#oceansailing

The bustle and noise of the Sophie continues around him; it seems as though the shouts of men and the creaking of the sails must stop, abruptly, as they approach, for Hux cannot imagine anyone standing so still or so serenely with all that constant noise. Hux himself hasn’t had a moment of peace since he first stepped on board a vessel as a midshipman-by-order. At the academy, he kept every inkwell, tablet, and charcoal he owned in immaculate condition, always arranged with care. Here, he is lucky to even keep his thoughts straight. 

He takes a step back, letting two seamen pass, but does not look away.

Stephen’s fingers are curled over the guardrail. He must be searching for something in the blue expanse above -- and how like him that was, to be looking to the sky and not the sea -- because his eyes are open. He blinks, now and then, and each time, his lashes kiss the high curve of his cheeks for a fraction of a second. Then, once again: the search for something up in the sky.

Hux drops his eyes. He is not in love; he has decided that. But there is something in the doctor that makes him want to take every dogmatic fool who proclaimed that men cannot stitch the wounds in each other’s souls by the throat, wants to dig his fingers in, wants to drag them here, to this moment, watching Stephen Maturin from across the deck, and demand, does he not change your mind? Do you not understand?

Can you look at him and say that if he wishes to be mine, I should not possess him, and he me in turn, should he so desire? 

Passing a hand over his face, Hux takes a breath. He ought to focus. As a lieutenant, he must be present and in control. He would prefer to be; damn the doctor for making him anything less than that. But when he looks back, Stephen has turned towards him, those clever fingers slipping off the rail, and is moving to cross the deck. 

“ Lieutenant, ” he says, when he’s close. 

“ Doctor, ” Hux says. He turns so Stephen is standing at his side and not in front of him, lifting his eyes as though he, too, were searching for something in the sky. It wouldn’t do to have anyone guessing. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know. “ Surely you ought to be below. Powdering your nose with the dust in your books, or whatever it is you do while we are working. ”

“ I resent the implication that your brute work up here is the only work done on this ship. Why, just now, I saw a--- ”

“ Dr. Maturin. ” 

Stephen frowns, narrowing his eyes. “ What is it? ” 

“ --Tell me tonight. ” Hux looks out, ahead of him, towards the sea and not the sky, but there is a quirk of his lips: a smile few see. “ When I have my --- full attention to give you. ” 

He turns his head just enough to see Stephen’s eyes flicker to Hux’s lips. He wonders if the doctor, too, is brought back to the quiet afternoon when so much had abruptly become clear to the both of them. Stephen had been talking about his findings then, too. “ ...very well. ” 

Hux nods. “ Good. Until tonight, then. ” Turning on his heel, he strides across the deck, letting the fingers of one hand brush the doctor’s, just subtly enough that no one else could know. He hears the sharp, quick intake of breath from the doctor that he has grown so familiar with any time their skin touches, and Stephen’s reply, following him as he moves: until tonight.