the Dalaverse

Well, technically I have three left, but they're going to be a bit longer.


Respite [Hornblower/Kennedy/Bush (AU), requested by elessil]


The dream unsettled him so badly that he was jolted awake, yet when he'd blinked at the ceiling for a few moments and successfully oriented himself, he could not recall it.

On the far left side of the bed, Horatio sat against the headboard. William wanted to scold him for not getting enough sleep even now, but he held his tongue. Horatio was watching Archie breathe.

"Don't wake him," he said quietly, his hand resting on Archie's forearm.

"'M already awake," Archie mumbled against William's shoulder. "Honestly, Horatio, can't you shut your eyes for a few hours? It is our last night, after all." He shifted in the bed, still twisting his upper body gingerly after all these weeks. William's hand automatically went to the scar at his side.

Obligingly Horatio let himself be tugged down until his head lay next to Archie's on the pillow. If William lifted his chin, he could just see the dark lashes falling down. "It's near morning," he remarked.

Archie tutted, glancing at William for support. "It most certainly is not. The nightingale, not the lark, and so forth."

"Not yet morning, though it will be upon us soon enough," said William diplomatically.

"And then," said Archie with a yawn, "you must be gone and live, or stay and die..."

His quotation brought the dream back to the surface of William's mind. It had been about death -- about Archie's death, which had been so close they all felt its cold breath. Even now, hidden away from the world, he was not out of the woods.

Yet when he grasped at the half-remembered feelings -- strange. Archie was the one in danger, but it was Horatio over whom Bush had most worried.

Feeling him shudder, Archie turned about again. "William? What is it?" Horatio's head of mussed curls popped up over his shoulder, suddenly wide awake again.

"Nothing," William assured them. "A bit of a draft in here, don't you think?"

Horatio bit his lip in concern, clearly thinking of Archie's health. "Perhaps we should fetch another blanket --"

Archie snagged his arm before he could sit up. "Don't be ridiculous. Name a better source of heat than three men in a small bed."

"He has a point," said William, chuckling as Archie nestled against him and rubbed a cold nose through the thatch of hair on his chest. Horatio hesitated a moment before stretching out against Archie’s back, draping an arm over them both.

Back to business tomorrow, thought William, and God only knew when they’d have the opportunity to steal another few days like those just past. No wonder Horatio hadn’t wanted to fall asleep. There was much that could be taken away in slumber.

So William turned his face into Archie’s sun-streaked hair, kept a light hold on Horatio’s long fingers, and stayed awake to greet the new day.


The Waiting (Is the Hardest Part) [James/Will, requested by penm


If only Will would stop wriggling, he’d be able to list all the many reasons why this was utterly and completely wrong, beginning with...

“So that’s what the powder tastes like,” said Will curiously, and his tongue flickered out to lap at the skin behind James’s ear.

Perhaps he should work backwards. Completely and utterly wrong, ending with...

Will’s knee nudged his legs apart, rubbing against him, the sensation losing little effect to the layers of cloth between their skin.

“You – you’re married!” he exclaimed, finally hitting upon something relevant.

“If you can find my wife to prove it,” Will replied, lips grazing his throat, “by all means, be my guest.” He grinned, waving a hand around at the empty smithy. “In fact, you already are.”

He’d thought Gillette had said something about the governor stopping by with an urgent message, wringing his hands and demanding to see the commodore, but he’d needed to pick up this hinge for his door, and he hadn’t been able to keep his feet from setting off in the direction of the blacksmith’s shop. It couldn’t wait. Why couldn’t it wait?

“Wait,” he said faintly. Will’s mouth was hot and open at his pulse point, and he was thrusting in time with the beat of James’s blood.

Will lifted his head, but it was only to look at James squarely, and his hips did not stop their rocking motion. “I have waited far too long for this, James.”

He leaned down and kissed him firmly. James finally gave in and pulled Will flush against him, thinking, So have I, so have I.


Gentleman or Pirate [Will and a nosebleed, requested by hannahrorlove]


It was footwork that was most important, Norrington had said. If you didn't have your feet where they should be, if you weren't aware of your opponent's steps, your arm would be useless. Will looked down at his feet for a few minutes, studying the frame into which they put his body. His right arm wavered uncertainly, rudimentary blade gripped tightly. He frowned when a spot of red bloomed on his dusty shoe and lifted his head.

His nose had started bleeding again. Mr. Talbot's vicious mare had knocked it with her head when he'd been shoeing her this morning, and though Mr. Brown had said it wasn't broken, it had certainly felt that way.

Laying the sword carefully down on the table, he plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his leaking nose with it. It was bleeding sluggishly, not gushing as it had earlier, but he hated the wet scent in his nostrils.

As he was sitting down and tipping his head back, Mr. Brown came stumbling through the door. He squinted at Will.

"Don' get blood all o'er th' tools, boy," he mumbled.

"I won't, sir," Will replied, hoping Brown would stagger straight off to bed and leave him to finish the day's work in peace.

But his master came closer, picking up the weapon Will had laid down. Even through the bloody handkerchief, the stench of ale and unwashed flesh assaulted Will's senses.

"You foolin' with this nonsense ag'in?" Brown demanded, leveling the blade at Will. "Sword's a gen'leman's weapon, m'boy." His face split in an unkind grin. "Gen'leman or pirate, that is."

"I'm no pirate," Will snapped, hot anger flooding him. It faded into a bitter ache as he looked down at his work-roughened, crimson-stained hands, thinking of Miss Swann's unspoiled white skin. And I am no gentleman.