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Nature and Degree

artwork by black hound

Author: Skud
Fandom: Hornblower
Pairing: Edrington/Bush, Edrington/Archie/Horatio
Rating: Explicit sexuality
Categories: Serious fiction
Date published: 2004-07-04 (also on LiveJournal)
Archive URL: http://scriptorium.infotrope.net/fiction/naturedegree.mhtml
Length: words (0 kb)

This work is part of the All the King's Men series:
ATKM Reading Guide; Consent; Major MacPherson's Ass; All the King's Men; Pellew to Edrington, May 1799; Edrington to Pellew, May 1799; Hornblower to Edrington, May 1799; A Lying Sort of Summer; Thus Friends Absent Speak; Edrington to Kennedy, June 1800; Nature and Degree; A letter from Flanders, January 1802; A letter from Kingston, January 1802; Another Sunrise; For the Sake of a Wavering Light

Feedback welcome by email to Skud at fanfic@infotrope.net or via LiveJournal comments

Disclaimer: The characters in this work belong to C. S. Forester and A&E and are used without permission. Please also read this site's standard disclaimer.

Plymouth, November 1801

Bush had slipped out quietly before they noticed him; now, standing in a dark, sheltered doorway, he watched them closely as they emerged together: three figures, two in the familiar uniforms of naval lieutenants and one in a regimental coat that looked like oxblood in the darkening twilight. The two lieutenants shook hands with their friend, laughing and smiling with casual intimacy, and walked off side by side, their shoulders touching; the major turned on his heel and set off in the other direction, straight-backed and confident as if he had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear.

Bush set his jaw grimly and followed, glancing up and down the street as he went. A few men walked past with their collars turned up against the drizzle and he could hear a laughing, carefree shore-going party staggering up a nearby street. Ahead of him, the major's form was silhouetted against the fading light. Bush increased his pace, looking over his shoulder as he approached his quarry at the entrance to a narrow lane. Everybody was indoors out of the damp; there were no witnesses.

The major was too engrossed in his thoughts -- Bush could guess what they were: the pink tip of Kennedy's tongue teasing him across the table, the smooth skin and firm flesh under those lieutenants' uniforms -- to have any care for his surroundings until Bush was nearly upon him. He turned quickly enough then and made to reach for his sword, but Bush had his wrist and was dragging him into the alley before he could draw it. As the major opened his mouth to protest Bush had him hard against the wet brick of the wall, wrists pinned at his sides.

"I want a word with you," Bush snarled.

"Really?" The lazy, careless drawl was infuriating but his eyes, flickering quickly around the alley and across Bush's face and uniform were satisfyingly puzzled.

Bush shoved him harder against the rough brick, holding him with the full weight of his body, tightening his grip on his wrists and breathing hard through clenched teeth. They glared at each other a moment, then suddenly the major dropped his resistance, settling against the wall so that Bush found himself pressed against a relaxed, pliant body. He flinched, and stiffened.

A faint smirk crossed the major's features. "Do you make a habit of accosting officers in alleyways, Lieutenant -- Bush, isn't it?"

"Shut your damned mouth." Bush tightened his grip, digging in his fingernails and deliberately ignoring the fact that this soldier, this flaunting, trouble-making bastard, knew his name. "And listen."

The major's studied expression of bland, polite interest -- like an insolent midshipman -- made Bush want to grind his face into the gutter. He barely managed to spit out the words he had rehearsed a dozen times while waiting outside the tavern: "My shipmates -- your naval friends -- don't need your kind of trouble."

"My kind of trouble?" There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, as if to say, I'm not the one who pulls men into dark alleys.

Bush flushed and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Don't play the fool, Major. You know what I mean."

"Why don't you tell me?"

He shifted and regarded him warily. Because it's unspeakable. Because it's dangerous. Because you'll get us all hanged, damn you. He could have flattened the major's nose across his smug, arrogant face for that; he settled for shoving a menacing hip hard between his legs. He saw speculation turn to calculation as the silence stretched out.

The major lifted his hips from the wall and brushed his crotch against Bush's thigh. "Or perhaps you were planning to show me."

"Whoreson fucking bastard."

* * *

Edrington grunted as he was slammed hard into the wall. Damn me, he fights dirty. But then... He squirmed experimentally, watching Bush's response. The belligerent grimace wavered, and a look of panic began to flicker in his eyes.

Edrington tensed, prepared for a blow to his face, ready to twist aside the minute his wrists were freed. It never came: Edrington continued to move his hips, and suddenly Bush's eyes snapped shut, as if in response to sudden pain and he moved, suddenly, shifting his own hips, pushing his groin forward. His prick was hard against Edrington's thigh.

Well, now. That seems less ambiguous. Edrington tried again to free his hands, but Bush still held them fast against the wall, fingernails digging into his flesh. Bush's eyes were clenched shut, and he moved against Edrington in tense, spasmodic jerks.

"Lieutenant --" he ventured, but Bush interrupted with a strangled groan and fell hard against him, burying his head against Edrington's shoulder and grinding helplessly against Edrington's leg. His cocked hat fell into the gutter, unregarded, and Edrington was left with nothing but the sight of his bare, dark head and black-ribboned queue and the bruising pressure of Bush's hip digging into him, hard enough to make him bite his lip, but -- Christ -- scarcely brushing against his prick.

Edrington found himself rising to meet each thrust, strategy falling away in sudden urgency; he twisted, groaning, and Bush shifted in response; now they were prick to prick, pushing into one another, straining through the barrier of their breeches.

Bush's hair was coarse against his throat, and he smelt of seawater and tar and wet wool -- Archie and Horatio always came to him clean-scrubbed and in their best coats, not fresh from duty, covered with the scent of work and war and man -- Edrington let his head fall back into the wall, gasping deep lungfuls of air, and fought his hips clear of the wall to press closer, only to find himself ruthlessly shoved back again, half-crushed between the hard brick and Bush's relentless assault.

Too quickly, the rasping breaths against his shoulder quickened, turned to muffled grunts as Bush bucked and shuddered helplessly. His fingernails tore at Edrington's wrists as he spent, and Edrington ground his hips harder against the pain of it, desperately seeking his own release. He found himself instead thrusting against empty air as Bush rolled aside, loosing his death-grip on Edrington's wrists. Edrington gave a stifled moan and scrabbled at the rough surface of the wall, half-afraid he might fall without Bush's weight pinning him to it.

Bush slid down the wall to land hard on the cobbles, burying his face in his hands. He noticed almost absently that his breath was too rapid, loud even in a Plymouth night.

Long moments passed before he brought his hands down, slowly; the wall opposite him was stone, sheened with the rain's wetness and dully reflecting the fading light. He watched a trickle of water drip down into a crack in the mortar, and carefully thought of nothing until his breathing slowed.

He shut his eyes against a flash of scarlet; forced them open and looked up to see the Major, bending to pick up Bush's black bicorne from the gutter. He offered it with a quizzical raised eyebrow. Bush took the hat and placed it on his head, concentrating until he had the angle precisely correct, then returned to his careful study of the damaged mortar.

Edrington watched in silence a moment, then shrugged and let him be, turning away to brush impatiently at the grit and grime that had attached itself to the back and tails of his coat. Had circumstances been otherwise, he might have rubbed at the front of his breeches and deal with the pressing matter within them. This is hardly the most appropriate moment, he admitted ruefully.

Bush neither moved nor spoke; only his eyes gave any assurance that he was conscious. Edrington finished straightening his attire and waited, massaging his bruised wrists in silent contemplation.

At last Bush broke the silence. In a dull, blank voice, without shifting his gaze from the wall, he said, "I only wanted to talk to you."

Edrington shot him a skeptical look. "People speak to me all the time. They rarely seem to feel the need to throw me against a wall to do so." Bush seemed barely to register the sally, any more than he noticed the rain trickling down his collar. I can't just leave him out here to take a fever, I suppose, Edrington thought. "You look like you need a drink." I know I do. And some answers. "Come on." He reached out his hand.

Bush looked up bleakly. "I don't even know your name."

"Edrington. 95th Foot." His hand was still extended.

Bush grasped it and pulled himself upright. He stood, bewildered, for a moment before he remembered himself. "Bush. Second of the Renown."

Edrington nodded. He looked around the alleyway, politely averting his gaze to give Bush a chance to compose himself and brush off his coat as he said, "My lodgings are at the top of the street."

They left the alley and turned up the hill, walking side by side in silence; Bush was painfully aware of the absurdity of the situation, and kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead of him. The rain had started in earnest, and ran in rivulets between the cobblestones and from the brims of their hats. He shivered.

Edrington's lodgings were in a small hotel, solidly prosperous and comfortable-looking. The hall and the rooms on either side were thronged with uniformed officers, but Edrington hurried straight through, shepherding Bush to the stairs and up to his rooms; he had no wish to cause comment on the state of their attire.

Edrington shut the door to his apartment and divested himself of his hat, sword, and coat, hanging them on pegs. He looked at Bush, frowned, and said, "Your hat and coat, Lieutenant."

"Oh." Bush took off his hat, then unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, then stood holding it, apparently at a loss.

Edrington looked at him and for the first time noticed his hunched shoulders and pinched features. A trickle of water ran out of his hair and down his jaw. Edrington gently took the coat from him and hung it beside his own, then turned back, considering. And now to get him out of his breeches, he thought wryly. They were sodden, and must be even less comfortable than his own -- not to mention unpleasantly sticky, poor bastard.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes." Without waiting for a response, he led Bush into the next room, found a clean set of linens for him, and, having appraised his height and considered the state of his uniform, added a dressing gown to the pile on the bed. "There are towels on the washstand," he said. "No hot water, but I'll build up the fire." He left Bush with a final, slightly worried glance, and drew the door shut behind him.

Bush collapsed on the edge of the bed and shivered for what seemed a long time. He was ice-cold, and suddenly terribly tired, and it was only now beginning to dawn on him just how outrageously he had behaved, how very close to disgrace and ruin he had brought himself. It was one thing to confront an officer and give him a warning; quite another to lose himself so far as to... He shook his head violently as if he could dislodge the memory. It did not bear thinking about.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his discarded wet clothes and pushed open the door. He found Edrington talking to a servant.

Edrington heard the door open and turned to meet him. Without a word he took the bundle of clothes from him and handed them to the maid, who already held Bush's coat and hat.

"Don't you mind now; they'll be done in no time," she said, addressing herself to Bush. "I'll put them before the fire myself, so I will, and turn them regular." Turning to Edrington, she said, "Would you be needing anything else, my Lord?"

"Something to eat; whatever is hot and ready. And a bottle of the best claret you have."

"Aye, my Lord, I'll bring you up a nice hot plate of cutlets in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Or I could make you up a jug of mulled ale, warm you up proper it would..."

"That will be all," said Edrington pointedly. She left, bobbing a curtsey with her arms full of Bush's wet clothing and looking at him curiously even as she pulled the door shut behind her.

Bush was looking stunned and self-conscious, more so than he had been a minute ago. "Ah," said Edrington, as realisation dawned. "Yes. It hardly seemed the time to mention it, but I am in fact the Earl of Edrington." Before Bush could voice his embarrassment, Edrington passed him a glass of brandy, saying, "This will warm you up." Bush stood holding it dumbly, until Edrington chivvied him into a seat by the fire. "Sit down, man, for God's sake. I want to change into something dry."

Edrington left the bedroom door slightly ajar. If he moves I shall hear him he thought, not that he's very likely to bolt in my dressing gown. Edrington began to undress.

He pulled his shirt off over his head and considered what sort of man he had brought home. Like a stray dog... or a lost sheep. Archie had described their new second lieutenant as having "a belaying pin lodged firmly up his arse." Horatio, of course, had spoken only in circumspect generalities. Neither had seemed to think he was dangerous or irrational -- more than can be said for their captain, he thought with a frown -- nor had they shown any suspicion that Bush was a backgammon player. Surely Archie, at least, would have been alert to the signs that marked such a predilection... unless he had hidden it very well indeed.

In hindsight, it seemed incredible that Bush should have sought Edrington out and accosted him in such a way. He had said he'd wanted to talk, but even if that was his only purpose, what could induce a reasonable man to assault a senior officer? And then to... Well, do not flatter yourself it was your natural charm, Edrington chided under his breath. Good Lord, what a spectacle. He can't have meant to...

No, that was the thing. He hadn't meant to. Edrington had taken a chance and, probing for a reaction, had got more than he expected. His intuition had served him well this time, but it had been an unwarranted risk. Do that on the battlefield and you could end up dead.

But... he ran through it all again in his mind's eye, recalling each word spoken, each expression on Bush's face as he had thrown Edrington against the wall and threatened to -- but no, he had not threatened; he had merely snarled and pinned him bruisingly to the brickwork and glared furiously at him and left red crescent-shaped fingernail marks on his wrists that would last for days. And there had been something else. Something more than anger, something behind his eyes that had spoken of more than simple animosity.

Edrington stood in his drawers, examining his wrists and running a finger over the tender welts that were beginning to rise on the pale skin inside his wrists. Those will be interesting to explain, he thought. Archie and Horatio would be here tonight, and here he was sheltering their second lieutenant, who had thrown him against a wall and cursed him and rutted and spent against his leg in the alleyway.

Damn and confound him, he thought, pulling at the drawstring at the waist and reaching inside to take his prick in his hand. Damn his impudence. Damn and double-damn his blasted effrontery. He stroked himself quickly, his mind filling with the growl of Bush's voice and the hard wiry arms that had pinned him so thoroughly and the smell of smoke and tar and sex that rose from his dark hair and oh God, what would he taste like? and the sight of his lips curled back as he spent and damn him for hiding his face so he couldn't see it and damn him again for being such a bloody enigma and damn him a thousand times for not finishing the fucking job.

The bastard should have kept at it, shouldn't have collapsed as he did, should have kept pushing harder and longer and oh God, not let go of his rough, bruising grasp on his wrists, but knelt in the muck of the dank laneway and with expert teeth unbuttoned the placket of his breeches and taken him into his salt-tar-smoke-flavoured mouth and damn him for baring his teeth and damn him for the glint of victory in his eyes as Edrington bucked and thrust against the back of his throat, and FUCK him, the insolent bastard for his contemptuous expression even as he swallowed Edrington's seed.

Opening his eyes slowly, Edrington found himself leaning against the wall, panting. He stepped unsteadily out of his drawers and wiped himself off with them, then reached for a clean shirt. He cleared his throat, tentatively, wondering if he had been audible at all beyond the confines of the room.

By the time he had arrayed himself in the shirt, pale breeches and a plain waistcoat, he had regained his composure. He raked his fingertips through his hair, smoothing a few errant curls firmly in place, and opened the door.

Bush rose as Edrington entered the room. He squared his shoulders, and in a gruff, stilted voice said, "My Lord, I apologise unreservedly for the very great insult I gave you earlier. My behaviour was entirely inexcusable."

Edrington bowed in acknowledgement. "Not at all. No lasting harm done." He turned quickly to the side table, pouring a generous measure of brandy for himself then topping up Bush's glass with a sidelong glance at his face. Seeing nothing but troubled self-absorption in the lieutenant's features, Edrington sat gratefully down in the other chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. He raised his glass to his lips, sipped, and broke Bush's reverie, saying, "You wanted to talk to me."

There was a tap at the door, and the maidservant returned with a tray. She set her burden down on the table and set out the dishes, glasses, and bottle of wine, arranging them carefully and pausing to polish a fork with her apron. Turning then to the hearth, she said, "I'll just prod the fire up a little for you." Edrington flung her a look of impatience; she put down the poker and scurried out, saying, "Begging your pardon, my Lord."

Bush, who seemed hardly to have noticed the interruption, asked, "How long have you known Mr Hornblower and Mr Kennedy?"

"Just over a year and a half; they were serving aboard the Indefatigable."

Bush fell silent again. Edrington suddenly realised how ravenous he was and lifted the cover of a plate. The cutlets were done to perfection, and made his mouth water; ignoring his silverware, he reached for one and sat back to eat it with his fingers until Bush resumed speaking.

"You are an officer, my Lord. I presume you understand the importance of discipline."

"Of course." He proffered the plate of cutlets, but Bush shook his head distractedly. "Take one," he said firmly. Bush still looked pinched and cold; hot food was exactly what he needed.

Hearing the tone of command in his voice, Bush shrugged and complied. He had to force himself to take the first bite, but once he had, his stomach quickly demanded more and he polished off the rest of the cutlet while preparing his next words.

"For there to be discipline in the crew, the officers must demonstrate discipline. Mr Hornblower and Mr Kennedy are... not the most disciplined officers I have served with. I am concerned for the possibility that a lapse on their part might lead to a more general disorder."

"I see. And what has this to do with me, Mr Bush?" asked Edrington, placing his cutlet bone on the side of his plate and wiping his fingers fastidiously on his napkin.

"Even the smallest indiscretion, even ashore, can --" Edrington regarded him steadily, as horrified realisation slowly dawned on Bush. He flushed, and clenched his hands in anger. "Damn it, this is an entirely different matter. Those two... they will get themselves hanged!"

"And you think I am leading them astray," Edrington said, allowing an acerbic note to creep into his tone.

Bush stared at him accusingly, but said nothing.

"From all I have ever seen, officers of His Majesty's Navy are quite able to lead themselves astray without my assistance. No, you will allow me to speak, sir," Edrington said as Bush opened his mouth to retort. "I am not a seducer of innocents, nor would I care to cause any harm to those I care for. Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower are my friends; I respect them greatly as officers and as men."

"Then you had better tell your friends to keep their heads down."

"Or what?"

Bush looked nonplussed at Edrington's sharp tone, then shook his head abruptly. "No..." he said, then tailed off, watching the flames in the hearth. After a few moments he spoke carefully, drawing the words out as if they pained him. "I don't suppose you follow naval affairs closely."

Edrington frowned in puzzlement and not a little irritation. "Somewhat."

"There was a court martial. A little less than a year ago."

Ah. Edrington read the Naval Gazette; the incident to which Bush referred had been notorious. He attended closely, however, as Bush described the proceedings in terse sentences: two officers of the Weymouth, his shipmates, hanged for buggery, another stripped of his rank and sent ashore in disgrace. Bush's distress at even relating the story was apparent, though from what he described he had not been implicated in any way; he had merely been serving aboard the Weymouth at the time, and had been close -- exactly how close? Edrington wondered -- to one of the officers in question.

"I saw them hang. Watched my friend -- Williamson, his name was, James Williamson -- with the noose around his neck..."

Edrington's mind sped along as Bush brought his narrative to a halting conclusion. What would such an experience do to a man, especially a man who had similar desires, however well hidden? Edrington had seen any number of men hang, but never, thank God, one of his own most intimate acquaintances. He hoped and prayed that if such a calamity ever overtook one of his friends, his own rank and influence could be brought to bear, at least to get him away to the continent; he tried not to think what might happen if he were on campaign at the time, or -- God forbid -- if the accusation were brought in some remote part of the world, too distant for assistance or even for timely warning.

Bush was staring into the fire as if he saw signs and portents in its wavering glare, none of them hopeful. He looked old in the harsh light, older by far than he had appeared when Edrington first saw him in the alley.

A powder keg, Edrington thought, Or a loose cannon. In his present state, Bush was liable to bring down disaster on Archie and Horatio, on himself, possibly on the entire ship. I would not care to be present when he cuts loose.

Bush was still staring blankly at the fire. Edrington frowned, ran his hands over his hair, and leaned forward in his chair.

"Lieutenant?"

No response. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks in their direction. They faded and landed harmlessly, but Bush's gaze had at least flickered as he followed their trajectory.

"Mr Bush." Edrington spoke more firmly.

His eyes focussed and he noticed Edrington again. "I -- I'm sorry," he said.

"What then?" asked Edrington. Bush shrugged hopelessly. "This was a year ago?"

"Eleven months."

"And since then? I am given to understand that you have only just come aboard the Renown."

Bush nodded curtly. "The Weymouth's company was disbanded. I've been ashore." Edrington waited, but Bush did not seem inclined to elaborate on what had, no doubt, been a difficult period for an officer with little influence and the Weymouth's blot upon his record.

He sighed theatrically. "I am not a surgeon, Mr Bush."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have no skill at pulling teeth. Do you think perhaps you could come to the point?" Bush looked at him blankly. "Hornblower. Kennedy."

"Oh. I wanted to warn you away from them." Bush tried to remember what about that had seemed so very wise and urgent outside the tavern. It seemed an age ago. He shrugged wearily. "I'm not sure why anymore. Apparently I'm as much a threat as you are."

"I trust that neither of us is a threat to them. Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower are perfectly able to look after themselves."

"I wasn't thinking of them," Bush said. Edrington's mouth tightened into a thin line. "I mean -- I'm not a threat to them. But I meant the ship, the whole... everyone. I have seen it before. A terrible thing... recriminations, mistrust, the wardroom blown to pieces, and the crew no better."

Edrington nodded. He recalled his short time aboard the Indefatigable and his other passages across the channel: the intolerable closeness of the wardroom, where men were crammed tight against each other with no hope of privacy or respite, and where every harsh word or misunderstanding was soon conveyed to the foremast hands. "Do you think it likely?" he asked.

"What?" Bush's thoughts had gone elsewhere, again.

"That this should happen aboard the Renown."

Bush grimaced. "All too likely, I should think." He thought of what he had seen in the wardroom, and even on the quarterdeck: Hornblower and Kennedy's attachment was unmistakable. Nothing undeniable, of course, but a thousand tiny tell-tales chafed at Bush's mind. They were just like Williamson: self-assured, flaunting, too sure of their own immortality. In the public house this afternoon, Bush had cringed to see the way they behaved: Kennedy had been particularly flagrant, licking his lips and throwing looks at both Hornblower and Edrington that Bush had nearly blushed at. He had turned away, the back of his neck prickling, and talked of gunnery with Lieutenant Buckland until he could bear it no more, then made his excuses and left.

"You do not think much of my friends' discretion, then?"

Bush shook his head. "I am no master of perception, but I noticed it almost from the minute I came aboard. Their -- unusual regard -- for each other is obvious."

Edrington barely suppressed a laugh. "Mr Bush, I believe you do yourself an injustice. Has it not occurred to you that your own concerns, I dare say your own particular interests, make you more observant than you realise in such matters?"

Bush was struggling to follow Edrington's line of thought, but even before his mind had carefully turned over the words, the first glimmerings of understanding were beginning to dawn. He kept his expression bland, trying not to show that Edrington's observation -- Your own particular interests... was it that apparent? Well, certainly I have given him every reason to think so -- had hit its mark, and said, "Other people must have noticed."

"I assure you, to any disinterested eye, Mr Hornblower and Mr Kennedy appear as any two officers who have been friends since they were midshipmen. I would wager that everyone else aboard the Renown has better things to worry about: their own affairs, their duty. You, on the other hand, appear to have worn yourself down with worry over that unfortunate court-martial, until it appears to you that your new messmates already have their feet on the steps of the gallows."

"Damn it," Bush snapped, "what else do you expect me to do?" His voice was harsh. "If I can stop it happening again... If I could have stopped it last time... Do you have any idea what that is like?"

"Some idea," replied Edrington drily, then relented. "I am sure you did as much as you could." Even as he said it, he realised how futile the words were, how useless they would have seemed to him after Muzillac, as words always were after failure or disaster. He was not surprised at Bush's rough response.

"It wasn't enough. It won't be enough this time either." Bush's voice was full of bitter hopelessness.

"Good God, Bush, do you think you're the only man who has had to stand by and watch a friend die? If this is the dauntless courage of Britain's navy, I am at a loss to understand how it manages to achieve such splendid victories."

Bush opened his mouth and closed it again. Even if he had found a suitably venomous retort to fling at Edrington, he could not use it against the man when he spoke in what he thought of as a quarterdeck voice. He settled for the only safe course, and replied, "No, Sir. But I should much prefer to prevent their deaths."

"Very well." Edrington shot him a look. "You have seen action, Mr Bush? Have you ever planned a defence?" Bush nodded. "Well," continued Edrington in a firm tone, "let us consider the Renown as a battlefield. Yes, I accept your word that that there may well be trouble brewing. Lay out the terrain, if you please, and tell me what makes you so certain."

Bush straightened in his chair and steepled his fingers. When he had gathered his thoughts, he spoke carefully, trying to describe the situation clearly, yet painfully aware that the words he spoke were not ones he would dare use aboard ship -- or almost anywhere else. "Captain Sawyer has seen a great many years of service, and it begins to wear on him. Some might say that his command is... erratic. It makes for an uncomfortable ship. The foremast hands are restless..."

"And Mr Hornblower and Mr Kennedy?"

"The captain mistrusts them; that much is apparent." Bush creased his brows in thought, summoning up as clear a picture of the junior lieutenants as he could manage. "They do not keep a guard on their tongues, and they champion unpopular causes. Their behaviour in the wardroom appears," he glanced up at Edrington in recognition of a point well made, "at least to me, to be dangerously intimate. The captain may not see that, but I am certain that he has his spies."

Edrington nodded slowly, considering and assessing. "An unpleasant situation, but not an uncommon one. I will talk to Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower and try to impress upon them the importance of discretion; but I assume they already have enough sense not to be engaging in any immediately incriminating activity." He remembered how small the cabins were, and how thin their walls of stretched canvas.

"No, they're not. I would have -- I mean, the cabins --" He stopped, flustered.

Edrington shot him an amused glance. "Well then, Mr Bush, I would suggest that for your part you do what any officer would do: do your duty, try to maintain discipline, and for God's sake don't go around looking as though the world is about to end."

"If you'll pardon my saying so, that doesn't seem enough."

"It's quite enough; any more would be folly. You will forgive me if I point out that your previous course of action was not the most brilliant plan ever devised."

Bush looked at his hands, then back up at Edrington. "You mean I acted like a fool. You're right; I wasn't thinking."

"Mr Bush," said Edrington, dropping to a crouch in front of Bush and grasping his forearm for emphasis, "I have already said that there was no harm done. To be perfectly honest, I can think of many worse ways to spend my time. A smirk crossed his features. "However, perhaps next time it would be better if you were to ask first."

"Next time, my Lord?" Bush tried to interpret Edrington's smile. If he is trying to make some kind of joke... Bush kept his expression neutral while he tried to navigate the unseen currents and shoals of the conversation, but before he could even begin to find his way, Edrington leaned forward and kissed him warmly and firmly on the mouth.

Edrington pulled back a minute distance, looked Bush in the eye, and with a raised eyebrow said, "Any time." He saw the look of bewilderment on Bush's face, and gave an exasperated sigh. "Listen, Mr Bush. If I were to take it amiss every time a sailor lured me into an alley for indecent purposes, I would never get anything done."

Bush opened his mouth, shut it again, and gave a wry grin. "Aye aye, sir."

"Oh, for God's sake." He leaned in and grasped Bush by the shoulders, bringing their foreheads together. "Edrington. Understood?"

Bush was obscurely reminded of his confusion as a midshipman at being summoned to the captain's cabin for a fatherly chat instead of a beating. How had they come to this state of informality, even intimacy?

Edrington tilted his head and kissed Bush again, this time more deeply. Bush's hand clenched convulsively on Edrington's shoulder, neither pushing him away nor drawing him closer. Crouching in front of the chair, Edrington almost lost his balance. He broke the embrace, shifted to his knees, and from this slightly lowered position regarded Bush carefully.

Bush returned his gaze, and they both looked at each other steadily, assessing, for several long moments. Edrington spoke first.

"I have told you that I do not seduce innocents. I am certain you are no such thing. However, if you do not wish this, you have only to give the word."

Bush said nothing.

Edrington gave a slow smile. Or... not. He reached out and slid his hands inside the borrowed dressing gown Bush wore, pushing it down off his shoulders then running his hands back up Bush's sides, across his chest. Bush drew in his breath sharply, closing his eyes, but his face still bore lines of tension and unease. Edrington wavered. Or... you don't know what you want. He sighed, and withdrew his hands.

Bush grabbed his wrists with lightning speed, as surely as he had done in the alley. "No. Don't..." he frowned. "I need to... I need..." He tailed off, then shook his head abruptly, as if clearing it of a fog. Decisively, he leaned forward, pushed the chair away behind him, and joined Edrington on his knees on the floor.

Edrington was pleasantly surprised when Bush grasped him by the hips pulled their bodies together, and kissed him with firm, deliberate skill and not a small amount of tongue. Edrington had not known what he expected, but this sudden burst of assurance, after Bush's earlier discomposure, was entirely welcome. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, he reminded himself. Anyway, he knows what he's doing. He's a grown man, not a boy. Every sensation informed him of the fact, from the hard muscular back under his hands to the musky scent rising from Bush's body to the low growl of his voice as he spoke.

"I owe you a debt, M-- Edrington" Bush's words rumbled in his ear like the purr of a big cat. "Or at least a --" he brought one hand between their bodies and grasped Edrington's prick through his breeches, making him tense and inhale sharply, "-- favour."

"Not at all," replied Edrington in a constricted tone, glad that any sign of embarrassment must be hidden by the warmth that already flushed his skin. Bush could not know that he had already repaid the favour himself, but Edrington would not allow him to repay a debt that did not exist. He slid his own hand around to press against Bush's prick in turn, feeling its heat through the single layer of his drawers. "No debts."

Their mouths met again and their bodies pressed close, hands caught between them, each grasping and rubbing at the other. With his other hand Edrington explored Bush's back, running down the crease of his spine and across the tight ridges of muscle to either side, up to drag his nails across his shoulders and down to slide his fingers inside the waistband of his drawers and press his palm hard against the small of his back and pull him closer, hard against his own hips.

Too many clothes. He pushed Bush's shirt upwards, bunching it in his hand; Bush broke away for a moment to duck his head through and wriggle out of it like a snake shedding its skin. A snake, yes: all lithe muscle moving under the skin. But not cold-blooded, anything but that; Bush's skin was as hot as his own. Then Bush's hands were at his waistcoat, unbuttoning it urgently while his mouth attacked the V of skin where his shirt fell open.

Edrington tilted his head, his mouth half-open and his eyes half shut, watching the top of Bush's head as he worked hot kisses from his chin to his chest. His waistcoat came off, then his shirt was being tugged out of his breeches, catching and dragging at his prick, which stood out yet harder against the cloth that was all that now separated it from the air and from Bush's body.

By mutual accord they pulled the shirt over Edrington's head and tried to cast it away. It would not go.

"Damn," said Edrington, flapping his hands in frustration. The shirt was caught, its cuffs still fastened, and he was tangled in it.

Bush chuckled and shook his head in amusement. "Here, let me." He caught Edrington's waving hand and brought it in front of him to work at the cuff. He slid his fingers inside and unbuttoned it, awkwardly, from the inside out, while Edrington tried to work at the other one, hampered by the cloth that covered his hands.

His left hand was free, and Bush pulled the sleeve away.

"Oh."

His sudden stillness and his tone made Edrington look up from the other cuff, and follow Bush's gaze to his wrist. His wrist, where purple shadows were tipped with the dark crescent-shaped marks of Bush's fingernails.

Edrington was breathing hard. Bush held his hand so he could not withdraw it, and ran his fingers over the marks. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Christ, don't apologise. Bush's fingertips were rough against the bruised skin. He shivered, and Bush looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes, and ran his finger again over the inside of his wrist. Edrington bit his lip.

Bush was fascinated. He lifted Edrington's hand to his mouth and, as lightly as he could manage, brushed his lips against his wrist, watching closely for a response. He followed the kiss with a quick flicker of his tongue and an experimental nip that ended with his lips once again pressed to the inside of Edrington's wrist.

Edrington shook, and Bush thought that at any moment his legs would cease to support him where he knelt. His other hand was still tangled in the shirt. Bush settled onto the floor, releasing Edrington's wrist -- he gave a faint whimper -- to hold him as he drew him down beside him, first to sit and then to lie sprawled across the rug. Wordlessly, he discarded the shirt, then turned his attention to Edrington's breeches and stockings, while Edrington lay like a rag doll, his eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

Edrington could still feel the hot imprint of Bush's mouth on his wrist. For a moment Bush shifted away, and he was alone with the tumult inside his head and the red glow behind his eyelids; then Bush's hard body was against his side, one leg hooked over his own, and a warm hand on his chest as he kissed him. Edrington opened his mouth, letting Bush's tongue fall in without the slightest resistance. One languid hand returned from its distant resting place to trace the curve of Bush's back.

Bush's tongue withdrew, and his rough cheek scraped across Edrington's -- almost drawing out another shiver -- as he placed a kiss on his jaw. He paused then, and Edrington stirred expectantly.

Bush said something in a low rumble. Too low to follow; Edrington stirred. "Wha'?"

"Are you all right?"

Edrington opened his eyes and turned his head, astonished. "I'm... I'm quite well, thank you."

Bush's concerned expression wavered. "I thought... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Edrington said, "Bush, for God's sake, stop it. If you apologise one more time, I shall be forced to take drastic measures."

The worry cleared from Bush's face, and he smiled. Edrington rolled towards him and grasped the back of his head, bringing their faces together. Their legs became even more entangled; a shift of Edrington's hips and their pricks were pressed against each other. He spoke with his mouth a mere fraction of an inch from Bush's. "I'm fine. I'm more than fine." He ground his hips lasciviously. "By which, if you require a translation, I mean perishing for a fuck."

Bush's response was immediate and fervent. He wrapped his arm around Edrington's back and held him hard thrusting until the friction of their bodies and their members had him growling into Edrington's mouth as they kissed. Edrington twisted his fingers into the curls at Bush's nape and pulled his head back, biting at his throat as he rolled them both over, until he was lying on top of Bush's compact form. "I trust this meets with your approval?" Edrington asked, between nips.

"More than willing to oblige." Bush's voice rasped; Edrington's hand had drifted down to curl around his hip, and Bush shifted in response, lifting himself off the floor so that Edrington's hand slipped underneath him and cupped his arse.

Edrington's fingertips traced curves across his skin, outlining the curve of his hip and wrapping around to lightly stroke the inside of his thigh, until Bush raised one knee, inviting further maddening caresses.

Edrington smiled. They were still pressed groin to groin, and while his hand teased Bush on one side, the pressure and rubbing of their pricks on the other was rapidly reducing Bush to a state of incoherence; no more diffidence now. As Bush abandoned himself to the fingertips that were even now circling teasingly around his arse, he murmured, "I'm not... we need..."

"I know," said Edrington, pausing. "Don't move. I'll just be a moment." Bush almost whimpered, he noted smugly, as he withdrew his hand, stood, and padded to the other room.

When he returned, he found Bush lying on the rug with his knees spread, stroking himself slowly. He stopped to watch for a moment, appreciating the sight with his hand on his own prick, until Bush lifted his head, and with half-closed eyes and a tilt of his chin invited Edrington to join him again on the floor.

He uncapped the bottle and put it down carefully, then knelt between Bush's legs, running a hand down the back of each of his thighs. His mouth followed, licking and nipping while he kept his face turned towards Bush's, watching his response with a little smirk of his own. Bush threw his head back, denying Edrington any sight of his face, but the small noises he made were satisfaction enough.

Without lifting his mouth from Bush's thigh, Edrington reached for the bottle. At the same time, Bush reached out his own hand, thinking to be helpful. Their hands collided and knocked the bottle over; oil poured through its narrow mouth onto the rug.

"Damn!" Edrington straightened the bottle and was about to continue, but Bush had sat up sharply and was patting ineffectually at the oily stain on the carpet.

"Damn, I'm sorry," he said.

Edrington lunged at Bush, the words "drastic measures" on his lips; suddenly he was flat on his face, sputtering indignantly. That's not what was meant to happen, damn him! Bush had twisted aside, drawing Edrington's hands with him so he fell in an ungainly heap. Knees, shoulders, elbows -- it was like wrestling with an armful of steel springs. And now he was face down on the carpet, its dusty smell harsh in his nose, and Bush straddled him triumphantly. No gentlemen's boxing saloon had taught him those tricks, Edrington thought; well, he had a few of his own, and clearly need not scruple to use them.

Bush's victorious laugh was cut short by a gasp as Edrington squirmed wantonly beneath him. His intent was unmistakable. Even as his grip tightened convulsively, Bush snorted. "Oh, very subtle."

The teasing derision in his tone was no discouragement at all to Edrington, who only increased his efforts, pressing back against him and wriggling, moving himself in small circles against Bush's thighs. "I am not known for subtlety," he said.

"I can see why," Bush said in a strangled tone, and threw himself forward, lost to the insistent invitation, tightening his grip on Edrington's prone form and stroking his prick along the cleft of his arse.

Edrington pushed back against him, feeling the heat of Bush's prick tantalizingly close to where he wanted it. They rocked together, Edrington bucking his hips in increasing frustration, until he said, through gritted teeth, "I am not known for my patience, either."

He whimpered as Bush drew away; threw a frantic glance over his shoulder, only to be met with a small, cool smile which worried him greatly. "If you don't stop playing about and fuck me --" he began, and lapsed into incoherence as Bush's now-oily fingers probed at him.

"More ... drastic measures?" Bush growled, withdrawing his hand and moving -- finally -- between Edrington's legs.

"You -- ah, God!" Edrington twisted up and against him briefly, then found his face mashed firmly into Bush's arm as Bush began to push into him -- taking his time about it even now -- then thrust with steady, careful strokes, exhibiting a degree of discipline that made Edrington redouble his struggles and moan in plaintive, wordless protest. The Bush in the alleyway -- You bastard, where are you when I need you? -- had not shown one tenth this much control. All his furious writhing had no effect; he was pinned as completely, and as maddeningly, as he had been against the wall, and Bush's hold on him was having near as poisonous an effect as his prick; the two together were, he swore, shredding his mind. Bush's hard hands effectively stopped him from turning, but they skidded on his sweaty flesh and came down over his abused wrists again and all thought vanished as he twisted his head frantically, finding the fleshy part of Bush's forearm, and sank his teeth deep into the muscle. Bush snarled, bucked, and finally slammed himself home with animal viciousness, as if to break Edrington's hold. Edrington clenched his teeth as Bush sank into him again. This was what he needed; he would not let go, even when he tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

He vaguely felt Bush shift his weight; suddenly a hand wrapped around his queue and his head was hauled back, wrenching his teeth from Bush's arm as it snaked under him to pull him up until his back was curved and straining. He spat curses, still struggling ineffectually, until the new, sharper angle of Bush's prick inside him made everything else unimportant and his curses turned to gasping cries.

Too soon, altogether too soon, he felt Bush's grip begin to falter; as his thrusts grew quick and ragged, Edrington brought his hand frantically towards his prick, but -- Dear Christ, not again -- Bush was already falling forward, crushing him into the rug with his hand splayed useless at his side as Bush spilled into him, growling his satisfaction around sharp teeth sinking into his shoulder, and collapsed heavily atop him.

Edrington could only whimper in anguish, disbelieving. Wait -- no -- not fair -- not again --; then even his inner voice fell to gibbering incoherence as Bush withdrew, moving away behind him, seemingly oblivious to his desperation. Edrington felt the cold, vacant air on his back and his arse, evaporating the sheen of sweat that covered him, and shuddered and shook in dismay, until Bush's strong hands grasped him at hip and shoulder and rolled him over, finding his wrists and pinning them to the floor -- God, he knows me too bloody well already -- while his mouth wrapped around his prick, hot and wet and demanding, and he closed his eyes and moaned and oh God the harsh feel of his stubbled chin and his fingernails gouging new crescents in his wrists and God damn him, the scrape of his teeth, and Edrington thrust uncontrollably and whimpered shamelessly; he could not even see the victory in Bush's eyes but he knew it was there, knew and did not care that he was grinning in triumph as Edrington spent in his mouth and as he sucked and swallowed at every last drop and released him, prick and wrists and all, to haul himself up beside Edrington, roll him onto his side, and curl against him.

They lay together in a tangled contented heap, Bush's face buried in the curve of Edrington's neck and an arm flung over his body. Edrington closed his eyes and drifted in a warm haze, basking in front of the glowing fire. At length he realised that Bush's breath was slow and steady, and that his own foot was in the puddle of spilt oil. He shifted it and stretched, then lifted Bush's arm from where it lay and examined the twin curves of bruised, blood-specked toothmarks. A fingertip across them, and Bush stirred.

Edrington smiled, then sighed. "I will fall asleep here if we don't rise." In answer, Bush tightened his grasp possessively, chewing gently on his shoulder. Edrington lay for a moment, pressing back against him, before continuing, "I have other guests arriving tonight."

Bush let go of him and sat up quickly, casting about for his discarded shirt. "I'm sor-- I mean, I didn't know."

Edrington laughed. "I don't imagine they'd mind much, though they might be a little surprised. I am expecting Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower."

"Oh. I see." Bush blushed slightly. "I should certainly go."

Reaching for his own shirt, Edrington twisted around to look at Bush. "They will not be here for a little while yet."

Bush shook out the dressing gown, his face turned away from Edrington. "What are you going to tell them?"

"Nothing, if you don't wish me to." He saw Bush shoot a quick look at his assortment of marks and grinned, though his tone was gentle. "I shall take advantage of my reputation for wickedness and let them wonder."

Relief flooded Bush's mind. He couldn't imagine facing Hornblower and Kennedy every day at sea, knowing that they knew that he had... But so have they. He shook his head, as if to force his tangled thoughts to settle. This was more complicated than he was accustomed to dealing with; it would take some time to understand.

In the comfortable silence, he pulled his chair back in front of the fire and sat in it. Edrington pulled on breeches and joined him, sprawling easily.

"Cutlet?" Bush asked, taking one and passing the plate. "They're cold."

"I could eat a horse," replied Edrington, biting into one then holding it away and peering at it. "Well, a sheep, anyway. We didn't even touch the wine." He poured two glasses, and handed one to Bush with a smile.

* * *

Bush's clothes were still warm from the fire, only the slightest traces of damp remaining. He dressed with care in front of the mirror, while Edrington watched.

He was tying his black neckcloth when Edrington spoke. "I think you would be well advised to trust them."

Bush tucked the ends into his waistcoat and tugged at the edges of his shirt-collar to even them. "I shall think about what you say. About a great many things." Edrington's face appeared in the mirror, looking over his shoulder. He was holding Bush's coat for him; Bush slid his arms into the sleeves, shrugging it into place as Edrington smoothed the cloth into place. He tweaked Bush's queue out from inside the collar, then rested his hands on Bush's shoulders. When he spoke, though his mouth was mere inches from Bush's ear and Bush could feel his breath on his neck, his eyes were fixed on the reflection in the mirror.

"They are good men, and good officers. They may appear rather heedless at times, but their judgement is usually sound." He paused, considering his words. "I have seen Lieutenant Hornblower display extraordinary tactical ability, and Archie -- Mr Kennedy -- is as good a judge of character as I have ever known." A faint smile flickered across his face. "Not to mention his uncanny knack for survival, no matter how difficult the situation. You could do far worse than to give them your support, and accept theirs."

"They have a very great friend in you."

Edrington's expression softened. "I hope so," he said.

Bush turned to leave, picking up his hat and placing it on his head. "I will remember," he said. He faced Edrington in the doorway, and extended his hand. "Thank you."

Edrington clasped it with an ironical smile. "You are most welcome, Lieutenant."

Bush caught his tone, and laughed. "I'm sorry. I..." He lifted his hands in an expressive gesture. "I should get back to the ship."

"Look after yourself." Edrington leaned on the doorpost and watched as Bush walked down the hall and disappeared past the turn in the stairs.