Chapter 1
Author's note: This is NOT a slash fic. I dislike slash and don't want this story to be taken as one. Any use of the words like' or love' that may end up in the story are purely in the father/son or friend use of the words. Please keep that in mind.

It was hot. It was unbelievably hot. It was always hot in the Canary Islands, but still.
Horatio leaned against the railing on the deck and stared listlessly at the men who were busy celebrating his latest victory. It was odd. Listless had never been a word to describe him. And he definitely shouldn't have been listless now, not after having snatched a fort from the Spanish with practically no casualties. But it was just so bloody hot.
Sir! Ahoy sir!
Horatio jerked his eyes open, startled. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. He gazed through a wall of heat waves at the figure talking to him and recognized the man immediately as a grinning Styles. He tried to say something, but found that it took an amazing amount of energy to get his mouth to do what his mind wanted.
he managed finally.
Yes, sir, Styles said, knuckling his forehead. Cap'n wants ye, sir. And the men wanted me to tell ye they think ye did a good job at the fort, sir.
He nodded.
Convey my. . .thanks. My thanks. Convey my thanks to the men, Styles. Why in the world was it hard to talk? Heat had never affected him like that before. And none of the men seemed to be feeling the sweltering weather.
Sir, are you all right? Styles asked, frowning.
Of course I'm all right, Styles! he snapped, feeling suddenly and unaccountably angry.
Yes, sir! Styles exclaimed in alarm. Of course ye are, sir, it's just-
Just what?
Nothin, sir, Styles said quickly. I'll pass on yer thanks, sir. He took off after a quick salute, glancing back at Hornblower with a fearful look that was not totally alien to the one he'd given him years ago when Horatio had caught him, Oldroyd, Matthews and Finch gambling in the hold.
As Horatio stared, fuming, at the retreating Styles, a worried curiosity bubbled up underneath his anger. Why had he just lashed out like that? Snapped at an innocent seaman congratulating him? Why so emotional after a tremendous victory?
He started to shake his head in bewilderment, but decided quickly that that was a bad idea. It produced a throbbing, steady ache that, when combined with the heat, made his stomach churn. Was he sick? That would explain his sensitive state since he had always been more cynical and emotional when ill.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he smiled absently. Of course he wasn't sick. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been sick. He was just in an odd mood, that was all. He'd apologize to Styles later, he decided, right after he saw what Pellew wanted.
He stood up, struggling just a bit, swaying ever so slightly. He lurched down the stairs and took the rest of the distance to the captain's cabin at a run, hoping that he would be safely inside the door before any of the men stopped celebrating. He didn't need them to know that the pitching and rolling of the ship was making him stumble over absolutely nothing.
In his haste to get inside, he only barely remembered to brush off his uniform and straighten his tie before knocking on Pellew's door.
Come in, man! Don't stand out there pounding the door in!
As physically bad as he was feeling at the moment, Horatio couldn't help but grin. Captain Pellew's bellow always made him smile. There was just something about that bellow.
Yes. . . sir, he choked as he entered the room. The smile vanished immediately from his face. Besides the fact that he abruptly felt as though his stomach had dropped out of his body, it was going to be very hard to seem like anything more than an imbecile when he couldn't even string two words together. Hell.
Sit down, Mr. Hornblower, Pellew said, glancing up from charts on his desk.
He gave a quick nod in place of the Yes, sir. that would normally have been his answer to anything Captain Pellew said. Better to conserve his energy for when the talking was absolutely necessary.
Pellew's gaze, which had begun to drift back to the charts, snagged on the nod. He frowned disapprovingly but let it pass.
Thank you, sir, Horatio thought. I meant no disrespect, sir.
It seems we may have to elevate your lieutenant number, Mr. Hornblower. It's not often that the men still celebrate after a three-day march in Canary terrain.
He tried, desperately, to work up some enthusiasm at this announcement, but it was impossible.
Thank you, sir, he rasped.
Indeed, Mr. Hornblower. Now if you would give me a report on the battle?
he asked in a whisper. Suddenly exhausted, his eyes drifted shut.
Oh no, he thought, panicking. No. Don't. Fall. Asleep.
Mr. Hornblower?
But sleep was starting to seem like an excellent idea. You couldn't feel sick when you were asleep. You couldn't feel a headache. You couldn't feel anything. Why not go to sleep, really?
Mr. Hornblower! There was a rustle of papers, the sound of feet on the floor. And then a hand, blessedly cool, was laid on his cheek.
My God, you're burning up with fever!
he muttered. For the second time that day, an idea dawned on him. Sir, am I - am I sick?
Yes. Yes, Mr. Hornblower, you're sick. Extremely sick, I'm afraid.