Chapter Text
A Reception Hosted by the Admiralty
The dinner, hosted by the Admiralty in honor of the brave and tragic survivors of the expedition, is the last place on Earth that Francis would like to be. In fact, he thinks to himself, a tightly rehearsed smile on his lips as he nods at whatever brainless statement the younger Barrow is spouting, he would give anything to be on a ship surrounded by ice sheets and frigid water once more than to suffer through the social obligations that has followed his miraculous return to England.
He stares morosely at the water in his hand, pondering for an unfair moment, whether he should take up drinking again. His next best option would be to walk across the room, shove his face into the punch bowl, and, if not drown himself, at least enjoy a few second’s peace.
The morbid dwellings in his mind are forgotten momentarily when a man he has not seen in weeks appears before his eyes across the room.
Commander Fitzjames, resplendent and regal in his dress uniform, enters the arched doorway beside Lieutenant Le Vesconte. Francis’s eyes meet his across the way, and his heart stutters in his chest. It has been months since the two of them have seen each other, and all of Francis’s letters, short as they may be, have gone unanswered.
He brusquely interrupts Barrow. “Pardon me, sir. I’m needed elsewhere.”
He does not wait for Barrow to answer as he deposits his untouched glass on the table and quickly makes his way across the room. Fitzjames sees him coming, and there is a brief expression of panic as his eyes widen and he begins to take a half-step back.
Francis is too impatient to care that he is elbowing his way to Fitzjames’s side, and he pointedly ignores the gasp of the woman who gets shouldered out of his way.
“Commander Fitzjames, a pleasure,” he says, placing his hand lightly at Fitzjames’s elbow. “Might I have a word in private? It’s urgent.”
Fitzjames, despite the easy smile on his face, glances frantically at Le Vesconte who looks ready to step in on a moment’s notice.
Francis drops his voice. “Please, James.”
A tremor travels down Fitzjames’s arm where Francis is holding it, but his voice is even when he excuses himself. “I’ll find you later, Dundy, madam.”
The two of them exit the room the same way Fitzjames entered, and Francis quickly tugs him into a deserted hallway where the two of them will not be overheard. When he turns, Fitzjames’s posture has drooped, looking very much like a child about to be scolded.
“How have you been, James?” Francis asks, taking a chance at reaching for his hand this time, rather than his elbow. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
Fitzjames gives a noncommittal shake of his head. “I was doing you a favor, Francis. After the court martial, I assumed that I was the last person you would want to see.”
Francis gapes at him. “Why ever would you think that?”
Unless, he realizes with thunderous dread, Fitzjames would rather not have his career sullied by the disgraced Captain Crozier.
When Fitzjames does not answer otherwise, Francis releases his hand. “Well. If you would rather I leave you be, I can. I’m no stranger to being rebuffed—”
“No!” Fitzjames interjects. “That is not what I want. I thought you didn’t want to see me as a reminder of everything…”
“Did anything in my letters give you that impression?”
Francis steps close to him, setting one hand at Fitzjames waist, the other carefully touching his cheek.
“James, I am old enough that I live with many regrets.” He slides his hand farther, his palm cupping Fitzjames’s jaw and his fingers brushing against the loose strands of hair by his ear. “I do not want that for us.”
He kisses James, half-expecting the man to pull away in disgust, but the ice melts in a great torrent. He kisses back forcefully, his arms circling around Francis’s shoulder. Francis digs his hand deeper into his hair, pulling him down close, and angling the kiss so he may better taste him.
Both of them are breathing hard when the kiss finally breaks.
Fitzjames closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Francis’s.
“I was frightened that you would hate me, after everything,” he admits, his voice tiny.
Francis chuckles, the sound equally sad and fond. “You could have simply written me back, you wonderful, silly man.”