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Kissing Fic
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sanguinity wanted drunken kissing fic. I wrote drunken kissing fic. (As per, I reserve all rights to edit this at will, but for now...)--
The ship was swinging at anchor as Hornblower climbed aboard. Strange, the sea seemed so calm, and yet the deck of the Nonsuch heaved beneath his feet as though she were caught in long Atlantic rollers. Cautiously, he made his way to his cabin, ignoring the fussing and flapping officers who plagued him like fleas. He thought of the Countess and her attempted seduction, and stifled a laugh. Oh, but to see the look on her face if he had told her the sort of things he truly desired, if he had told her the sort of man he truly was — he imagined her bright eyes going wide with shock as she clutched her hands against her ample bosom at the horror of it. She had been charming, if forward in the way that only foreign noblewomen dare to be, and for a moment he very nearly wished he had accepted her invitation to examine the pictures, an invitation that would have no doubt ended in her bed. He could almost picture her yielding to him, how it would feel to touch her, to taste her, to get his hands on that splendid body of hers. But he had not wanted that, or he would have stayed there and lost himself in her. Not even the promise of succour after long months of forced celibacy could tempt him to it. As much as he longed for affection, as beautiful as the Countess had been, he had not wanted her, nor any other woman or man in the palace tonight.
“Bring me Captain Bush,” he demanded as Brown helped him off with his uniform and into his nightshirt. “And bring us a bottle of wine. Some cheese and bread would do well.” All the wine and vodka had made him intolerably hungry.
The table was laid with food and drink, and it was not long before Bush appeared on the threshold, looking rather worriedly at his commodore. Hornblower ordered him to sit and drink, which Bush did, as he narrated the events of the night as coherently as he could, the wine loosening his tongue. Bush watched in wide-eyed horror as he described Braun’s treachery, and the near-assassination of the Czar.
“I’m glad you are safe, sir,” Bush said when Hornblower was through.
“I’m merely relieved the Czar wasn’t killed.”
“Yes, but…” Bush was picking dregs from his wineglass. “I’m glad you are safe, sir.”
“I left at a fortunate time,” said Hornblower, pouring another glass of wine. His head was swimming but the feeling was not unpleasant; he felt as though he were far out to sea, his cares no more than distant smudges on the horizon. “I was partnered with the Countess—” He struggled to remember her title. “Something or Other at dinner, who I fear may have had her way with me had I stayed any longer.”
Bush looked up from his wineglass. Worry flickered briefly over his face. “Indeed, sir?”
“She invited me to see the picture gallery. She was rather…” He fumbled for the right word. “Entrancing. All throughout the dinner she kept her foot pressed on mine. Her intention was fairly clear.”
“Is that so, sir?” Bush asked flatly, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he attempted to swallow his jealousy, with little success. Hornblower wondered what might happen if he pushed Bush further, and several lurid fantasies drifted through his inebriated mind. But he knew Bush would never do any of those things, not at sea, and so he resisted the urge to tease his friend any more.
“I turned her down, of course,” he said, and took a long drink of wine. “But by God, she was magnificent. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful face. And her bosom—” He left that part blank; Bush was man enough to imagine the rest.
“And yet you’re here.”
“And yet I’m here,” Hornblower mumbled through a mouthful of cheese. He did not want to think on what it meant that he should choose Bush’s chaste company over the fulfilment of carnal desire.
“It’s for the best, sir,” offered Bush. “For all you know she was as poxed as a dockside harlot.”
Hornblower laughed, and to his horror realised he was well and truly drunk. He hadn’t been this far gone since Graçay, on the eve of the new year, when he and Bush had shared a bottle of brandy and Bush had put a hand on Hornblower’s knee in a clumsy attempt at seduction. So much had passed between them since. So much more could change. He was grateful, he realised, grateful for Bush and his quiet company, and for his loyal friendship. Few men could count a better or more loyal friend than Bush.
“Do you mean that, sir?” Bush asked, and Hornblower realised to his shame he had spoken the last part aloud.
“Suppose so,” he said awkwardly.
Bush’s swarthy face was red with embarrassment. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled. He stood, fearing more sentimental nonsense should Hornblower be allowed to continue. “You ought to get some sleep, sir.”
Hornblower rose to his feet, grasping for the edge of the table as the Nonsuch rolled beneath his feet. “Wait,” he said, even though Bush had not yet gone. He stumbled over to Bush, standing there calmly in spite of the wicked weather. “William.”
“Sir?”
He reached out and took Bush’s hand, kissing the hard, rough palm. Bush stiffened but did not pull away.
“There,” he said, and let Bush go. “Consider it a promise to be fulfilled.” Then Nonsuch lurched and Hornblower found himself clutching at Bush’s shoulders. Bush staggered but kept his balance.
“Easy now, sir,” Bush said, chuckling, as he patted Hornblower’s back. “Easy.”
Hornblower pressed his face into Bush’s shoulder, not quite willing to let him go yet. He felt Bush reach up and touch the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair, and he allowed himself for just a moment to be comforted by the warm and solid embrace. Then he remembered himself, drunk as he was, and tried to step away, to preserve what little dignity he had left, but Bush held him fast.
“My apologies,” Hornblower said, shamefaced, and cleared his throat. Bush did not seem to hear him; his blue eyes were fixed on Hornblower but his attention was elsewhere. “Forgive me, Bush, I’m—”
Bush silenced him with a kiss, and Hornblower started, caught off guard, but Bush had him snared and was not letting go. He kissed Hornblower with a fierce insistence, one hand gripping Hornblower’s hair tightly, the other at Hornblower’s back, pressing them together, and Hornblower had little choice but to give in to it; the cabin was spinning, and he clutched at Bush’s shoulders, unsteady on his feet.
“Sir,” said Bush, breaking the kiss, and Hornblower realised Bush was struggling to stand, burdened as he was with Hornblower’s weight.
“Come,” said Hornblower, taking Bush’s hand and pulling him over to sit on the locker beneath the stern windows.
“Won’t you sit down too, sir?” asked Bush, tugging at Hornblower’s hand, and Hornblower acquiesced, sitting down beside him on the narrow locker. There was a line of worry on Bush’s forehead, a line that had not gone away all evening, and Hornblower reached up and stroked Bush’s cheek with the back of his hand. Bush turned his face, pressing his lips against Hornblower’s knuckles, and smiled. It was always a curious thing to see Bush smile; his face was as craggy and rough as the face of a man who had spent thirty years at sea ought to be, but when he smiled it was as soft and sweet as a girl.
Hornblower could do nothing but kiss him. It pricked his conscience that he had even entertained the Countess’ flirtations when he had no intention of following them to their natural end, no intention at all. She was not what he wanted, she would never be what he wanted. No woman — or man — in that palace tonight could ever be what he wanted, not when what he truly desired was here, sitting beside him with a hand on his bare knee. He deepened the kiss, Bush responding in kind, and it was everything Hornblower could have ever wanted.
At last he pulled away and yawned. Bush was still smiling at him, and Hornblower found himself grinning back.
“Let me take you to your cot, sir,” said Bush, rising, and Hornblower smiled up at him beatifically. “Take my hand, sir.”
Hornblower did, allowing Bush to pull him up. He put both arms round Bush’s shoulders and slowly they made their way to where Hornblower’s cot hung, Hornblower dragging his feet and Bush stumping along as best he could. Somehow he pulled himself into the cot and lay there while Bush tucked the blankets in around him, promising to send Brown in with a bucket should he need to be sick in the night.
“Thank you, Bush,” said Hornblower, catching Bush’s hand before he could turn and leave. Bush looked puzzled.
“It’s nothing, sir,” he said, but his brow was creased with concern. “Would you have done it, sir?” he asked at last. “Gone with the Countess, I mean?”
Any jape or jibe that Hornblower might have had ready was stifled at birth by the honest anxiety on Bush’s face. Was it possible that this man, who flinched from neither broadside nor sword, had been afraid that Hornblower might choose a woman over him? And would Bush be wrong to fear it? After all, Hornblower’s cowardice had seen him throw Bush over before, first for Maria, then for Barbara — he had even kissed Marie once, in a fit of madness. But that had been before Graçay, before Sheerness, where the world had finally been put to rights.
“No,” he admitted. “Not even if she’d been the Queen of Sheba.”
The open relief on Bush’s face was disarming. Hornblower struggled upright in bed and put a hand on the back of Bush’s neck, drawing him close to kiss him soundly.
“I made my choice,” said Hornblower, releasing Bush. “I’ll thank you to not doubt me again in the future.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Bush. For a moment it seemed as if he might say something, but he smiled instead. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Bush.”
Hornblower closed his eyes, listening to the retreating thump of Bush’s steps and the quiet scrape of the door. It was strange that Nonsuch should sway so at anchor, but he did not think too long about it, for somewhere someone was singing.
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Oh, I am all delight!
Hornblower is very naughty to tease Bush so. It is absolutely in character for him to do so, but still, he is very naughty. He should count himself lucky that Bush takes it with such good grace.
Well. Not entirely good grace. There might have been a little possessiveness there.
(Tell me, did I actually say the phrase "jealous kisses" to you? Because that was the other option when I was choosing a prompt -- drunken or jealous, I couldn't decide which.)
And I take it this is a sequel to the hand-on-knee Gracay snippet you shared a while back, yes?
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*hearts-eyes*
I do hope that Bush enjoyed drunkenly sentimental Hornblower. That must be a rare treat.
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Bush does his best to take it in good grace. But in his defence he has watched Hornblower choose a woman over him three different times. (We don't go into the Marie business, that'll be saved for the Graçay fic, but Hornblower VERY NEARLY throws himself at her, too.)
There is definitely a little possessiveness there. Normally Bush would suffer it fairly well, but he has been drinking too, and also has been up half the night worrying about what sort of trouble Hornblower would land himself into this time.
No, you didn't! You asked me for drunken kisses, but lucky for you you got both :-)
Yes, this is a sequel to hand-on-knee Graçay fic. How much they line up with each other is up to you, but it's in that general verse, along with the two Sheerness bits I've written. It's the disgustingly sentimental verse that makes me immediately flee to my Vincennes fic.
Oh, Bush is undoubtedly going to pay for bearing witness to sentimentality later, one way or the other. It's a rare treat, and he enjoys it while it lasts.
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Oo, there's an entire 'verse of this! I didn't dare ask for the backstory, but I'm thrilled that it exists, if only in snippets. I hope to see more of this verse, even if you do find it disgustingly sentimental.
Well, Bush expects to have to pay for happy moments, so I suppose he won't be too hurt when the backlash happens. Still, relish those golden moments, Mr Bush. Relish them to the hilt!
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If you want more backstory and don't feel like you'll be spoiled by it, let me know!
Hornblower is going to be very exacting for the next while. We're talking things like 'what second does the sun rise' exacting. And also incredibly hungover in the morning.
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Commodore: April through December 1812. December is for the American edition (which ends at Christmas); the UK version ends several months earlier, with Napoleon's retreat from Riga in September 1812. So yeah, the action on Commodore begins less than a year after their escape from France in 1811.
Backstory: As best pleases you! I would enjoy hearing anything you want to share, especially if talking helps your process. (And if it inhibits it, then I will be scrupulously patient!)
Hah! If Hornblower is going to be like that, Bush should spend lots of time PACING VERY LOUDLY above Hornblower's head while he's trying to sleep it off. (What second does the sun rise?? As if your timekeeping is good enough for that!)
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Ah, ok then, so they've had about a year to sort themselves out a bit more. That's what I thought. A year for Hornblower to get Smallbridge all set up and spend a good amount of time in Sheerness.
Hm, backstory. I just don't want to ruin the surprise, is all. And I also change my mind frequently. We'll have to see on that account.
Oh that's a good idea. Just pace extra loud the whole day if Hornblower is being a pain.
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Both Sheerness and Smallbridge are in Kent; they can't be that far apart. But even so, even with their long history together, a year isn't that much time to build a new foundation: these two are still going to be very new to each other, in some ways.
Oh god, I'm just imagining Brown listening to the especially pointed THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! from above, going on for hours, and witnessing Hornblower's corresponding fits of temper below, and knowing exactly what it all means. He's had a front-row seat for all these two's bullshit ever since Rosas Bay, the poor man.
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See, but that's the fallacy of the English countryside -- yes a place may be TECHNICALLY only 20 miles away (say) but even in modern times we're looking at a 45 minute drive. And that's with good roads and cars. (But in my verse, Hornblower was staying with Bush while Smallbridge was getting renovated. But yes, you're right, a year isn't very long. There's still much they have to learn about each other.)
Brown is a saint. He's dealt with their road-to-Paris bullshit, he's dealt with their Graçay bullshit, he's dealt with their Loire bullshit. There's a part of me that almost wants to write a Brown Third Wheels Through France fic.
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The world very much needs Brown Third Wheels through France fic. I've got other things I'm more interested in writing, but dear lord, the things that poor man has had to pretend not to see!
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Brown accidentally stumbles on them doing the dirty on the Loire and no one looks at each other for the next two days.
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*swoon*
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