hotspurs | for his_majestys_navy : a star wars story

for his_majestys_navy : a star wars story

He shouldn't be here. That's becoming clearer and clearer with every passing hour.

All Horatio is, at the moment, is another mouth to feed. The sheer accident of his vague association with the man they actually needed was far from a reason for them to be keeping him here. Soon enough, he's certain, the whim that had struck Pellew to keep him around would be lost, and his extraction would be a messy thing--or, perhaps, a painfully clean one.

It didn't matter where they left him, after all. There wasn't anything left to go back to.

If he were any use at all, it would be different. If he could be trusted with a ship, then his desperation would be easy to channel. If he could be trusted with a weapon, then his life could be thrown into usefulness. But every soft hint of a suggestion gets quickly shot down by Pellew with the same tired sigh and stern instruction.

He needs to find some measure of control.

It isn't enough that he's learned to keep his face in a mask of stillness. It isn't enough that his voice rarely breaks and his tone rarely shifts. It's the something inside him--the hurt and the fear and the voiceless rage he can't be rid of--that needs lashing down. It's that, Pellew has to point out far too often, that keeps rocking the debris around him when he loses even the tiniest bit of his focus. It's the grey that threatens to pull any usefulness in him crashing down into simply being a liability.

The frustration of being made to stay when everyone else moves is, unfortunately, a source of liability all its own. Standing on the sidelines as a scouting contingent of the little fleet prepares to move again puts a certain crackle into the air just around him--nothing solid, nothing overly forceful, but distinctly there.

This is exactly what he's meant to be fighting against. This is what needs to clamp down and stifle so that the universe flows through him in a balance rather than sticking muddily to the darkness in his chest. It helps when movement beside him pulls focus from the ships he's been gazing mournfully toward. The man he steps back to make space for, after all, is likely even more frustrated than Horatio himself that the young man is still here.

"Commodore."

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"We've got the pilot chute."

The material would have to be unpacked--and would probably be useless if they did need to make a jump later. Then again, the entire X-wing was currently useless.

"If we both--"

Trapping one person's body heat would be helpful. Trapping two people's body heat would be far better. It isn't a terribly big piece of material to be working with, but being pressed together would help with the chill as well.

It still feels strangely awkward to suggest, with the older man's kindness still lingering against his ears.

The pilot chute. Well, it is better than nothing, and James is well aware that the fabric has some heat-trapping properties. For catching thermals and slowing a decent through unfamiliar gravity.

It is a good idea, objectively. Unobjectively, it requires a familiarity with another person that James has not experienced for a long time. Still, he has the feeling that it is going to get colder before dawn, and therefore if they do not want to freeze to death they have very few options.

"A good idea," James says, putting a voice to his thoughts. Whatever personal fear he may have is second to the need to survive, and he knows that. "And we do not have any better options, save leaving this planet as fast as we can."

Survival always wins. Survival has to win. Survival certainly wins when the opposing force is personal comfort.

If he focuses on that, Horatio can begin the mechanical process of unpacking his chute. The fire is high enough not to warrant the distraction of fussing, but unfurling the tightly-packed fabric will give him at least a few minutes to clear the rush of nerves from his spine.

"I'm sorry there aren't two."

"Two might well be less effective. Better the both of us be under it, I should think the body heat generated then should be sufficiently comfortable." One means sharing, but aside from how physically that may be a little strange, but James has been in more unpleasant situations. Watching a senior officer have the life squeezed from his throat by a Sith Lord was far, far more unnerving than having to share a shelter, a blanket, with a capable young pilot that had saved his life.

If young Horatio could radiate heat like he radiates nerves, they wouldn't need the blanket. Sharing is not ideal, not with someone one hardly knows, but in the circumstances, James will gladly take it. Horatio seems to be struggling a little more. Perhaps it is because James is of higher rank? Perhaps it's because they don't know each other. Perhaps because they are both men. James can understand that, at least. The planet he grew up on was very...rigid in its ideas.

Horatio may well be from a planet like that. Perhaps the Force itself imposes certain rules on relationships. He doesn't know, no one seems to know very much about this mysterious power Horatio and Pellew have at their command. He might be able to distract Horatio a little, he supposes, by asking him about it.

"Are you allowed to discuss the Force?"

Happily, Horatio does radiate heat. That's likely to be perfectly clear even before they're properly wrapped up under the fabric of the chute. He runs hot--and hotter still in moments like this, with the colour rising slightly to his cheeks.

But that's a good thing. That means that, even as he drags the fabric across to begin curling both of them up in its folds, James is likely to feel the beginning of dull warmth.

"--most of it." There's the barest hint of a rueful smile. "Or-- what I know of it."

Which isn't much, despite the little display earlier of dragging this very man through the muck. There were instincts he couldn't understand, moments of clarity he couldn't quite conjure or fully control--and then there were the rules Pellew was teaching him.

There hadn't been nearly enough time for that part, yet.

James does feel the heat increase quickly, which is very much welcome. The aches from earlier that day, from his near escape from a watery grave, are making themselves known in the cold and the warm eases some of the pain. Not all of it, but a good portion. He feels himself relax, shifting to ensure the blanket is enclosed around them, shoulder-to-shoulder with the young pilot.

"I was brought up to believe it was nonsense, ramblings of old men on their mountain." Well, not exactly, but close enough. His planet had been a founding member of the Empire, and his family always deeply involved. The Force did not fit nicely into the view of what the universe should be, too random to be easily controlled.

"What is it like, Horatio? The Force? What does it feel like?"

The comment earns the faintest edge of a smile. "--as was I."

In part because that's what Old Man Pellew had always been--a bit old, a bit mad, a bit full of nonsense that Horatio had been chastened time and time again not to pay any mind to. Strange, how simple that had felt before the man had first taken hold of the back of his neck and told him to breathe.

The question, on the other hand, drags a briefly full smile over Horatio's lips. This isn't a test. This isn't a veiled chastening. This isn't even about himself--not really, not in the ways that twist his stomach.

This is just something he can close his eyes and know.

"It feels... right. As if something were missing you... couldn't quite put your finger on, and then someone's-- given you just the right nudge, and suddenly it's-- right there." Even now, describing it, Horatio can feel his own shoulders relaxing a hair. That first brush with the Force had been such a blissful relief, although he hadn't known he needed to be relieved of anything. "And then it's... just everything. It's--" His eyes flutter open again, brighter and faintly hopeful as he lets his gaze flit over the darkness just beyond their firelight. "--as if you could sink into everything around you and know-- exactly where you are in the universe."

James has turned onto his side as Horatio speaks, elbow digging into the soft dirt to prop up his head. Pellew would never speak of the Force in anything but a mystical way, a way that men like James find hard to understand or appreciate. But Horatio is a pilot, a man used to the realities of life that Pellew seems removed from. To James, Horatio's explanation resonates. He finds himself listening more keenly with every pause or brief moment of uncertainty while Horatio searches for the right word.

To James, Horatio's discovery of the Force sounds much like his escape from the Empire, and his realisation that his place was with the rebels. But he wonders if that realisation was as profound as the discovery Horatio has made, because the young man seems suddenly filled with something that James himself can not place, but wishes desperately that he could.

"A purpose within the universe?" He asks, although he does not quite think that is what Horatio is describing, but it is as close as he thinks he can get without having experienced the same.

"A bit."

It's not a perfect match, although it fits nicely enough as Horatio rolls it around in his mind, hoping better words will stick. They don't, but the idea of purpose brings another line of thought rushing forward.

"And a bit like... when you're up there?" James understands, he knows, but his gaze flits skyward all the same. They can't quite see the beautiful blanket of stars from here, but he doubts either of them could ever not feel the pull. "Have you ever... When you first check nav, right? And for just a second, you see that little-- pixel that's you, and the galaxy radiating out around it, and-- you feel like you understand something? About where you fit? That in-- all the universe, that little dot on the nav is exactly where you are, and it doesn't matter if it's where you want to be or not, because it just-- it is."

Pellew would have sounded a good deal more profound, he knows. In the moment, he isn't terribly bothered.

James nods. He understands what Horatio means. It is very easy to get lost in the vastness of the galaxy, to become so insubstantial that you are nothing at all but that is not how James has ever felt. James has always felt centred and at peace when he knew where he was. Some people might feel lost or adrift but James feels the opposite.

He knows exactly what Horatio describes and the understanding that flows between them makes him relax still further, his gaze on the young pilot.

"It is the place you need to be in that moment, it is reassurance."

It's foolish. Horatio knows it's foolish. More than that, Horatio knows it's a sign of exactly the sort of attachment he isn't supposed to have, of the type of bond he isn't supposed to form if he doesn't want to be dragged down into the mire young Jedi sometimes were.

Knowing doesn't actually stop the brief quickening of his pulse as he feels, for a moment, that he's properly understood.

"Exactly." His gaze drops to the older man's again, still bright and just a hair too earnest for someone meant to live the mysterious, restricted life he's been chosen for. "It's a bit like that."

James knows it's foolish for entirely different reasons. He's an extremely senior figure in the rebellion, a man trusted to focus all his energies on defeating the Empire. But he is just a man, and he can not help but feel something, a spark of heat in his chest when the bright gaze meets his own.

But he is still a man, and he can do nothing whatsoever to dim that spark or that bright gaze, and he would not want to.

"We shall have to get you back in the Heavens where you belong as soon as we can."

His laugh is a soft thing, but it seems to catch Horatio off-guard even as it escapes him. The little puff of motion rocks his shoulders slightly--and if he settles a hair closer to James, well, that's hardly something he has complete control over.

"As soon as we can."

Getting the ship out of the muck wouldn't be an easy task. Making it space-worthy again would be another tricky thing. They really did need to get at it as quickly as possible, to get James back to the rebellion as quickly as possible.

But, for the moment, his head ducks slightly, barely hiding the lingering edge of his smile. "Until then, we're... in the place we need to be at this moment."

"And for whatever reason the universe has decided." James agrees. His attention should not be focused in the unbelievable and beautiful depths of Horatio's eyes, in which he could swear that he sees slow-swirling galaxies. But he can not pull his gaze away and in that moment, more so perhaps than any other he has felt in his life, he feels very much that he is exactly where he should be.

And with exactly the person he should be too.

Perhaps it is the universe that makes him do it. Perhaps it is the shock of almost dying twice in one day. Perhaps he simply wants to do it but can't escape the fact he requires a reason for his actions. He has no logical reason, only a building desire.

That is why he kisses Horatio.

The press of lips isn't such a dangerous thing. Pellew would hardly be thrilled if he knew, because this is beyond a distraction at a time when he ought to be finding his focus for the work to come. Still, the soft kiss isn't a problem in and of itself.

The danger is in the way his fingers catch dizzily at the other man's collar. The problem is that his heart gives a soft thrill, not simply jumping at the affection but aching with satisfaction.

Attachment is the problem, and attachment is exactly what Horatio feels as he leans into the kiss.

The press of lips and the tight hold shouldn't be a problem. If anything, they are an encouragement, and James, who had held back cautiously, now feels free to kiss Horatio with abandon. They will escape, somehow, he will ensure it. But this? This is... this is a moment of selfishness that has nothing to do with the rebellion or hopes of escape or future plans. This is simply... comfort in a time when comfort isn't just wanted, it is desperately needed.

And if it should happen again, then James will be happy with that. Horatio is not like any of the other pilots. Perhaps that is because of the Force, but perhaps it is something completely unique to him, different to every other Force-sensitive creature in the galaxy.

It doesn't matter. All that matters is that the kiss is quite the most wonderful thing he has experienced since the taste of freedom.

Feeling at one with the Force is a rush. Feeling James Norrington kiss him harder is just as much of one.

Because this isn't just letting go of tension or sinking into the comfort of distraction. This is the man who wanted him even if Pellew didn't. This is the man who had tugged on all the little strings that made him feel like a person. This is the man who understood him when he fumbled his way through explaining something core to his very soul.

"James..."

Horatio's fingers shift from collar to hair, tangling in to keep himself anchored properly in the kiss. He'll worry about detachment in the morning.

This helps too much.

Is that soft breath of his name a warning to stop or a plea to continue? The way Horatio's fingers cling to him, pull him closer proves it to be the latter, and James continues with an enthusiasm he hasn't felt for another person in a long time. It really is quite the most wonderful thing.

His arms move around the younger man, fingers move across the muscle of his back, resting upon his spine, the heat between them now like an oven, but James has no intention of stopping. Something about the desperation of the situation, not just here and now, but in general, makes its way into the kiss, and he needs this connection, this relief from being simply a commander. He is, before everything else, a person who needs company and closeness and to give those things to another.

He doesn't remember falling asleep sometime later, he doesn't recall the way he slept with fingers clutching at Horatio's clothes. But he stirs eventually when the noise of the swamp around them and the change in the musty light indicates that the planet has made another half rotation.

Being wanted is deliriously wonderful. Being kissed and clung to is-- well. Horatio can't remember ever having this much of a sense that someone truly needed him to stay like this.

Just him. Just Horatio. Not someone with promise to be sculpted or a skill to be used or a body to work to the bone. James kisses him like he's just Horatio, and it nearly brings tears to his eyes as he kisses back.

Horatio ducks in close when James begins to drift, counting the slowly steadier beats of the other man's heart until his own breathing evens out properly again. For a few scattered moments, he allows himself to drift into something like sleep--not much, but enough.

At least enough to have something bright back in his eyes when James begins to shift again. "Better?"

Properly warm now, although not without some aches from a night spent on the ground, James does feel surprising... rested. The events immediately proceeding his slumber aren't clear for several moments, but the closeness of Horatio and the instinctive glance towards the young man's lips filling in whatever blanks he has.

He isn't ashamed of himself, not at all, although he should be. But has he has the desperate desire to do it again, he can not fully chastise himself.

"Much, thank you." He says, sitting up and yet, still not pulling very far from Horatio. In the light of morning, their little camp is a muddy mess, with their craft poking out of the swamp ahead. He doesn't normally bother with breakfast, he normally has far too much to do and today seems like it will follow in that pattern.

"Any thoughts on how we are to free her?" He asks, noting that at least one set of thrusters is out of the mire. Perhaps that might offer just enough lift...

The impulse to curl an arm around James as the man begins to shift is irrepressible. It's difficult to imagine letting go of this delicate place they've landed in without putting up at least some sort of fight.

(That's what's dangerous. That's what Pellew has been warning him against. That sensation that rushes through him at simply being able to pull an arm around this man is already going to be in the way of the work he's meant to do.)

"Get her as light as we dare, I think, and see if that helps pull her up."

James nods, the plan is a good one. He would have forced himself to stand, but the arm around his shoulder makes him linger and survey what work they have in front of him from his current position just for a moment longer.

"A good plan. Perhaps we can crop some of these vines, create some sort of pulley..." He trails off, looking up at the thick roof of crisscrossing branches above them, and then at the stranded ship. "Perhaps we can find something to act as a counterweight, and sink that. If the ship is light enough, that might do the trick."

It might well work. There might be some boulders they can fill some crates with, or sacrifice one of the cases of supplies and re-pack somehow.

This isn't a terrible plan. This is, more importantly, possibly a workable plan.

The knowledge puts a pleasant sort of warmth into Horatio that he can't quite understand. Perhaps that's what brings his lips foolishly back in against James's cheek before he forces himself to stand up.

"Find a good vine, then."

Because Horatio would clearly be the one going back in to strip the ship. The idea of letting James back near the water's edge still had an edge of discomfort.

James is capable enough, he could assist with emptying the ship. But Horatio seems determined, and in truth, if they work on separate tasks they might well be done faster.

So they set to work, the press of Horatio's lips still spreading a strange warmth through James' cheek.

He manages not to almost drown himself this time, gathering long vines that hang from the moss-strewn branches, testing them for their strength and then beginning to bind them together. Several lenghts like that should do it, they can be tied to the ship, and some can be tied to a empty container, and the longest lenght can be thrown over the strongest over-hanging branch they can find.

It takes time. But James is lucky, at least in so far that he can sit and work on twisting the lengths together in the camp, around the growing piles of debris from the ship. More importantly, it means he can watch Horatio, in case something might befall him.

Stripping the ship isn't terribly easy work, but it's wonderful to feel useful. Frankly, after the long struggle to live even part of the way up to Pellew's standards, it also simply feels wonderful to be back to something he knows he's good at: working with his hands.

There's been good progress when he finally pauses for a moment on the wing, one arm hooked into the cockpit to keep from falling into the muck. They're nearing, in Horatio's opinion, the point of safety.

"--look any better?"

Surely he's not imagining that the ship isn't riding quite so low in the swamp. Surely there's a tiny bit of hope to be had.

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