![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnslI realised after writing this that I wanted a different POV. So here it goes, on the scrap pile.
HH/WB, the usual.
--
The door was locked, the key still in the keyhole. Hornblower had dragged a chair across the room and barricaded the door with it; despite Mrs Maggs’ assurances that the coin they had given her was enough to buy the silence of every man and woman in the house neither Bush nor Hornblower trusted the word of a bawd. It was impossible to say what the consequences would be for two officers found in bed together — as far as Hornblower knew none had ever been caught thusly — but friendless officers such as they who lacked connections and patronage would no doubt be treated badly at the hands of a court-martial. The risk was simply too great for anything but utmost caution.
Bush had shut the louvred windows and latched them before lighting a second candle and placing it on the bedside table. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and unknotted his neckcloth.
“It’s damnably hot,” he said, by way of explanation and apology, unwinding the black cloth from around his neck and folding it. Hornblower watched, transfixed, as Bush laid it aside and pulled off his jacket. The clothes went on the floor — there was nowhere else to put them — but Bush did not seem to care. He started on his waistcoat and Hornblower took another drink of rum.
He’d never seen Bush naked before — only parts of him, glimpses snatched at inopportune moments, the handful of times Hornblower had caught him dressing or shaving in his berth. It had almost been worse that way, seeing only tantalising sightings but never the full thing; Hornblower suspected he would like what he saw, but he did not know for certain, and it gnawed at him. He had seen men naked, of course, but he’d never had cause to appreciate it before, assuming that he would appreciate it. Perhaps he would not enjoy the sight of Bush: perhaps it would revolt him and put an end to this foolish fancy once and for all. He took a drink, hoping in vain that it might give him courage.
Bush was undressing slowly, seemingly in no hurry. He doffed his waistcoat and sat there in shirtsleeves while he kicked off his shoes and unrolled his stockings. His legs were white and hairy, but well-shaped and strong, and Hornblower wondered if there was any part of Bush that was not sturdy — a Galatea carved not from marble, but from living oak. It was satisfying to find he could make such allusions even whilst drunk.
“Do you wish for me to keep my shirt on while I sleep?” asked Bush, and Hornblower shook his head.
“No, it’s—” he managed to say, before he was distracted by Bush unbuttoning his breeches and pulling them off. “Too hot for that,” he finished, unable to look away from the sight of Bush sitting in his shirt on the edge of the bed. Then Bush pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the scars that he would carry for the rest of his life. They were still pink and raw, not fully healed, as Hornblower had discovered earlier that night, and without thinking he set the bottle down on the small table and crossed the room to sit on the bed behind Bush. Up close like this the scars were even more livid, and Hornblower reached out with a gentle hand to touch the long scar that had nearly killed his friend. Bush hissed in pain and Hornblower jerked his hand back, as if he’d touched white hot metal. “Sorry,” he mumbled and scrambled off the bed.
“They are tender still,” Bush said, apologetic. “I had hoped they would be less delicate by now, but…” He shrugged, looking up at Hornblower with an odd expression. He seemed to be waiting for Hornblower to say or do something, and when he did not Bush rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “D’you still wish to join me?” he asked at last, and Hornblower understood with a painful jolt that Bush had been waiting for him to undress too. He cursed himself; he had hoped his inexperience would go unnoticed, yet now it seemed as though he’d exposed himself for the fraud he was if he did not take more care. He very nearly babbled the truth then, but caught himself at the last moment — perhaps his error would go unnoticed, perhaps Bush would chalk it up to nothing more than the effects of drink. He opened his mouth to mumble an apology but Bush spoke first. “I know I’m a poor offering,” he joked, his smile friendly. “There’s some very pretty girls downstairs, if you’d rather one of those. Or even—” He licked his lips, an odd gleam in his eye. “Some girls don’t mind being shared, either.”
But Hornblower didn’t want a girl, that had been the whole point of the exercise. He did not want some pretty stranger, he wanted Bush.
“No,” he said, plucking at his neckcloth in haste and kicking off his shoes. God, there were too many layers. He nearly fell over as he balanced on one leg and attempted to unroll his stockings; only on the third attempt did he prevail. The buttons of his breeches nearly put him to rout and in the end he undid half and wriggled out of them. He pulled his shirt over his head and saw Bush watching him with an odd smile on his face, not mockery as he might have expected, but something else, something warmer and kinder — and it was that smile that made Hornblower drop his shirt on the floor and come, clumsy with shyness, to bed.
HH/WB, the usual.
--
The door was locked, the key still in the keyhole. Hornblower had dragged a chair across the room and barricaded the door with it; despite Mrs Maggs’ assurances that the coin they had given her was enough to buy the silence of every man and woman in the house neither Bush nor Hornblower trusted the word of a bawd. It was impossible to say what the consequences would be for two officers found in bed together — as far as Hornblower knew none had ever been caught thusly — but friendless officers such as they who lacked connections and patronage would no doubt be treated badly at the hands of a court-martial. The risk was simply too great for anything but utmost caution.
Bush had shut the louvred windows and latched them before lighting a second candle and placing it on the bedside table. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and unknotted his neckcloth.
“It’s damnably hot,” he said, by way of explanation and apology, unwinding the black cloth from around his neck and folding it. Hornblower watched, transfixed, as Bush laid it aside and pulled off his jacket. The clothes went on the floor — there was nowhere else to put them — but Bush did not seem to care. He started on his waistcoat and Hornblower took another drink of rum.
He’d never seen Bush naked before — only parts of him, glimpses snatched at inopportune moments, the handful of times Hornblower had caught him dressing or shaving in his berth. It had almost been worse that way, seeing only tantalising sightings but never the full thing; Hornblower suspected he would like what he saw, but he did not know for certain, and it gnawed at him. He had seen men naked, of course, but he’d never had cause to appreciate it before, assuming that he would appreciate it. Perhaps he would not enjoy the sight of Bush: perhaps it would revolt him and put an end to this foolish fancy once and for all. He took a drink, hoping in vain that it might give him courage.
Bush was undressing slowly, seemingly in no hurry. He doffed his waistcoat and sat there in shirtsleeves while he kicked off his shoes and unrolled his stockings. His legs were white and hairy, but well-shaped and strong, and Hornblower wondered if there was any part of Bush that was not sturdy — a Galatea carved not from marble, but from living oak. It was satisfying to find he could make such allusions even whilst drunk.
“Do you wish for me to keep my shirt on while I sleep?” asked Bush, and Hornblower shook his head.
“No, it’s—” he managed to say, before he was distracted by Bush unbuttoning his breeches and pulling them off. “Too hot for that,” he finished, unable to look away from the sight of Bush sitting in his shirt on the edge of the bed. Then Bush pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the scars that he would carry for the rest of his life. They were still pink and raw, not fully healed, as Hornblower had discovered earlier that night, and without thinking he set the bottle down on the small table and crossed the room to sit on the bed behind Bush. Up close like this the scars were even more livid, and Hornblower reached out with a gentle hand to touch the long scar that had nearly killed his friend. Bush hissed in pain and Hornblower jerked his hand back, as if he’d touched white hot metal. “Sorry,” he mumbled and scrambled off the bed.
“They are tender still,” Bush said, apologetic. “I had hoped they would be less delicate by now, but…” He shrugged, looking up at Hornblower with an odd expression. He seemed to be waiting for Hornblower to say or do something, and when he did not Bush rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “D’you still wish to join me?” he asked at last, and Hornblower understood with a painful jolt that Bush had been waiting for him to undress too. He cursed himself; he had hoped his inexperience would go unnoticed, yet now it seemed as though he’d exposed himself for the fraud he was if he did not take more care. He very nearly babbled the truth then, but caught himself at the last moment — perhaps his error would go unnoticed, perhaps Bush would chalk it up to nothing more than the effects of drink. He opened his mouth to mumble an apology but Bush spoke first. “I know I’m a poor offering,” he joked, his smile friendly. “There’s some very pretty girls downstairs, if you’d rather one of those. Or even—” He licked his lips, an odd gleam in his eye. “Some girls don’t mind being shared, either.”
But Hornblower didn’t want a girl, that had been the whole point of the exercise. He did not want some pretty stranger, he wanted Bush.
“No,” he said, plucking at his neckcloth in haste and kicking off his shoes. God, there were too many layers. He nearly fell over as he balanced on one leg and attempted to unroll his stockings; only on the third attempt did he prevail. The buttons of his breeches nearly put him to rout and in the end he undid half and wriggled out of them. He pulled his shirt over his head and saw Bush watching him with an odd smile on his face, not mockery as he might have expected, but something else, something warmer and kinder — and it was that smile that made Hornblower drop his shirt on the floor and come, clumsy with shyness, to bed.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 05:04 pm (UTC)And god, the yearning in this. This is a man drowning in a sudden wealth of visual details, it's marvelous. (Hah, he didn't know if he would enjoy looking at Bush! You don't spend that much time and effort jonesing for a glimpse if you wouldn't enjoy looking! Such naivete!)
He did not want some pretty stranger, he wanted Bush.
Oof, that hit me hard. Lucky boy, he's about to get what he wants.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 06:47 pm (UTC)Yes, he is drowning in visual detail. In his defence, it’s one thing to see someone naked and another thing to see them naked in a sexy context. He doesn’t know if that desire is going to hold up, or if he’s going to realise it’s merely an aesthetic attraction. But he IS naive, and he wouldn’t have put that much effort in if he didn’t want to go through with it.
Lucky boy indeed!
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 08:10 pm (UTC)Will we find out how Bush and Hornblower got to this understanding? What conversation led to the mutual decision to lock the door and buy the silence of the house? Because they are both very clear on what they have come here to do, at least in large strokes, and I'm curious how and when they managed to broach and negotiate that.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 11:44 pm (UTC)And yes, Hornblower, you have to be decisive about these things! You already know the importance of making your own luck in war; the same goes for love, too!