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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It is quick work, albeit hot and tiring in such humid conditions. But aside from a moment to throw off his jacket, James buts his back into it just as Horatio does. The younger man has already spent a great deal more energy unloading the ship, and James does not want to rest on his laurels.

The make-shift lift works. James knows in principle it should, that the logic is all there, but the materials have been less than ideal. But he feels his heart soar as with maddening slowness the sticky thick swamp begins to loosen it's hold on the ship, the foul smell of the disturbed water nothing in comparison to the realisation they may yet get off this accursed rock.

It's working. It's slow and tortuous, but it's honest toiling beside a man he very much admires--and it's working.

It's just that, as the ship is most of the way clear, there's an unpleasant sort of squelching in the swamp. The swamp isn't fully willing to release its vanquished prey. Perhaps it's the creature which had nearly dragged off James. Perhaps it's simply the clinging viscous water holding the ship in place.

Frustration comes huffing from Horatio's chest as he adjusts his grip on the vine. "Another tug?"

Or will their makeshift rope break under the strain?

It works- slowly. So far.

But it does work, despite the sweat on his brow and the strain in his limbs. Too much time looking at consols and displays, too long without any actual action. Too long, too old. Still, Horatio says nothing about the fact he has done most of the arduous physical work, he seems simply pleased that they have made progress.

"One more." James agrees, hanging on as hard as he can despite a twitch of pain in his shoulders. Will the vines break before he does? That's more of a question.

But another good, strong haul seems to do it, the last of the syrupy mud releasing and while the underside of the ship drips a foul green liquor for a few moments, she seems miraculously undamaged save a few scratches here and there.

There she is. She's a little worse for wear and she's riding oddly in the air with so much stripped from within her, but there's the familiar lines of the ship.

The joy that bubbles in him feels oddly powerful. It doesn't have quite the depth of his usual calm focus, but there's something heady in the surge. Something in the sparking makes him certain that he can let go with one hand and reach to squeeze giddily at James's arm.

The movement lets the ship sink and sway slightly, but it feels well worth the slight risk to share this moment of victory properly.

James can't help but let a smile stretch across his face, a bright wide grin that only spreads wider as Horatio's hand squeezes at his arm. The touch sends a little spark through him, and that look of elation, of success, on Horatio's face brightens the whole galaxy. It certainly makes James' soul sing.

Now comes the slightly tricker work of getting the ship onto solid ground, but they manage that with some more huffing, some more strain and sore forearms and shoulders. Once she's down, safe, away from the murky depths, James can do nothing else but collapse down onto the dirt.

"That was quite something. I'll admit I didn't think it would be so difficult."

The intimacy between them will, likely, need to be abandoned here with the scrap stripped from the ship. It would be best, likely, if the warmth were left in the shadows of the previous night.

But Horatio can't help ducking himself briefly to press a firm kiss against the older man's temple, awash in his own genuine contentment.

"Most important things are."

Less difficult is moving to leap back up onto the wing of the newly-freed craft, scrambling his way into the cockpit to begin a proper examination of the ship's systems. The poor thing will likely need some time to dry out, after that ordeal.

The sudden and unexpected kiss is quite, quite wonderful. It makes James' lips spread into a grin even before Horatio has pulled away, and it leaves him momentarily distracted, enough not to immediately answer once Horatio has clambered back into the ship to check the instruments.

"What state do we appear to be in?" James calls, hoping that no lasting damage is done. They need to return, and despite the desire to stay here a little longer, he can not give into that. Not when the rebellion needs both of them desperately.

"--damp."

Not the most encouraging thing to call down, but there's no place for anything other than honesty here. Horatio shifts to stand before the panel, frowning slightly down at James.

"How long do you think we can give it?"

They did need to get back. They didn't need to combust as soon as they got off the ground again.

James looks around. The conditions here are humid and that isn't conducive to drying anything out well or quickly.

"Probably at least another solar cycle if not more. But I am not sure we have the luxury of that time."

But they must allow it to dry, and he can't think of a way to speed the process that does not damage the delicate nature of the instruments.

The Force feels, from time to time, like something new and strange and outside of himself. Ships and flying never have. There's something innate in the way they speak to Horatio, something natural and unlearned in the impulses that rush through him out in space.

For a moment, his gaze flits own to the panel again. His fingers smooth fretfully along the edge of a screen, almost willing the moisture from within the machinery.

"About an even chance we'll make it if we leave sooner."

If it were only his own life at stake, Horatio wouldn't have a second thought about the gamble. Risking James's life against those odds, however, is a more difficult pull to swallow.

But it isn't his decision to make, really.

"Not good odds." James muses, watching Horatio fuss at the screens and instruments. He appreciates that Horatio knows his ship, he knows what it will and will not do, and the machine has been through as much as they have since they made the jump into hyperspace.

"Unfortunately leaving it very much later before making our escape, we may be putting ourselves in further danger." Either from whatever creatures dwell in the swamps, or from being located by the Empire.

Or, at very worst, losing contact with their own allies if they are forced again to move to a safer location.

"Will a few hours make much difference?"

"Better than not." Horatio cranes his head back briefly, peering at the lush foliage blocking out the proper strength of the light above them. "If you think we can spare it."

It's always a shame to climb out of the cockpit, but there's little else to be done inside. Sitting and fretting certainly won't help with the damp.

And who knows how many more opportunities he'll have to simply settle close to James, natural and comfortable, once they're back with the Rebels? (If they're ever back with the Rebels?)

James takes a moment, lips pressed together as he decides. To risk both their lives over a few hours is foolish, even if there is no guarantee the ship will dry sufficiently. They have to return, and soon, not only because of the remaining power the ship will have, but also because their presence is needful.

"We will wait, and look again in three hours, at that point we will consider again."

After all, there is a steady stream of green water escaping from some of the joints between the ship's panels. A few hours should see most of that gone, and that will improve matters. The fact that they will have to wait a little longer here is dispiriting, but James cannot help but appreciate the company, especially as long limbs and slender body climb down from the cockpit.

"We have at least some emergency rations left over."

It isn't ideal--but none of this is ideal. Finding the scouts had barely been ideal. Destroying the base had certainly not been ideal. Dropping out abruptly and crashing into a lonely swamp planet hadn't been anything like ideal. The pleasant twist in his gut when James looks at him isn't particularly ideal.

Still, it's better than not. Horatio has to cling to that.

"You should eat." It's an old instinct to push food onto others when there isn't much. It's also a product of distraction as he peers toward what can be seen of the sky. "I'll see about more kindling."

And just as Horatio has always tried to make sure others are looked after first, it has been James' duty to ensure provisions reach those on the frontlines. While it could be argued that that is Horatio, as the pilot, deserves what rations there are. Being hungry will do James no harm, but Horatio? He needs to have the energy to focus.

As it is, James doubts he can make Horatio eat what rations there are by himself. So sharing will be the way forward.

"We'll go together for kindling. We'll gather more that way. Perhaps a small fire under the ship will encourage her to dry a little faster."

Wouldn't it be something, to stay with the rebels once they were free of this place? Wouldn't it be a perfectly beautiful life, to follow wherever this man led in the absolute faith that he would be treated well.

The thought briefly flickers a smile across Horatio's features as he nods. "If you like."

His fingers almost reach for James's as he starts toward the treeline. They lose courage at the last second, squeezing the older man's arm instead in passing.

James knows that Pellew must have plans for this young protege of his. He knows that the Jedi must have something in mind, although he wouldn't tell James what it would entail. He could only hope to entreat the man on how much the rebels needed Horatio's skills.

"It's among one of the many things I would like."

He can't lie about that, even as Horatio's fingers brush against his arm. He lets his own close on the sleeve of Horatio's flight gear, pulling him closer, pressing another kiss to his mouth. How many more he would get before they had to go would be limited, and when they returned, they would be back at war. There would be precious little time for this.

Training feels incredibly far away. The war, so unavoidable for so long, feels incredibly far away. The Rebels and the Jedi and the infinite need they must return to as soon as they can feels like it must be beyond the other end of the universe when James tugs him in for a kiss.

Horatio knows they can't linger forever, but his free hand catches the fabric near the older man's collar. Clinging to the kiss isn't actually going to stop time from moving them forward, but for a few lovely seconds it feels as if it might.

There must at least be time for another kiss after the first.

At least one. But while it might not be the best use of their time, a few moments won't be the difference between life or death. He should be thinking more clearly, but it's near impossible to do so.

"When we return-" He begins, pulling away, still with the feel of Horatio's lips against his own. "When we return. I would like you to stay. I know Pellew will have plans, but... we- I would rather... have you."

How can he ask such a thing? He shouldn't. But selfish reasons aside, they need Horatio, they need Pellew. The presence of the Jedi gives the Rebellion hope, in a strange way. It is a near impossible task, to free the galaxy from the Empire's control. But even James feels that they might succeed, with Horatio there.

Ah. That's reality pounding angrily at his door again.

Horatio knows he could help. He knows the rebellion is losing pilots faster than they can recruit and train new ones. (He knows that their lives would be in the service of the cause, but he can't help imagining they might even have a few more quiet moments like this, when the whole universe could feel perfectly right again.)

"Hm."

They truly ought to collect kindling. More than that, they ought to push the limit of risk tolerance to get back in the sky as soon as they can.

It's just a sad, prickling thing to know he'll only be allowed to stay if Pellew is too disappointed to continue training him.

Pellew is a father figure, James is aware of that. He has trained and guided Horatio very well, that can't be denied. He shouldn't ask this of him, not so far away from any sort of resolution.

He should have waited.

He pulls back, with a gentle reassuring squeeze at Horatio's arm before he releases him.

"I will talk to him. He must see the need we have for you."

If it's for the rebellion, is it such a wicked thing? If it is for the greater good of the galaxy, and not James' own desire, can Pellew deny it?

Is it wrong to hope? Is it wrong that Horatio's heart beats a hair faster with the thought that, after all this wandering, this might be the way he spends whatever time is left--flying, fighting, and feeling the strange freedom that welled in his chest whenever James Norrington pulled him in close.

"--will you?"

It's just enough hope to bring them home again. It will be easy to crush once James is back with the rebels and his own mind has to be returned to the quiet blankness that Pellew tells him will keep the Force tempered in him.

"Promise?"

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