mylodon | The varying shore o' th' world 7/7

Title: The varying shore o' th' world 7/7
Rating: PG
Pairing: Apollo/Hornblower
Summary: Written with

calavarna. Apologies for the delay in finishing this; blame it on either real life or the discovery of John B....
Other parts of the tale are linked here

There is a silly version of this ending in the pipeline.
We don't own these characters, but they're great fun to play with.

They ran Guichet up to Dover where she was passed over, looking as trim and gleaming as a bride on her wedding morning, to her new owner. The hands were sad to see her go, even though she’d brought them a considerable bounty to their pockets; she was a neat little boat and a pleasure to sail. Hambledon seemed cramped once her full complement was resumed and tempers, beginning to fray in Plymouth, were now starting to unravel. Even the mild mannered Clarke snapped at his mess-mates, although this was probably due to his idol having taken very little notice of him these past few days.

Warne had sense enough to realise that another cruise was needed - there was nothing like facing some stiff opposition for pulling a crew together and the last thing he wanted was to reach the point where he was regarded as the enemy. Factions were forming among his men - those who followed the seemingly charmed Adama, the ones who preferred the glamour and reputation of Hornblower. Freddie still remained universally popular but Warne’s own star - the lucky captain who had lined many a jack’s pocket with silver - might just be on the wane. He needed to lead his men into action, proving once and for all who the king of this floating castle was.

Three bells in the forenoon watch, with Hambledon off the needles and the sun streaming down on her billowing sails, Warne called all hands to hear him.
“I’ve had word in London,” the men pricked up their ears at this, Mr Warne often hearing many an interesting and ultimately profitable thing when he visited the capital, “that we may not be at peace for much longer. By this time next year - and probably much sooner - these waters will be swarming with shipping and a Letter of Marque will have to compete with His Majesty’s navy for the prizes. If our hunting season is to be curtailed then I’d like to take a few fox tails home with me.”

He looked straight at his lieutenants, a challenge in his words. Both looked more than slightly worse for wear, having returned to Hambledon in a right mess. The bruises they were sporting suggested a brawl, with each other or against a band of unruly men, the captain couldn't tell and neither officer had offered any explanation as to their appearance. It was clear, however, that Hornblower had come off the worse. His nose had swelled to massive proportions and was prone to bleeding when the man made sudden movements.

But he could not complain about their work; the traps he had set them had been identified and dealt with - the men had been kept in order and Hambledon looked an absolute picture. And even if Adama was either some time traveller or a complete lunatic - the man seemed to believe entirely in the mad story he had told - then he had also proved himself time and again. They'd be kept on for as long as Warne could hold them, which - if the rumours were true - would not be very long in Hornblower's case. And then would Adama stay, too?

Tide and luck were with them, letting Hambledon slip sweetly out of her anchorage and begin to move along the coast, far enough out to avoid the perils of a lee shore but not straying too near to France now that war seemed such a possibility. The men could easily make out the grey outlines of the foreign shore, now at least nominally a friendly country, although not one of those aboard trusted it to be truly so. They would not be quartering those waters again for a while. It was the Med for them, the rumours had it.

“You’ll see some sunshine on your back then, Mr Adama,” Hornblower grinned, although the damage to his face – at last beginning to fade – made it appear to be more like a gargoyle’s leer.

“I could do with some. Is the weather always like this – I’ve seen nothing but fr…bloody rain and fog since I got here.”

“It’s been quite a pleasant time, weather-wise, for England. But I’ll grant you that the weeks ahead should be more to your liking.” The grin disappeared, to be replaced by Horatio’s standard lieutenant’s scowl. “Mr Warne, may we help you?”

“Please, sir, the captain says that your presence is required in the great cabin. Plans to discuss,” he added conspiratorially with a little sideways smile at Adama.
“Tell him we’ll be below right away; then you can return to take the watch.” Lee watched the boy skip along the deck, a fondness in his gaze that Horatio found unnerving – just so had Archie regarded poor little Mr Wellard. “Mr Hornblower – shall we get a move on?”

“You’ll have heard the tales circulating below decks and for once they’re true.” Captain Warne, charts spread over his table and glasses of wine for his officers being handed round by his steward, looked at total ease and completely confident of his command.

One chart in particular caught Horatio's eye, the familiar channel of water summoning memories of happier times. He hadn't sailed in the Mediterranean since his days aboard Indefatigable, at a time when he had been preparing to transfer to Renown - without Archie, or so he had thought. That had been a happier time, especially in comparison to what he had later been subject to, but those last days had been painful. There weren't too many things that frightened Hornblower, but being made to leave his home - his family – had been enough to render him pale and ineffectual. In hindsight he wondered whether Captain Pellew had requested the Admiralty allow Archie to serve aboard Renown just so the famed lieutenant Hornblower didn't embarrass himself and his former captain. Perhaps his lover had been correct in his belief that Pellew had known precisely what had been going on between his junior lieutenants, right down to the clandestine meetings in the cable tiers.

Horatio cleared his throat, banishing his memories to the back of his mind. "We're for the Med then, sir?"

"Indeed. Mr Hornblower, since Mr Adama is...since he is, shall we say, unfamiliar with these waters I would appreciate your cooperation in helping him to familiarise himself with the area. I will expect you both to be able to navigate our destination in your sleep by the time we arrive." The captain set his wine glass on the table and turned his attention back to the charts in front of him, all but dismissing his officers.

"Aye aye sir." Horatio slanted a glance in Lee's direction, edging away as the two awkwardly backed out of the room, uncertain as to whether they had been given leave to exit.

"What do you think that was about?" Adama began to make his way back to the quarterdeck, Hornblower following in silence. "Help me to familiarise myself with the area? You'd think we were sailing straight into Paris the way he's going on about knowing the area."

"You can't - never mind." Horatio had seen it too, the faint gleam in Warne's eye that spoke of an untold agenda. "The captain wouldn't put his ship in any unnecessary danger. He's probably just eager to take as many prizes as he can before war breaks out again."

"Sir?" Freddie sidled over furtively, glancing from side to side as though his uncle was about to leap out from the ship's very woodwork and silence the young officer with a harsh word and a cane. "I'm sorry sirs but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. There's nothing to be worried about, uncle wouldn't lead us into any danger. He just wants to get to the prizes before Captain Pietersen does."

"And who is this Captain Pietersen?" Hornblower raised his eyebrows into a fierce look that usually scared Freddie witless when it was unleashed on him; but this time the lad had his hero at his side and could face any officer, not matter how stern.

"Ah - he's an old enemy of the Captain's," he just restrained himself again from saying Uncle Ian, "he's a privateer from the Cape. Lost his Letter of Marque in the late 90's but the word has it that he's wangled it back - probably by applying a little unction in the right places. He wants to make some profits before the seas are overrun with men of war again." He looked over his shoulder in a rather dramatic way, then leaned forward, lowering his voice theatrically. "Where Pietersen is, that's where Hambledon will be heading." He winked and left the wardroom.

Horatio snorted. "That boy should have been on the stage. Drury Lane would be more appropriate to his skills than the Straits of Gibraltar."

Adama frowned. Unction had puzzled him, but he guessed that it meant some form of bribery - that, like sex and war, seemed a constant of the universe irrespective of time and place. Drury Lane was beyond his power of guesswork. "You're too hard on him - he's just a boy."

"Boys of that age are running gun crews on frigates; he seems more suited to playing Puck."

Lee gave up on that one too - Horatio was in a belligerent mood and whatever he said there'd be a fight. He made his excuses and went off to deal with the matter of rearranging the gun crews now that the two ship's companies were re-amalgamated, leaving Hornblower alone with his thoughts. It was the notion of the theatre that had sparked him into aggression - the remembrance of Drury Lane - and the inevitable connection with Archie. Whom he was determined not to mention in Adama's presence for a long while - he valued his nose too much.

***

The warm breeze and gentle waters that carried Hambledon through the Straits of Gibraltar were a sight to see. The crew, so used to English weather, basked in the blaze of the sun upon their backs and the scent of the fresh sea air. Even Lee, who had grown accustomed to the cover of clouds above him, enjoyed the temperate area which reminded him of his childhood holidays to the coast.

The area also provided a plethora of information, with each merchant or fisherman they came across offering more news as to their quarry. Pietersen had been sighted in the vicinity of the Gulf of Lion not three days previously and was, by all accounts, lacking a decent crew and finding it nigh on impossible to take a prize. He’d come close a few times, but had been unable to turn opportunity into profit.

The captain met the news with great enthusiasm, focussing on nothing but winning the private power battle which was unfolding in his mind’s eye. A perfect victory would entail capturing a vessel from under Pietersen’s nose, cementing his reputation as one of the most successful of England’s privateers, and returning to his home before war broke out and he was forced to share his spoils. In short, he plotted, planned and would execute a whitewash.

The reassembled crews were worked to a peak of perfection, drills were gone through time and again, though Hambledon needed little attention - she was in the peak of condition. Hornblower had taken time all through the journey to show Adama exactly where they were on the charts, the significance of Ushant, Cap Ferrol, the sites of the great naval actions the like of which might never be seen again unless the rumours were true. And these had ceased to be mere rumour among the hands - the impending war had become a fact among them; as sure as December followed November, a new conflict would follow this uneasy period of peace. And they would enter it as rich men, on the proceeds of both the last prize and those they'd snatch from under Pietersen's nose.

But the latter fact seemed to becoming less of a surety; whatever prizes their rival was failing to take, they were not able to locate them either. The entire sea seemed to be peopled by Danish merchantmen and others who were not legitimate quarries. Rumours of North African galleys, with their oarsmen made up of ranks of good honest Christian men, proved to be mares' nests and never were the trademark lateen sails spied from deck or masthead.

Until the start of the third week since they'd passed the Straits, when an “Hoi, on deck, there!” from Freddie - at which his uncle frowned somewhat as it didn't sound very officer like - made them all look about, scanning the horizon for a sail.

"What do you see, Mr Warne?" The captain did not want to encourage unnecessary familiarity on his deck.

"It's a sail, sir," Freddie remembered himself, "but it's not like any I've ever seen in the channel."

"Hull up or down?"

"Down at present sir, but that will soon change."

Warne shielded his eyes from the bright sun as he sought out the ship on the horizon, a slight frown passing across his face as his search revealed nothing but waves of shimmering heat rising above the water. His frown deepened as he turned to Lee, who had run aloft at Freddie’s first cry, for confirmation.

“It’s definitely a sail, sir. Beyond that I can’t be sure – wait a few minutes and we’ll be able to tell more.”

The captain bristled, offended by the thought that he should have to wait for even a moment when his pride was at stake, and that he had been told to do so by his time travelling lieutenant. He didn’t know what went on aboard this ‘Galactica’ but it was obvious that Adama hadn’t had the notion of respecting one’s senior officer drilled into him. Warne’s frown became an out and out scowl as he once again failed to locate a sail on the distant horizon and bit back a curse that had no more place on his quarterdeck than his nephew’s casual behaviour.

“Very well, inform me when you have managed to identify the ship.” He strode back below deck leaving his officers to keep sight of their quarry and share a series of covert glances which became far more apparent as the true situation gradually revealed itself.

The ship was a merchantman - fat and slow, full of what Freddie would call the gems of Araby - and hard on her coat tails was a French frigate, colours streaming, bristling with guns and letting her quarry have the best of her bow chasers. Hambledon's crew was soon at its battle stations, eager to be at the scoundrels who were threatening their fellow Englishmen and full of speculation as to what this might really mean. When they had left Dover, peace - albeit an uneasy one - still reigned across the channel. Now it seemed as if all the rumours had been true and a fresh declaration of war had indeed been made.

As soon as the Frenchman spotted Warne's vessel she began to heave her head round towards the newcomer. She seemed confident that if she could deal with the intruder in her hunt, then she could come back and mop up the merchantman at will. Her belief in her own abilities was impressive, but Hornblower was certain it was misplaced. He had no doubts that Hambledon's men had seen real action much more often and more recently than the other crew and that they were raring to show their capabilities.

The gun crews under Lee’s supervision were in fine form, manning the cannon with equal parts enthusiasm and accuracy. A haze of gunpowder filled the air as shots were exchanged, the majority of the French fire straying away from its target while Hambledon’s cannonballs found their mark time and again. Adama ducked his head as a piece of oak careered past him, sent flying by a lucky shot that took out a small part of the deck.

So this is a French frigate. The stray thought passed through his mind as he took note of the damage inflicted by the Frenchman’s erratic firing and even sparser hits. Guichet had put up more of a fight in its feeble state than this perfectly serviceable naval vessel. He was left to wonder - if this performance was representative of the entirety of the French navy - how the last outbreak of war could have lasted for so long when one side was so obviously outmatched. Then again, an outsider would naturally assume that Cylon technology would be far superior to the older, outdated systems aboard Galactica, but the toasters hadn’t defeated them yet.

Hambledon's men had the bit between their teeth and no froggie was going to best them now. As soon as the French frigate realised that this privateer meant real business and was looking for all the world as if she was going to let fly a devastating broadside they had heaved her head round and left both quarry and hunter behind. Warne had made enough of a chase to ensure that his enemy had in fact departed, rather than simply pulled some ruse. He brought Hambledon back to range alongside the merchantman; news was important now, and every one on board - perhaps with the exception of Adama, who had not picked out the significance of the engagement - had the same question to ask.

"Aye, Captain," the commander of the merchant vessel was happy to share what he knew. "The peace was broken just days ago or so we understand. And now we've to get back to London through a channel full of French mastiffs waiting to snap us up. We've been holding off returning home until a safe opportunity presents itself."

The solution was immediately apparent to Horatio, whose thoughts had already travelled back to England even if he couldn't be there in the flesh. All he needed to do was convince the captain. "Sir-"

"Not now, Mr Hornblower.” It was obvious what the lieutenant wanted, but it was not up to him. Warne's brow was furrowed and he was chewing his lower lip distractedly, as though he was struggling to come to an internal decision. A return to England had been on the cards since word had first reached his ears of a possible outbreak of war, and he could certainly come to a profitable arrangement with the wealthy merchant captain in exchange for ensuring a safe voyage home, but he would be forsaking an opportunity - the best he'd had in many a year – to get at Pietersen once and for all. The captain exhaled deeply and extended a courteous hand to his fellow captain. “It would be an honour to escort you back to England.”

Lee made an effort not to roll his eyes. By his tone, and the fact that he was running an appreciative eye over the impressively decked out Edgbaston, Warne obviously meant that it would be an honour to accept whatever the grateful merchant cared to offer.

The men were less keen to be going home with their little cruise terminated, although at least some recognised that the outbreak of hostilities was going to make life in the Med more dangerous and The Channel not much better. This would be like it had been back in the 90's, a risky but lucrative time. The faintest hint of anticipation started to bubble among the crew as they made ready to escort the merchant home, with the usual wild rumours - Pietersen was off Cape St Vincent, the old man had got word of it - running like wildfire. Adama and Hornblower were quick to put out the flames but they could not entirely eliminate the smoke of conjecture.

The captain paid no attention to the crew's persistent but cautious mutterings - despite having no doubt as to the accuracy of the rumours spreading through his ship - having accepted that the promise of obtaining a healthy payment more than made up for his lost chance with Pietersen. There would be many more opportunities to seek out the other privateer and precious few occasions to make an easy coin or two. A profitable return to England had just about dropped into his lap with Edgbaston's appearance, and he was nothing if not savvy when it came to his chosen career. And if the crew didn't like it, they would feel the combined wrath of his lieutenants, both of whom were traipsing around Hambledon avoiding each other and wearing faces like thunder.

***

The passage through the Straits of Gibraltar was quiet, unusually so for wartime, which both heartened and exasperated Lee. To have seen little sign of the hostilities between England and France led to the hope that the outbreak of war would be brief, but the lack of action meant that there was no avoiding Horatio, who alternated between ebullience - or as close as he could get to it - and deep melancholy. Warne certainly noticed the tension between the two men, but put it down to his private theory: Adama and Hornblower had resorted to fisticuffs at Plymouth – their faces were witness to that – and were probably desperate to be away from each other. He could not hope to retain Horatio’s services; the man’s heart was in the regular navy and always would be, but perhaps he might be able to retain Lee, who – for all that he had been flung in at the deep end – had proved reliable and effective.

“Will you talk to me?” It was after dinner, the officer’s servant had taken the dishes away and only the two lieutenants remained at the table. Hornblower had barely spoken throughout the meal, but once they were at no risk of interruption, he caught Adama’s hand, made the man face him.

“What is there to say? We’re going back to Portsmouth, you’re going to get a ship and I’ll be back where I was. I’ll be fine.”

“Lee, I…there’s nothing to say I’ll even find a ship in Portsmouth. You must know how it is; the Admiralty have their favourites and bad luck to anybody not held in the highest esteem. It could take months to find a vessel.” It was entirely unlikely for one such as Hornblower – who could almost be assured of a ship if Admiral Pellew still had command of the channel fleet - but true for the majority nevertheless.

“But they’ll find you one eventually. It’s one of the inescapable facts of war; people die and your Admiralty will need commanders to replace those they’ve lost. You’ll have your promotion and your ship. And like I said, I’ll be fine. Who knows, maybe I can persuade Warne to keep me on for a little longer; I’d love to find out what he’s got against this Pietersen.”

“Would you be happy?” Horatio didn’t look at Adama, hadn’t met his eye since the conversation began, but something in his tone spoke of an emotion that ran deeper than simple concern. Empathy, perhaps.

A sad smile crossed Lee’s face, at odds with the detached look in his eyes. “I don’t think that matters now.” He reached over to touch Hornblower’s hand lightly. “Let it go, Horatio. Do your duty and let me be.”

Hornblower raised Adama’s hand to his mouth, brushed his lips on the fingers, kissed the palm. “Perhaps we’ll meet again. The war can’t go on forever and while it lasts we might be in port together.”

“Don’t raise your hopes, Horatio. Better not to expect anything – won’t be disappointed then.” Lee brought Hornblower’s hand to his own lips, returned the compliment. “When we dock we’ll see if we can engineer an evening’s leave. Warne frakkin’ well owes us that. We’ll have a drink, find a room and end this as it started.” He grinned, quite unexpectedly, “only you won’t call me Archie this time.”

“I’ll never call you Archie again.” Horatio rose from the table, closed the gap between them, reached down and kissed Adama more sweetly than he had ever done.
Lee rested both hands against the lapels of Horatio’s jacket, uncertain as to whether he was attempting to pull his lover closer or push him away. Hesitant fingers curled around the thick wool, bunching the fabric as his grip tightened, unwilling to let go just yet. Their shelter, their last defence against the chaos of the universe would be torn apart by their own hands and as resigned and accepting as he was, there remained an irrational desire that this last voyage would never end.

Letting go was all there was left to do, releasing the coarse material that irritated his palms just as he would break free from the fetters that tied him to the prickly Hornblower. Adama laid his forehead against Horatio’s, the heat of his breath mixing with Hornblower’s own, their fingers linked. “Don’t think about it, any of it. We have time left until we reach dock in London. Don’t worry about anything until we’re there.”

The days that passed as they swept up the channel, keeping a wary eye out for the frogs and the Captain’s glances, seemed dreamlike. They did not snatch at last pleasures, but reverted to brief contacts, meaningful looks, barely more than a kiss passing between them. It was as if the normal rules of courtship had been reversed, the pinnacle – couplings and protestations of love (albeit from one side only) - having come first and the tender tentative signs of affection – shared smiles, occasional touches to hand or arm – following long behind. They were always aware that the next time that they lay together would probably be the last.

Hambledon at last brought her merchantman into the bustling Thames, where the strange dances performed by commercial vessels and warships alike spoke of haste and uncertainty and a fear that this new outbreak of war might prove much more of a threat to England than the last one had. Suddenly the width of the Channel seemed no more than a biscuit’s throw.

Horatio looked keenly over the naval vessels and then the city itself, as if he might penetrate the mind of the Admiralty and find himself a berth on a ship of the line. But he signally did not seek permission to go and plead his case himself. By an unspoken agreement – negotiated by looks and intimations as they sailed up past Dover and then North Foreland – they were to part in Portsmouth, bringing it all full circle. If Warne was surprised that Hornblower did not seek to leave there and then he did not show it; perhaps he hoped that the man would keep his lot in with the Letter of Marque, representing as it did a definite position in a successful vessel, something the man might not find at Spithead.

If that was the captain’s belief, it was a stark contrast to his nephew’s. Freddie had taken to following the lieutenant all over the ship, popping out from nowhere every time Horatio turned around and generally making an unintentional nuisance of himself. The young man had even been witness to a number of the controlled gestures of affection between Hornblower and Adama but fortunately lacked the years to be able to piece the subtle touches and glances together and ascertain their true meaning.

It was Lee who managed decipher Freddie’s strange behaviour, through a mixture of observation and interrogation. A chance encounter and opportunity for friendly questioning on the quarterdeck revealed to him everything he needed to know about the young Mr Warne. He wanted to join the navy. Hornblower tried not to poor cold water on this grand ambition, but he knew that there were two obstacles to overcome – finding a captain who would take him and persuading his uncle to both let him go and supply his needs. Horatio was confident that Freddie could end up in a ship – Warne had plenty of contacts and if Hornblower was lucky enough to be given a command he would have the boy serve with him in a trice. But whether Captain Warne would ever let the lad go was another matter.

Adama’s opinion had been simple. “He’ll have to let him, you know. The lad’ll just go off and do it himself if Warne says he’s not allowed to. Better to say yes and give him the means to look after himself properly.”

Hornblower grinned. “You’re starting to talk like a navy man – like you’re at home here at last.” He immediately regretted saying it.

A shadow passed over Lee’s face, then something like a smile returned. “Perhaps I’ll have to be.”

***

The inn at Portsmouth had changed very little, except that there seemed to be a bustle of excitement and industry that had not been present before – but then the whole city had changed from the inertia of the peace to the vivid tableau of wartime. No longer did this seem to be a place peopled by sad faces, lost and hopeless; the vicinity of the Hard was full of optimism and anticipation.

Not so the two men, who sat with their beers at the table where they had first spoken, first met eyes, first decided to share a bed and a life awhile. They had not sought Mrs Mason’s lodgings again, even for old times’ sake; they could afford a better room now, even though they still sought only one bed. No-one noticed – the town was full of officers and many had elected to room together.

Horatio took a long, final draught of the frothy remains of his beer and set his tankard down on the wooden table with a decisive thud which sent tremors through the sturdy table and startled Adama out of the motionless reverie he had fallen into. “Shall we?”

Lee blinked, his distraction falling away as his eyes scanned the room and finally came to a rest upon Hornblower. “May as well.”

Horatio bristled at the compliant but half-hearted words. “Only if you don’t find it a bother.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Horatio. I…I don’t know what I meant.” He sighed and shook his head as if to clear it. “Come on, we can sneak upstairs now while no one’s looking.”

The lock on the door was slid reassuringly into place, the occupants of the neighbouring rooms in no state to speculate on - or overhear – what would take place and the dawn would not be seen for several hours yet. Horatio stood in front of the door, resisting the temptation to lean against it and at a loss for something, anything to say. He shifted awkwardly, edging closer to Adama, who breached the space between them and seized Hornblower’s hands in his own, his fingers lightly trailing up long arms, along wool covered shoulders, to cradle Horatio’s face. He leaned forward to press his lips gently against the lieutenant’s, a slow start to what would be a long night.

Horatio pressed forward, his hands searching for something to hold on to, unwilling to break the kiss. They settled for clutching at Lee’s hair, the short strands affording him just enough grip to tilt the man’s head back and launch an all out attack on Adama’s neck, kissing and gently nipping his way down to where tanned skin met the rough weave of Lee’s shirt.

Adama pulled back, looked long and hard into Horatio’s dark eyes, saw their depths full of some plaintive desire. So long now they had sailed together – nothing to be compared against the years the guy had been at Kennedy’s side, but enough that they should have been able to begin to understand each other. And still each was like an unread book to the other; Lee couldn’t fathom what Hornblower was thinking beyond sadness at their imminent parting. Had he found some form of love again with his second Archie – or had it all been just a replication of that first night, a vain attempt at resurrecting a long lost lover? Horatio had said that he had moved beyond such things, but Adama was not sure. He would never really know.

“What is it?” Horatio was genuinely concerned. Even if he would never admit so much in words, he wanted this night to be a proper parting, a fit monument to the last few months. He had not been given that opportunity with Kennedy – a prison hospital and no privacy had ensured that fact – and he did not want the same thing repeated. If this was the last time he slept with his new lover than it should be made into something to remember with fondness and no regrets. Whatever reluctance had been eating away at Lee had to be taken out and aired.

“Just tell me this. Tell me and I won’t ask anything else. Is it me you want here, or is it just like that first time – you want the man with Archie’s face? I don’t give a damn either way, but I have to know.”

“Why ask now?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get you to frakkin’ talk ever since we took up with Warne. Do I mean anything more to you than just being a willing partner, like I was when we met? What the hell have I meant to you all this time?”

Horatio’s eyes became darker still, grew moist. “You’ve been a ray of hope when everything was at its most black. I can’t say I love you – I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone again – but you’ve never just been someone to warm my bed. Believe me.” He bent his brow to meet Adama’s. “Please believe me.”

A stray hand reached for the base of Horatio’s neck, curling around the long column and resting there, brushing against the short hairs that couldn’t be gathered into Hornblower’s queue. The heavy weight of Lee’s touch anchored the pair, creating a calm in the turbulent waves of their relationship; the warm press of their foreheads connecting them for a perfect instant.

“I do.” He drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “I do. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought it up. I guess I just wanted to know before the end.”

Horatio’s fingertips traced the shell of his lover’s ear, a silly, tender gesture which would seem ridiculous if it crossed his mind in the light of day but was not out of place in the low lights of their small room. “Thank you.”

Adama let out a soft burst of laughter. “Do I want to know what you’re thanking me for?”

“Caring for me, keeping me sane.” Two months back he’d have added like Archie did but he had genuinely moved beyond that. Adama had brought hope back into Hornblower’s life, both for his career at sea and for his life as a man. “Let’s not talk any more. There’s not enough time for words tonight.”

They played out what might be the final act of their drama as they said they would – just as they had their first. They kissed and it still felt absurdly good. Adama nudged Hornblower's nose with his, brushed his mouth with his lips again, kiss after kiss interspersed with little nudges and touches. The tears started to flow down Horatio's cheeks - they were caressed away with strong, rough hands.

Lee tugged at Hornblower's waistcoat buttons – he’d got used to the clothes by now, but he still thought they were frakking ridiculous things to truss yourself up in.

Horatio smiled. "You always were hopeless with buttons, Mr Adama. Allow me." Adama let him; let him undo every button the pair of them possessed. Let him do whatever he liked.

Current Music: John Barrowman - Dreamers

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calavarna.livejournal.com

I lay the blame solely at JB2's very nice and perfectly formed feet. It's his fault I've been neglecting JB1 for the past four months.

BTW I think in the switch from google docs to word the paragraph spaces disappeared...And also I apparently didn't get the coding right for "i>Hambledon's crew was soon at its battle stations" *slaps self*

I really hope we're not sued for defamation re the cricket references *g*

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The varying shore o' th' world 7/7

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