"Looking for someone?"

Wellard starts and shakes his head, turning as he does. "No, Mr. Bush. Certainly not."

It's a lie and Bush smiles, seeing the darting fear that's different than the sort that gets you killed and more the one that gets you hung, swinging from your neck while too many of your shipmates pretend they saw nothing, knew nothing, did nothing.

"Mr. Hornblower, perhaps?" Bush moves closer, menace in his larger bulk, but it's the soft touch of his fingers on Wellard's chin, bringing those innocent brown eyes up that causes a shudder through the younger man. "Or Mr. Kennedy?"

"Please, sir. I was looking for no one."

"I think you were, Mr. Wellard. Perhaps to apologize? Or say thank you properly? To settle a debt?"

"No, Mr. Bush."

He leans in, watching the boy's eyes widen further, fear and the flare of something more burning in them as his gaze drops to Bush's lips as they near, as Wellard's tongue darts out to whet his lips and his color rises.

Bush crowds him further, guiding him into the wardroom, until Wellard hisses, his back and legs pressed against the wall, Bush's hand between them causing the sound of pain to falter into one of pleasure, filtered with confusion. "Do not lie to me, Mr. Wellard."

"N-no, Mr. Bush."

"Were you looking for someone?"

"Y-yes." He nods, eyes closing in the face of Bush's hard glare. His lips fall open, parted and panting as Bush's hand makes short work of him, pushing him over the edge, tumbling. "Mr.-" Wellard makes a desperate sound deep in his throat as he spills himself across his uniform, across Bush's strong, rough-hewn hands.