The men of the Renown charged down the hill toward the relative safety of the shore, where they expected to find some of the ship's boats awaiting them. Or, if not awaiting them, then at least to not be long in coming.

The explosion of the cannon had filled the air with gunpowder, lead and smoke, not to mention a deafening noise, making it impossible for any man to look out for anyone except himself.

And that was how it came about that they had both fallen back right after Hobbs had spiked the gun. They were unaware that the distance between them and the rest of the Renowns had grown until it was easy for the rebel slaves to separate them from their shipmates.

"Surrender!" called the leader of the slaves, adorned in a ridiculous combination of uniform components stolen from high-ranking naval officers unlucky enough to fall into his grasp.

Wellard turned, faced with the tall black man and a number of his followers. He swallowed hard and dropped his hand, and his pistol slid from his grasp.

Not far from this scene, the Renown's gunner found himself in much the same situation. He was overpowered by half a dozen rebels and, resisting as he did, was savagely beaten into submission.

The first thing Wellard heard when he was led into a dark, badly lit cell deep underground was a pained groan. It originated in the corner of the room where he noticed some movement close to the ground. Wellard could not see him, but he suspected that it was one of his shipmates. He was about to rush to the man's aid when he heard another groan, this one angrier.

"Who is it?" said an all too familiar though muffled voice, and Wellard swallowed hard.

"It's Wellard, Mister Hobbs."

"Oh *god*!"

Wellard perched on the edge of a make-shift bed in the opposite corner of the room, as far as possible from the Renown's gunner. As much as he had hoped not to find himself alone in the enemy camp, now that he knew whom he had for company, he rather thought solitude might have been preferable.

"What are you staring at?" Hobbs growled from his completely pitch black corner of the cell.

Wellard averted his eyes.

"I may be in the dark, *Mister* Wellard, but you are not and I am not blind."

"My apologies, Mister Hobbs. I cannot see you at all, I assure you. I merely happened to be glancing in your direction."

Hobbs managed to stand up and limp, clearly in pain, to the bed on his side of the cell, where he fell down hard, struggling to remain seated upright.

"Are you..." Wellard began, but silenced himself when he realized how obsolete the question would be. "I mean, how badly are you hurt, Mister Hobbs?"

Hobbs sneered at him as he leaned forward a little.

When Wellard got a good look at him, he drew in a sharp breath.

Hobbs had been beaten badly. His clothes were bloodied and torn in several places, blood was drying on the right side of his face and he held his right arm in an unnatural position and close to his body.

"You look shocked, Mister Wellard. Has your question been answered?" Hobbs asked sarcastically.

Wellard was unsure what to say. He suspected from the way Hobbs was holding his arm that it was broken, or at least badly sprained, and he looked to have lost a fair amount of blood. He watched helplessly as Hobbs attempted to lie down without letting his injured arm touch the edge of the bed.

"Can I... help in any way, Mister Hobbs?"

A harsh, humourless laugh. "I hardly think so, Mister Wellard." And with that, Hobbs turned on his left side, his back to Wellard.

Wellard swallowed. It was clear enough that with the way things were between him and the ship's gunner, they would have to pray for outside help to survive.

Wellard too lay down, sighing softly. He faced Hobbs' back and had a clear view of the gunner's hand clutching his injured arm while his whole position indicated excruciating pain.

Frustrated at being unable to help, the boy closed his eyes, but sleep was a long time coming, even though they'd hardly slept at all the night before the attack on the fort. Not very long after he finally did manage to doze off, he heard what sounded like a vast explosion somewhere in the distance - it appeared to be shaking the very earth about their underground shelter.

A dream. Probably merely a dream, Wellard mused, before truly drifting off to sleep.

"Get up! Both of you!" A heavily accented voice barked at the two prisoners through the bars of their cell, a number of hours later.

Wellard woke up abruptly from his daze, and with one glance across the room he was reminded of where he... where *they* were. He and Hobbs. Oh dear.

Hobbs swore under his breath as he turned, his renewed wakefulness bringing all the pain back full force. He looked about himself, disoriented.

"Get up!" the rebel repeated, already turning a large key in the lock.

Hobbs immediately set his mind to devising an escape attempt, but then realized there were at least two more rebels right outside the cell. He recognized them as two of the men who had put him into his present state, and their broad and savage grins told him they were doubtlessly hoping for him to do something foolish so they might once again be unleashed upon him.

Wellard stood, blinking sleepily. He watched, biting his lip, as Hobbs dragged himself towards the cell door, pain causing his movements to look awkward and stilted. Wellard considered offering his help once more, but one look from the cold blue eyes told him better.

"Where are you taking us?" Hobbs demanded to know from the rebel opening the door.

"Where you belong. To sea." The man laughed, reaching out to Wellard to drag him through the cell door, but unexpectedly, Hobbs stepped in front of the boy.

The rebel merely shrugged and grabbed Hobbs by the arm instead.

Wincing, Hobbs suppressed the tears shooting into his eyes. He would die before he admitted weakness to these... animals.

They were both led through a seemingly endless underground corridor not unlike the tunnel they had stormed only that morning. Soon, they found themselves in the courtyard behind the fort, where they had been earlier with the rest of the Renowns.

Hobbs and Wellard simultaneously gasped at the realization that the fort was no more. The entire place was in ruins, clearly from an explosion - the distant noise earlier on, Wellard realized. Hobbs too drew his own conclusions.

A further difference was that this time, there was no British soldier, mariner or officer anywhere in sight of the fort's courtyard, only slaves in mismatched uniforms and British sailors' clothes, standing about somewhat disorganized and gesturing wildly out to sea.

"Now what?" Hobbs muttered under his breath.

Wellard, who had been made to stand closely beside him, shrugged. They exchanged a look.

"Your... shipmates, if they do not think you dead, may try and rescue you," the rebel leader introducing himself with the overblown title of Colonel François Le Fanu explained. "We have decided to take you elsewhere where they cannot find you."

Grinning, he led them to the raised wall facing the sea and gestured toward a barely seaworthy sloop anchored below.

Neither Wellard nor Hobbs spoke, but they both realized that the moment they were taken off the island, their chances of rescue would be close to non-existent. And what made matters grimmer still was that there was no sign of the Renown as far as their eyes could see.

The rebel leader gave orders to his men in French - all Hobbs could divine was that they were to be taken to one of the neighbouring islands and left there to die - for no better reason than revenge for Buckland's blunder earlier that day. Damn that fool's hide!

"Allez!" the slave leader ordered, and some of his men began to drag Hobbs and Wellard toward the shore none too gently.

Finding themselves by a small boat, Hobbs made a last, hopeless bid for freedom by attempting to get the better of their guards. But a sharp blow to the head stopped him dead, and his body fell limply into the boat beside Wellard, who glared up at their captors.

"C'était inutile!" Wellard spat at them, astonishing them.

"Pas du tout, petit garçon," retorted one of them once he regained his bearings, before inflicting a similar punishment on the young midshipman.

Everything went black and Wellard, too, went down.

The pain caused by the chaffing of iron shackles against his wrists and the up and down sway of the creaking sloop was what eventually woke Wellard. He moaned softly, waking Hobbs in the process.

"Bastards!" Hobbs exclaimed, immediately testing his own shackles for weaknesses. He was as strong as a bear, but he could do nothing about them.

When Wellard moaned again, dizzy and disoriented, Hobbs glanced at him. "Are you badly hurt?" he asked in a voice that appeared devoid of interest.

Wellard replied bravely, "No, Mister Hobbs."

Hobbs nodded. "We have to get off this ship." Looking about them and surveying their latest place of confinement, he added with a measure of trepidation, "Somehow."

Suddenly, the ship lurched and an ugly screeching sound beneath them told them exactly what had happened.

"We're aground!" Hobbs called out, moments before voices could be heard from above. "Fools! There are coral reefs throughout these islands. Don't they know?"

Before Wellard could even consider pointing out that Captain Sawyer had made a mistake not unlike this one - something he never truly would have mentioned - the ship tilted dangerously, and the voices above began to sound panicked.

"Mister Wellard!" Hobbs called out. He was awkwardly raising and lowering his hands with their heavy shackles, thanking the almighty that the shackles had not been nailed to the planks.

"Yes, Mister Hobbs?"

Wellard watched wide-eyed as Hobbs stretched as far as the ropes which bound him to a pole behind his back would reach. With a triumphant smile, Hobbs then picked up a heavy blunt ax that had been thrown closer to them when the ship lurched.

"This should break the shackles. You must swim for it!"

Wellard nodded eagerly, then he realized that unless Hobbs was not telling him about his plans for himself, leaving him behind to make his own escape would mean Hobbs' certain death. "No," he declared stubbornly.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Hobbs snapped, surveying the water entering their prison through the floor at an alarming rate. "I cannot possibly free myself in time."

"I know. Your arm." Wellard flinched when Hobbs glanced at him sternly before bringing the ax down upon his shackles somewhat awkwardly. Once. Twice. Again. Then they were open.

"Use the knife in my coat pocket!" Hobbs ordered, and Wellard searched him for it and began to cut free and untie himself without delay.

Hobbs fell back, white as a sheet, and Wellard realized how painful bringing down that heavy instrument must have been in Hobbs' predicament.

"Mister Hobbs!"

"Swim for it, boy!" Hobbs groaned. Then he lost consciousness.

He never saw how Wellard picked up the large axe and with a determined, almost fierce expression, brought it down.

How strange it was to be dead. And how odd that he had never felt the drowning at all, the sensation of his lungs filling with sea water and suffocating him.

That bright light up above he had expected somehow. But not the angel...

Trying to speak, Hobbs found that either being dead or the sheer purity of the angel silenced him. So he raised his hand instead, attempting to touch the ethereal creature.

But it shrank back, and the light up above seemed to darken instantly.

"Mister Hobbs..." whispered a gentle voice, and the being moved closer again, bringing with it the soft light which surrounded it.

Strange, how familiar it sounded.

There were other familiar things Hobbs had not expected - the sound of waves lapping at a shore, and indeed the very feel of cool water around his limbs, and the sound of birds in trees, some distance away.

Hobbs frowned and inhaled sharply, and at that moment, a gulp of saltwater rose in his lungs and up into his throat, and he coughed and spluttered, trying to raise himself to his elbows.

A sharp pain in his arm stopped him, and he thought he would died all over again, but the angel reached for his shoulders and helped him to sit up, turning him quickly so he could spit out the water and brine and breathe once more.

Why - if he was dead - did he feel pain? And why did it feel so good to have that angel hold him and support him, permitting him to lean his head on its shoulder?

"Please, Mister Hobbs, say something."

With a jolt, Hobbs came to entirely. He drew back and stared at the "angel", finding the fact that he was *not* dead almost more of a shock than thinking himself gone and forgotten.

"I suppose I must thank you," Hobbs managed sourly, immediately regretting his tone for yes, he did indeed owe the young midshipman a debt of gratitude. Heaven knew just how the fragile-looking boy had managed to swim them both ashore.

"That won't be necessary, Mister Hobbs," Wellard said equally curtly, rising and letting go off Hobbs' shoulders all at once.

Hobbs groaned in pain when he landed on his elbow, but that was not the worst of it. He closed his eyes and cursed himself silently, but it was too late.

Wellard, dripping wet and doubtlessly exhausted, was already walking down the beach, away from him, probably not at all surprised at his ingratitude.

Hobbs was left to gaze out across the blue water and to ponder their situation as he watched chunks of timber and items of clothing being carried toward the shore by the waves. It was most unlikely that anyone else had survived the wreck. He and Wellard were alone. Quite alone.

He fell back in the shallow water with a splash, not caring that it made his arm hurt, and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He groaned in desperation.

Eventually, the two castaways found it necessary to join forces again, for it would be night within a matter of hours.

They built a makeshift shelter from the sun thirty yards or so back from the beach where a few low-hanging branches provided some much needed shade. The place was chosen with great care, for it positioned them out of sight of the beach in case the rebels came searching for them, but left them in an excellent spot to recognize friendly sails in the distance.

Hobbs, still in great pain, had done most of the hard work, in spite of his injury. Whenever Wellard had glanced at him, wondering how he fared, Hobbs had turned away and avoided his eyes.

A couple of hours later, they had finished constructing a small but cozy shelter, and both of them fell down on the soft sand with some relief.

Wellard mused aloud, "I wonder if there is anything edible on this island?"

Hobbs, unable to keep from correcting him, said, "Or more importantly, fresh water."

"Yes. That too, I suppose." Wellard blushed a little, averting his eyes.

"I shall go and search for some." Hobbs rose to his feet and began to walk away.

"Would you like me to help, Mister Hobbs?" Wellard called after him.

Hobbs turned, his face unreadable. "You'd better stay here, Mister Wellard. Don't want you getting lost, do we?"

"No." Wellard turned away. He wondered how Hobbs would transport any water he might find, but thought it better not to ask.

An hour or so later, Hobbs returned to inform Wellard that he had been unsuccessful in finding any water at all.

"I shall continue searching tomorrow," the gunner said, gazing up at the sky which was darkening at an alarming rate. He observed with some concern that a storm was approaching.

Wellard sighed. "Very well, Mister Hobbs." He was hungry and would have liked to go in search of some food at least, but he guessed it would be alright until morning.

"We should go to sleep," Hobbs suggested, glancing at the midshipman who agreed with a nod. Then his eyes moved to the shelter which, he suddenly realized, was barely large enough to allow them any distance between them.

Cursing his lack of foresight, Hobbs went to settle in below the branches when he realized that with his arm in its present condition, he would be unable to remove his coat and waistcoat to allow himself some comfort.

Wellard, already out of his reefer, noticed that something was amiss and inquired about it.

"I can't move my arm enough to take off my coat," Hobbs admitted somewhat grudgingly.

"I can get it for you, Mister Hobbs," Wellard offered.

"No!" Hobbs exclaimed, unduly upset by the suggestion. He flustered, attempting to think of a reason why he could not allow that. Already seated under the trees and thus somewhat trapped, he shrunk back almost fearfully.

But Wellard was already moving toward him, ignoring his protest, because he knew that if he did not help, Hobbs would be forced to go to sleep in full uniform, which would be singularly uncomfortable.

"I said..." Hobbs hissed between clenched teeth. Then he had a thought. Something that would allow him to remove his own coat. "There is one thing you could do for me, Mister Wellard."

Wellard stopped advancing toward Hobbs. "Sir?"

"I believe that my arm is merely sprained. Perhaps if you were to..." He made a movement with his other hand to demonstrate he wished Wellard to attempt to reset his arm.

Wellard paled visibly. "Are you certain, Mister Hobbs?"

"No." Hobbs looked indeed quite unsure. Would the boy be able to do this? If not, the pain would become immeasurably worse. But having Wellard help him undress was hell itself, so it would have to be attempted. "But I would like you to try nonetheless," he said meekly.

"Very well, Mister Hobbs." Wellard moved closer hesitantly, then realized he would have to crouch over Hobbs' thighs to get the right angle to even attempt this venture.

Hobbs was no help, growing both silent and rigid and holding out his injured arm awkwardly.

Wellard took a deep breath, grasped Hobbs' upper arm with one hand over the other, and pulled it forward. Hard.

Hobbs stifled a moan of excruciating pain when his shoulder cracked. But a mere instant later, he realized that Wellard had been successful, the sudden loss of the pain he'd been carrying with him for hours a fantastic relief. He gasped in surprise, shook his arm free and moved it about to test its flexibility. Then he smiled gratefully up at Wellard who was still hovering above his thighs.

Wellard's face was mere inches from Hobbs' when he returned the smile triumphantly.

Hobbs found himself faced with a smile that would make the sun itself grow envious. Worse yet, Wellard was virtually in his lap. He grew rigid once more, his eyes huge as he continued to stare into the equally bewildered ones of the young midshipman...

For months, Hobbs had succeeded masterfully in keeping his distance from the boy. He had managed to foster enough hatred to obliterate any suspicion, he was certain of that. But he had never, ever counted on being alone with Wellard - on a white beach along the bluest water, in a tiny shelter of fragrant trees, surrounded by nothing but the heady scent of exotic flowers, and worst of all, so inescapably near to... him.

All Wellard could think was that no one had ever looked upon him in such a way. Or with eyes so very, very blue. He realized he had to climb off, and quickly, for there was something wild and dangerous in those eyes. Why had they never looked at him like that before? Why was there suddenly such unaccustomed warmth in them? Had they always been laced with such long, long lashes?

Wellard felt a hand on his hip. The touch was not light, it was possessive. Hard. It drew him forward until he felt a solid heat against his groin, and a sharp sting of pleasure shot through his young body, causing him to whimper.

The spell was broken, and with a sudden movement, he was pushed back so hard, he fell off and sideways, toppling on his backside.

Hobbs drew his knees up immediately, lowering his eyes and struggling to regain control of himself, panting heavily.

Wellard sat back in the sand, watching Hobbs' blond hair fall over his tanned forehead. He was unsure what to do or say. All he knew was that he felt unaccountably sad. He was innocent enough not to know what lay ahead of him now - ahead of both of them - as they sat dead still, avoiding each others' eyes.

That night, a tropical storm enveloped the island. The trees sheltering the two castaways bent and groaned in the wind, the sky was of a menacing blue, and the darkness was interrupted only by bright flashes of lightning tearing into the sinister clouds.

Hobbs could not sleep. He wondered whether he had a fever when he felt himself shivering uncontrollably. With every clap of thunder, he shivered worse, and eventually, he began to shake violently and gave up thinking altogether, simply laying on his side as he drifted off, unaware of everything around him.

"Mister Hobbs?" Wellard murmured some hours into the night from a mere two or three feet away. He found it hard to sleep and sensed some discomfort from the man beside him as well.

Hobbs did not respond with the expected snappy request for him to keep quiet, so Wellard rose up and glanced over to him. What he saw was an unnaturally pale face with glazed, haunted eyes, and he knew instinctively that Hobbs had a fever.

Crawling to the gunner's side, he touched one small hand to a shoulder, attempting to shake the man from his half-conscious state. "Mister Hobbs..." he said softly. "Wake up, Mister Hobbs."

To all appearances, Hobbs was awake. His eyes were wide open, staring into nothing, and each and every strand of lightning reflected in them, turning their pale blue into silver pools.

Wellard was caught up in the sight for a short time, so frightful and yet fascinating was it. But he soon gathered his wits about himself and reached across Hobbs for the gunner's coat, drawing it over him and tucking it carefully behind his neck and around his chest.

Briefly, Wellard thought he felt Hobbs pressing closer to him, but then he realized he himself had shifted closer to Hobbs in his attempt to calm him and keep him warm. He briefly wondered how Hobbs would react to finding himself laying so closely against the midshipman, but his wish to help won out over his worry, and Wellard moved closer still, until they were resting against one another, Hobbs' head tucked into the warm space between Wellard's neck and shoulder.

That was how Wellard went to sleep.

When the boy woke in the early hours of the morning, the storm was over. The only trace of it ever having ravaged the island were branches laying strewn across the beach and a dull grey sky.

Wellard felt too hot, almost as if he had gone to sleep beside a fire and rolled too close to it. Opening his eyes, he realized that the fever-stricken body laying against him was the source of his discomfort.

Hobbs still had not moved nor regained consciousness, although he did appear to have fallen into an uneasy slumber some time during the night.

Wellard wondered what he could do for his shipmate, but with a complete lack of supplies or medical knowledge, there was little he...

A sudden insight caused him to rise quickly to his feet, shake off his sleepiness, and go down to the beach, where he dipped his neckerchief into the cool water, wrung it out lightly, and returned to Hobbs' side.

He kneeled, laying the cool cloth on the fevered forehead.

A soft groan was the only acknowledgment, but Wellard gathered the coolness was a welcome relief. He smiled softly and after a little while, he repeated the procedure. And he kept doing so for some time, interrupted only when he ventured inland for a short while mid-morning, in search of fresh water.

Finally, many hours later, Hobbs began to stir. Before he even opened his eyes, he raised his hand and it wound up on Wellard's, for the boy was in the process of removing the cloth yet again. Quickly, the hand jolted back, as did Wellard's, and Hobbs opened his eyes.

"What..." he murmured dazedly.

"You have... had a fever, Mister Hobbs. I fear that aside from a cool cloth I changed continually, I could do no more."

Hobbs tried to nod, but his head hurt intensely. He settled for blinking and saying a brief 'thank you' instead.

Wellard nodded his acknowledgment.

Silence descended between them once more as Wellard stopped his ministrations, uncomfortable and nervous about them, now that Hobbs was conscious again. The fever appeared to be broken anyhow, and of that he was glad.

Hobbs had shifted, his back towards Wellard, for he did not want him to see his discomfort. With all the taunting and harassing he had inflicted on the midshipman in the past, it had never once occurred to him that he might find himself in such dire need of the boy's help and care. The situation embarrassed him most acutely. So much so, in fact, that he found himself wishing Wellard had just left him to die, either onboard the sinking ship or here, last night, in the thunderstorm. Why did he insist on continuing to save him?

He dared a cautious glance back over his shoulder at Wellard, realizing the boy looked every bit as uncomfortable as he himself felt. 'He probably wishes he had let me die,' Hobbs thought.

"You should drink some water, Mister Hobbs," Wellard ventured to suggest.

Hobbs looked at him in confusion. "We don't have water, Mister Wellard."

Wellard broke into a smile. "Yes, Sir, we do. I found a spring earlier."

Hobbs gaped at him.

Wellard had already risen and was scrambling through their discarded coats for the small flask he still kept in his left breast pocket. To Hobbs' surprise, he held it out to him.

"This is the only container we have, Mister Hobbs. I thought that, since neither of us had any need for the laudanum I still had in this, I should use it to bring back some water for you."

Hobbs averted his face for a moment, collecting himself. Wellard's thoughtfulness disturbed him profoundly, for it reminded him of things he wished he could forget.

But he knew he could not ignore the boy, and turned back. "Thank you, Mister Wellard," he said with sincere gratitude, and he reached for the small flask and drank the small amount of water.

Wellard, his heart suddenly remarkably lighter, took the now empty flask from Hobbs' hand. He excused himself to return to that spring he had been talking about, and Hobbs nodded and lay back, exhausted and worn from his recent fever.

Wellard managed to keep them both supplied with plenty of water for the remainder of the day - he himself had his share at the spring, and he brought plenty of it back to Hobbs in the small flask.

The frequent errand did not appear to worry him - there was nothing else to do besides give himself to silly and confusing thoughts, after all.

But even so, those thoughts were most insistent, returning unbidden when he least wanted them to, such as when Hobbs took the bottle from him and nodded gratefully, or whenever he settled down beside the gunner for a time, remembering the previous evening with a vivid recollection of how their sudden closeness had... excited him.

On one of his trips to the spring, Wellard managed to find some fruit which turned out to not only be edible but quite delicious, and they feasted upon it on his return.

The rest of the day passed with Wellard gathering up supplies while Hobbs remained, weak and helpless, in their shelter, wishing he could be the one to take care of their needs.

The next day, Hobbs had regained his strength, and he set about finding them a bigger variety of food and retrieving his own water. By late afternoon, the strained atmosphere between them had begun to relax a little, and Wellard suggested he might try and catch some fish.

"How do you propose to do that, Mister Wellard?" Hobbs asked, amused.

"I'm not certain, Mister Hobbs." Wellard shrugged, smiling.

Hobbs inhaled sharply. The boy's smile, rare as it was and perhaps for that very reason, never failed to set his pulse racing. He tried to cover up his breathlessness by suggesting Wellard take his knife - the one the boy had been clever enough to keep when they had abandoned ship - and try to stab some.

Wellard took the offered knife with a smile, not minding too much that he was being teased.

Hobbs watched his unsuccessful attempts at catching their supper for a while, his mind drifting to arenas he rather did not wish to go as he observed the nimble figure on the beach, the long limbs flailing about as Wellard attempted to catch some fish.

'He's going to burn that beautiful skin...' Hobbs found himself musing, and quickly shucked the sentiment off.

But he was only successful for a brief time, because when Wellard turned to face him, holding up a pitifully small fish with a look of utter triumph, Hobbs' heart contracted, and it was at that exact moment that he truly, fully realized how far he had fallen. Under no circumstances could he let the boy find out!

Some time later, Wellard struggled up the beach, limping, noting from a distance that Hobbs jolted up and leaned forward when he spotted him. He put on his bravest face when he came into full view of the gunner.

"What happened?" Hobbs asked, suspiciously observing Wellard's limp.

"Nothing, Mister Hobbs. Merely a... bite."

"From what?" Hobbs asked, but Wellard shrugged.

"I could not say, Mister Hobbs." The youth sat down heavily, suppressing a groan when the pressure on his foot was relieved. Now if only that terrible pain would go away...

"Mister Wellard!" Hobbs said sternly. "Show me."

Wellard shook his head. "It's nothing, as I said, Mister Hobbs."

"Then there will be no harm in showing me, will there, Sir?" And with that, Hobbs leaned over to him, reaching to grasp the injured, bare foot and hold it close enough to allow for inspection of the tiny, circular wound.

Wellard looked away, somewhat embarrassed by the situation.

"Only a bite indeed," Hobbs said bitterly. "Damn you, boy! Have you any idea what crawls around on these islands? This bite could be the death of you!"

The gunner spoke of this with so much passion, it quite confused Wellard. And before he realized what was happening, Hobbs had lifted his foot up onto his own thigh, squeezed the injured skin between his fingertips, and bent to suck the potential poison out.

Wellard held his breath, watching as Hobbs extracted the venom, spat it out, and continued suckling at the bite until there could be nothing left. He felt awkward. Shy. And he felt the oddest tingling sensation far, far away from the location of the bite.

Hobbs untied his own necktie and efficiently wound it around Wellard's foot, covering the bite to keep the small wound reasonably clean.

"Thank you, Mister Hobbs," Wellard said with great gratitude and a rather unsteady voice.

Hobbs nodded, avoiding the boy's eyes. He hoped very much that Wellard had not noticed his hand trembling.

But Wellard had noticed, and he wondered whether the cause was the same as that of his own nervous tingle. He watched how hard Hobbs laboured to not have to look at him, and made it his mission to try all the harder to meet the strange blue eyes.

When he did, he found some measure of confusion and even fear there, and he knew it reflected in his own eyes.

"I shall sleep further up the beach tonight," Hobbs declared, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

Wellard frowned. "May I ask..."

"No."

The old Hobbs was back, and Wellard decided he did not like that at all. Just when he had thought they might be able to coexist with some degree of humanity....

"Have I caused offence in some way, Mister Hobbs?"

Hobbs looked honestly confused. "Well..."

Not waiting long enough for Hobbs to think up an offence, Wellard continued, "Then I suggest we attempt to put our differences aside for the sake of survival."

Hobbs snorted.

"Do you hate me so, Sir?" Wellard asked most seriously.

Hobbs lowered his eyes regretfully. "Hardly."

Wellard was unsure what to make of that response, so he simply said, "Well then..."

"Well then, hatred is not why I must make my own bedstead elsewhere, is it, Mister Wellard?" Hobbs said cynically, cursing the boy's naiveté while slowly rising to walk away.

Quite unexpectedly, Wellard reached up to him and held him back with one hand on his forearm.

Hobbs jolted. "Take your hand away, Mister Wellard," he said ominously, and Wellard considered disobeying. For a moment.

But there was a veritable storm raging in Hobbs' eyes and he thought better of it. Watching the gunner walk away, Wellard sighed, wishing he had the courage to simply speak his mind. But what exactly was on his mind? How could he explain that nothing could have made him feel worse than Hobbs once more distancing himself from him this way?

He prepared to go to sleep, knowing he would not succeed in finding any rest that night.

The moon was a thin gleaming sliver in the sky that night, only bright enough to illuminate the beach and gild the tops of the gentle waves licking at the expanse of sand.

Wellard's sleeping features beneath his full, dark hair made an artful canvas to such a moon. Each lash, each endearing freckle and curve of his full lips was dipped in the moon's pale gloss, his pretty eyes - even closed - accentuated by the pallor of his skin which was rivaled only by the stark whiteness of his shirt laying open at his collar.

Hobbs was down on one knee by Wellard's side, gazing at him and praying that the boy would not awaken to discover his shameful secret. He had watched him sleep the night before, from a short distance away, always with the opportunity to quickly close his own eyes should the boy awaken.

Now however, after having told Wellard he would be sleeping some distance away down the beach, he would have no such escape.

Escape... how much longer could he hope to escape from being discovered? Even Wellard's innocence had limits, and the boy would eventually know... he would see his longing in his eyes.

Hobbs reached to touch a soft cheek, but stopped himself barely in time. Then the inviting sheen of the boy's dark hair caught his attention and once again, his treacherous hand moved to touch, to caress...

He quickly let his hand drop and laid it beside Wellard's hand on the soft ground.

That was when he found his hand covered by trembling, slender fingers as the boy murmured in his sleep.

Hobbs stared down at Wellard's hand upon his own as though it was a very strange creature. Then, still assuming him asleep and acting merely on a dream, he turned his own hand over, clasping Wellard's smaller hand in his.

Wellard had been growing hot and cold in turns, laying there under Hobbs' close scrutiny while pretending to be asleep. Then he remained simply hot as Hobbs leaned down toward him and moved very, very close. If he were to open his eyes now... he would be able to see every speck of silver in the blue eyes...

And then, another moment later, Wellard gasped into a hesitant kiss. He jolted at the new, exciting sensation of having his lips covered by another's, his breath stolen in such a beautiful way. His mouth opened involuntarily, and he attempted, unwisely, to breathe.

Gasping, he drew back, finding Hobbs flushed and embarrassed in front of him, panting as heavily as he himself did.

"I don't know what... Oh god! I am very... so very..." Hobbs began to stutter, but got no further, for in a moment, Wellard was reaching up to him, one slim hand insinuating itself in his honey-blond hair while a long arm moved around his middle to draw him near. Then, the soft lips touched his own once more.

Shuddering, Hobbs guided the boy back and down into the soft sand by his shoulders until his dark hair was spread out like a halo around the sweet face. An angel after all.

Wellard whimpered, his neck arching and his lips parting to receive his very first true kiss. All his fears and worries about Hobbs melted into that kiss, and soon, kissing no longer felt to be enough, even though Wellard had no idea what else it was he wanted. Needed.

Hobbs, in spite of the fury of the kiss, had laid Wellard down most carefully. He revered the texture of the boy's reddish hair, running his fingers through it as if it were silk, even while he continued to kiss him. Then he felt all thought slip from him at the feel of Wellard pressing up against him, slinging his arms around his neck and moaning into their kiss, and he felt certain he would die from sheer pleasure if they were to... to...

'God, he's merely a boy!' Hobbs' mind nagged and infuriated him, even while the rest of his body screamed at him that Wellard was ready. That he was ripe, eager and that he needed *him* as much as he, Hobbs, needed Wellard.

"Please..." Wellard's soft voice seemed to want to decide Hobbs' inner battle for him. "Please!" he begged once more, his lips against Hobbs' ear, not even knowing what it was he was begging for.

The slender fingers in his hair took Hobbs' breath away when they moved forward to frame his face and down his neck, a forefinger sliding down between the parted folds of his shirt.

Hobbs' own hands roamed over Wellard's fully-clothed form as if committing every curve, every warm, sweet limb to memory. He had never felt an exhilaration like the one Wellard's moaned encouragement and acquiescence gave him.

"Please, Mister Hobbs..."

"Do you know what you're asking, boy?" Hobbs managed huskily.

Wellard's movements stilled for an instant and Hobbs did not dare look at his face, fearing that the spell had been broken. Then...

"No," came a soft, uncertain voice.

Hobbs paused for a moment longer, then he began to laugh softly, joined an instant later by Wellard. He lay his head into the crook of Wellard's neck and they laughed together until their need to feel each others' touches once more won out.

Wellard spoke softly, "I... have heard... things," he said hesitantly, his fingers stroking gently along the center of Hobbs' chest. "And I believe that I would like to... no, I know that I would... like you to... show me, Mister Hobbs."

Endeared by the hesitant but determined plea, Hobbs lay down beside Wellard and gazed at him. He saw the blush on the pale cheeks, the fluttering of the long lashes and the gasping, parted lips, soft and red from their kisses, and he was overcome with such tenderness that it quite took his breath away.

And then came the guilt.

Wellard had noticed the myriad expressions racing across Hobbs' features, and he frowned. "What is it?"

Hobbs squeezed his eyes shut, composing himself for what he was about to say. "Before I can... touch you again..." He halted, certain memories serving to tighten his throat. "I need you to do something for me."

Wellard nodded slowly. "Yes. Anything."

Hobbs opened his eyes again and reached to cup Wellard's cheek with his palm, nearly sobbing when the boy leaned into the caress. "I need you to... forgive me."

Wellard lay back limply, keenly aware that Hobbs looked ready to leave and never come back if he would not forgive him. Forgive him what, though?

"I do not understand," the boy said hesitantly.

Hobbs frowned. "For the way I have treated you. For the cruel things I've said to you. For all the help I never gave you when I should have..."

Here he broke down, shielding his eyes from Wellard's view with one hand while he fought down tears.

Wellard reached for the hand and carefully pulled it away. He kissed it tenderly. "But I understand all that. There is nothing to forgive."

Hobbs was stunned.

Wellard was shifting against him, his very movements begging Hobbs to touch, to feel.

The boy felt hot and feverish without having a fever, and thirsty without needing to drink. He felt as if his skin was on fire and he needed Hobbs to be his cool water, his icy stream. His salvation. He only wished he had the words to tell him so.

Hobbs struggled only a moment longer before capitulating, and then his hand was on Wellard's collar, pulling at it, tearing the neck-kerchief from it and hastily undoing the shirt until his hand made contact with smooth, warm flesh.

Wellard heard Hobbs whimper, and it filled him with some triumph to know that he had caused it. He covered the searching hand with his own and led it downwards, in between the shirt folds and to his beating heart.

Hobbs let it rest there a little, the reassuringly strong rhythm drumming against his palm. A flash of how he might have lost this boy had Sawyer not been detained sending a jolt of pain through every nerve in his body.

Wellard, oblivious to the nagging thoughts racing through Hobbs' guilt-ridden mind, was laying back panting, open and vulnerable and wanting to be so. His beautiful eyes were wide and invitingly pleading. He was giving himself utterly to Hobbs.

"You are certain?" Hobbs asked once more, his voice raw and husky, his hand feeling its way to the front of Wellard's breeches. He didn't know how much longer he could wait. He had to feel him, touch every part of him, fill him...

"Yes!" Wellard confirmed. And he parted his legs, giving easy access to his still fully-clothed erection.

Hobbs' eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. "Oh God!" he exclaimed, his hand straying to the bulge beneath the soft wool, aiming to undo the pale fabric and reach inside.

Wellard made it easy for him, raising his hips seductively, driving him out of his mind. And then he felt Hobbs' hand inside the cloth and on his bare, hot skin, and he came, crying out softly.

Briefly, he could neither move nor breathe. Then, he stared up into the surprised blue eyes above him. "That should not have happened, should it? It is... not right."

Hobbs swallowed hard. "Yes, yes it is." He buried his face in the crook of Wellard's neck. "Oh yes, boy, that was right. Wonderful. Perfect." And he laughed, sounding choked.

Wellard could think of nothing to do but reach up to stroke over Hobbs' hair. He was still breathless from his climax, and very moved by this display of tenderness.

He had been wondering, but had never dared to hope, that Hobbs could be like this. Could be like this with *him*. He had thought that Hobbs despised him utterly, and thus had held his own feelings and longings close to his heart and bottled up tightly. Now, knowing he could show them all, he felt as though he might burst.

Hobbs eventually lifted his face to look down upon Wellard again, and their eyes met in a smile. Hobbs stroked back a damp strand of hair which had come loose from Wellard's queue and affectionately kissed the boy's temple.

"I believe I shall cry any moment now," Wellard said in a trembling voice.

Hobbs gazed down on him with a hint of worry, not ceasing to caress the boy's hair. "Why?"

"No one has ever treated me this way. With such... care. And that it should be you of all men." And then a few tears truly did make their way into the lovely eyes.

Hobbs sighed, wiping the tears away tenderly. "I have so much more care to give you yet. I owe you more than I could give you in all my life."

Wellard smiled then, still crying.

Hobbs thought it best to distract his sweet charge. He leaned to kiss the boy once more, tasting salty tears as he did so. And when he thought Wellard was ready, he slowly, tenderly, began to part the soft lips with the very tip of his tongue.

Wellard took the cue instantly, allowing the intruder inside and even playing with it coyly.

The quick, eager response aroused Hobbs beyond measure, and he drew Wellard into his embrace, laying them both on their sides, facing each other, while his hand wandered down the graceful curve of the boy's back and to his pert behind which he clasped firmly, drawing them as closely together as they could be.

Wellard, still somewhat raw and oversensitive from his recent climax, shuddered at the sensation of his bare sex against Hobbs' breeches, but the chaffing was so pleasant and arousing, he moved faster, wanting to further intensify the sensation.

Hobbs' eyes flew open when their lips parted and he felt Wellard sliding against him desperately, as if nearing another climax. He had to slow him down, both of them, for he himself was on the verge of... "Slowly, my Love," he said tenderly.

The endearment took Wellard's breath away and he stilled his movements to glance at Hobbs. "Yes," he simply whispered. "Show me."

Hobbs held his gaze and took his hand, leading it to the closure of his own breeches.

Wellard understood and, blushing prettily, undid the restricting garment and peeled it low enough to give him access to Hobbs' own arousal.

If he had thought his own excitement a feeling beyond description, then touching his lover's firm, weeping staff was heaven itself. He gasped, but did not let go. In fact, he tightened his grasp until Hobbs moaned with pleasure, and then he began to tentatively slide his slender hand up and down its length, eliciting more delicious reactions yet.

"Stop!" Hobbs finally called out, nearly reduced to tears by the intensity of the pleasure bestowed upon him by this sweet and adored creature.

"Did I do something wrong?" Wellard asked with concern.

"Wrong?" Hobbs smiled at him, attempting to control his breathing. "You could do no wrong if you tried!"

Wellard blushed.

"Too right is perhaps a better description." And Hobbs drew away the small hand from between them and clasped Wellard close. "Just lie still with me a few moments," he said tenderly. "Then, I promise you, I shall take you to heaven itself."

Wellard sighed, his face against Hobbs' chest, his entire body wrapped up in his lover's strong arms. Heaven itself... as far as he could tell, he was already there. A smile tugged at his lips and he snuggled closer.

Hobbs held him tight, one hand in the small of Wellard's back, the other at his nape. He realized that for the first time in his life, he felt entirely content. And he felt other things he did not yet dare name, but the warm, slender body in his arms was the very personification of these feelings. He could no longer imagine how life would be without...

"Henry," he said softly.

Wellard tilted his head up and smiled. "Yes."

Hobbs tried to smile as well, but bit his lip instead to keep from sobbing. He might not speak of his feelings out loud just yet, but the big, brown eyes gazing up at him adoringly were not so shy. Wellard's every emotion could be read in them. What had he ever done to earn this kind of devotion?

"What is *your* Christian name?" Wellard asked. He was still smiling. "I cannot keep on calling you 'Mister Hobbs', Mister Hobbs."

Now Hobbs did manage to smile after all. "Christopher."

Wellard's lips turned up even more. "That suits you perfectly. Christopher..." He tried it out. "A shame that I will not be allowed to address you that way once we are back onboard ship."

The moment he had said it, he wished he could take the words back. Hobbs' smile faded and the light left his eyes.

"We will be found, I'm sure of it," Wellard said quickly. "Do you not think so, Christopher?"

"Perhaps."

Wellard searched his face. "What?"

Hobbs held Wellard's eyes, attempting to let the youthful optimism there infuse him. "I fear that..." He hesitated, not wanting to sadden the boy, but it had to be said. "If we are found... We may not be serving together in future."

Wellard's body tensed in his arms, and Hobbs held him more tightly.

"Then I do not wish to be found," the boy declared without hesitation.

Hobbs stared at him. "No?"

"No." Wellard smiled once more. "I will be quite content to remain here." He hesitated, the flush on his full cheeks clearly visible in the moonlight before he managed to turn his face into shadow. "With you."

Hobbs leaned down, and captured the pink lips in a kiss. He would tell him. By god he would!

Wellard clutched at him, returning the kiss with abandon. He threw his arms around Hobbs' neck and held on tight, and when Hobbs gripped the back of his thigh and drew his leg over his own hip, he pressed even closer, awareness of their partial nakedness suddenly foremost on his mind, and he could not stop himself from rocking against Hobbs urgently.

Hobbs allowed that for as long as he could stand it. Then, breathing heavily, he rolled them over so that Wellard was on his back, and he above him, leaning over him. He pulled Wellard's shirt from his breeches, flung it open, and tugged the soft wool of the breeches down and out of the way.

He drank in the sight until Wellard's eyes urged him on, and he bent to kiss the smooth chest, the flat stomach... not lingering this time, for neither of them could wait so long. He slipped his hands beneath Wellard and lifted him toward his lips.

Wellard cried out, trembling and turning his head from side to side, his glossy, dark mane of hair coming lose from its confines as he shuddered against Hobbs, whimpering.

Hobbs was intoxicated. His eyes did not leave Wellard's face for a single moment. The rapt expression, the sheer ecstasy, were as captivating as the taste on his tongue - achingly sweet, each drop driving him out of his mind, making him want more and more.

Wellard bit down on his lip hard, trying to stifle a cry, perhaps even stifle the inevitable for just a little longer. He did not want it to end. Not yet. Not ever. But soon, the tongue swirling around him, doing things to him he never could have imagined, making him feel things he never would have thought possible, coaxed the second climax of that night - of his life - from him.

Hobbs caught the sweet nectar in his mouth, swallowing rapidly, his eyes wide open as he took in the trembling form beneath him, the involuntary, rapturous cry emitting from the parted lips nearly causing his own release.

When Hobbs let the now limp, sensitive organ slide from his lips, Wellard sighed, his arms reaching out to him and clutching him close when he moved into the embrace.

Hobbs kissed him, letting Wellard have a taste of himself, and the surprised gasp into his mouth made him smile into the kiss.

"Oh!" Henry Wellard exclaimed, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes shining like amber stars.

Hobbs knew it was time, or his heart might break from so much pent up emotion. He smiled down and cupped the back of the boy's head. "I love you so much."

For a moment, Henry Wellard stared at him wide-eyed, then he cried out and hugged him close, squeezing him so tight that neither of them could breathe.

Hobbs held him, the whispered "and I love you" like honey in his ears, a salve to his soul.

"We shan't be parted, Henry," Hobbs finally managed. "Whatever happens, I will not allow that."

Wellard smiled at him. "I know." Complete trust. Absolute certainty.

"Yes, you do, don't you?" Hobbs returned the smile, and Wellard nodded.

"My angel..."

Wellard's smile broadened. "Am I?"

Hobbs nodded.

"You would not think so if you could read my thoughts this moment." Henry Wellard laughed softly.

"Why don't you tell me?" Hobbs requested, leaning down to allow Wellard to whisper in his ear.

"Good god!" the gunner exclaimed in mock outrage.

"I told you so." Wellard - his clothing in tempting disarray, his eyes bright and his cheeks rosier than usual - presented the very picture of wantonness, the impression belied only by the slightly embarrassed smile at his own boldness.

"There are things we cannot do." When he saw the sad expression in his sweet lover's eyes, Hobbs hurried to explain, "Not now. Not here. I could not bear to hurt you."

Wellard nodded, putting complete trust in Hobbs' judgment.

"But I promise we shall do everything else."
 
Wellard's smile returned, and a moment later, he'd switched their positions and was crouching above Hobbs, the element of surprise on his side. "Beginning with this."

Hobbs laughed. "This?" His amusement did not quite cover up the desire evident in his voice when Wellard's hair finally did fall free from its ribbon, caressing the pale shoulders from which the now ragged shirt hung loosely.

"Yes, this." Wellard bent down and kissed Hobbs, his fingers tangling in Hobbs' shirt folds as he clumsily struggled to remove the offending garment. His long tresses whispered over newly exposed skin along with his fingertips, coaxing moans of pleasure from the man beneath him.

More quickly than either of them had expected, Wellard managed to rid Hobbs of his vest, then his shirt. He did not bother disentangling it from Hobbs' wrists, however, which gave him an advantage and made his lover his captive. A very willing captive.

Hobbs watched the soft lips caressing his chest, stomach and flanks, he jolted at the touch of small, slender hands venturing over his hips and to his thighs, surreptitiously moving his breeches lower. And he closed his eyes when his felt a tender nuzzling against his groin.

When Wellard's fingers closed around the base of his arousal and the tempting lips parted to carefully let him in, Hobbs let out a low groan.

Wellard mimicked the attentions Hobbs had earlier bestowed upon him and let himself be led by his lover's reactions which were, he delightedly found, utterly ecstatic.

"Oh god!" Hobbs moaned, when he felt the tip of Wellard's tongue push against his slit, and he knew he was leaking and coating the tender muscle with his cream. "Careful," he warned huskily.

A small hand reached up to clasp one of his own, and squeezed encouragingly.

When their eyes met, Hobbs realized his lover had no intention of being careful. There was a positively wicked gleam in Henry Wellard's eyes as the boy continued to lick and suckle at his sex, daring him to come into his sweet mouth.

Hobbs' head slammed backward into the sand as his back arched upwards and his hips jolted. He was pushed back down, just as he climaxed with a low groan, spurting against the back of Wellard's throat more than the boy could possibly swallow.

But Wellard tried, and mostly succeeded. When the flow ebbed, he regretfully found some of it trickling from the corner of his mouth, but was stopped by a hand cupping his chin when he was about to gather up the cream with his own tongue.

"Let me," Hobbs requested in a broken voice.

Wellard moved up, smiling and turning his face up to allow Hobbs access.

Hobbs flicked his tongue against the corner of Wellard's mouth, making the boy whimper, and licked away every last trace, letting his tongue linger longer than strictly necessary.

"I shall never get enough of that," Wellard finally whispered, before kissing Hobbs frantically.

"Of me licking your face?" Hobbs joked.

Wellard smiled mischievously. "That was not what I meant, but since you ask... Is there any part of me where your tongue would not venture?"

Hobbs thought he might come again just from those words. "None whatsoever," he assured his young lover huskily, and proceeded to prove himself a man of his word.