who_is_she | (no subject)

Anthony felt sick just standing on the dock. The ship was huge, too, it towered over him and the walkway to board looked precarious at best. He wished one last time that there was a way out, an escape from what would probably end in his death. Stories were swirling around in his head, tales of sailors who had never returned home for this reason or that reason, all the horror stories he'd never enjoyed were now his reality. He heard his mother scolding him in his head, telling him to stop whining. He was a soldier now. He had no choice in the matter. Anthony felt quite like he hadn't had a choice at all, though his mother had made it clear it was the most sensible option. He felt guilty for dreading it so intensely. He didn't enjoy the shaking and unsettling of a carriage ride; he couldn't imagine the kind of Hell spending his entire life on a boat would be.

"Miller? Sergeant Miller?" calls a voice, and Anthony looks up to see a man dressed in a captain's uniform, his expression blank.

"Ah... Yes. Captain Hillis, I presume?" Anthony says, his voice shaking a little. Hillis gives him an appraising look.

"Is there a reason you're loitering around outside my ship?" Hillis asks, looking stern, and Anthony blanches and then flushes.

"I... I apologize, sir," he says, standing at attention, the shaking in his voice getting more pronounced, "I wasn't sure... I'll board immediately, sir." He salutes and then starts toward the walkway, getting about halfway across before the thin wood groans and creaks ominously and Anthony makes a high-pitched distressed sound. His arms snap out to grab the railing and he doubles over, panic making his knees weak. He glances behind himself, his face flushing when he sees the startled and pitying look on Hillis' face.

"Sorry, sir," he says miserably, shakily pulling himself back to his feet, "I'm... A little nervous." Anthony thinks Hillis realizes what an understatement that is, but he still comes up beside Anthony and takes his arm, helping him to his feet.

"Come on, son, I'll show you to your quarters," Hillis says, his voice tough but not unkind, and Anthony feels a rush of gratitude for his lack of disbelief, and for not asking why someone terrified of boats joined the navy.

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Roddie sizes up the new Sergeant as best as he can from his spot on the deck, keeping his eyes downcast and pretending to be focused on the mop and bucket in front of him. He doesn't get much of a look at him, taking in only his ridiculous stuffy uniform and neatly parted hair and the fact that (and also that he was sort of cute, as far as he could tell), and that wasn't going to be nearly enough information to satisfy his curiosity. He follows them down below deck under the pretense of scrubbing mold off the walls, and stands just outside the room as Hillis shows him around his quarters. They talk for a while, muffled by the wood between them, and try as Roddie might he can't make out what they're saying, so he simply waits until Hillis has left the room and then, after allowing an appropriate amount of time to pass, raps lightly on the door with his knuckles.

"Swabbie," he says through the door, "I'm s'posed to clean your room." It wasn't the most formal or appropriate greeting to give a senior officer, but the point of this visit was, in part, to see what he would be able to get away with, after all.

Anthony startles at the voice, his shoulders tensing as he'd thought he had a quiet moment to panic. He glances at the boy, realizing after a moment that they couldn't be too far apart in age actually, and then around at the room, which is bare.

"Clean it?" he asks, his voice still shaking, "I've barely even stepped foot in it, what could you possibly need to clean?" He really just wants a moment alone to scream and maybe cry a little, and no amount of attractive cabin boys will change his mind.

"No matter," he says wearily, sighing and sitting down on his bed, "Do your business."