Work Text:
London, 1789
“Yes.”
Captain Edward Pellew blinked and set his features into a mask of firm, slightly cool politeness.
“The answer is yes, Edward.”
“I do not believe I asked a question.” Gruff, even slightly rude: an attempt to arrest the conversation before it began.
A corner of Ensign Edrington’s mouth quirked upwards, visible in the brief glow of a gaslight. “You didn’t have to. I know that look.” He had caught that wistful, hungry, guilty expression on Pellew’s face a dozen times at least, when he did not realise he was observed. Pellew had allowed it to settle on his features again in the darkness of the carriage.
“You are mistaken, sir,” he replied, if anything even more abrupt.
“I am not. And the answer is still yes.” Edrington leaned forward and placed one gloved hand on Pellew’s knee, which tensed at his touch. “I am not a child, Edward.”
Pellew’s eyes flashed down to Edrington’s hand and back up to his face. A senior officer of His Majesty’s Navy and fearless prize-taker, looking like a startled rabbit. Edrington smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, Edward, I did not mean to –”
But Pellew had grabbed his hand suddenly and with painful force. “Alexander — tell me — are you sure?”
“I have never been more certain of a thing in my life.” Edrington leaned across the space between them to kiss him, but a jolt of the carriage knocked him sideways, and Pellew’s hands came up to steady him, then to draw him against his breast, where Edrington could feel his heart pounding even through the folds of his heavy cloak.
“My dear — my darling boy –” Pellew held him convulsively, murmuring endearments, until Edrington lifted his face and opened his mouth to his kisses.
Another pot-hole bounced them apart momentarily. Edrington opened his eyes. “Edward… will you take me home now, please?”
Pellew let out a breath that he might have been holding since they met, and said, “Yes.”