He doesn't knock, instead pushing the door open and letting himself inside with little care to whomever else might be in the room. Not that care need be taken, as everyone expects sailors and soldiers to share rooms for let, unable to afford on their own purses and needing the boon of another man to share the cost. To share the bed.

Still, the sight of him hits Bush low in the groin as always. There is something feline about him, in the way that great lions in Africa are feline - dangerous, predatory, sleek and deceptive. He is browned all over and Bush can imagine him caught in the midst of battle, hair matted with sweat and lightening in the burning bleach of the sun's heat. Bush can picture him, sprawled naked on dusty blankets after a rough bath in an icy river, that self-same sun baking his skin warm and dark to match the dried out grasses that surround him.

He's not asleep. Bush knows men well enough to know that, but artifice is second nature to this man, and Bush does not dispute it. Closing and latching the door behind him, Bush moves beside the bed and begins to strip, carefully laying each item on the chair beside the bed, layers upon layers of worn, well-mended clothing in contrast to the pile of blue and brown at the foot of the bed, rumpled and discarded for the dingy sheets that cling to Sharpe's naked frame.

"About time, Bush." His voice is rough and raspy, and perhaps he had been asleep until the door opened. There's a tiredness around Sharpe's eyes, a weight of battle. Bush knows it well, has seen it in his own commander's eyes as the war wages on. Still, it seems out of place on Sharpe. Bush is used to him in the taverns, drinking to men and women and the King, telling piss-drunk tales of Wellington and whispering loudly secrets meant for bedrooms and not barrooms. "Beginning to think Hornblower'd not let you go."

Bush doesn't respond, which is nothing unusual if Sharpe's grin is any indication. It is also not quite true. Bush doesn't respond to the teasing comment, but his body responds as Sharpe shifts closer and trails two blunt fingers along the curve of Bush's shaft. Most of the time, Bush's body is just that, mere flesh, but at times like this, he's something more. He feels the nerve endings come alive, feels the phantoms ghost down his absent leg. Sharpe's hand is like a trigger, setting fire to the lines of powder that make up Bush's blood.

Sharpe moves suddenly, sitting up in the bed and moving to the edge of it, letting his legs fall on either side of Bush. His hands stroke Bush's hips lightly, his mouth feathering over the dusting of dark hair that covered Bush's lower abdomen. Bush's shaft plays against the stubbled roughness of Sharpe's chin and sensation thunders through him with every touch. Sharpe laughs and angles his head, the hot gusts of amusement falling on the slick head of Bush's cock. His hands tighten and he lowers his head, swallowing Bush whole as his fingers dig into the slant of bone at Bush's waist. Bush's hand finds Sharpe's hair, fisting in the coarse strands. He doesn't attempt to control him, he learned that lesson the first few times when Sharpe's teeth grazed his skin just to the point of pain until Bush relented, letting him have his way. Instead he just holds him for balance and support, until the hard pressure of Sharpe's mouth grows too intense, and Bush finds himself thrusting into the heat of it.

When Bush's body jerks with his climax, Sharpe's fingers tighten even more, dirty nails digging into the flesh of Bush's hips. He doesn't move away, his mouth pulling at Bush's shaft until Bush's body spasms and he pushes Sharpe back. Sharpe's leonine features are set with desire, his naked body hard and taut.

"Down," Sharpe growls, angling off the bed and moving behind Bush, guiding him down to the bed. Bush's hands grip the pillow as his knee digs into the thin mattress, the wood of his stump scraping as it slides against the worn surface of the floor. He digs it in, bracing it against the joint between the planks as Sharpe's hands settle on Bush's bared hips once more.

Bush huffs a hard breath into the pillow as Sharpe reaches for the small bottle on the rickety table beside the bed. Opened, it makes the room smell like flowers, no doubt stolen or borrowed from one of Sharpe's line of lovers, intended for uses other than easing the hard thrust of fingers inside Bush's body. It does the job, prisng the skin apart and opening Bush up, allowing Sharpe's fingers to slide deeper. Neither of them speak, both lost in the aggressive push of flesh. Sharpe's cock is insistent against Bush's thigh, his fingers curved and scraping with every stroke.

"God," Bush finally gasps, turning his head to suck in a desperate breath. "Sharpe."

Nothing more than that is needed. Sharpe's hand moves and Bush slumps slightly until the wet tip of Sharpe's shaft pushes against his skin, penetrating him, filling him fuller, deeper than Sharpe's fingers had, every hard jerk of his hips driving Bush into the bed. Sharpe's leg presses hard against Bush's thigh, the hair-roughened skin rubbing with their movement, frenzied heat until Sharpe stills for a moment, mid-thrust then drives in deeper still as he spends himself.

They remain still for a long moment, and then Sharpe's weight is gone, eased off Bush as if he were never there. He collapses to the bed then eases Bush down, helping him remained balanced as he shifts his weight from his stump to the bed. Sharpe exhales and arches his back, stretching out as best he can on the small bed. "We're off at first light." His eyes are half-closed, a drowsy predator watching prey. "Won't likely see you in the morning."

"Likely not," Bush says, closing his eyes. Even here in a bed, he sleeps compact as though the curved walls of his hammock were around him. "Damned war."

"Not just the war that's damned," Sharpe reminds him, his voice rough and quiet. "We're all damned. Damned to fight it. Damned to win." He laughs softly, the sound ending in a sigh. "Lucky we're good at what we do."