The Next Pleasure

Friendship is the next pleasure we may hope for: and where we find it not at home, or have no home to find it in, we may seek it abroad. -- William Penn

How had he not noticed? He knew Horatio tended to keep anything he construed as weakness hidden, but he was his friend. He should have seen the distressing cold descending upon Horatio's head before it had gotten this bad.

"Hehiiishhhooo! Huh!iishhh! Uhh!HEHshooo!" The sneezes were wrenched violently from his friend's nose as he bent double and fumbled for his handkerchief. He finally managed to find the wayward square of cloth, looking much worse for the wear, and bring it to his nose. There came a short, wet blow and a muttered "Excuse me," before he put the hanky away and stood up straight.

"You've caught the Captain's cold?" asked Archie, hating the catch in his voice as he did, hating the stab of guilt that brought it on.

"It is the season of giving, after all. I just wish he'd been a little less generous." Horatio brought his hand up to wipe at his nose and stopped suddenly, looking disgusted, and sniffled harshly instead. "Huh... huh!iiiishhhoo! Huhtiishhhoo! Ishhhoooo!"

"Horatio! Bless you!" Archie clasped his hands behind his back; it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to brush the curls from Horatio's forehead, as much to check his temperature as to comfort him. Horatio's father was a doctor, he would know if he were really ill better than Archie, anyway. "You look terrible."

"I feel it, as well," his voice was going hoarse from congestion, and his feature were going slack, his eyebrows coming together in anticipation of another sneeze. "Huh!Iiiishhhhoo! HuhCHIIISHHH! Iishhhhh!"

He was pulling in a ragged breath and sniffling madly when the watch rang eight bells; Archie thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world right then, and took a firm hold of Horatio's arm and led him down the companionway into the midshipmen's berth.

That Horatio made no protests when Archie eased him out of his peajacket was testament to how ill he really felt.

"Ill on Christmas. Infernal luck. Just you wait, Horatio. As soon as you're well, we'll have a proper holiday feast."

"Of weevily biscuits and dry beef?" he said wryly.

"We can't forget the dry beef. You can even have my spirit ration." This time when the urge to touch his friend came, he didn't resist and he laid his hand gently against Horatio's forehead, pleased to find it warm, but not overly so.

"Nonsense. Then who would I toast wi... huh... huh!iiishhhoo! Ishhhh! -with?" Out came the handkerchief again, and a strong blow. "You don't need to stay with me, you know. I'm sure there are better ways to spend your holiday."

"Surely not," he said, tugging the covers up to Horatio's chin once he was safely in his hammock. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be." It felt strange, almost, for their roles to be reversed; it always seemed like it was Horatio taking care of him, and he wanted to take this opportunity to return the favour. "Let me take care of you."