D is for Denial
Mar. 27th, 2006 01:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tarotgalOkay, so here's the story behind this one. I had the idea for this fic the day it was suggested. But then I realized the comment said "gen or het". Shoot. So I tried to redo it with a Horatio/Maria bit but it sooooo didn't work the same way. Though there was a smashing scene that involved Horatio standing on deck, frequently taking off his gloves to rub at a runny nose, and then putting his gloves back on. Anyway, when GWT said she'd meant "gen or slash" I was relieved and tried to reimagine it in my head again to go back to where it had been in the first place... but I couldn't make it work. THUS, it's turned out to be both het(in a canon sort of way) and slash (in an 'inspired by the DVD commentary' sort of way). Hopefully it makes sense and works okay with the theme.
Title: D is for Denial
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower, movieverse- set during Loyalty (slightly AU)
Pairing: Horatio/Maria, Horatio/Bush
Rating: G/PG
*The ship will be fine. The ship will be fine. The ship will be fine.* If Horatio repeated it to himself, he might just begin to believe it. Not wanting his men to see him in this state, he headed belowdecks to his cabin. The chair scraped along the wooden floor as he dragged it back and collapsed into it in one. With elbows on his table, hands against his forehead, and fingers in his hair, he sighed deeply.
First there had been suspicion regarding working with, and practically for, a Frenchman. Then an incident with several of the officers and two of the cattle took some sorting out. The fact that the ship had nearly burned thanks to carelessness and he’d had to order one of his own flogged had been bad enough, but just now one of the ropes in the rigging of the main sail had snapped. The whole mission seemed doomed, somehow, and he had a very bad feeling about it as they proceeded onward. Horatio knew by now that there were always problems. But, as the captain, he had to know about and deal with every one of them.
If only he could do so without the monstrous pain in his head. *I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill* Perhaps, if he told himself that enough times, he might actually begin to believe it. *I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill.* And perhaps not. He coughed several times, light but raspy. He did not care much for the sound of them.
They had first presented themselves the day of the Hotspur’s departure. He had been careful not to let any of the men hear the coughs, stifling them or muffling the sound in his scarf or his arm as the occasion called for it. But, despite his efforts, Ms. Maria Mason had noticed them. And, when asked, he merely called up an ex use of exhaustion. He felt certain she did not believe him entirely on that point.
She inquired about his health twice more during their discussion, and nearly went as far as to feel his forehead with her hand, an action Horatio would have dreaded. If not for the sound of a foghorn being tested at the end of the docks, startling them both, she surely would have begun fussing over him. And he could not think of anything more awkward or uncomfortable.
Horatio had bid her farewell and quickly turned around, the present of gloves in hand. He had been fighting a maddening tickle in his throat all through the somewhat awkward goodbye and was actually relieved to go back to the comfort of his ship, away from her gaze.
There was a knock on the door to his cabin and Horatio raised his head. After clearing his throat, he called out, “Yes?”
It was First Lieutenant Bush, who had knocked because it was required of him in his position though Horatio had told him several times now that it was not necessary. Bush had a plate in hand. “As Styles is…” He cleared his throat as well. “I thought I would bring you your dinner.” He moved smoothly and quietly, carefully setting the plate down on the table in front of Horatio and then sitting down in the chair across from Horatio.
Horatio stared down at it. From the state of it, it was clear who had not prepared it. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely appreciating the gesture. “But I find I have no appetite.” Tired, yes, but not hungry. “Would you eat it for me? I would hate for it to go to waste and the last thing I need to worry about is rationing.” He slid it across the table to Bush who neither immediately ate nor picked it back up.
Instead, he folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Horatio…” he began.
Taking them by surprise, Horatio coughed. *Not ill. Not ill. Not ill. Not ill.* He made no attempt at hiding the cough as it continued, though he did turn his head and cup a handkerchief to his face to spare Bush having to watch. *Not ill.*
“Horatio, are you ill?”
With a strange, comfortable sort of ease, Horatio found himself admitting that he was with a definite nod.
“Must I even ask if you will see the doctor about this?”
Looking down at his lap, Horatio shook his head. But when he raised his eyes, he saw that Bush was smiling.
“I will let everyone know you are not to be disturbed on pain of death.” Horatio laughed as Bush rose and walked around the table to him. “And I will see you to bed for the evening.” Horatio knew it would do no good to object, especially as Bush had hold of his arm and was already walking him over.
Horatio climbed into his hammock. Its gentle rocking was a soothing familiarity. Even more soothing was the hand he suddenly felt upon his forehead, applying pressure just where it ached. Horatio tried not to notice how easily he invited such intimacy from William when the thought of it from Maria made him uneasy. But he had always been more at home here at sea and among men. That did not necessarily mean anything. *I do not fancy William. I do not fancy William. I do not—*
“Worry not,” Bush interrupted Horatio’s thoughts. “I will look after your ship for you.”
Horatio felt his heart leap in his chest. There was no thought more comforting than knowing the ship was in such capable, caring hands. “My thanks to you, Sir,” he said with a grateful sigh and another cough.
When Bush removed his hand from forehead, he patted the top of Horatio’s head a few times, almost stroking. Horatio felt his eyes closing at once. Feeling reassured, Horatio allowed himself to relax fully and drift off to sleep with just a little more self-assurance. *Even if I do fancy William, it does not need to interfere with my duties. I will still be a good captain. I will still be a good captain… * For the first time that night, denial had turned into a realistic expectation.
Title: D is for Denial
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower, movieverse- set during Loyalty (slightly AU)
Pairing: Horatio/Maria, Horatio/Bush
Rating: G/PG
*The ship will be fine. The ship will be fine. The ship will be fine.* If Horatio repeated it to himself, he might just begin to believe it. Not wanting his men to see him in this state, he headed belowdecks to his cabin. The chair scraped along the wooden floor as he dragged it back and collapsed into it in one. With elbows on his table, hands against his forehead, and fingers in his hair, he sighed deeply.
First there had been suspicion regarding working with, and practically for, a Frenchman. Then an incident with several of the officers and two of the cattle took some sorting out. The fact that the ship had nearly burned thanks to carelessness and he’d had to order one of his own flogged had been bad enough, but just now one of the ropes in the rigging of the main sail had snapped. The whole mission seemed doomed, somehow, and he had a very bad feeling about it as they proceeded onward. Horatio knew by now that there were always problems. But, as the captain, he had to know about and deal with every one of them.
If only he could do so without the monstrous pain in his head. *I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill* Perhaps, if he told himself that enough times, he might actually begin to believe it. *I am not falling ill. I am not falling ill.* And perhaps not. He coughed several times, light but raspy. He did not care much for the sound of them.
They had first presented themselves the day of the Hotspur’s departure. He had been careful not to let any of the men hear the coughs, stifling them or muffling the sound in his scarf or his arm as the occasion called for it. But, despite his efforts, Ms. Maria Mason had noticed them. And, when asked, he merely called up an ex use of exhaustion. He felt certain she did not believe him entirely on that point.
She inquired about his health twice more during their discussion, and nearly went as far as to feel his forehead with her hand, an action Horatio would have dreaded. If not for the sound of a foghorn being tested at the end of the docks, startling them both, she surely would have begun fussing over him. And he could not think of anything more awkward or uncomfortable.
Horatio had bid her farewell and quickly turned around, the present of gloves in hand. He had been fighting a maddening tickle in his throat all through the somewhat awkward goodbye and was actually relieved to go back to the comfort of his ship, away from her gaze.
There was a knock on the door to his cabin and Horatio raised his head. After clearing his throat, he called out, “Yes?”
It was First Lieutenant Bush, who had knocked because it was required of him in his position though Horatio had told him several times now that it was not necessary. Bush had a plate in hand. “As Styles is…” He cleared his throat as well. “I thought I would bring you your dinner.” He moved smoothly and quietly, carefully setting the plate down on the table in front of Horatio and then sitting down in the chair across from Horatio.
Horatio stared down at it. From the state of it, it was clear who had not prepared it. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely appreciating the gesture. “But I find I have no appetite.” Tired, yes, but not hungry. “Would you eat it for me? I would hate for it to go to waste and the last thing I need to worry about is rationing.” He slid it across the table to Bush who neither immediately ate nor picked it back up.
Instead, he folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Horatio…” he began.
Taking them by surprise, Horatio coughed. *Not ill. Not ill. Not ill. Not ill.* He made no attempt at hiding the cough as it continued, though he did turn his head and cup a handkerchief to his face to spare Bush having to watch. *Not ill.*
“Horatio, are you ill?”
With a strange, comfortable sort of ease, Horatio found himself admitting that he was with a definite nod.
“Must I even ask if you will see the doctor about this?”
Looking down at his lap, Horatio shook his head. But when he raised his eyes, he saw that Bush was smiling.
“I will let everyone know you are not to be disturbed on pain of death.” Horatio laughed as Bush rose and walked around the table to him. “And I will see you to bed for the evening.” Horatio knew it would do no good to object, especially as Bush had hold of his arm and was already walking him over.
Horatio climbed into his hammock. Its gentle rocking was a soothing familiarity. Even more soothing was the hand he suddenly felt upon his forehead, applying pressure just where it ached. Horatio tried not to notice how easily he invited such intimacy from William when the thought of it from Maria made him uneasy. But he had always been more at home here at sea and among men. That did not necessarily mean anything. *I do not fancy William. I do not fancy William. I do not—*
“Worry not,” Bush interrupted Horatio’s thoughts. “I will look after your ship for you.”
Horatio felt his heart leap in his chest. There was no thought more comforting than knowing the ship was in such capable, caring hands. “My thanks to you, Sir,” he said with a grateful sigh and another cough.
When Bush removed his hand from forehead, he patted the top of Horatio’s head a few times, almost stroking. Horatio felt his eyes closing at once. Feeling reassured, Horatio allowed himself to relax fully and drift off to sleep with just a little more self-assurance. *Even if I do fancy William, it does not need to interfere with my duties. I will still be a good captain. I will still be a good captain… * For the first time that night, denial had turned into a realistic expectation.
