bakerstreet | YOU WERE MADE FOR ME AND I WAS MADE FOR YOU

It isn't unusual for resident Gentlemen and Ladies to invite Naval officers to social occasions. In fact in far flung corners it's considered their patriotic duty to do so. James Norrington has been to several such events, be they balls or suppers. The one this evening, hosted by the Governor of Gibraltar and his wife seems to have its fair share of officers and most are unknown to him. But there are casual introductions and James spends a happy few minutes with a retired Ambassador, until the dinner gong sounds.

He isn't seated near the Ambassador, but with the niece of his host on one side and a young officer on the left. The young lady is a pleasent enough conversationalist but the officer keeps quiet. James isn't sure if he is simply shy or listening to a conversation on his other side.

It isn't unusual for other people, Pellew had muttered while yanking Horatio's collar into neatness. It's actually quite a normal for officers to attend parties and rub elbows. It's absolutely something he'll need to be used to if he wants to be taken seriously--and have his name advanced any time soon.

That doesn't make the evening any less of a terrible ordeal.

His tongue is in knots every time anyone so much as looks at him. His fingers are trembling, just slightly, whenever he has to reach for a glass to hold or a hand to kiss. The polite conversation is excruciating. The prospect of an entire dinner is horrifying even as he pushes in the chair of the woman on his left.

The man beside him seems much more capable. He seems to be getting along just fine in pleasant chatting conversation with the young woman beside him. Horatio can't imagine being that comfortable speaking with anyone while on solid ground.

Maybe the man beside him will distract this entire portion of the table. Maybe Horatio will manage to use his own fork and napkin and glass.

Admittedly, stopping short of reaching for the wrong glass is a close thing.

It's a pleasent enough evening. The young lady is well spoken and he can recount one tales of crossing from the West Indies to entertain some of the other guests. It just seems a shame that the young man at his side doesn't join in.

It doesn't seem to be dosdain, more nerves and James wonders if he finds the French as terrifying as a table of his countrymen. But it's not the done thing to ask, and the pale thing hardly needs to add further embarrassment to his list of woes.

The courses come and go with the occasional clatter of cutlery on his left. He wonders if the young man's commanding officer is here, if the young man has been brought to make his first impression, as it were. James isn't entirely sure it is the impression he'd like to be making.

By the time the last course is finished and the ladies all seem to be of one mind- they've spent far too long in the company of sailors, no matter how well bred, and they excuse themselves, as one, from the table. Once the men have settled back down in their seats, there seems to be a much more relaxed air to the room. A much more convivial one. James feels it too, and while his back stays straight in his chair, he does find himself trying to be friendly to the young officer who still hasn't said a word.

"Port?"

It's no small relief that the man to his right is such a charming conversationalist. It's even better that the other guests keep thinking of proper questions--everything that bubbles to the top of his own mind is technical, overly detailed, not at all the light dinner conversation gentlemen are expected to make while ladies are present.

This must be some part of Pellew's dragging him here. This is the model to imitate. This is the sort of man he has to force himself to be. It won't be impossible, but Horatio can foresee it taking an incredible amount of attention and bravery.

Honestly, he'd far rather fight his way out of Ferrol.

At least he has the good instincts to help the woman beside him from her chair. At least he doesn't try to flit off himself. At least he's taken a deep breath of air before the man beside him begins to list in his direction.

Of course, the deep breath doesn't help when the first word the man speaks directly to him is the same as the simple interrogative etched across his wrist.

It's been a frustratingly common word in Horatio's life. It's made him jumpy even on the best days--particularly in that, invariably, it's a word other sailors have spoken to him. It sends a little start through him now, although hopefully it looks as if he's simply been jolted from a reflective state.

"Just-- down the road, I think."

He'll cotton on to the fact that's not quite right in a heartbeat.

Navy officers, good ones, react quickly, even to strange and unexpected events. It is one of the things that makes a good officer, and James would like to think that is what he is. Unfortunately, the response to his question throws him completely. It's a simple question, hardly unknown in these circumstances. It does lead him to wonder if the young man has ever been to an event such as this before. There can't be many officers, even junior ones, who don't know what Port is.

It also leads him to wonder if the young man has noticed they wear the same uniform- why on would a serving officer require directions to a port? On a small island, no less.

But there is also no small part of him that can see the nervousness in the other's stance. If he recalls correctly, he arrived under Captain Pellew's wing, and James knows the man doesn't suffer fools gladly. He can remember being made to attend such meals and perhaps he can find it in himself not to judge the young man too harshly.

"I meant-" James begins again, before his brain catches up with him. It's such a small word. Just. It's etched into his skin, has been for as long as he can remember. There are plenty of people who have said it to him, but not very many whom have used it as an opening remark. He'd always anticipated it to be used in a far different sense, just and fair or some similar phrase.

But of course, it's laughable that this shy, dark-haired creature is his- no. It doesn't happen.

It's simply that the look on the other's face seems to mirror the horror James feels. He'd always hoped this moment would bring joy and surprise, perhaps relief, not trepidation. Not dismay.

No one else seems to have noticed. As he tries to discretely check the word on his arm, laughter at the other end of the table makes his heart pound, although it has nothing to do with them.

For a moment, it's simply an embarrassment. For a moment, it's a relief to think that all he's done is put his foot in his mouth and slightly disappointed Pellew in the process.

But then the other officer falls silent. Then the man's features still in shock. Then, most petrifying of all, the other man's gaze drops toward his own arm in a subtle motion.

That drops his heart into his gut.

There are too many things upside down to properly panic over any single one of them. His breath comes in a huffed, exhausted sort of laugh, his own wrist curling in on itself self-consciously. (Horatio doesn't need to check. He doesn't need to confirm what's becoming horrifically clear.)

"--sorry." For all of this, more than the misunderstanding. Then again, if he hadn't misunderstood, maybe they somehow would not have been stuck here. "Wine?"

They both surely need it, now.

James doesn't need to look at the word, no-one really needs to double-check. But in that instance, as his world collapses around him, he has to be sure. He has to look, in case, somehow, the script on his skin will show him that this isn't it. This is just a coincidence.

He'd actually given up on ever meeting the person he'd always thought would be a lady. He'd gone to sea, he'd removed himself from society and he'd heard the stories. Some people never met their soulmate, fate had rolled the dice and whatever event would draw them together never took place. Or they spoke different languages, or never heard the words uttered. Everyone had heard those tales. Marriages were arranged despite the words, and his own engagement was no different.

What Governor Swann would say to this James can't even fathom.

He reaches out for the wine, as the young man requests, as his mind races. This is clearly a mistake. A coincidence. He won't deny that the young man is handsome, but that is the end of the matter. And to prove that to himself, and perhaps to Fate herself, he's going to speak to him and they will have nothing apart from their dedication to the crown in common.

"Forgive me, I don't believe we were introduced before. Commodore James Norrington, of the West Indies fleet."

Oh. Oh, it's far worse than he had imagined.

This is a man Pellew would want him to meet. This is a man Pellew would want to think well of him. This, of all men, is not a man to be--

A careful breath keeps his shoulders steady and his spine straight. If he forces himself to think of the moment as almost a mathematical equation, Horatio might be able to breathe through this. They don't need to make a fuss. They don't need to actually acknowledge what had just flitted through both their faces.

"Lieutenant Hornblower, sir."

That's the best he can manage before he's certain his voice will tremble.

James reaches for the wine, pouring a healthy measure into both their glasses as the young man replies. He doesn't seem about to offer anything further, but James already finds himself phrasing a question, the casual conversation almost natural. He can pretend what has passed between them, that knowledge, never happened.

"Are you assigned to the Gibraltar fleet, Lieutenant?"

This isn't getting to know each other. This is just idle chit-chat that a senior officer might have with a junior. It's hardly suspicious, it's not wrong. The fact he's focusing entirely on his wine glass, studying it before taking a sip and not glancing back at the young man is simply because he's sure their host will have provided good Port.

The wine is something to focus on. It takes a good deal of his attention, after all, to keep his fingers still and steady as he takes the glass. It also takes a good deal of concentration not to simply drain the glass instantly.

"Returning to the Channel fleet, sir, with the Indefatigable."

Nothing in the world relaxes Horatio's shoulders like talking about the Indy. Even in the midst of uncertainty--even trying not to study the jaw of the man beside him--the ship is a stabilizing thought to keep in his head.

"Under Captain Pellew? In that case Mr Hornblower, you're a very lucky man."

Pellew has a reputation, after all. James hasn't had the pleasure of having any of the man's young officers transfer to his command, but he knows of many, and he knows the West Indies could do with men like that.

Still, the challenges here so close to home are far different to those in the Caribbean.

He toys with the stem of his glass, considering it a moment, and then glances back to the young man. "Will you be heading for Portsmouth or Devonport?"

They can do this. They can power through. They both just need to keep staring at their own glasses and steadying their nerves with discussion of safe things.

Safe things like Pellew. Safe things like the Indy. Safe things like this glass of wine and home ports and distinctly not the shape of Commodore Norrington's jaw or the apparently matching words printed across their skin.

"Portsmouth, sir. As soon as we're able."

If this were another lieutenant--well, a dozen things would be better. At the very least, it would feel easier to ask the corresponding question without feeling like such a terrible imposition.

A sip of the wine isn't nearly as steadying as it ought to be.

James can feel eyes on him as he takes a sip from the glass, leaning back a little in his chair to try and take some of the tension out of his shoulders. The shift gives him the opportunity to turn slightly, and for the first time probably look at this Lieutenant Hornblower. He's pale, with worried eyes and lips that press together, but despite the current stresses (which James equally feels) those eyes are intelligent and sharp.

Pellew wouldn't bring any Lieutenant to such a dinner. He'd bring the best, the one he has highest hopes for, the one whom he wants to bring to the attention of influential officers. And he's done so, although in a way Pellew would likely never have imagined. This sort of thing does not happen, after all.

He could have left it at that, he could have let the tides of conversation take them on different, separate paths. But instead of doing the sensible thing, James decides he must prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is all simply a coincidence.

"The Dauntless is to remain at Gibraltar for repairs and resupply. As you know him far better than I, tell me, would your Captain be opposed to taking on one additional hand for the passage?"

This, of course, is the farthest thing in the world from a question of personal comfort. This is nowhere near a matter of what would let Horatio breathe freely again.

This is infinitely more terrifying than his last time in Gibraltar--and much less likely to be salvaged by throwing himself at a fireship, alas.

"Captain Pellew would be greatly honoured by your trust, sir."

It's an easy estimation to make. Pellew would be infinitely pleased the commodore had spared two words for Horatio. He would also likely be infinitely pleased to have a reason to run past the Bay of Biscay until they had properly readied themselves in Portsmouth.

"If you feel-- quite certain it will-- suit you, sir."

The passage home was hardly as daunting as the return from the West Indies. Horatio simply imagined that it would seem infinitely longer having to avoid one another on a ship as comparatively small as a fifth rate frigate.

"It will be my pleasure. Captain Pellew is a very well respected man, and I'd very much like to see his methods and his ship first-hand." Besides, despite the length of time a crossing takes, James wants to get back to the sea as soon as he can. He's spent too long behind a desk, too long trapped and the possibility of getting back aboard a ship in a matter of days, not weeks, appeals to him greatly.

He smiles a little more freely at the slightly worried tone in the Lieutenant's voice. "Trust me, Mr Hornblower, a space to hang a hammock is all I will require."

He takes another sip of his wine, feeling greatly better, and keeps his attention on the young man. There is no need for him to be so fearful, James is certain now that they aren't bonded. He wants to turn the conversation back to something pleasant, back to something interesting.

"The Indefatigable, she is a British-built ship, is she not? Not a prize?" He knows everything about the ships in his own fleet, but he is woefully out of touch with the Channel fleet. At least Pellew and his officers will be able to get him up to speed long before he reaches London.

This is far from about his comfort. No moment of the service, after all, had been remotely about his comfort. That's as it should be--and, surely, if the Commodore didn't find any fault with the arrangement, neither should anyone else.

"She is, sir. At Buckler's Hard." Horatio's spine does relax another hair, away from nerves and toward simple posture. "As a third-rate, before she was converted. She's a fifth-rate razee now. Like the Anson and Magnanime."

This, thank goodness, is easy. This he can settle into without thinking too deeply about the word tattooed across his wrist or the seemingly infinite ranks between the two of them.

"A fine shipyard." And it is. His own Dauntless comes from Hull, and he would not trade her for anything, but he knows Buckler's Hard. His father had taken him there, as a child, and the sight of great ships forming on the sloping banks had mesmerised him. "And I'm sure she's a very fine ship."

She must be. Not just a fine ship but a fine crew, if he is to believe some of the gossip he's heard about the prizes in Gibraltar's port having been taken by the Indefatigable.

"And the French have been keeping her busy. I wonder, are they bringing trouble to her, or is she a ship that likes to look for trouble?" A ship is, as a sensible man would say, just a ship. But any man who has been at sea long enough knows that each and every vessel is different, has a spirit all of its own. If he's any judge of men, Lieutenant Hornblower is much happier when talking about his ship than any of the usual dinner small-talk.

If he doesn't think about where they started, this is almost enjoyable. If he focuses on the slight haze of wine and the proper joy of discussing his favourite topic, Horatio might be able to properly navigate the remainder of the evening--or, at any rate, the remainder of the conversation.

Setting the mostly empty glass again, he lets himself shift slightly in his seat. Surely he can risk looking the man full in the face now. It must be more polite than staring at his own hands had been.

"I imagine it must be something in the middle, sir. Captain Pellew stands firmly in the opinion that the nation will sooner forgive an officer for attacking an enemy than for letting it alone."

And surely following Nelson's advice spoke well of his commanding officer.

It is enjoyable, to talk shop with someone who isn't under his command, someone whom he can't predict, someone fresh and new with a different view of the world. Despite the differences of rank, young Mr Hornblower seems to be winning against his nerves.

"I think at this point in time, the nation would not accept any officer leaving an enemy ship unmolested." James replies, pouring the lieutenant another glass. "To whit, you and your Captain are doing a great service to the nation."

And all eyes are turned that way, to the Channel and the sea around Spain, the Mediterranean, as well they should be. That is the threat. James' problems in the Caribbean are small in comparison.

"Are we to expect the same distractions on our Crossing?"

If it were Pellew, Horatio would lean closer and offer a candid opinion. Then again, if it were Pellew, he would have been in the safety of the captain's cabin with a world of maps scattered across the table.

Still, there's no stopping the thoughtful lick of his lips and spark in his eyes that can't quite be held back.

"I should fairly expect so, while we're parted from the Concorde and the Jason. They've been inclined toward picking on ships out of squadron lately--I'd guess they think it will stop us picking off their merchants."

That glint isn't missed, and James can't help but re-consider the young man. He had seemed so nervous, scared of his own shadow, but at the prospect of an engagement with the French, Lieutenant Hornblower might well be a different man.

"I shall look forward to it, in that case." James says, and he knows the hint of excitement in his voice is unbecoming of a Commodore, but it's been far too long since he was allowed to join in real combat, simply for the exhilaration of it. But if the ship he has passage on is attacked, and in home waters, then he must aid her crew.

For a heartbeat, it feels as if he's speaking to another lieutenant on the edge of a fascinating new adventure. For a heartbeat, it feels as if he's speaking to his soulmate--to someone who simply understands.

"There's nothing quite like it."

But this is still a Commodore. This is still surely a faulty misunderstanding of words that they ought to ignore.

"But I imagine Captain Pellew will do his utmost to keep you from risking action. Sir."

"No, not at all." And the higher up the ranks you go, the less action you see. You read the reports, you see the Ship's Ledger, you bury the men, but you do not fight. Its part of his life James has missed, since he became a Captain and then a Commodore.

An excuse to join in any melee might well be difficult to find, but Captain Pellew will be his host, not his keeper, should he agree to the passage.

"And that is his duty, of course." Which Pellew must perform, in accordance with his understanding of the term. But the wine has made James a little more willing to share his thoughts than usual, and he takes another small sip.

"But should the need arise, you and the Indefatigable will not find me lacking."

His lips part with the same impulsive comfort. It's just that a laugh farther down the table briefly catches Horatio's attention.

Everything comes rushing back in, tight and uncomfortable in his chest until he can only manage a soft "--sir."

Pushing back against Pellew was still a rare enough thing. It had taken time to feel there might be any redeeming value in his questions and instincts. He surely isn't there with the Commodore he's just met.

But. "Is it not-- quite different, sir? In the West Indies?"

Horatio Hornblower | Hornblower Saga

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