There's a sharp exhale of breath at that statement that he can't help because, no, he can't particularly help distract with that. There's a long moment of studying her body language to try to figure out if she really wants him to ask.
But if distracting isn't going to help, maybe talking will. She'd invited him to share after his nightmare, after all.
"--Why were people-- shooting at you?"
Maybe not the best of first questions, but he's not really sure how else to approach this.
Fascinating. If they have it on the network I might try to read it.
[The question earns a proper chuckle out of him.]
Mon père est un comte, Noriko, j'ai dû apprendre à parler français.
[The words, perhaps, sound just slightly different. He learned an older form of French, after all. But it's clear he speaks it rather fluently, himself.]
Ton père est quoi? [ She shakes her head, plainly at ease with the language shift. She learned well, it turns out. ] Depuis quand les garçons riches doivent-ils trouver un emploi?
Le comte de Cassilis, merci beaucoup. [And the question, well-- The question earns an actual eyeroll. It's very ungentlemanly of him. She's a terrible influence.] Et les garçons riches doivent trouver un emploi lorsqu'ils ne sont que des troisièmes fils, pas des héritiers. Ou quand leur père devient trop en colère contre eux pour être un fauteur de troubles.
She makes a strangled sort of sound, almot a laugh but yet very, very far from it. "They don't think we're the same as...everyone else. We're not human, we're....something to be exterminated. We're like gay people, or trans people, or...fuck knows what else they don't like. We're a mistake that needs to be taken care of." Noriko shrugs, voice bitter. "Why not take care of it before we're old enough to fight back?"
There's a shaky sort of sigh for that, because it's difficult to hear. Even if he doesn't understand exactly what the terms she's throwing around means, the sentiment is clear.
He knows a fair bit about being considered a mistake by others. He also, somewhat separately, knows about the lengths people will go to cause harm. He doesn't think it's at all the same, but he does know that she's hurting and he'd like to help with that however he can.
"From a strategic standpoint it does make sense," he replies, not without his own hint of bitterness, "But if it-- helps to give yourself power over it, consider the fact that if they think you strong enough to be a threat, that must mean that you're also strong enough to-- survive what they do to try to threaten you back."
[The grin definitely ruins it, but it hardly matters because Archie was going to laugh again anyways.]
Ha! My father and every superior officer I've ever had would never believe you if you called me that. I assure you, I'm often far from being particularly well-behaved, in thought if not always in action.
"I caught two bullets in the back, and one was half an inch away from my spine. That's not strength, that's somewhere between bad aim and luck," she says lightly.
"It's not strategy, because we're not combatants. We were children."
He'd been doing quite well on the ship. The oddity of their surroundings, the lingering newness of the discomfort from having their hearts broadcast well beyond their sleeves, the rhythm that could be found to break up a nightless day--all of that had made it a little easier to stay eternally tense and never really let go of the aches curled tight in his chest.
The problem down here was that some piece of him had begun to relax into happiness.
Horatio knows that they have a long way to go before they're entirely secure in their new (apparently not-so-temporary) home. That's part of what's relaxing, perhaps; there are not only tasks, but tasks he can wrap his mind around. There's distraction all day long and somewhere safe to curl himself up at night. It's exactly the right blend of back-breaking and mind-engaging to let him slip back into feeling properly like himself.
Which means he's sleeping more deeply when he does. Which means he's dreaming, tucked into a small space with Archie Kennedy.
Far worse memories of his service stayed buried, at least. Even the worst memories of Ferrol itself didn't come bubbling to the surface. What's got him twisting uncomfortably in the tent tonight is simply the horrible sensation of confinement, the crawling under his skin of being stuck in ten square feet of space with no more than a scrap of the sky and the sea somewhere far too far off to feel reassured by. What's spiking his heartrate is the same absolute lack of control that had been brewing somewhere beneath the productivity here.
He shifts in his sleep and feels trapped by the tent. He shifts in the other direction and brushes into Archie--and the floodgates of far worse memories begin flooding in (rough hands, disorienting darkness, intense panic--).
The scream in his throat is strangled nearly into silence when he jolts awake.
For a moment, trapped in sleep, Archie isn't able to tell whose panic is whose. Archie's sleep has (thankfully) been fairly free of nightmares since after that first month or so, but he's not been entirely without. His own nightmares have, even, almost the same shade of panic that's bleeding into him now.
So when he wakes up abruptly with his breath robbed from his throat, it takes a few disorienting moments to even begin to be able to tell that it hadn't been his nightmare.
"--'ratio?"
He's trying to breathe himself back to steadiness as he shifts to sit up again, reluctantly breaking their physical closeness to try to keep the empathy bond from overwhelming them both. He's blinking a little owlishly as he tries to study the other young man's face in the darkness.
His heart is pounding as his mind takes a moment to catch up with his eyes in the darkness. This isn't the prison. This isn't even Spain; really, this isn't even the corner of the universe Earth exists in.
The darkness here is the cold quiet of their temporary home in winter. The soft voice and warm presence beside him is Archie Kennedy. The ghosts clawing at his waking thoughts can't actually touch him here.
Horatio shakes his head sharply, fingers coming up to scrub at his eyes. "It's fine." It isn't. He isn't remotely convinced by his own hoarse whisper. "Go back to sleep."
“‘m not gonna be able to, for a bit,” he murmurs back softly, because it’s honest enough in its own fashion. He rubs at his face to wake up a bit more properly, turning towards Horatio while trying to, for once, emanate some of the calm he personally finds so elusive.
(It ends up being surprisingly easy. All he has to do is think of how soothed he feels whenever Horatio’s near.)
As much as he still doesn't quite care for the empathy bond, it's a relief to feel the calm radiating off of Archie now. Focusing on the sensation of soothing and comfort lapping at him is already driving at the terror and hurt he knows is radiating from his own core.
"Nothing." There's something slightly softer in his voice now, more tired than ready to start sobbing. "Just a bad dream, Archie."
It would help to take the other young man's hand; to feel the weight and certainty of it, the steady heartbeat, the friendly curl of fingers. It's just that Horatio doesn't trust it wouldn't drag them both back down into an echo chamber of panic.
Surely Horatio knows that well enough, by now. Surely, the shared history of the Justinian, the Danaë, and now this planet are indication enough of the fact that he's no stranger to nightmares.
"...It helps me to talk of it, sometimes."
Especially since they can't quite touch, for fear of things bleeding in.
Talking is, of course, one of the very last things Horatio Hornblower ever wants to do about anything to do with himself. It twists unpleasantly in his stomach underneath the current roiling for a moment before he can carefully exhale himself free of it.
This is different, after all. This is Archie.
Which means, in part, that he's fairly certain he isn't going to be rushed or propped. His mind can turn at its own pace--and, what's more, can trust that it would be worth the effort, if Archie was the one recommending it.
"...hm."
It's progress. At the very least, it's Horatio beginning to relax into being here, with someone he trusts, rather than wherever he just was.
"It... Did I tell you? How I became a lieutenant?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@ noriko - empathy bonds & her nightmares
There's a sharp exhale of breath at that statement that he can't help because, no, he can't particularly help distract with that. There's a long moment of studying her body language to try to figure out if she really wants him to ask.
But if distracting isn't going to help, maybe talking will. She'd invited him to share after his nightmare, after all.
"--Why were people-- shooting at you?"
Maybe not the best of first questions, but he's not really sure how else to approach this.
@ noriko - empathy bonds & his nightmares
Fascinating. If they have it on the network I might try to read it.
[The question earns a proper chuckle out of him.]
Mon père est un comte, Noriko, j'ai dû apprendre à parler français.
[The words, perhaps, sound just slightly different. He learned an older form of French, after all. But it's clear he speaks it rather fluently, himself.]
Re: @ noriko - empathy bonds & his nightmares
Ton père est quoi? [ She shakes her head, plainly at ease with the language shift. She learned well, it turns out. ] Depuis quand les garçons riches doivent-ils trouver un emploi?
Re: @ noriko - empathy bonds & her nightmares
There's a lot she could go into here about how people feel about them and how they're dangerous and all that. She doesn't.
no subject
Le comte de Cassilis, merci beaucoup. [And the question, well-- The question earns an actual eyeroll. It's very ungentlemanly of him. She's a terrible influence.] Et les garçons riches doivent trouver un emploi lorsqu'ils ne sont que des troisièmes fils, pas des héritiers. Ou quand leur père devient trop en colère contre eux pour être un fauteur de troubles.
[As is the case with him.]
no subject
There's a lot to say, here. There's questions he should probably ask. But instead.
"It's a-- bad enemy, that chooses to attack children."
Because they must have been children, to have been at school and considering she's about the same age as him.
no subject
no subject
You? A trouble maker? No, not possible. You're so...straightlaced, though.
no subject
He knows a fair bit about being considered a mistake by others. He also, somewhat separately, knows about the lengths people will go to cause harm. He doesn't think it's at all the same, but he does know that she's hurting and he'd like to help with that however he can.
"From a strategic standpoint it does make sense," he replies, not without his own hint of bitterness, "But if it-- helps to give yourself power over it, consider the fact that if they think you strong enough to be a threat, that must mean that you're also strong enough to-- survive what they do to try to threaten you back."
It's a very cold comfort, but it's something.
no subject
Ha! My father and every superior officer I've ever had would never believe you if you called me that. I assure you, I'm often far from being particularly well-behaved, in thought if not always in action.
no subject
"It's not strategy, because we're not combatants. We were children."
no subject
I mean, if you got a wild streak, we might be friends.
no subject
I'm certainly one of the more reckless people I know, so it does seem as though we'll get on.
no subject
sept-oct planet stranded times
The problem down here was that some piece of him had begun to relax into happiness.
Horatio knows that they have a long way to go before they're entirely secure in their new (apparently not-so-temporary) home. That's part of what's relaxing, perhaps; there are not only tasks, but tasks he can wrap his mind around. There's distraction all day long and somewhere safe to curl himself up at night. It's exactly the right blend of back-breaking and mind-engaging to let him slip back into feeling properly like himself.
Which means he's sleeping more deeply when he does. Which means he's dreaming, tucked into a small space with Archie Kennedy.
Far worse memories of his service stayed buried, at least. Even the worst memories of Ferrol itself didn't come bubbling to the surface. What's got him twisting uncomfortably in the tent tonight is simply the horrible sensation of confinement, the crawling under his skin of being stuck in ten square feet of space with no more than a scrap of the sky and the sea somewhere far too far off to feel reassured by. What's spiking his heartrate is the same absolute lack of control that had been brewing somewhere beneath the productivity here.
He shifts in his sleep and feels trapped by the tent. He shifts in the other direction and brushes into Archie--and the floodgates of far worse memories begin flooding in (rough hands, disorienting darkness, intense panic--).
The scream in his throat is strangled nearly into silence when he jolts awake.
lil babies
So when he wakes up abruptly with his breath robbed from his throat, it takes a few disorienting moments to even begin to be able to tell that it hadn't been his nightmare.
"--'ratio?"
He's trying to breathe himself back to steadiness as he shifts to sit up again, reluctantly breaking their physical closeness to try to keep the empathy bond from overwhelming them both. He's blinking a little owlishly as he tries to study the other young man's face in the darkness.
no subject
The darkness here is the cold quiet of their temporary home in winter. The soft voice and warm presence beside him is Archie Kennedy. The ghosts clawing at his waking thoughts can't actually touch him here.
Horatio shakes his head sharply, fingers coming up to scrub at his eyes. "It's fine." It isn't. He isn't remotely convinced by his own hoarse whisper. "Go back to sleep."
no subject
(It ends up being surprisingly easy. All he has to do is think of how soothed he feels whenever Horatio’s near.)
“‘s the matter?”
no subject
"Nothing." There's something slightly softer in his voice now, more tired than ready to start sobbing. "Just a bad dream, Archie."
It would help to take the other young man's hand; to feel the weight and certainty of it, the steady heartbeat, the friendly curl of fingers. It's just that Horatio doesn't trust it wouldn't drag them both back down into an echo chamber of panic.
no subject
Surely Horatio knows that well enough, by now. Surely, the shared history of the Justinian, the Danaë, and now this planet are indication enough of the fact that he's no stranger to nightmares.
"...It helps me to talk of it, sometimes."
Especially since they can't quite touch, for fear of things bleeding in.
no subject
This is different, after all. This is Archie.
Which means, in part, that he's fairly certain he isn't going to be rushed or propped. His mind can turn at its own pace--and, what's more, can trust that it would be worth the effort, if Archie was the one recommending it.
"...hm."
It's progress. At the very least, it's Horatio beginning to relax into being here, with someone he trusts, rather than wherever he just was.
"It... Did I tell you? How I became a lieutenant?"
He hasn't. This feels easier.