St George’s Day
Apr. 23rd, 2006 12:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mylodonTitle: St George’s Day
Pairing: H/A
Rating: PG
Summary: A little offering to celebrate our patron saint. An adaptation of a challenge fic that was itself once a drabble. I’m off for a nice cup of tea…
Notes: No claim made on or profit made from these characters
St George’s Day
"Kennedy is a good Irish name, Horatio. - I am quite entitled to enjoy a glass or two of the black stuff come St Patrick's day." Archie raised his pint of stout, the creamy white head smearing all over his lips.
Hornblower snorted. "So long as do not expect me to join you."
"Well you should - this is not just drink, this is nourishment. It would do you the world of good you know." He licked the froth from his lips and put the half empty tankard down.
"The last time that you said that a drink would do me the world of good, I ended up being sick behind the Round Tower. Twice." Hornblower shuddered at the memory - almost as bad as seasickness it had been.
"As the ship's surgeon constantly reminds us - a double dose will not effect a double amount of good. I told you to stick to two glasses of champagne and you insisted on four."
Horatio distinctly remembered who had insisted on his having four glasses and the probable motive - at least his puking behind the Round Tower had foiled Mr Insatiable Kennedy on that score. "And if you are so proud of your Irish lineage," he continued, "why is it all wearing of the tartan and have a wee dram come St Andrew's day? It strikes me that some people change their allegiance to suit their own purposes."
"I thought you liked me in a kilt?" Archie smirked. "On reflection, perhaps you do not - you always seem to try to get me out of it. Anyway, what do you do to celebrate St George - take a nice cup of tea and a hot crumpet? No romance the English, none at all." He finished his pint and slammed the tankard down with meaning, as if to emphasise his victory in the debate.
"But you always commandeer that as well - stick rosemary in your buttonhole, say it's Shakespeare's birthday and insist we all quaff some ale. Any excuse for a party with you, Archie Kennedy." Horatio pouted. Archie loved it when he pouted; not only did he look particularly attractive with this expression, but it meant that Kennedy had got one over on him. He rarely shouted at Archie, but pouting he specialised at.
Kennedy smirked again. "Just need to think of an excuse to celebrate St David's day and I will have got a grand slam!"
Hornblower muttered something indistinct.
"Will you please speak up, Horatio? I do not live down the front of your shirt - although come to think of it I can imagine worse places to inhabit - and cannot hear you if you address your waistcoat buttons."
"Said that I have a touch of Welsh blood in me." He looked rather embarrassed, as if he were admitting to being related to scoundrels and rogues instead of sturdy welsh yeomen.
"Well I would never have guessed that - it never shows in your accent. Does that mean we can indulge in fine Welsh lamb and beer from the valleys next time around?"
Horatio produced a sly grin. "Make very good wool, those Welsh sheep. Fine for making blankets. Bed blankets."
Kennedy produced his look of angelic innocence. "I do not catch your drift, sir. Anyway, it is a long time till next St David's day. Have to keep your good Welsh bed blankets until then."
Hornblower looked disappointed. "Is there not a St Horatio's day we could celebrate in advance?"
"No, nor a St Archibald either." A sudden wave of inspiration. "Could do a repeat of St Valentine's."
The sly look returned. "And how did we celebrate that, Mr Kennedy? I cannot remember..."
"The same way we always do, Mr Hornblower, making sure the Captain does not find us..."
Pairing: H/A
Rating: PG
Summary: A little offering to celebrate our patron saint. An adaptation of a challenge fic that was itself once a drabble. I’m off for a nice cup of tea…
Notes: No claim made on or profit made from these characters
St George’s Day
"Kennedy is a good Irish name, Horatio. - I am quite entitled to enjoy a glass or two of the black stuff come St Patrick's day." Archie raised his pint of stout, the creamy white head smearing all over his lips.
Hornblower snorted. "So long as do not expect me to join you."
"Well you should - this is not just drink, this is nourishment. It would do you the world of good you know." He licked the froth from his lips and put the half empty tankard down.
"The last time that you said that a drink would do me the world of good, I ended up being sick behind the Round Tower. Twice." Hornblower shuddered at the memory - almost as bad as seasickness it had been.
"As the ship's surgeon constantly reminds us - a double dose will not effect a double amount of good. I told you to stick to two glasses of champagne and you insisted on four."
Horatio distinctly remembered who had insisted on his having four glasses and the probable motive - at least his puking behind the Round Tower had foiled Mr Insatiable Kennedy on that score. "And if you are so proud of your Irish lineage," he continued, "why is it all wearing of the tartan and have a wee dram come St Andrew's day? It strikes me that some people change their allegiance to suit their own purposes."
"I thought you liked me in a kilt?" Archie smirked. "On reflection, perhaps you do not - you always seem to try to get me out of it. Anyway, what do you do to celebrate St George - take a nice cup of tea and a hot crumpet? No romance the English, none at all." He finished his pint and slammed the tankard down with meaning, as if to emphasise his victory in the debate.
"But you always commandeer that as well - stick rosemary in your buttonhole, say it's Shakespeare's birthday and insist we all quaff some ale. Any excuse for a party with you, Archie Kennedy." Horatio pouted. Archie loved it when he pouted; not only did he look particularly attractive with this expression, but it meant that Kennedy had got one over on him. He rarely shouted at Archie, but pouting he specialised at.
Kennedy smirked again. "Just need to think of an excuse to celebrate St David's day and I will have got a grand slam!"
Hornblower muttered something indistinct.
"Will you please speak up, Horatio? I do not live down the front of your shirt - although come to think of it I can imagine worse places to inhabit - and cannot hear you if you address your waistcoat buttons."
"Said that I have a touch of Welsh blood in me." He looked rather embarrassed, as if he were admitting to being related to scoundrels and rogues instead of sturdy welsh yeomen.
"Well I would never have guessed that - it never shows in your accent. Does that mean we can indulge in fine Welsh lamb and beer from the valleys next time around?"
Horatio produced a sly grin. "Make very good wool, those Welsh sheep. Fine for making blankets. Bed blankets."
Kennedy produced his look of angelic innocence. "I do not catch your drift, sir. Anyway, it is a long time till next St David's day. Have to keep your good Welsh bed blankets until then."
Hornblower looked disappointed. "Is there not a St Horatio's day we could celebrate in advance?"
"No, nor a St Archibald either." A sudden wave of inspiration. "Could do a repeat of St Valentine's."
The sly look returned. "And how did we celebrate that, Mr Kennedy? I cannot remember..."
"The same way we always do, Mr Hornblower, making sure the Captain does not find us..."
