It is canon in the world of POB that Barret Bondon was born beneath the great guns of the Indy. I hope he will forgive being placed somewhere less splendid, for the sake of fiction.
This is set in the first week of Horatio’s Naval endeavors.
Over the last week Horatio had stood in the wrong place, failed to be in the right place, climbed the wrong mast, tripped over his own feet, and puked more or less constantly. He had been beaten by Simpson, excelled at his trigonometry, and twice been caught with his hands in his pockets. He had been mast-headed three times already, for hours in the rain. His face had, though wan, been open, ardent, so terribly hopeful. So hopeful that Archie had felt his own heart tumble in his chest whenever he saw it. Archie could not stop watching him, could not stop listening and noticing everything.
Horatio’s face was all wrong, and Archie could not stop looking at it.
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