his feet. He's still sore, and not only where Simpson's boot had met his ribs.

"The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."

Horatio opens his mouth to object, but shelves the thoughts perching on the edge of his tongue when he sees Kennedy stiffly attempt to get up. "Archie, here, let me--" He rises to his feet and leans down, lightly resting a hand on his elbow in a silent offer to help if he needs it. He doesn't hoist him up, however - Archie has his dignity, and he doesn't wish to compound the situation. If he needs help, he will ask for it, or he will simply accept the offer of stabilization by leaning into him.

Simpson's broken his spirit. All of their spirits. They don't even think it's possible any more. The man is a monster.

"There are things to be done, Archie," he says in a half-whisper he hopes is reassuring, even despite the fact that he's not entirely sure what those things would be. If he informs their superiors, he'll probably be beaten to death, and he'll be seen as a grass. If he tries to fight back, he'll lose. But certainly there must be something.

Edited 2018-08-11 03:50 (UTC)

He has his dignity, but not so much pride as to refuse the help when it's offered. Archie leans gratefully on Horatio's arm, letting him take on a fair amount of his weight as he struggles to his feet.

"Thank you," he says once he's upright, and glances at Horatio, a sorrowful, almost pitying look on his face. It's not that he wants to crush his friend's hopes. Not that he wants him to live in fear, as Archie had for so long. But he and Clayton and the rest - even together, they'd been unable to throw off the yoke of Jack's dominion over the cabin. And Archie in particular...

With everything Jack knows, with everything that had happened, how can he ever possibly hope to be free of him?

"I wish you were right," he murmurs, shaking his head and looking away. "I do, Horatio."

"Of course." he murmurs in resonse to the thanks, then adds, "There has to be a way, Archie." He cannot will himself to utter the words 'I am right' no matter how badly he wants to reassure the other - they have to try, but there's certainly no guarantee that they'll succeed. At least his own suffering will be over if Simpson goes over the deep end and just kills him in response, he supposes.

Now that Archie is back on his feet, the urgency of the fit that summoned him to the room a far echo, Horatio is acutely aware of how close they're standing, the intimacy of the hand that stupidly lingers on his shipmate's elbow longer than it would were it to belong to a normal, healthy young man - so he immediately breaks eye contact and steps back, rather awkwardly chewing on the inside of his lip. "I... I imagine you'd probably like to rest."

Edited 2018-08-11 23:49 (UTC)

Archie shakes his head mutely. It's no use arguing, but neither can he bring himself to hope that there really is a chance. He can't afford to. Better to accept the situation for what it is, and prepare himself for the next, inevitable encounter with Simpson the best he can.

"He'll make Lieutenant eventually." He's got to, hasn't he? That's the one eventuality they've pinned all their hopes on - that Simpson will earn his promotion, and be transferred to another ship, leaving them in peace. "It won't...it won't last forever." It can't. Or at least, Archie knows he won't be able to bear it forever, not if things continue the way they have been. Simpson will be assigned to another ship, and the world will go back to the way it should have been; or Archie will die. Or go mad, perhaps; or his fits will become so bad he'll be unfit to continue to serve, and he'll be discharged from the Navy in (personal, if not official) disgrace.

None of that is something he wants to think about right now. He nods gratefully, even as he regrets Horatio withdrawing the solid, supportive hand on his arm. Better this way. Archie doesn't deserve the comfort.

"I would, very much I think." He tries to smile, his head already starting to droop. He's so tired. "If you...if you wouldn't mind helping me into my hammock..."

"Of course, Archie." The smile he gives in return is equally shallow, pitying. It is Horatio's turn to hold back his incredulity: he knows, just as he is sure Archie knows, that Simpson may never make Lieutenant - for all of his sinister cleverness, the mids' tormentor is hardly a smart man, and the exact vein of mathematical knowledge he seems to utterly lack is that which is necessary to pass the lieutenancy exam.

He adjusts his pace to match Archie's as the two walk to the bunks; when they reach his friend's, Horatio pauses, eyes flitting over the hammock as he tries to determine the best way to offer assistance. He decides upon interlacing his fingers and lowering his joined hands so that they offer a foothold and hopes it's enough.

"Leg up?"

Archie feels faintly ridiculous, needing a leg up just to get into his hammock. What kind of a sailor is he? What kind of a man?

But in the aftermath of his fit, he knows he's still too weak and shaken to make it on his own, and the only thing more embarrassing than asking Hornblower for help would be to try it on his own and end up crashing back down to the deck. He nods, unable to meet Horatio's eye, and sets a foot in Horatio's joined hands, clambering up a little awkwardly, but successfully enough.

Once he's safely in the hammock, he shifts his body into place, taking a moment just to catch his breath before finally looking at Horatio again.

"Thank you, Horatio." He pauses, gaze drifting aimlessly down Hornblower's chest, at eye level. "Please...please don't say anything about this. It'll only make things worse."

Horatio falters. Archie's right, of course - it's the same reason he'd lied when asked where the bruises on his face had come from just a few days prior - but the request that he do nothing is still a hard pillow to swallow. After a few seconds of silence, he slowly nods.

"I-- I won't, Archie. You have my word." Horatio presses his lips together and does his best to catch Kennedy's eye in an attempt at assuring him of the truth in the statement. Hopefully, the other will get some sleep before Simpson comes barging in - fatigue is brutally evident on his face as he looks down upon it, and he knows the fit in and of itself has exhausted his poor friend.

Archie sees him hesitate - that's why he'd made sure to make him promise, because he'd known Horatio would want to do something. He understands as well as any of them the necessity of keeping quiet - he'd refused to rat Jack out even when he'd shown up to duty with bruises on his own face - but when it comes to a friend being hurt, Archie knows it'll be harder for him to keep quiet.

But it's a necessity. And eventually Hornblower nods, understanding, and Archie nods in return, relieved.

"All right. His eyes drift shut briefly, safe and warm in his hammock with Horatio at his side - and he forces them open again, offering a tired smile. "I'll be fine, Horatio. Don't worry about me."

By what definition of fine?

Horatio keeps his uncertainty to himself, however, and offers a small, mostly forced smile in return. Poor Archie. he didn't do anything to deserve this.

As he looks down at the half-awake figure in the hammock, he's again overcome with affection, rendered momentarily silent - Kennedy's bangs look like gold thread where the the light of the oil lamps illuminating the mids' quarters catches them; even in the wake of his suffering his face is gentle, a reflection of the fundamentally good soul within him. Even in their present hollowness there is something captivating about his pale eyes and the chestnut lashes that frame them, although that can hardly compare to the way they crinkle at their outer edges when he smiles-

Horatio swallows hard and breaks eye contact upon realizing he's been staring and silently hopes it's gone without notice - his friend has enough to worry about without the sexual deviancy of a trusted companion being added to that list.

"Alright. Get some rest, Archie."

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welcome to purgatory ➢ archie & horatio

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