Across the Line Deleted Ending
Nov. 7th, 2019 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnslI like the ending I wrote more because I wanted more resolution and more kissing, but I figured I'd share this anyways.
As the afternoon watch ended a nervous young messenger summoned Bush to the great cabin, and with a head full of plans Bush went, not even giving a thought to the events of the night before last. It was to his great surprise that he found Hornblower pacing, a small brown parcel in his hands.
“Sir?” he asked.
Hornblower looked up, surprised to see Bush before him.
“Mr Bush,” he said, wild-eyed and pale, and Bush understood in a flash that whatever mental torments he had endured over the past days Hornblower’s had been far worse. He stepped close to Bush and fidgeted with the parcel for a moment before shoving it towards Bush, insistent in his demand. Bush took it, uncertain of what else to do, and turned it over in his hands. It was some three inches by five and felt like stiff paper, and at Hornblower’s indication Bush unwrapped it.
“It’s not a portrait,” Hornblower warned, a little shamefaced. “But I thought it would be close enough.”
It was only a small silhouette, but the profile was unmistakeable. Bush searched to find words adequate for the depth of feeling that overwhelmed him — searched and came up empty-handed.
“Thank you,” he said at last, aware of how limping and inadequate the words were.
“I had Macleod make it up for me.” He flushed. “I told him it was for my wife.” It was not fine as a silhouette made by a more experienced artist, but Bush did not care. He traced the outline with his finger, unwilling to believe that Hornblower would do such a thing for him.
“It’s…” Words were not enough. “You cannot know how you have brightened the world for me,” he said at last, remembering another time, long ago, when Hornblower had said those exact words to him.
“I’ve tried to forget Kingston,” Hornblower said, his gaze distant. “God only knows how I’ve tried. But I can’t. I thought — I hoped — that when I married it would go away, this wanting, but it hasn’t. It’s only made it worse.” He took a deep breath, and stepped close, his hands twisting behind his back. “I don’t want to wait for another life,” he said. “I want it to be this life.”
His honesty was disarming. “I want that too, sir,” admitted Bush, and cursed his foolishness when he realised what he’d said, but Hornblower’s expression changed to such sorrowful affection Bush could no longer regret his words.
“I am a married man, Bush,” he warned.
“I don’t wish to be your wife, sir,” said Bush, a little stubborn. “I don’t expect anything more from you than what you’ll give me.” He reached out and took Hornblower’s hand.
Hornblower looked down at their joined hands and a faint smile played over his mouth. “I’m not a reliable man, Bush. I might give you nothing.”
“Then I accept that, sir.” It was easy to say, easy because it was true: Hornblower could give him nothing and still Bush would follow him to the ends of the earth, into death itself if needed, without a second thought. He did not know where this devotion came from, only that it existed, and for him that was enough.
He released Hornblower’s hand and stepped away. “Sir, if there’s nothing more you wish to speak of I must return to my duties.”
“Very good, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, and a queer expression crossed his face. “May I remind you, Mr Bush, that I cannot find my officers sleeping in the cable tier?” he said.
Bush nodded and tried not to smile. “Indeed, sir.”
“Then I expect you know where you belong.” It was as close to crowing as Hornblower would ever dare, and Bush’s face broke into a grin.
“Indeed, sir,” he said. “I know exactly where I belong.”
As the afternoon watch ended a nervous young messenger summoned Bush to the great cabin, and with a head full of plans Bush went, not even giving a thought to the events of the night before last. It was to his great surprise that he found Hornblower pacing, a small brown parcel in his hands.
“Sir?” he asked.
Hornblower looked up, surprised to see Bush before him.
“Mr Bush,” he said, wild-eyed and pale, and Bush understood in a flash that whatever mental torments he had endured over the past days Hornblower’s had been far worse. He stepped close to Bush and fidgeted with the parcel for a moment before shoving it towards Bush, insistent in his demand. Bush took it, uncertain of what else to do, and turned it over in his hands. It was some three inches by five and felt like stiff paper, and at Hornblower’s indication Bush unwrapped it.
“It’s not a portrait,” Hornblower warned, a little shamefaced. “But I thought it would be close enough.”
It was only a small silhouette, but the profile was unmistakeable. Bush searched to find words adequate for the depth of feeling that overwhelmed him — searched and came up empty-handed.
“Thank you,” he said at last, aware of how limping and inadequate the words were.
“I had Macleod make it up for me.” He flushed. “I told him it was for my wife.” It was not fine as a silhouette made by a more experienced artist, but Bush did not care. He traced the outline with his finger, unwilling to believe that Hornblower would do such a thing for him.
“It’s…” Words were not enough. “You cannot know how you have brightened the world for me,” he said at last, remembering another time, long ago, when Hornblower had said those exact words to him.
“I’ve tried to forget Kingston,” Hornblower said, his gaze distant. “God only knows how I’ve tried. But I can’t. I thought — I hoped — that when I married it would go away, this wanting, but it hasn’t. It’s only made it worse.” He took a deep breath, and stepped close, his hands twisting behind his back. “I don’t want to wait for another life,” he said. “I want it to be this life.”
His honesty was disarming. “I want that too, sir,” admitted Bush, and cursed his foolishness when he realised what he’d said, but Hornblower’s expression changed to such sorrowful affection Bush could no longer regret his words.
“I am a married man, Bush,” he warned.
“I don’t wish to be your wife, sir,” said Bush, a little stubborn. “I don’t expect anything more from you than what you’ll give me.” He reached out and took Hornblower’s hand.
Hornblower looked down at their joined hands and a faint smile played over his mouth. “I’m not a reliable man, Bush. I might give you nothing.”
“Then I accept that, sir.” It was easy to say, easy because it was true: Hornblower could give him nothing and still Bush would follow him to the ends of the earth, into death itself if needed, without a second thought. He did not know where this devotion came from, only that it existed, and for him that was enough.
He released Hornblower’s hand and stepped away. “Sir, if there’s nothing more you wish to speak of I must return to my duties.”
“Very good, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said, and a queer expression crossed his face. “May I remind you, Mr Bush, that I cannot find my officers sleeping in the cable tier?” he said.
Bush nodded and tried not to smile. “Indeed, sir.”
“Then I expect you know where you belong.” It was as close to crowing as Hornblower would ever dare, and Bush’s face broke into a grin.
“Indeed, sir,” he said. “I know exactly where I belong.”
no subject
Date: 2019-11-08 05:10 am (UTC)himselfBush alive with jealousy.(And I'm sure any sculptor would understand that the demands of Art are more important than the slavish devotion to the Greek style!)
no subject
Date: 2019-11-10 11:47 pm (UTC)Maria receives the bill for yet another Naked Hero Statue that just so happens to look like her husband's live-in captain and shakes her head.
(Your notion IS a delightful one though. Thank you.)
no subject
Date: 2019-11-11 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-11-11 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-11-11 02:41 am (UTC)