*Compulsion*
William Bush stands hesitating in the wardroom of Renown. He knows of many reasons why he should just retire to his own cabin, attempt to get the rest he sorely needs, but against all those good sane arguments there is a single clamour that will not be silenced. If he doesn’t act now then he likely never will, and the burning that is in him will not rest.
It never used to be this way. Bush has grown so accustomed to being in control of his desires. Not since he was a young midshipman has he risked inappropriate relations aboard ship. He has not even been seriously tempted, has always looked down on men who could not restrain their urges. And then he had boarded Renown and all that had shattered in seconds, as blue eyes raked him coolly and anger seethed within.
At first he’d seen only a stolid young lieutenant, boarding the ship in the captain’s wake. Still ruffled from the accident on boarding, he hadn’t looked twice, until that damned impertinent question had been drawled out and then he had looked and … not stolid. Not stolid at all.
“Kennedy, sir. Fourth Lieutenant.” Looking down that tilted nose as though the junior rank made him better than Nelson. Aristocracy in every inflection. And Bush had been hit by a wave of such heat. He’d been angered at the insolence, yes, but he’d wanted in the same breath. And he’d never known anything like that before. Never known it was possible to want so, from one look.
Every time. Every damned time that cool stare raked him, every time Kennedy drawled out some new insolence, and always looking, looking as though Bush’s superior rank and experience meant nothing, as if Bush was nothing. Always the slight smile, and the mockery in that light drawl of his, those damned clipped tones that could drive Bush close to insanity with the most innocuous of words.
In fairness Bush acquitted Kennedy of deliberately trying to arouse him. Annoy him, very probably, but not arouse. But really the man couldn’t have done a better job if he’d lain awake planning it. The months on Renown passed for Bush in simmering frustration, a frustration compounded of equal parts anger and lust, and many guilty minutes were passed in trying to decide whether he’d rather knock Kennedy down or rip his clothes off. Or knock him down, then rip his clothes off. Or rip his clothes off, then knock him down.
Actually Kennedy would probably get the better of any physical tussle, he was broader built and had youth on his side. And somehow that thought didn’t dampen Bush’s fantasies in the least.
It had taken a long time for him to see anything in the younger officer but infuriating arrogance, but at last (and maybe it would have happened quicker if his mind had not been so befogged), at last he had begun to think the man was right in his criticisms of Sawyer, and that perhaps there had been something other than reckless insolence behind the constant outspokenness that had got under his skin so, perhaps in his own way Kennedy had been caring for the ship and its men after all. Perhaps he was not the mere brat that Bush had thought him.
He had never had any thought of acting on his lust – that would be stupendous folly. Never thought of it until the day that Hornblower took the shower on deck, and all the men had been watching but Bush had looked at Kennedy, and seen beneath the cheerful smile…
…seen the look of hopeless longing and thought so that is how things are.
They did say it took one to know one. And Bush had felt both sympathy and a sudden hope.
So much had happened after that. Sawyer’s escalating madness, the ship aground, the attack on the fort, Buckland’s growing jealousy to which Hornblower seemed so dangerously blind. And throughout it all, Kennedy. Cool and courageous, still impertinent in the face of the enemy, but the sarcasm softening at times into a light teasing, usually of the upright Hornblower but occasionally of Bush.
Not a brat. Insolent and arrogant and too reckless for his own good, yes. But strong and brave and clear-sighted. And loyal. And Bush wondered what it would be to have just a little of that loyalty for himself…
And then Buckland had sent Hornblower back to the fort to blow the charges. And Bush had seen Kennedy wave off the boat he’d been loading and thought in that moment: He’s going back. Of course he is. Oh, damn.
Because he’d also known in that moment that he couldn’t let Kennedy go back alone, although he hadn’t really thought about what that meant until after they’d dragged him off that bloody cliff, and he’d been in the water coughing and gasping and still seeing how Kennedy had looked on the cliff as he laughed for the excitement of one of the most utterly lunatic plans Bush had ever encountered (never mind that it had worked). And in that moment Bush had known he was in love. Hell and damnation.
Unfettered lust had been bad enough but this was worse. He was in love with a quick-tongued, irreverent aristocrat who only had eyes for another. Of all the ways he might make a fool of himself Bush had never expected this.
But now here he is in the wardroom, hesitating. He’ll never get a better chance, maybe never get another chance at all. Buckland is dead drunk, the sailing master is on watch, and Hornblower aboard the Gaditana. As safe as it can ever be.
And there is the chance of court-martial in Kingston, and Bush is afraid, more afraid than he has ever been. He wants to forget what may lie ahead, just for one hour he wants to forget it, and is it foolish to hope that Kennedy, fearless as he seems, might welcome that as well? His heart may be given, but that doesn’t mean he would reject a little pleasure. Bush is confident that nothing of that nature has actually passed between him and Hornblower.
And if he fails Kennedy is unlikely to do more than kick him out, so there is really little to loose.
He moves to the cabin door and knocks.
Kennedy opens the door clad only in his shirt and breeches. Bush himself has already stripped off his heavier clothing, it is easier in the heat, but although he has seen Kennedy lightly clothed many times, seen him just hours before with the wet clothing clinging to his body, for a moment words will not come.
“What is it, Mr Bush?” A tense question, but not the overt challenge it would have been a few weeks back.
“May I speak to you for a few moments?” Bush says lamely. Kennedy shrugs and steps back, allowing him into the tiny cabin. A single candle is burning, its frail light causing odd shadows.
“Well?” Not unfriendly, but not inviting either. Bush carefully pulls the door to.
“We cannot tell how the authorities in Kingston will take what we have done,” he says carefully.
Kennedy tilts his head back, that same defiant gesture that never fails to stir Bush’s blood. “It’s a little late for regrets.”
“I was not speaking of regrets,” Bush protests. “I was speaking of- of the time that we have now.” This is difficult. Bush has never attempted a seduction before.
“Watching our backs would seem the best idea,” Kennedy says nonchalantly. Can he really be as heedless of the future as he sounds? Surely not. Bush is certain by now the man is not a fool.
“I was thinking of opportunities,” Bush says.
“What opportunities?” Bush pulls his nerve together, he will not retreat now, with some stammered excuse. He has come this far, and he will go through with it.
“The kind that are often pursued by men at sea,” he says, “no matter what the articles forbid.”
It is very still in the cabin, he is sure there is a tension in Kennedy that was not there before. Bush rushes on.
“I know that you are the same manner of man as I am. I have seen it. These things can be seen, when you know how to look. I know how your tastes run.”
“Do you think to threaten me?” Kennedy’s voice is soft. Bush swallows. He is not handling this well at all.
“No! How would I threaten you? With what?” I merely thought that you and I….” His voice trails off before the look on Kennedy’s face.
“What was it you thought, Mr Bush?” Bush feels danger in the very quietness of the tone. “To make demands on your subordinates?”
Bush is foundering now, unwisely he attempts a jest. “Call it a request from a superior officer, if you choose.”
Kennedy’s fist connects with Bush’s jaw before he is even aware the other man has moved. He stumbles backwards, and strikes the flimsy wall.
“You seek to abuse your position?” Kennedy’s voice is cold as steel, and there is a look about him that, for all his long observance of the man, Bush has not seen before. For the first time it seems likely to him that it was Kennedy whose hand propelled Sawyer down that hatchway.
“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. “I didn’t mean… I wouldn’t….” His voice trails off and the moment holds, until Kennedy makes a sharp gesture, a half-turn of his upper body.
“No,” he says. “I don’t believe you would. If I did believe it you’d have more than a blow on the jaw to worry about.”
Bush is certain that that is true. There is something dark and dangerous in this room, but although that should make him want to retreat it does not. The heat in his blood is fiercer than ever, but he knows he is making a mess of things and is at a loss for what to say.
“But you assume too much,” Kennedy says, and his voice, though quiet, is all hard edges, “Far too much. Whatever you believe about my tastes, you have no right to think I’ll bend my arse for any man who asks”
All Bush can find to say is, “I don’t care which way round it happens.” It sounds stupid, but the words are true.
Kennedy simply looks at him, and the silence stretches out and out, until at last Bush can only say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ll go.”
Before he can bring himself to turn however, Kennedy says in a different tone, “Why did you really come here?”
Bush can only give the truth. “Because I don’t know what will happen in Kingston. Because I want one more good thing first. Because I want to forget what we are facing for a little. Because I thought you might feel the same, that we might share….”
His voice trails away, then when he is thinking about leaving once more Kennedy says, “A short time to ourselves, you mean? A brief respite?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“You had better bolt the door then.”
Hardly daring to believe what he has heard, Bush turns and slides the bolt across. As he turns back two strong hands catch him by the shoulders, and the next moment Kennedy’s mouth is on his, hard and demanding.
There is very little conscious thought after that. He is aware of a fierce desire, as desperate and pent up as his own, and if it is not for him Bush doesn’t care. Afterwards he will remember the gold of Kennedy’s hair and skin in the light of the flickering candle and the blue of his eyes, but these are fractured glimpses, and soon there is no sight, only sensation.
And it has never been like this. He has never lost himself like this before. And whether it is Kennedy, or whether it is the ship and situation, doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the here and now.
And then it is over, after an eternity and yet too soon it is over, and he is slumped, half-sitting, against the wall, his breath ragged and his legs too weak to stand.
A hand on his shoulder, gentler than any touch of the last few minutes has been. “William.” It is only later that Bush realises the use of his first name. “William, you can’t stay. Someone might come looking for one of us.”
Bush knows it is true, and with the help of the wall he manages to get to his feet and put his appearance back in order. As he finishes fastening his breeches, feeling strangely awkward now, he realises that Kennedy has put on his neck-cloth and is fastening his waistcoat.
“You’re going on deck?” he says.
“I just thought I’d check things below decks, make sure all’s secure.”
Bush considers going with him, but he is very tired from the events of the day. Briefly he envies the inexhaustible energies of youth.
“Goodnight, then,” he says, knowing in the sentence that nothing will ever be the same, even if they never do this again, for Kennedy has seen him vulnerable and he has seen – he is not sure what he has seen, but he had not expected it.
“Goodnight, Mr Bush.”
Bush wonders if there should be more, but what more could there be? He goes back to his own quarters, and closes the door behind him.