In Heat

Archie Kennedy sat at the wardroom table in a manner even he recognized as unbecoming of an officer. And truth be told, he did not care.

Immediately upon entering the wardroom, he had stripped off his heavy wool jacket and kicked off his boots. His braces hung limply on either side of his legs and his waistcoat draped carelessly over the back of his chair where he had discarded it. He had wasted no time in removing his neckerchief, which was saturated with sweat, and that he flung disgustedly onto his cot, too sapped by the heat to do anything else with it. His shirt—made translucent with dampness—clung stubbornly to his chest. He had untucked it from the waistband of his trousers and had been fanning it up and down (quite uselessly he was beginning to realize) in an effort to cool himself. The steady streams of perspiration, which had unhappily avoided being wicked away by his shirt, trickled down his back, pooling in an increasingly uncomfortable and prickly wetness at the base of his spine. Beads of sweat raced each other past his temples, leaving damp streaks over his smooth sun-darkened cheeks before slithering down his neck. He did his best to ignore them, his eyes closed and head back with stocking feet propped up onto the table in a very ungentlemanly fashion, slouching in the chair where he had collapsed moments before.

When they had first arrived aboard Renown, Archie had taken one look at the large wardroom windows and proclaimed them to be the most delightful aspect of a senior officer’s life. Windows had meant a picturesque view, access to daylight…freedom. Horatio had laughed, but Archie had stubbornly insisted that the windows were the best indication of their good fortune. He cursed the things now. The sunlight they so freely allowed in baked the room; the glass intensifying the miserable temperature tenfold. The humidity was suffocating. What little breeze there was did nothing to ease the heat. It merely moved the air tauntingly, promising relief but giving none. Archie’s hair hung limply in the faint wind, made lazy and heavy by the sticky moisture that it had collected. The golden tendrils darkened by dampness held fast to the side of his face and back of his neck, blocking the illusory breeze from cooling his skin. He wiped his brow with his forearm, then dropped it carelessly to his side, resuming his satisfyingly improper posture.

"Good Lord, Archie! Haven’t you any sense of decorum?"

Archie opened one eye but refused to move his head towards the speaker. "Bother decorum, Horatio. It’s too bloody hot."

Horatio unbuttoned his jacket, "It’s not so bad…" Archie condescended to open both eyes at this incredible statement. Hornblower kept his jacket on, despite his wilted appearance. Even the ungodly heat was not enough to tempt him away from playing officer it seemed. Horatio smiled gently. "Come on. Get yourself a drink. You’ll feel better."

Kennedy’s eyes closed once more. "I haven’t the energy to blink, Horatio, much less the strength to pour myself a drink."

"Well, you might as well get used to it. It will get hotter before it gets cooler…"

*The room is full enough of hot air, Hornblower,* Archie retorted silently. For a moment he considered making the comment out loud, but Horatio’s indignant response, which would certainly follow, was beyond Archie’s ability to tolerate at present. He slumped further into the chair. "Do you honestly think that you are helping matters…?"

Horatio strolled to sideboard, making himself busy by pouring drinks for the both of them. Archie had never before noticed how noisily Hornblower went about the task, clinking the glasses into one another so often it seemed an impossibility that they were still intact. Amazingly, the clatter didn’t seem to bother Horatio. He continued clumsily on, distracting himself from what he was doing every now and then by throwing a worried, sidelong glance at Kennedy. "Your face is red. Are you alright?"

"I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m filthy. And I suspect I smell." Archie brought his feet down from the table and gazed with raised brows at his friend. "Besides being absolutely miserable, I assure you I am quite well. Thank you, Mr. Hornblower."

The unapologetic candor brought a smile to Horatio’s lips. "Miserable…and honest."

"With the remainder of the world, I must masquerade that I actually enjoy simmering in my own clothing and sweating like a stuck pig. You have the great privilege as my friend to hear my true thoughts on the subject."

Horatio bowed mockingly. "An honour, to be sure. You know, though," he said lightly, returning to the task at hand. "Pigs don’t sweat."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You’re mixing your metaphors," Hornblower explained as he continued clattering about. "You can’t ‘sweat like a stuck pig’. Pigs don’t sweat."

Archie could only stare incredulously at his friend’s back. "Well they would if they were here," he finally answered, content that the satisfaction of murdering Hornblower over such a triviality would not be worth the energy it would require to rise from his chair.

With a final clinking of crystal on silver, Horatio set the decanter aside, handing Kennedy one of the filled glasses, and took a seat across from him. "Really, Archie, you look unwell…"

Archie gulped greedily at the drink. "I am fine." He took another swig from the glass. "And I’d be a mite better if you would stop pretending that it was comfortable."

"Mind over matter, Archie. Just don’t think about it…"

"Denying reality does little to change it, Horatio." Archie roughly set down the now drained glass.

"Really, Archie…" Hornblower protested. "It’s not all that warm…"

"Damn this infernal heat!" Bush stormed into the wardroom, wiping his dripping forehead with his sleeve.

The exhaustion melted from Archie’s face and he beamed insincerely, "Oh, come now, Mr. Bush. It’s not all that warm…" He turned, smirking as he glared at Hornblower. "Is it, H’ratio?"

Bush took off his jacket and began to stroll past his fellow officers. "Not all that warm? The heat’s obviously got to your head, Kennedy." He halted abruptly as his mind’s eye finally registered the sight of Archie’s disheveled appearance. "What on earth…?"

Archie’s eyebrows went up, daring Bush to make a comment, "Problem, Mr. Bush?"

Bush sighed and shook his head in disgusted disbelief before continuing on to his cabin.

"What this crew needs is to be exercised…" Horatio offered, sipping nonchalantly on his drink.

"Might I suggest a ‘man overboard’ drill?" Archie said, only half-jokingly. He maintained a straight face despite the look of profound confusion Horatio shot back at him.

"Man overboard drill?" mocked Bush. "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard..."

Archie paid him no mind. "I think it of utmost importance that the crew be skilled at rescuing their comrades from the sea. I would volunteer to be the victim. Shark-infested waters be damned. I’d make the sacrifice. Never let it be said that Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy was not willing to do his duty for the good of his ship."

"How very touching." Bush rejoined stiffly from behind the canvas partition.

"You’re only jealous that you didn’t think up the idea yourself." Archie smirked. "No reason why there can’t be two victims in the water…care to join me, Mr. Bush?"

"No." Bush replied hastily. He cleared his throat, then added a bit more lightly, "I think I would rather watch you pretend to drown…"

Horatio continued on, doing his best to ignore the superfluous jests of his comrades. "I was thinking more along the lines of gunnery practice."

"Ah, yes. Perfect." Archie snorted. "More heat."

"Archie," Frustration was beginning to creep into Horatio’s voice. "We can’t stop the war simply because you’re hot…"

"Damn. I feared as much." Kennedy leaned back in his chair again, propping his feet up onto the table once more. There was something deliciously gratifying about seeing the annoyance so clearly written on his friend’s face. "Does this bother you, H’ratio?"

Hornblower’s eyes narrowed. He could hear the challenge implicit in Archie’s voice and given the man’s mood, there was no telling what would come of a confrontation.

"Put your feet down, Kennedy…my god!" Bush ordered as he marched past the table. "As if it isn’t miserable enough in here…"

Archie smiled crookedly at Horatio as he swung his legs down. "Aye, aye, sir." Hornblower simply heaved an enormous sigh as he steadily held his friend’s gaze.

"You want to exercise the guns, Mr. Hornblower?" Bush asked, interrupting the silent exchange.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, let’s get on with it." Bush wiped his dripping face once more. "No reason to just sit about and swelter… I’ll tell Buckland." And he left the room, muttering something unintelligible—but no doubt profane—about the heat.

Horatio finished off his drink, his eyes following Bush out. It was only then that he noticed that Kennedy was up from his chair, scurrying about the room collecting his discarded articles of clothing and hurriedly dressing. All the exhaustion seemed gone; the attitude with it. He set down his glass and rose from his seat. "You’re putting your jacket on, Archie?" He asked, astonished that his friend had retrieved it.

Kennedy smirked back. "Of course." His smirk deepened as he threw his arms into the jacket and fastened it with a defiant air. "We are officers, are we not?"

Horatio watched, waiting until Archie had nearly finished buttoning it. "Indeed, Mr. Kennedy." He agreed, the corner of his mouth curling upwards in a mischievous half smile as he stripped off his own jacket. "But we’re not stupid."