A/N: This is not a new chapter, really. Just a leftover bit I had posted elsewhere, that never made it here. I am not sure if I'll actually be able to move on with this fic, much less ever finish it. But the writing muse, so merciless in her abandonment, visited me unexpectedly this week, and so I am at least going to give it a try. For anyone who ever happened here, and got stuck, my apologies. Reading your reviews was guilt-inducing, and I'll try to make it up to you.
Kennedy was in a sad state. His friend's lip was bloodied, and he was concerned at a cut just above the ear, doubtless from the edge of the sea chest. It was too close to that older wound, and would bruise at a minimum. There was blood on the boy's knuckles too, though that might be his own. Archie lay almost motionless, not even flinching as he checked with careful squeezes for worse injuries, but finding none. Horatio did note with a grimace that Archie's breeches were soaked at the front. How Kennedy would hate to be found like that, and so long as his friend remained unaware, he might be able to spare Archie further indignity.
It took some thinking. Horatio wasn't strong enough to lift Kennedy without some cooperation. He finally dragged the whole mattress in front of the fire, where his friend would be warm. He gathered more light, and the water and towels from both their rooms, before setting to work.
Shoes and stockings were easy enough. Horatio thought it was amusing how even his friend's feet looked small and broad and utterly unlike his own. Though nothing compared to the tanned and tar-spattered limbs of the ratings, the bottoms were somewhat callused, and there were even a few scars. He touched a fingertip to one long white mark along the pad, wondering where it came from, but quickly moved on when Archie twitched.
He did the jacket next, sweating from the fire and the effort by the time he'd manage to wrestle Kennedy out of the coat. Archie was rousing enough to resist him slightly. He set fingers to breech buttons, then, trying not to think of Simpson, and the last time he'd taken care of Archie after a fit. But as he undid the fastenings, it was as if the thought of Jack was enough to make Kennedy thrash, and protest.
When one kicking foot came near to oversetting the water basin, Horatio had to hold his friend down again, hissing at him sternly. "Kennedy, stop it! I must get you out of these wet clothes. You will wake your brother again, if you do not behave."
The boy ceased struggling at once, collapsing back to the mattress. Eyes clenched tight, the rest of the mid went boneless, though as Horatio worked the tight, damp cloth down limp limbs, Archie began to whine. It was a quiet, insistent sound, and as it took some doing for him to tug the breeches free, Horatio had time to recall what it reminded him of.
When he was a young lad, one of the neighbor's cats abandoned a litter of kittens under their kitchen step. Hungry as they had been by the time he found them, each one ceased their mewling and made that same cry as he pulled it from hiding.
The unnerving sound faded away and Kennedy seemed to slip deeper into the sleep that usually followed a fit once Horatio pulled off the wet garment and dropped it into a washbowl to soak. He was scandalized, but relieved to realize Archie wasn't wearing smalls; one less thing to have to wrest off the lad. Instead, trying not to look at what he was doing, Horatio tugged up the sticky tails of Kennedy's shirt, carefully rolling the boy first to one side, then the other and back as he tried to ease the the last of the other mid's clothing off without unduly jostling the boy.
By the time the shirt was resting with the breeches, Hornblower had a greater appreciation for his friend's unwieldy weight. While Kennedy had clearly not lacked for food, any impression of portliness was lost with the uniform. Archie was small only in height; the mid already had a man's body. Arms and chest especially were surprisingly thick with muscle and liberally dusted with fine hair, as golden by firelight as the head was in the sun.
Horatio became aware that he was staring and rose to find Kennedy a nightshirt. He finally located one, half-buried under several worn stockings with knotted toes, a packet of water-spotted letters, and one beloved scarf. He stopped to hold it to his face, breathing in the warm memory. It made little sense to dress the boy only to get everything wet again in washing, so the gown he laid to heat by the fire, before picking up soap and cloth, and setting about cleaning up his unconscious friend.
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