Horatio doesn't (can't) claim to be a proper student of human nature, but he flatters himself that he's been learning Archie and William. He studies the pair of them, after all, the way he studies the horizon and the tension in the sails. In the odd moment of peace, he turns thoughts of them over and over, the way he turns over his mental charts and possible counts of whist.
He wants to trust the flicker of hope in Archie's voice. He wants to believe the flush kissing William's cheeks. He wants to trust the flutter in the pit of his stomach to hear--not read, not glean, not surmise--that this (whatever 'this' properly is) is what they want.
But Archie is the 4th lieutenant. But William hadn't been on the Justinian a terrible lifetime ago.
For a moment, he can force himself to properly sharpen his features. With his eyes locked down on the table, he can force his lips into the wry smile he's perfected for his infrequent attempts at properly making jokes.
"It would seem Mr. Bush has spoken my piece for me." Self-deprecation always brings something properly amused to his tone, so he add absently, "And far more eloquently than I could hope to, I'm sure."
What can he do, after all, but repeat the prohibitions they already know? What can he say but words which have already been said a thousand times over (how many Sundays had they shared? how many more Sundays did they have?) and clearly disregarded enough to all be standing here in this room? What could he profess honestly, in the face of gentle, genuine emotion?
In a crisis, Horatio come to trust the odd elasticity of his own mind. It's not quite as easy as reading the motions of a deployment of ships, but there's the same keen quiet in his eyes and clear whirling of his thoughts through a thousand possibilities as he takes a breath. "It isn't--"
It's a mistake, he realizes too late, to glance up at William's face. It's a mistake to allow his gaze to flit back over Archie's features.
"It's--"
They look so close to happiness. For all the loss they've suffered, for all the sacrifices they've made, Archie Kennedy and William Bush look as if they might have struck on something that will give them peace.
And he'll ruin it.
Without ever further opening his mouth, he'll ruin it. He'll drag this glimmer of hope back down into the mess of reality. He'll throw death down in this quiet little room where the men he cares for more than he can say might have found meaning.
Horatio can't remember the last time his voice cracked and trembled as it does now, features furrowing as he ducks his head nearly to the point of pressing his chin to his chest. "If-- anything were to happen to-- either of you--"
There aren't words to follow. There isn't breath in his lungs for them, but they also simply aren't there.
no subject
He wants to trust the flicker of hope in Archie's voice. He wants to believe the flush kissing William's cheeks. He wants to trust the flutter in the pit of his stomach to hear--not read, not glean, not surmise--that this (whatever 'this' properly is) is what they want.
But Archie is the 4th lieutenant. But William hadn't been on the Justinian a terrible lifetime ago.
For a moment, he can force himself to properly sharpen his features. With his eyes locked down on the table, he can force his lips into the wry smile he's perfected for his infrequent attempts at properly making jokes.
"It would seem Mr. Bush has spoken my piece for me." Self-deprecation always brings something properly amused to his tone, so he add absently, "And far more eloquently than I could hope to, I'm sure."
What can he do, after all, but repeat the prohibitions they already know? What can he say but words which have already been said a thousand times over (how many Sundays had they shared? how many more Sundays did they have?) and clearly disregarded enough to all be standing here in this room? What could he profess honestly, in the face of gentle, genuine emotion?
In a crisis, Horatio come to trust the odd elasticity of his own mind. It's not quite as easy as reading the motions of a deployment of ships, but there's the same keen quiet in his eyes and clear whirling of his thoughts through a thousand possibilities as he takes a breath. "It isn't--"
It's a mistake, he realizes too late, to glance up at William's face. It's a mistake to allow his gaze to flit back over Archie's features.
"It's--"
They look so close to happiness. For all the loss they've suffered, for all the sacrifices they've made, Archie Kennedy and William Bush look as if they might have struck on something that will give them peace.
And he'll ruin it.
Without ever further opening his mouth, he'll ruin it. He'll drag this glimmer of hope back down into the mess of reality. He'll throw death down in this quiet little room where the men he cares for more than he can say might have found meaning.
Horatio can't remember the last time his voice cracked and trembled as it does now, features furrowing as he ducks his head nearly to the point of pressing his chin to his chest. "If-- anything were to happen to-- either of you--"
There aren't words to follow. There isn't breath in his lungs for them, but they also simply aren't there.