Rating/Pairing: M/M Styles/Randall. NC-17 for explicit sex. Meaningless, tawdry sex between men who don’t even like each other. No chickens, no beasts of burden (unless you count Randall).

Disclaimer: The universe of Horatio Hornblower, and the characters who appear in it are not mine. I wrote this story for pleasure, not profit, and with no intention of infringing anyone’s copyrights. If you want to print and read, be my guest, but leave my name on it. If you want to archive, please ask. Thanks

Summary:Why does Randall have it in for Styles? Fill-in piece for Mutiny and Retribution.

Feedback: As much as I can get! Send to: Ragged Rose

His cock would be the death of him in the end. He knew it, but somehow he never failed to follow where it led.

"All right, then," Styles said roughly. He dragged his hand through the brown curls and pulled willing lips up to meet his.

They were both swaying on their feet, fortified by a double tot each. Styles pulled the other man's hips against him, grinding their erections together. The sweaty flesh pressed up against him wasn't the woman he wanted, but it would have to do. With the rum singing in his body, mixing with the lust that filled him, Styles was past the point of caring. He pushed his companion up against the bulkhead and fumbled with his clothes. Soon enough they both had their trousers around their ankles. Styles turned the other man around.

"I can take it," his companion said. "See if I can't."

Styles bent him over a cask and forced his way inside, giving in at last to the lust that had possessed him since the ship had left the land. He grunted his passion and thrust helplessly into the warm flesh before him. It wasn't long till it was over.

Styles felt faintly sick as the waves of lust receded. Even through the alcohol he wondered what had come over him. Some men learned to live without it at sea. He had never been able to find the trick to that. He pushed away from his companion and began to do up his trousers.

"My turn."

Styles looked up at Randall, standing before him half naked and filthy. "Later."

"I let ye go first, and I thought we were mates." Randall's face was savage.

"We're mates, Randall. But I can't. Not now." He continued to put himself to rights. "This is no way to be come upon. Get yourself dressed."

"This is it, then?"

"This is what?" Styles buckled his large belt.

"It's the last time you touch me, you filthy bastard, that's what it is!" Randall swayed forward and swung at Styles. He missed, and fell sprawling on the deck.

"Randall, you're drunk. So am I. I'll talk to ye when we're sober." Styles pushed back through the casks and sacks in the hold. Stupid bastard! He wasn't sure if he meant Randall or himself. But it would be the last time he laid hands on the bugger, he vowed to himself.

It might have ended there, if it hadn't been for Will. The young seaman was newly taken aboard, and a volunteer at that. Styles had taken an almost instant liking to him. He was pathetically eager to please, and was constantly asking questions about his new profession, for he didn't see the Navy as anything less.

Styles took the lad under his wing, and showed him the ropes, literally. Since leaving port, the two had been meeting on deck during the dog watches. Each day, Styles would teach the boy some new bit of seamanship, and test him on what he had learned in the days before. Today, they were playing at pin chasing. Styles would name a line, and Will would put his hand on the pin it was made off on as quickly as he could. Then the boy would name a line, and Styles would do the same.

"Fore royal halyard," Styles called.

Will darted for the fife rail, but once there, stood still, unable to remember where to go from there.

Styles stayed where he was, waiting for the lad to name a line, or give up. He watched him look up to the yard itself, and try to follow the passage of the halyard down to the deck. It was a measure of just how slack a ship Renown was that Will was alone in his lesson. He should have had every landsman in the crew playing at this! Will should have been racing another man to get to the line first, and prizes should have been awarded for the fastest team. "What did I tell ye about halyards, lad?"

Randall watched their fun with increasing ill humor. "Bluidy bastard," he muttered. "Playing with children when he could have men."

"There are some as can't handle men," Hobbs answered.

Randall turned and looked at his companion, then laughed lewdly. "So there are!"

But his eyes followed the pair as they played, and the bitterness in his heart shone through them. So Styles preferred boys, did he? He wondered if the young slut had let himself be buggered yet. Surely if he had, Styles hadn't returned the favor. A boy would take things that a man would not.

Then came the gale, and Randall took his chance to get back at his enemy at last. Styles made a wild grab for Will as he fell, but this time he couldn't hold on. It was hard throwing the lad over the side without any word to mark his passing, but it had to be done, for Mr. Hornblower's sake, if for no other reason. Styles managed to rip the small cross from around the boy's neck without anyone seeing him do it as they dragged the body to the lee rail, and he swore silently that Randall would pay for this. He pushed all other thoughts aside with the tiny bit of silver that went unobtrusively into his pocket. Matthews was right. Time enough for all of that later, not here, under the mad eyes of Sawyer, and the gloating ones of Randall.

****

It was days before Styles was able to turn to the unfinished business of Randall. Between the gale, and the hard work of setting the ship to rights afterwards, personal matters had to wait. No matter what Randall had done, the ship always came first. Later, after the fight was over, Styles was in Matthews's tiny cabin forward.

"Damn them for breaking that up, and damn you for helping them, Matty!" So anger still worked to keep other emotions at bay. Some things never changed and he was glad of it. He'd do for Randall in the end, that wouldn't change either.

Matthews laid a gentle hand on his friend's forearm. It was small enough comfort to offer to Styles, but it was all he had, besides the rum that he was slowly portioning out. He knew Styles well enough by now to know that too much would only lead his mate back to Randall, to finish what he'd started. "What good would it have done, mate? It's over and done with, that's a fact."

Styles caught Matthews's eyes with his own. "Not by a long chalk it ain't. Ye saw what happened. We all did. He'll pay for what he did to Will."

"No he won't, Matthews said, just as determined. "Not by your hand, nor mine, Styles. I'm sorry, ye know I am, but ye know that we've got a job to do. We've got to stand together, and we've got to keep order. With pieces of work like Hobbs and Randall about we've got our jobs set out before us."

"Ye can say that after what that murdering bastard did? He was a boy, Matty, barely a seaman, and no match for Randall. He put himself on one side of the line, doing for a child, and I'm on the other."

Matthews wondered yet again just what had passed between Styles and Will. He had seen them often enough in the dogwatches, and he knew he would miss the boy as well, but had there been any deeper feeling between them? He knew he couldn't ask that, but still he wondered. "It won't bring him back, Jim, and it won't solve anything else neither. It'll make things a damn sight worse."

Styles drained the rum that was left in his cup and leaned back against the bulwark. He tipped his head back till it touched the wood. All he could see was the look of triumph in Randall's face as he'd admitted throwing Will off the yard. All he wanted to do was to smash it so hard it would never look at anything again. He stuck his hand in his pocket, and closed his fingers around the little silver cross. It was the only thing of value Will had had. He felt the responsibility he'd taken, both for the lad and as boatswain's mate, settle over him like a shroud. Now he realized that having the teaching of the lad had made them both feel that they belonged, he as boatswain's mate, and Will as part of the crew. When he could, he'd have to see that it got back to the boy's mother. Randall had killed Will partly because of him, because he'd thought that there was more between them than there had been. A dirty little supposition that wasn't true, and never would have been. "Aye, I know that." He put the cup back on the chest. "I'll not do anything to stir the pot, Matty." He raised his head and looked straight at his friend. "But if I catches him away from the ship, he's mine."

****

In the days and weeks that followed, Styles was as good as his word. He did not rise to Randall's attempts to pick fights, but neither did he give ground to them. As the captain's hold on the crew became ever weaker, Matthews was grateful for his steadiness. The two of them took to eating on the lower deck, even though they were entitled to the comfort of the gunroom, simply to keep a weather eye on the crew.

The constant state of tension between the pair did no one any good though, and Matthews couldn't understand why it had to continue. At last, he tried to speak to Styles about it.

"You'd do well not to let Randall get to ye."

Styles rolled his eyes. "But he's *so *--"

Matthews would not be dissuaded. "Hey! Ye're boatswain's mate now, it's your job to *keep* order."

Just then, Randall called him away. By the time he had discovered the ruse and returned with Hornblower, the damage was done. All Matthews could do was to haul his friend forward to the sick berth and make sure he was seen to. The rest would have to wait until later, but Matthews was certain now that there was more to the whole affair than Will's death. Then Randall finally crossed a line that even Matthews couldn't ignore.

****

Styles was on the orlop, making his way aft to the gunroom when he heard the footsteps on the deck behind him.

"Evening, Styles."

The low voice came out of the darkness behind him. Before Styles could turn, a weight landed on his back and shoved him into the bulwark. He felt his arm twisted painfully behind his back. The rough wood dug into his cheek, but he was held too tightly to struggle very much.

"This time it's my turn."

Randall's voice grated in his ear. He felt a hand fumble at the front of his trousers. The pressure on his back eased as the hand fought to slip between him and the wood, and Styles took his chance. He shoved backwards, and to the side, and managed to knock his assailant off-balance. The respite only lasted a second. Randall let him pull back, and then slammed his head into the bulwark. When his senses came back, he was lying on the deck, his trousers half unbuttoned.

"Damn it, let me go!"

Randall laughed. "Why? Ye had yours, and ye walked off leaving me tae fend for meself, *shipmate*. I'll take what's coming tae me and I'll have it now!"

Styles heaved up desperately, but Randall's knee was firmly in his belly and across one of his arms. He pinned the other arm with one hand, as he finished undoing the trouser buttons with the other. "You bastard!"

"Am I?" Randall rocked back, keeping tight hold of both of Styles's arms as he did so, and turned the other man onto his stomach. "I don't go after boys, at least." He shoved his knee into the small of his back. "I'm sure young Will let ye have yer way wi' him and didn't ask nothing in return." The struggles of his victim only angered him now. "Filthy bugger!" Randall let go long enough to grab Styles's head by the hair and slam it down into the deck. "Stop it!"

Stunned again, Styles could do nothing as he felt his trousers jerked roughly down around his ankles. The sick realization that he was about to be raped only made things worse. God damn his cock and its appetites! Randall, of all people! How could he even--

"Here now, what's going on?"

Randall whipped around at the sound of Matthews's voice. "It's no concern o' yours, mate!"

Matthews stepped forward, the lantern in his hand leaving no doubt as to what was taking place. "I think the less said about this the better, Randall, and if you don't get out of my sight, I'll see the captain hears about this. As I understand it, assaulting a petty officer is still at least a flogging offense" His tone was calm, but the import of his words was not lost on Randall.

"Want him for yersel', d'ye?" Reluctantly he got off of the fallen Styles. "He ain't that good in bed." He leaned over Styles. "This is nae over, mate," he growled. He pulled his clothing to rights and slunk off towards the ladder. "I wish ye joy o' him, *Mr.*Matthews!"

Matthews watched him go. Behind him, he heard Styles picking himself up off the deck. As the sound of Randall's bare feet receded, he turned to face him. "What was that all about, now?"

Styles hung his head miserably. "Ye don't want to know."

Matthews smiled sadly. "Ye're probably right at that." His expression hardened. "But I've got to. Ye know as well as I what I saw." He stepped closer to Styles and lowered his voice still more. "With the way of things aft, I don't know as our good captain would stand behind me if I brought charges against Randall, and I can't settle this if I don't know what went on. Now come on forward to me cabin and let's see what we can do to deal with this on our own."

It took a couple of cups of rum, but at last, Styles began to tell his story. "It's been a long time since we've been ashore. I just couldn't keep my mind from it."

"From what," Matthews prompted.

"From women, from shore. Sometimes it gets so hard I could make off the main topsail halyard on it! I just couldn't stand it no longer."

Matthews snorted. "Ye've got a hand, don't ye? Mother Thumb and her four daughters keep a man well enough, when there's naught else."

Styles looked at the deck. "Sometimes that only makes it worse."

"Does it now?" Matthews reached for the bottle and poured them both another drink. "I've not found it so." He wondered how long it would take Styles to get to the point. No matter, neither of them had anything to do till morning. He found the life of an idler comforting that way. No need to climb out of his hammock in the middle of the night unless something were wrong.

Styles looked up at his friend. "You wouldn't--you're an old man!"

"I'm young enough for the lasses, and that's good enough for me," Matthews returned imperturbably. "We're barely three months out of harbor and you're whining already." This was an old, old song. Styles and his almighty Cock.

"What about when ye were younger?"

Matthews chuckled. "I'm not in me grave yet, Styles! Ye think I don't want it as well?" He picked up his cup. "But there's no use in chasing after something ye can't have. I learned that long ago. All it does is tie a man up in knots, as I see ye doing now."

"'Haven't ye ever thought of other ways?"

Styles was looking at the deck again, and Matthews knew that at last they were getting somewhere. "What other ways d'ye mean?" He knew he didn't want to hear the answer, knew after what he had seen what it must be, but there was no way out but through.

"Your mates," Styles turned his eyes to Matthews's, misery and longing shining plainly from them.

Matthews kept silent a moment, unsure of what to say. He had thought it had been Randall until this moment. He'd been certain of it. Surely enough, Styles was right, and after twenty years in the Navy, it was a tack he'd taken a time or two. But with Styles? "Look here, you're a good mate, but--"

"I didn't mean you," Styles interrupted.

Matthews let his breath out, relief plain in his face. "That's all right then. I think we've all at least thought about it from time to time." He took another drink and waited for the rest.

"I tried it."

"Did ye like it?" Might as well have all of it now, Matthews thought to himself. No wonder the man was troubled. He hadn't tried it before, nor liked it when he did, to judge from what he'd walked in on. Just as well, a man like Styles was all too likely to be led about by the bollocks as it was.

"I did, actually," Styles admitted slowly. "At first. But afterwards...." He took a long drink. "My damned cock will be the death of me."

"True enough," Matthews agreed. "But next time I think ye'll know better."

Styles looked bleakly at Matthews. "I don't know. I hope so. But I was drunk, and I needed it bad, and I didn't care who it was with. And it felt so good! How do I know it won't be that way again? And worse, it was with a bastard like Randall!"

"No need to name names, mate." Matthews knew just how thin the bulkheads of the forward cabins were. But it all made sense now. "He wanted another try, and wouldn't take no for an answer, then?"

"No. I didn't let him take his turn with me the first time, and he wanted what was coming to him."

Matthews buried his face in his hand. He might have known. "Was it just the once, and was it just with Randall?" His voice was low enough not to carry past the cabin door.

Styles sighed. "Aye, it was." It was out in the open, at least between them At least he hadn't had to tell Matthews what the bugger had said about Will.

"Good. At least we've only the one mess to deal with," Matthews said softly. He turned exasperated eyes on his mate, his whole demeanor changed in an instant. "What kind of born bloody fool are ye, Styles? Ye're Boatswain's mate now, not some shit-for-brains seaman just been pressed! I need ye to help me solve problems, not cause 'em! Just because yer almighty great cock hasn't found a warm hole to hide in since we left port is no damned excuse! Ye see what letting the thing drag ye about leads to! What in hell's name were ye doing drunk in the first place, and what kind of a pitiful excuse is that for buggering Randall? I put ye where ye are because I trust ye! Because with things as they are, I need ye to help me keep order in a ship that has damned little of it! If ye're going to behave as a common seaman, then go back to the lower deck with the rest of the louts and buggerers!

Matthews's tone never rose above a whisper, but Styles felt every word strike home. He felt as if he'd taken a round of canister in the chest, and he knew he deserved it. "I'm sorry," he said when at last the onslaught stopped. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Ye bloody well should be!" Matthews poured them both another cup of rum. "But what's done is done." He looked at the deckhead for a moment, marshaling his thoughts and his patience. "But can I trust ye to keep it in your trousers from now on, mate?"

Styles nodded solemnly. "Aye." He had never felt less like a boatswain's mate in his life.

"Now what in hell are we going to do about Randall?" Matthews turned back to the practical problem. With a captain who wouldn't back his commissioned nor his warrant officers, save for that toady Hobbs, they had no one to turn to but themselves.

"Oh, I'll take care of him," said Styles. "The bugger won't catch me out again. But I'll have to be free to deal with him as I see fit."

Matthews sighed. He knew Styles was right. It was a thing he'd never tolerate had he been boatswain in a ship that was properly officered. Renown was not, and Randall had crossed a line that would have meant swift hanging in any other ship in the fleet. "All right, Styles. But I'll have one more thing from ye. No getting drunk. We'll both need our wits about us, and no mistake."

"Can't do that with a bastard like Randall about," Styles agreed. "And he won't get to me again, Matty." He vowed he wouldn't give Matthews any more reason to wonder about him, or to be disappointed. He wanted to be proud to stand beside his friend again, to give him reason to be proud of him as he had been before. He wondered when it had begun to matter to him what Matthews thought, when the Navy had become more than just another experience to be gotten through. He had never had anyone depend on him in his life, but he found that he liked it.

****

The Captain's fall actually improved the discipline of the ship, even as it raised questions about the officers, who were now in charge in fact as well as in name. Without the constant extra rations of rum, the men were better able to do their jobs, and far less prone to fighting. The cloud of confusion that had settled over the ship was beginning to lift.

Matthews stepped out of the fore hatch, feeling better than he had since they had left the Channel behind. He was tired, but it was the satisfied feeling one got after exertion, rather than the exhaustion of being unable to do a task one was responsible for. He'd felt that way far too

often this cruise, what with the captain and his unpredictable shifts of temper. It had been one thing after another, something that needed to be done and wasn't, or a call to do something useless. He'd felt alternately indispensable and utterly worthless. In the end, he had been

watching the crew go to pieces around him. He could keep her fabric sound enough, even with such help as he had had, but keeping order had been a task that had only been possible in his immediate vicinity, and it had been largely a product of his fists and his rattan.

Today, however, the crew had spent the afternoon watch exercising at the guns. It was a task Matthews had always been good at, and today he had the extra satisfaction of being able to teach Gunner Hobbs his business. Though Matthews had no doubt that the man did know his profession, he could not show his ability with the rabble of a crew he had had to work with. Matthews, on the other hand, had had Styles, and the two of them had managed to get their crew to outperform the rest of the deck by the end of the drill. Matthews had felt Hobbs's angry eyes upon him, and felt that at last, things were getting back to where they should have been all along. In token of that, Matthews climbed to the foredeck. It was time and past time for the bower anchors and their gear to be inspected. They'd be needed soon enough, when Renown reached Kingston. It was there that Hornblower came upon him and made his strange request.

Matthews, in turn, found Styles in the waist. "We're to break out the washdeck hoses and the pump. "Mr. Hornblower wants to take a bath." He came down the foredeck ladder towards his bewildered mate.

"He wants to do what?"

Matthews turned at the bottom of the ladder, smiling broadly. "That's what he said." He continued on his way aft.

"Whoever heard of that?" Styles marveled for a moment at the unpredictable nature of officers, then went to do as he'd been told.

****

Samana Bay saw an end to it all, though. The apparent recovery of the captain had been bad enough. The abortive battle and the grounding had been a long descent back into the cloud of darkness that seemed to envelop Sawyer's world, and the portion of the larger world he

controlled. When that had been confined to the great stern cabin, Matthews had felt sorry for the man, though relieved for the rest of them. Buckland was indecisive, but he wasn't dangerous, at least not to the ship and the crew. Matthews began to hope that they might see Kingston Harbor after all.

He lost even that faint comfort at the beginning of the morning watch. As he made his way along the rows of sleeping men, prodding and shouting the watch below awake, he came on the clump of empty hammocks. “They’ve run,” he said softly, disbelievingly. He ran for Styles and then for

Hornblower.

Soon the remainder of the ship’s company were all assembled abaft the main mast, the officers in a tight knot, discussing what was to be done. Styles and Matthews stood in their accustomed places as they waited with the rest. Matthews knew just when the missing seamen had managed their escape, and try as he might, he couldn’t see any other way it could have happened. No matter how he turned it about in his mind, it came down to Hobbs, who had been officer of the watch at the time, and the active aid of the division that had been on watch under him. His mind strayed to the man confined in the cabin below, and how the rot had spread from him to the company. You could replace rotten timbers, scarf in new pieces where the damage was slight. But how did you deal with a ship’s company slowly going bad?

The officers came to a decision at last. As the landing parties were told off to go ashore, issued weapons, and set to lowering the boats that were left, Matthews could feel the improvement in the atmosphere aboard. He wondered whether it was too late for Renown and her crew. It surely was for Sawyer, and Hobbs.

What they found on the beach, paradoxically, bound them even closer together. The third division lay in a depression, a pathetic cluster of bodies. The deserter’s wages were plain to see. Matthews looked to his mate, staring at the bodies.

Styles had been wishing for Randall's death, praying to be the one to give it to him. The sight of the body lying cold and defenseless on the beach gave him no sense of triumph. All he felt was anger, and a sense of having been cheated.

It was over at last.

THE END