marnanightingale | ATKM FIC: Fire Sermon, Part Two

Back to Part One.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins...

The Drake and Dolphin

Bush choked on his brandy, and reached unsteadily for more. "Alexander, he didn't!"

"Oh, yes he did, right in the box at the theatre, as bold as brass, and all the time watching the play as if it were the only thing on his mind. I don't remember a word of the damned thing, and I still cannot think of seeing it again without blushing. Me, put to the blush!"

"I see why you said you were quite accustomed to be ... what was the word? Accosted, that was it, by overbold Naval officers. And me thinking you had led him astray." He remembered the harsh thoughts he had had, and his ill-advised attempt at intervention, and was minded to apologise, but Edrington was grinning, clearly entertained by the memory, and he smiled back and let it go; chewing over old bones had never been his way.

Edrington's hand shook a little as he filled their glasses yet again – Bush wondered vaguely how on earth he was to find his lodgings after this debauch, then thrust the worry aside for later – "You were not the first. He had only to widen his eyes to seem as innocent as a lad fresh from the country, and make me look a monster of depravity beside him, but he led me into more scrapes – led Horatio into scrapes, led everyone into scrapes, and out again – always out again, you know, always out again – " His voice cracked, and Bush looked up in alarm, but Edrington had recovered himself and continued, gesturing largely – "I never knew whether I wanted to scream or bugger him senseless. Or both, in that order. That night at the theatre ... Christ. I'd been desperate not to frighten him off, pussyfooting about, babbling of inconsequentials – keeping my distance and gritting my teeth and he – I've never been so glad to get behind a door I could lock!"

"I can only imagine," Bush said, when he could speak for laughing, and he could, that was the problem, he could imagine it all too clearly, especially with Edrington flushed with drink and staring into his glass with a smile both painful and intolerably sweet ... he turned back abruptly and met Bush's eyes.

"Yes, you can, can't you?" and Bush blinked – dear God Edrington could make himself appealing when he cared to and he clearly cared to now, sliding from his chair, holding Bush's gaze all the while – Christ, not again, not like this, I can't ... he shook his head to clear it and sat up as straight as he could. "Edrington ... "

"Alexander. Yes, William?"

"It – you're drunk, man."

Edrington nodded solemnly. "I am. Drunk as a lord." He snorted at his own joke, peering owlishly at Bush. "So're you. Can't fool me with that parson's face. Not too drunk to bugger me senseless, if you care to, any more than you were last time. What of it?"

"I – Christ. It won't help, you know."

"Did you think it was meant to?" Edrington's voice was suddenly harsh, and Bush stared. "I haven't been a saint since he died, William. Wasn't one before. Never been one – doubt it's in me. And talking of in me..." Edrington's anger had burnt itself out as quickly as it came, and his tone was soft now, almost coaxing. Almost, but not quite; they were each, it would seem, wary of seeming to take advantage. "You are a sufficiently good reason on your own, you know. And I am not trying to forget him – don't want to forget him. Nor replace him, even if I thought I ever could. Good to be – 's been good to be with someone who remembers him too, mourns him too, not have to –" He rocked unsteadily on his knees, flung his arm out to recover – and fell heavily into Bush's arms.

St Thomas's Street

Archie had thrown away three beginnings – one three pages long and probably, he thought, the least adequate of all – and was nibbling absently at the pen and staring at yet another fresh sheet when Horatio returned, coming in dusty and flushed from the mail-coach; he laid his pen aside with a sigh and prepared to do battle.

"How did you find London?" He could tell nothing from the set of Horatio's shoulders; not even if he had caught the challenge in Archie's tone – no power on earth could possibly make him look more rigidly terrified than he did at that moment.

"Warm. Crowded. And, I fear, unproductive – but I am to go again next week; there might be a chance of something then, or if not then, soon. You look – you look as if you might be strong enough to endure the strain of an embrace or two." To Archie's astonishment Horatio held out a hand to pull him from his chair and enfolded him – cautiously, but with determination – in his arms, and said, all in a rush as if he were reciting a lesson, "I am so ... when I thought you had died I hated the thought of having to live and I have never been so glad of anything in my life as I was to see you here last week, unless it was when I found you in Spain and I ought to have said so at once, I wanted to say so at once and I am sorry." Archie stood silent, torn between exasperation and an overwhelming sense of relief – whatever was making Horatio behave so oddly, at least the nagging ghost of El Ferrol, that tugged at his sleeve and whispered in his ear that he was, had always been, no more than one of Horatio's damned duties, a disruption and a burden he'd not repine to be rid of, could go howling back to whatever pit it always seemed to crawl from when Archie was in one of his blacker moods – he let his head drop onto Horatio's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him to embrace him properly. God, how long had it been, since someone had touched him so, for pleasure and not for need or pity? Horatio was still rambling – "I – I panicked, Archie, I simply – panicked. There was so much I wanted to say and I couldn't think how to say half of it and I – I don't deserve it, but – will you forgive me? At least, let me try to explain what a damned fool I am?"

"Does it still need explaining, after so many years?" Horatio looked hurt for a fleeting moment, but against Archie's teasing grin it could not last; he smiled ruefully and shook his head.

"I would imagine not, not really. But will you listen?" Archie nodded, and Horatio took a deep breath; remembered himself and urged Archie back to his chair, tucking the rug carefully around his limbs and patting it smooth until Archie's patience gave way and he sighed loudly.

"Horatio, leave it. Please. I truly am much better." Horatio reluctantly abandoned the rug and began to pace instead, turning about the room and frowning as if thinking furiously.

Just as Archie was about to prompt him, he spoke. "Archie, I – I abandoned you. I took my commission and I sailed off in her to gratify my damned ambition and left you behind and never looked back."

"You abandoned my corpse, or so you thought, Horatio," Archie said, reasonably. "Did you think I wanted to be carried around the West Indies pickled in a cask of brandy? And as it happens, it would have been a very bad thing for me had you dropped me into one. When they took me away – Pellew says they took every possible step to make it seem I was dead. You cannot be blamed for believing them – you were meant to, you above all people were meant to!"

Horatio only paced faster. "Why?" Archie stared at him, uncomprehending. "Why was I meant to? Why could I not have been told, why could I not have done something?"

"You did do something, Horatio." The pacing stopped. "You did – understand, I infer this from the hints Captain Pellew has let fall since – precisely what you were meant to do. You took your promotion, and you left Jamaica. Without looking back." It was Horatio's turn, now, to look confused. "Would you have left, had you known I was still alive? Even, had you thought that there was some faint chance I might live?"

"I – no. Never, Archie, you must believe that."

"I do. I never questioned it; nor did Captain Pellew. And that, Horatio, is precisely the point. You had to leave, and immediately, precisely to make it clear that I was dead, dead and mercifully forgotten, and that you were clear of it all. Everything depended on it – for all of us."

The restless pacing resumed, but Horatio's back was at least a fraction less likely to be mistaken for a ramrod, Archie thought. He was chewing on his lower lip, now, thinking furiously. He burst out at last, "But, had he only told me why –"

Archie sighed. "He wanted to spare you, Horatio. I still might have died – I very nearly did die, I – I don't recall those first weeks, even now – Nothing I'd swear was real ... or want to be real – he shuddered inwardly and wrenched his mind back to the present – "and then there would have been no point to telling you, ever. And – Horatio?" He waited until he was sure he had Horatio's full attention. "Do you remember, on the Indy once, we got up a play, when we were becalmed?"

"What the devil has that to do with – oh." Horatio grinned sheepishly, and Archie smiled up at him.

"Yes. You are the best of men, Horatio. But you are a terrible actor."

After that it was better; Mrs Maddern appeared with tea and what she called a few odds and ends to sustain them until morning, as Horatio had missed his supper in travelling, and Archie his in sleep. Archie was inclined to think it a feast – he had protested the persistence she brought to the task of stuffing him at first, but he was forced to concede that, so long as he did not try to eat too much at any one time his appetite seemed inexhaustible. They sat and chatted over their meal; Archie coaxed Horatio for the tale of bringing Retribution into port – no small test of his mettle and skill, limping as she had been even after the Kingston dockyards had hastily sealed her worst leaks – and contributed a few stories of the oddities of travel on an Indiaman. They discussed the Peace at some length, and teased each other over the books they were reading – Horatio scornful and scandalised at the extremes of Donne – for an atheist, Archie said, he was oddly protective of God's reputation for chastity – and Archie, in turn, declaring that Thomas Paine had taken all the most unattractive features of the Puritans and, having left out the hope of heavenly reward, been forced to resort to sedating the reader with the drone of his prose to numb their senses and render them persuadable. But talk of the future, except in the most cautious and general terms, Horatio would not, and at length Archie said softly, "What else is troubling you, Horatio? And don't say 'nothing', for I shan't believe you, and we'll quarrel again."

Horatio had dropped down to rest his head on Archie's leg as they talked, letting Archie stroke his hair; he looked up apprehensively at this. Archie gazed steadily back at him, and smiled encouragingly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and folded his arms over his knees protectively, and Archie waited. Waited some more. Sighed ostentatiously, poured himself a fresh cup of the cooling tea, and settled back into the chair with it. It worked, as it had almost always worked; Horatio uncurled himself all at once and said, rather desperately, "It used to be so simple!"

Archie had been diverting himself by attempting to guess how Horatio might begin whatever confession he was labouring so mightily over; that had not been on his mental list. He sat up and stared at him, jaw dropping. "Horatio?" he said at last. "Did you – I beg your pardon, but it was my impression that I was the one who had for the last few months been prone to bouts of delirium. Simple? The Navy? You and me on the Renown, up to our ears in madmen and mutiny and Spaniards? The French trying to blow us back across the Channel? Dodging the Articles all these years?" He sputtered to a halt at the sight of Horatio's miserable expression, and subsided back into his chair, muttering "Simple!' indignantly – but softly – into his teacup.

Horatio rose and began to pace. "Not simple, then. But it – but everything made sense, it fitted together, it – " Archie was listening intently, still uncomprehending, and Horatio shook his head in despair – "There was the Navy. And there was you. And – and you were part of it, don't you see, and it was – I thought it was part of you, and I knew what I had to do to – to do right by you both. Because where it was, you were, and my duty to Lieutenant Kennedy was part of my duty to the Navy. And then – then it wasn't anymore, and I – and now it will never be again and – and I don't know what to do. I don't know what we're going to do."

Archie bit down hard on the response that sprang to his lips. No. We've had that argument too many times already. I don't want – I refuse – to go on having it.

"So, I – let me make sure I understand you." Horatio looked miserable, but nodded. "Lieutenant Kennedy was no threat to your duty. Because – because it was your responsibility to remain with him, and to, to look out for him, and that – that made it all right that it was also your – your wish." Horatio nodded, looking relieved; good, they were headed towards firmer ground at last. And of course, your wishes must lead you to wickedness straightaway they are endorsed by no rule ... my dear, duty-mad fool, I had thought we were done with that ... "But Archie Saunders – might be a threat to your duty." Another nod, and the miserable expression was back. "And you wish I would – would tell you that he won't be, that I – I can't tell you that, Horatio. I can't tell you anything, because I don't know anything myself. I know nothing yet about Archie Saunders except that he has his wits back – as many as he ever had – and with God's blessing will get his health back and he has nothing in this world but the clothes on his back and a hundred pounds to his borrowed name, and – and he loves you quite as much as Archie Kennedy ever did."

"Archie..." Horatio's eyes were troubled and uncertain, but he seemed calmer; Archie held out his hands and Horatio came to him, dropping to his knees in front of the chair, and gripped them tightly. They stayed so in silence, foreheads pressed together, for a long moment, and Horatio whispered "I still – I wish I knew what to do, Archie."

"You could kiss me," Archie said, and Horatio, seeming much struck by the sense of this, did.

Some time later, when they were sprawled comfortably on the floor, Archie's head on Horatio's stomach, Horatio said, idly, "What were you writing when I came in, that gave you so much trouble, Archie?"

Archie sat up with a start. "Oh, God", he said, hollowly. "Oh, bugger."

The Drake and Dolphin

It was almost like a scene from a play – the heroine collapsing into the hero's arms to be kissed, golden hair trailing seductively over one shoulder – if Bush were any sort of hero. If the heroine weren't as tall as him, reeking of sweat and brandy, and – in need of a shave. If Edrington would stop laughing, and – he flinched – flailing about driving the point of his elbow into Bush's thigh. Well, and so. Life, he'd found, was very different from stories. Probably just as well ...

A little manoeuvring and he was on the floor as well, kneeling with his back against the chair for balance. Edrington was now snickering gently into his shoulder; his breath tickled Bush's neck and he snorted in surprise and tipped Edrington's head back until their eyes met. Had they kissed, even, that first time? He no longer remembered if they had, but it seemed a sensible enough notion. Edrington tasted of brandy, his cheeks prickled against Bush's own, he had, still, a distracting tendency to burst out giggling periodically as if some new joke had just struck him – but his mouth was warm, and his enthusiasm was undeniable.

Undeniable, unfettered, and undignified; when Bush had had leisure to recall their last encounter – which had been, in the first weeks after Renown returned to sea, more often than was strictly comfortable and, of late, less often than he might have enjoyed – he had thought of Edrington as possessing an intimidating amount of control, and a compelling, almost feline grace. Sober, that afternoon, he had still been daunting enough to make Bush feel as if he ought to tug his forelock; cup-shot and tousled he elicited rather a powerful urge to tweak his nose. Or kiss him more thoroughly; of the two, that seemed the more appealing option, and judging by his sudden moan, Edrington was inclined to agree. He ground himself sloppily against Bush, and Bush winced; damn, that was never his prick, that was a hip, and how much thinner had he got? In sheer self-defence he wrapped one arm around Edrington's back, grasped his nape with the other hand, and pressed him close, and that seemed to calm him – well, not calm him precisely, but recall his wandering attention to the matter at hand; he was kissing Bush back now, with great determination, and his hands were stroking over Bush's back, making a lazy trail towards his arse, and Bush's enthusiasm increased accordingly; he had thought he might be expected to take Edrington at his word and bugger him senseless, and the notion was in no way unpleasant, but it seemed a complex and perilous sort of thing to attempt with the deck tilting – no, that was Edrington, rocking them back and forth in his eagerness to get himself pressed as closely to Bush as possible – and this was so pleasant and easy, with the warmth of the room and the weight of Edrington against him – he pulled away to fumble at the buttons of his waistcoat, suddenly preoccupied by the fear that it might be some obscure kind of failure of manners to take one's pleasure of a peer of the realm while fully dressed – much too late to worry over that – still, it was warm in the small room, even so late in the evening, and it did give him a chance to admire Edrington's flushed face and half-closed eyes and the tremble in his lip – until he opened his mouth wider, and began to sing.

Edrington had, Bush was forced to admit, a pleasant enough baritone ... at least, it probably would be pleasant, if one were at safe distance – say, across a fire – and if he were sober enough to recall the tune. Bawled directly into one's ear and off-key with frequent interjections of nonsense, the effect was less pleasing; nothing for it but to join in and try to drown him out, Bush decided, and did his best. At least, he consoled himself, anyone passing by would be left in no doubt that they were enjoying a drunken evening and draw conclusions that ensured they were furnished with a comparatively innocent excuse for any number of odd noises that might carry beyond the door, later.

With Edrington thus happily distracted, Bush was able – barely – to spare some attention from singing for the matter of buttons, and by the time the maiden seduced by a Guardsman had been abandoned once more to a life of shame and regret, not only his own waistcoat but Edrington's lay on the floor, and he was making steady progress toward working Edrington's shirt free of his breeches. Edrington seemed more than willing to co-operate, but no sooner had Bush tugged the tail of his shirt free and begun to work it over his head than Edrington pulled away and began poking fretfully at the heel of his boot.

Bush sighed. "For God's sake, Edrington, what now? This was your idea, if I recall the thing correctly..."

"Absolutely." Edrington nodded his head enthusiastically, then frowned and returned his attention to his foot. "The thing is... damn! Thing is ..." he looked at Bush earnestly, "thing is... ah... yes. Thing is that a gentleman never makes love with his boots on. Only, they won't come off. Have to call for Weston." He turned to the door and raised his voice. "Weston! Wes-–" Bush clapped a hand over his mouth, aghast, and waited in an agony of nerves, but the door remained firmly closed.

"We don't want Weston, Edrington. Truly, we don't."

"Don't we? – ah. Quite. Anyway, gave him the night off. Remember now; he's got a girl around here, somewhere. At least one. Never minds a free evening in Portsmouth. Damn. How'm I to get these damned boots off, then?" He frowned, his forehead creasing with effort as he considered this new development, until Bush laughed and said "Come here," and pulled him close, still muttering fretfully that he really must get them off, it was awfully important... "Leave them be, damn you; you may blame me for dragging you down to these depths, if you like," Bush said impatiently at last, and Edrington's eyes widened in feigned shock, but he was tame enough when Bush pulled him back into his lap and began to run his hands under his shirt; in fact, Edrington lay against him quite happily, running his tongue over his throat and humming in appreciation as Bush pulled him closer. Firmness seemed to be the correct approach – he thought fleetingly of nails digging into flesh and teeth-marks that had faded from his arm with embarrassing slowness and tightened his grip and Edrington sighed happily and turned his face up to be kissed again.

They stayed so for what seemed a long time, rocking lazily together – Bush found that Edrington was as fond of a hand wrapped around his queue as he had recalled him to be, and that he in turn was partial to the sensation of teeth closing gently on his lower lip – but one of Edrington's wandering hands made its way to the fastenings of Bush's breeches, and it seemed only manners to help him, and then, as his hand closed warmly over Bush's prick, to reciprocate, and while that was pleasant and then more than pleasant, it was also somewhat awkward; Bush began to be aware that even with the padding of a fine, thick rug beneath him, he wasn't as young as he had been and his knees, not to put too fine a point on it, were giving him Hell.

He released his grasp of Edrington's prick, ignoring his mumbled complaints, and eased him onto his back – tried to ease him onto his back, but his legs were half-numb, and Edrington, having finally grasped his purpose, went helpfully limp at precisely the wrong moment, and what with one thing and another, Bush went sprawling, and landed atop him with a decided thump. No harm done; Edrington was still grinning sunnily up at him and Bush laughed and kissed him firmly and that was all right, and Edrington squirming encouragingly beneath him was decidedly better than all right, and when he applied his mouth to Edrington's throat and nipped him sharply he froze for a moment and moaned, deep in his throat, and that so precisely fit Bush's notions of all right that he did it again, and again, until Edrington was gasping and twisting and shivering beneath him and moving his hands restlessly on Bush's shoulders and Bush thought he might as well carry on as he had begun, so he did, making his way over the skin exposed by Edrington's unbuttoned shirt and then pushing it up and out of his way, and when Bush dipped his tongue beneath his waistband and traced the sharp curve of the hip that had pressed into his side earlier, Edrington's hands, which had been roving over Bush's back, stroking and urging him on, dug in hard and he cried out.

Pleased, Bush carried on with his explorations, digging his hands into Edrington's hips to keep him still, or as still as possible, and incidentally peeling his breeches further down his thighs, and pondered matters of timing and approach. He swiped his tongue over the head of Edrington's prick and produced absolute stillness and a sharp, in-drawn breath, let out on a groan when he returned his attention to the hollow of his hip. "I owe you my thanks, by the way," Edrington said suddenly, in a voice that was surprisingly conversational, if breathless and blurred with drink. "I can't tell you how often on a winter's night in Flanders I thought of you and suddenly felt that I hardly needed my greatcoat at all. The Commissariat could use a few of you ..." Bush chuckled and nipped him sharply, low down on his hip, and he fell silent, or at any rate wordless, once more until Bush worked his mouth down over Edrington's prick. Then he found a few words, but most of them seemed to be profane and inventive variations on the theme of 'yes, like that', so that seemed quite in order, and his voice when so employed was infinitely preferable to having him sing any more – in fact, downright melodic, and Bush carried on with enthusiasm until Edrington's voice began to stutter and fade, and then with even greater address until he stiffened, cried out some inchoate exhortation, and spilled into Bush's mouth.

They fell apart, gasping, and as they lay side by side on the rug Bush was aware that Edrington was laughing softly again. He rolled over and draped himself comfortably over Bush, one hand tracing idle shapes through the thatch of hair on his chest, dipping lower to trace the fresh scar that ran along his belly. "He taught me to laugh, you know," he said, after a moment. "No, he taught me to laugh at myself; he laughed at me, and he laughed at himself. I soon learned to see there was no sting in it, and that it made everything at least a little better, if one could learn to see the joke; I shall always be grateful." Bush nodded, and they lay in silence for a moment more, until Edrington's hand widened its lazy circles and began to wander more purposefully over Bush's chest, and Bush closed his eyes and stroked idly at his hair, murmuring encouragement, gasping when Edrington's mouth closed over his nipple; his tongue flickered and Bush groaned; it was delightful, all of it, warm and lazy and nothing at all like going to a whore and agonising over whether one had the nerve – and the extra coin – to ask for anything more intimate than simple release, then only half enjoying it out of an uneasy feeling that it was an imposition, but this ... Edrington was clearly in his element, and in no hurry, and Bush was content to let him do as he pleased. He pleased, it developed, to follow much the same path as Bush had blazed, and if Bush was less verbose, he was, he trusted, no less appreciative, and when his crisis was upon him he cried out much as Edrington had, and pulled him up to rest in his arms while he gasped and shuddered and slowly came back to himself, smiling. They sprawled in front of the hearth, talking of nothing and finishing the last few inches of brandy, until the warmth and the drink and their sheer contentment overcame them and they dozed.

Edrington stirred at a clatter in the hallway – Weston was back, and from the racket he was making, man must have got as beautifully sozzled as master – no, that was more noise than one man could account for, and indistinct voices as well – he shook Bush gently, then more urgently as Weston's voice filtered through the panels of the door – "Sir, you can't, really you – my orders, sir, you mustn't, you – sir, please!"

"Weston" – Christ, it was Hornblower – "I do not wish to hear another word about your orders, or about what I must or must not do, and I do not give a single damn if he is in there buggering half the Admiralty –" the door flew open, and Horatio's head and arm appeared, Weston's desperately tugging hand still wrapped around his bicep.

Edrington admired the tableau for a moment, closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and sighed. "Good – is it morning? Good morning, Horatio. Come in and shut the door – yes, Weston, you too, for Christ's sake, don't stand there gawping." Bush had been yawning and blinking and fumbling at his breeches; he was frozen in horror, now, staring with an expression of impossible yearning at the door, ten feet and the breadth of his former shipmate away.

"I was going to send you a note tomorrow, you know," Edrington said gently.

Horatio brushed that aside with an impatient snort, nodded vaguely in the general direction of Bush's frozen face, paused, visibly reining in impatience, and said "Good morning, William, you've saved me having to come looking for you next," crossed the floor to kneel by Edrington's side, and handed him a note.

Edrington unfolded it impatiently – what in Hell could it possibly be, that Horatio could not simply tell him, so urgent that it could not wait for a civilised hour?

Alexander –

I will apologise in person for my part in keeping this secret from you for so long – every day for the rest of my life, if you like, only come now, please, even if he cannot find you until late, do come – I want your presence more than I can find words to say.

Archie

He stared numbly at Horatio – it was some cruel joke, or a dream – Bush was taking the paper gently from his nerveless hand and making a soft sound of astonishment, and Horatio was smiling, smiling as Edrington had rarely seen him do before and it seemed that after all it was true, and he rose to his feet and made for the door all in a rush and Bush caught him about the waist, laughing, and said "Alexander, wait! At least, don't you think perhaps a shirt?"

"Or, ah – a wash?" Horatio suggested dryly, but when Bush shot a quick, guilty glance in his direction he was still grinning, and Bush flushed, then smiled back shyly and rose to assist Weston with Edrington, who was swaying on his feet, looking disconsolately down at his sticky and disreputable state and urgently ordering Weston to find him fresh clothing immediately, no, help him to a chair, no, fetch refreshments for Mr Hornblower and make it quick, damn you.

Bush had found and donned his clothes now and was inching toward the door, with the intention of making himself scarce, and indeed, his hand was at the latch before Edrington swung his head round to look at him and said sharply, "William! Where do you think you're going?"

"I ought to – you'll want –" Horatio was staring at him too, as if he had gone mad to take himself off where there could be no more possible need for him, and he could only serve as an awkward reminder of the shifts Edrington had found acceptable when his true choice was – so he believed – forever taken from him – and what would Archie have to say to this, if they told him? When they told him; he was sure it was too good a joke to keep for long and he flushed and stared at his feet and sought to put this into words, but before he could open his mouth they were in front of him, tugging at his hands like schoolboys, and Edrington was shaking his head and laughing.

"You're in this as deep as we are, William, and you'll see it through to the end."

"Besides," Horatio put in, "You have clearly got Alexander filthy drunk and debauched him, and I'm damned if you'll leave it to me to get him sober and presentable again – and if Archie hears that I found you and failed to bring you back with me my life won't be worth a shilling, I assure you. So no more of this if you please!"

It took considerably more than a shirt and a wash in the end, especially as the results of Edrington's determined attempt to find fresh breeches in his trunk suggested strongly that he was still considerably further into his cups than he claimed; Bush, whose experience with this sort of thing was considerable, was obliged to hustle him over to the basin and pour an entire jug of cold water over his protesting form while Weston prudently vanished, to return when all was quiet again with a pot of coffee obtained at God only knew what difficulty and expense at this hour.

Between them they had him stripped, scrubbed, dressed in fresh clothing, brushed, sober enough to walk without feeling obliged to tack into what they all agreed, once he had pointed it out to them – ha! sailors, thought they knew wind – was a decided draught in the hallway outside his rooms, and out into the street almost quickly enough to suit him, though not quickly enough to stop him beginning to panic again.

Cup-shot, unshaven, damply bedraggled, fresh from the arms – and mouth – of a man Archie had befriended believing that he and Edrington had never so much as met – and it rapidly became apparent that they were headed to no place less terrifying than the townhouse Pellew kept in Portsmouth, a place he had seen the inside of precisely once before, on a night when he and Pellew had had the worst disagreement – the second-worst disagreement, he thought, remembering with a shudder his behaviour of a few months past – of their checkered and lengthy acquaintance.

Not quite the romantic dream of tragically parted lovers reunited – he stumbled over a loose cobble – falling into his arms, at least, I should be able to manage nicely – we seem to be accumulating a rather ... odd set of traditions, do we not, Alexander? – ... he taught me to laugh at myself ...

First things first; there was Pellew to be faced, somehow – faced, and apologised to in the humblest terms imaginable, if Archie's presence under his roof meant half what it suggested. His dignity would survive, and if it did not, well, right now he could scarcely find it in his heart to care, not if it died in such a cause as this. His mood lightened all at once, and he began to sing under his breath –

Que donneriez-vous belle, pour ravoir votre ami?
Je donnerais Versailles, Paris et Saint-Denis...

– then would have hushed himself, but that Bush was lending a pleasantly growly bass to the effort, too, and as they turned onto St Thomas's Street Horatio's tuneless, grating voice joined them –

Aupres de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon,
Aupres de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir!

As they mounted the steps, Pellew's man opened the door and ushered them quickly inside.

How quickly one grew greedy, in the face of good fortune – a scant hour ago he'd have given all he had and half the entailed property for a tolerably good chance of seeing Archie ever again in this life, or even for a written guarantee of a reunion in the next, and now he was in a fever of impatience and thought he might truly jump out of his skin if he could not see him, hear his voice, touch him now, immediately, but when he saw the hesitation in Edward's eyes he knew he could not simply brush past him – "Edward, I – God, I am sorry. I ought to have had more sense, ought to have – thoughtless, arrogant, idiotic – and I –" Pellew met his gaze steadily, and he ground to an inconclusive halt, willing to humble himself as much as might be necessary, but disconcerted by Pellew's expression – why should he look at him with such tenderness, as if he, not Pellew, had been wronged?

"Alexander, I was ..." Pellew cleared his throat. "I was a damned fool to even try to speak to you that day – I had spent a month carefully spreading reports that would paint me as the blackest of rogues in your eyes, I could tell you nothing, having no certain news and too great a need for secrecy to risk a word in your ear at Plymouth Docks in any case ... I can only tell you that I had been fretting over you, and you appeared before my eyes, and – I forgot myself."

He opened his arms and Edrington stepped into them gladly, a boy again for a moment, and Pellew drew his head down – it was strange, still, to be the taller one – and stroked his hair in the old way. "My dear, honourable Alexander ... " He shuddered against Pellew's shoulder, staggered by the enormity of his relief, then recollected Horatio and William's eyes upon them and stepped back. Back, but not away, even as he smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat and stood straight his grip on Pellew's hands remained, but –

"Do I know anyone you haven't had, my lord?"

He spun round, his gaze slipping heedlessly past Bush's startled grin and Horatio's frankly astonished countenance – he was staring at Pellew as if the man had sprouted tree limbs from his forehead – and there was Archie, leaning on the door-frame – clutching it, even – desperately thin and pale, obviously favouring his side, and his hair was cut short at his collar and there were great dark circles under his eyes and a tinge to his skin that spoke of recent fever, and he was coughing even as he laughed at him again – still – and he was alive, and when Edrington reached him he let go the door-frame all in a rush, and – fell into Edrington's arms, still laughing.

He was not tired. Archie gulped at his coffee – it was only that it was so comfortable to be ensconced on the sofa and – discretion being entirely wasted on this company – tucked firmly under Alexander's arm, with Horatio sprawled at their feet – and the air was a bit close in here, no more than that, and he was not going to be sent to bed and miss a minute of this, of Alexander and Horatio and William and Pellew all together and safe and laughing and talking and ... he hid a yawn. Alexander and Pellew were comparing notes on what was being said at Whitehall and at the Admiralty about the chances of the Peace lasting the fall, while William and Horatio listened intently; rather a lot, it seemed, but little that was news and less that might be trusted; tiring of that, they fell to questioning Alexander about how the Rifle Corps was fairing, and then to desultory gossip – Pellew had had occasion to call on Kitty Cobham in London – he must write to her tomorrow, Archie thought with a guilty start – and Alexander's sister, married the year before, no, it was nearly two years, now – had recently presented her husband with a son. Commonplaces, all of it, and yet infinitely satisfying – Archie closed his eyes for a moment, no more that that. He sat up with a start at the sound of his name, and looked about him guiltily, to find himself the centre of a circle of indulgent eyes.

"Bed for you, sir," Pellew said sternly, and Archie opened his mouth to protest and yawned hugely instead. "In fact, bed for all of us, I think, gentlemen – Mr Bush, I can send a man in the morning for your belongings – plenty of room – come with me and we shall find you a few things –" William nodded to them all and followed, and they were left to their own devices. Horatio yawned elaborately.

"I'm for sleep as well – I slept on the mail-coach last night, if one cares to call that sleep –" He kissed Archie, embraced Alexander briefly, and took himself off. Horatio really was a terrible actor, Archie thought with sleepy affection, and submitted to be helped to bed as if he were a nonagenarian. We'll see about that...

Alexander seemed determined to undress him as if he were a drowsing child, and Archie scowled at him for it, but tolerantly. He was willing, he decided, to stand a great deal of coddling, if it meant his hands free and Alexander in easy reach, though damnably uncooperative. Still, by the time his hands descended to Archie's trouser buttons they were gratifyingly unsteady and showed a pronounced tendency to linger; Archie took advantage of his distraction to press his lips to Alexander's exposed nape and make him curse and look up reproachfully, only to find himself soundly kissed; he gave in all at once and returned the kiss with enthusiasm, only pulling away when Archie's mouth split in a jaw-cracking yawn. Alexander sighed and shook his head at him.

"If I thought there was so much as an even chance that you could keep your eyes open ..." He returned to his work with determination, and in a few more moments they were down to their shirts and crawling beneath the covers, Archie still yawning.

"Always shut them anyway..." But his voice was blurred and even as he curled himself possessively against Alexander he was asleep.

He woke before dawn, prodded into awareness by an aching bladder. As he was slipping back into bed Alexander slid out; when he returned they were both wide awake and the house was still. Archie recalled his frustrated plan of the evening before and looked up hopefully. Alexander kissed him and laughed. "Not going to fall asleep on me this time?"

"Neither on nor under." He slid a provocative hand along Alexander's thigh and returned the kiss with interest, tugging him closer impatiently. "Where did we leave off? Here, I think..." Alexander smiled slightly in response to his teasing tone, but his eyes were wide and solemn, and his hand trembled on Archie's shoulder; Archie caught it in his own and kissed it, blinking to clear his vision. "Alexander ... it's all right. I don't break easily, you know."

"No. You don't, do you? Dear God." His voice broke over the words, and his hand gripped Archie's painfully hard. "Archie..."

"We ought to turn out."

Edrington tightened his arm around Archie even as he nodded agreeably. "I suppose we ought."

They lay in contented silence until Edrington said softly; "For weeks I would wake in the morning thinking it had all been a dream. And then remember. And here I am, waking up, if I am awake –" Archie obligingly pinched him, and he snorted – "and it was. I can hardly believe it, even now."

Archie's hand was against his cheek. "I can hardly believe it myself, sometimes. But here I am. Here we are." He proved it with a kiss, thoughtful and thorough. "I thought you'd be furious with me, Alexander."

He made to deny it; stopped himself, and said ruefully, "Oh, I was. At you, at Edward, at Horatio, at His damned Britannic Majesty's bloody Navy – at God. I wore them all out, though, hard as I tried to keep hold of them. Too much dying, all around me, for me to go on cherishing the notion I had any particular right to bear grudges." Archie nodded. "God lasted the longest, but even that wore out in time. I think I am a better Christian now than I've been in years; you will doubtless be amused by that, imp."

"Am I your cross to bear, then?"

Edrington kissed his forehead, gently. "I suppose you must be, mustn't you?" He fell silent, brooding there with his chin on Archie's hair. "No, I tell a lie; above all, I was furious with myself. I still am."

"For getting yourself tangled up with a – with a mutineer?"

"For letting him sail off with so much between us, all unsaid. For never once saying that I – that he was – " Even now, there were no words, none that would serve him, not for this, but at least he could confess his lack and pray he might somehow be understood, however imperfectly. Archie had gone still and silent against him; he shut his eyes; opened them wide in astonishment at Archie's sudden explosive snort against his throat.

"Idiot."

Bush bent his head over his plate and let the talk wash over him; they were all so clever, and he so tongue-tied – on shipboard he had managed well enough, between rank and the conventions of the wardroom and Edrington, at least Edrington alone, he thought with a private smile, would never abash him again, but Pellew – Dear God, that he should sit at Captain Sir Edward Pellew's breakfast table, and have his cup refreshed by him, relaxed and joking in a shabby old banyan – with Pellew and Alexander and Archie all talking nineteen to the dozen, even though they were careful to include him – were pleased to include him, he corrected himself – he seemed always to be half a step behind them, racing to untangle the thread. They were trading quotations, now – odd snatches of verse that were half-familiar at best, and he looked around in confusion. Horatio caught his eye and smiled, and Bush realised with a start that he, too had been silently applying himself to his toast, smiling or nodding occasionally, but making no attempt to keep up with the flow of conversation. That was all right, then, just to listen, if Horatio felt it was, and they were great fun to watch and to listen to – ah, Pellew was saying something he knew, now, something from school, he thought – emboldened, he waited until Pellew had finished and was chewing at a piece of bacon, and burst forth impulsively: "We few, we happy few..." Edrington was grinning, and Bush blushed as his mind caught up with his tongue... a band of brothers? it was absurd, worse, it was obscene – band of buggers, more like ... . he ducked his head and began to compose a frantic apology, but Archie's hand caught at his sleeve; he looked up to find himself regarded with affectionate approval.

"'For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.' I was thinking of that too, William." They regarded one another for a moment more, then Archie grinned, and the moment was lost, but Bush found himself thinking, as he finished the last scraps on his plate, that he could not remember bacon to have tasted better than it did at this exact moment.

"You are welcome here for as long as you like, Alexander, you know that. Why not send for your things, and let me have a room made up?"

Edrington had wiped his lips and nodded. He had already considered, and rejected, the notion of dragging Archie back to his lodgings – he'd no knack for nursing, and doubted Archie would accept being bossed and fussed over from him as calmly as he was, apparently, prepared to accept it from Pellew and the redoubtable Mrs Maddern, who he had met that morning while they were at last getting themselves dressed. She had cast a jaundiced but tolerant eye on the pillow and quilt he had draped artistically over the armchair, looked sharply at Archie, seemed to find his condition and morale acceptable, sniffed once, and gone to fetch an extra jug of hot water – this would do, he considered, very nicely for a home for Archie while he was still unsteady on his feet and uncertain in his new life. Which life, he knew, would need a great many things in it that Edrington could neither be nor buy for him ... and while this house was a haven and a refuge this morning, he would never, he knew, be truly at home here.

"I know. And I thank you, and shall doubtless be on your doorstep all too often for your patience, but I think I will be better where I am."

There was disappointment in Pellew's eyes, but he nodded, and after a moment nodded again, and Edrington had known he was understood, and had smoothed over the awkwardness of parting by offering to accompany Bush to the mail-coach; it had been a rush to get to Bush's neglected lodgings for his belongings and still make the coach, and he had scarcely had time to brush his lips over Archie's hair and rest his hand on Pellew's shoulder and nod affectionately at Horatio before he had had to struggle with his boots and liberate his coat from the maid who had borne it away to be brushed and scurry out the door. They had been in time, just, and Bush was now safely en route to Chichester, looking wistfully back as the coach pulled out but for all that, Edrington thought, relieved at the prospect of a return, if not to tranquility, with three sisters crammed into the cottage with him, at least to some sort of normality, and Edrington was left to make his leisurely way back to his lodgings alone. He had, on impulse, taken an indirect route, one which led him past the docks, and he stood now watching the frigates and the first-rates and the Indiamen bobbing peacefully at anchor, letting the thin drizzle and the wind coming in from the water blow the last cobwebs from his indulgence – indulgences – of the night away.

Horatio, to his credit, had concealed whatever relief he might be feeling well – there was, Edrington thought, some strain there, but Archie had not mentioned it and he had not pried – they had managed before his advent in their lives, and they could manage still. And he could leave them to it, and walk a few pleasant blocks in summer weather when he wanted to call – often, very – and when Horatio got a ship or a berth, or Pellew new orders, or Edrington was required in Dorsetshire, or Archie felt well enough to make the journey to Scotland or war came again, as it seemed certain to, sooner or later, the pieces would tumble and slip and come to rest in some new pattern, as yet unguessable – but it, too, would have its own particular beauty, of that much he was certain.

As he made his way slowly across the docks and turned his steps toward his lodgings, he found that he was laughing.

~Fin

Notes: I have taken significant liberties with the order of service as laid down in the BCP, with the usual travel times between Kingston and Portsmouth, and with the last 15 minutes of Retribution. I feel at least somewhat apologetic about the first two.