Fic: Curse 6/?
Feb. 10th, 2009 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mylodonHH, Shifting Sands
Horatio watches the film with a sort of horrified fascination. It’s like the first time he saw injuries in battle, his eyes drawn to the awful sights although they wanted to tear themselves away. The man in the film, the hero of the story, finds his reputation, marriage, his very life are all threatened because of his secret nature. Professional men, men of consequence - such as he might be if he ever finds his way home – doomed to live half in the shadows, one face for the world and another for themselves.
He casts a look at Bean, but he is staring at the screen, seemingly intent on the events depicted. How could he have known, how could he have plumbed the depths of Horatio’s soul and bared his secret? Is his affection for Archie, his hidden, buried love, so obvious that it stands out like signal flags for all the world to read? Or is it that this demi-Archie sees deeper, understand more of his character than he does himself? Is that why he’s brought him to watch this film, to be tortured with a demonstration of what might have happened if he had declared his fondness for Kennedy? Of what might still happen if they meet again and the fatal words “I love you, Archie” slip from his lips?
The film ends yet Horatio can’t leave his place yet, not even to stretch his legs or take a drink. “Why?” His simple question makes Bean, half out of his seat, turn round.
“Why what?”
“Why this film? Why must you torment me so?” Horatio knows he’s laying his heart on his sleeve, but what else can he do? Purgatory is turning to hell.
“I don’t mean to torment you,” Bean sits again. “I can barely imagine what it would have been like to live then,” he gestures to the screen, “threatened with prosecution or disgrace, so I can’t conceive of life in a ship, a\longside someone I loved, when we our very lives might have been at risk, not just from an enemy bullet but from my own King’s laws. But I would have hoped that, had I found myself sharing the mess with someone I loved, a love beyond friendship,” Danny, “then I might have been brave enough to tell him. Especially if I was sure he reciprocated.”
“I don’t know whether Archie reciprocated.” Horatio stops, the awful words having flown unbidden from his lips and now incapable of recapture.
“But you loved him, didn’t you?”
“With all my heart.” Horatio no longer cares how much more of himself he exposes; it’s the nearest he might ever come to telling the man himself. “At first I thought it was friendship, as I’d never even known that, but I gradually became aware that the feelings my fellow sailors had – you should see them ashore, they’re like rams at tupping time – were not mine. I wanted no painted whore or fine lady, just my Archie. And I could not put the name love to it until…” he stops, suddenly aware of some vague sense being made of this extraordinary chain of events, “…until I was below, on that little prize ship. We had a woman on board, a Duchess whom we were escorting home. She flirted with all and sundry – that was her way – and it struck me how it left me quite cold. Many a captain might have wanted her to grace his cabin, and not just his dining one, but I only wished that she were far away and Archie at my side. Then I could name what I felt. Love.”
“And then you came here.” Bean smiles, tenderly, making Horatio’s heart break again at being so close and so far away from his true desire. “Perhaps that’s what you have to understand, then? That you love him?”
“No,” Horatio speaks quietly, “I knew that before I came. What I didn’t understand is that I should have told him before, before I could name what this thing was. He would have known what to do. Archie always understood that sort of thing…” Tears are choked back, along with other words. He’s said enough.
“I must ask. The writing on that note. Whose was it? Do you know?”
Hornblower takes the paper from his pocket. “I think this is the part which makes the least sense.”
“Less sense than a voyage through time and an un-emptying pocket?”
“Quite so. Look, Bean.” It’s the first time Horatio has used the man’s nickname. “This is my mother’s handwriting.”
Horatio watches the film with a sort of horrified fascination. It’s like the first time he saw injuries in battle, his eyes drawn to the awful sights although they wanted to tear themselves away. The man in the film, the hero of the story, finds his reputation, marriage, his very life are all threatened because of his secret nature. Professional men, men of consequence - such as he might be if he ever finds his way home – doomed to live half in the shadows, one face for the world and another for themselves.
He casts a look at Bean, but he is staring at the screen, seemingly intent on the events depicted. How could he have known, how could he have plumbed the depths of Horatio’s soul and bared his secret? Is his affection for Archie, his hidden, buried love, so obvious that it stands out like signal flags for all the world to read? Or is it that this demi-Archie sees deeper, understand more of his character than he does himself? Is that why he’s brought him to watch this film, to be tortured with a demonstration of what might have happened if he had declared his fondness for Kennedy? Of what might still happen if they meet again and the fatal words “I love you, Archie” slip from his lips?
The film ends yet Horatio can’t leave his place yet, not even to stretch his legs or take a drink. “Why?” His simple question makes Bean, half out of his seat, turn round.
“Why what?”
“Why this film? Why must you torment me so?” Horatio knows he’s laying his heart on his sleeve, but what else can he do? Purgatory is turning to hell.
“I don’t mean to torment you,” Bean sits again. “I can barely imagine what it would have been like to live then,” he gestures to the screen, “threatened with prosecution or disgrace, so I can’t conceive of life in a ship, a\longside someone I loved, when we our very lives might have been at risk, not just from an enemy bullet but from my own King’s laws. But I would have hoped that, had I found myself sharing the mess with someone I loved, a love beyond friendship,” Danny, “then I might have been brave enough to tell him. Especially if I was sure he reciprocated.”
“I don’t know whether Archie reciprocated.” Horatio stops, the awful words having flown unbidden from his lips and now incapable of recapture.
“But you loved him, didn’t you?”
“With all my heart.” Horatio no longer cares how much more of himself he exposes; it’s the nearest he might ever come to telling the man himself. “At first I thought it was friendship, as I’d never even known that, but I gradually became aware that the feelings my fellow sailors had – you should see them ashore, they’re like rams at tupping time – were not mine. I wanted no painted whore or fine lady, just my Archie. And I could not put the name love to it until…” he stops, suddenly aware of some vague sense being made of this extraordinary chain of events, “…until I was below, on that little prize ship. We had a woman on board, a Duchess whom we were escorting home. She flirted with all and sundry – that was her way – and it struck me how it left me quite cold. Many a captain might have wanted her to grace his cabin, and not just his dining one, but I only wished that she were far away and Archie at my side. Then I could name what I felt. Love.”
“And then you came here.” Bean smiles, tenderly, making Horatio’s heart break again at being so close and so far away from his true desire. “Perhaps that’s what you have to understand, then? That you love him?”
“No,” Horatio speaks quietly, “I knew that before I came. What I didn’t understand is that I should have told him before, before I could name what this thing was. He would have known what to do. Archie always understood that sort of thing…” Tears are choked back, along with other words. He’s said enough.
“I must ask. The writing on that note. Whose was it? Do you know?”
Hornblower takes the paper from his pocket. “I think this is the part which makes the least sense.”
“Less sense than a voyage through time and an un-emptying pocket?”
“Quite so. Look, Bean.” It’s the first time Horatio has used the man’s nickname. “This is my mother’s handwriting.”
