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The dull, eternal sunlight of Arctic summer shines through the worn-thin canvas of the tent.
They have not made good time today, Francis knows. Not near close to it.
What good time entails, precisely, he can no longer say. Four miles a day is a miracle, the ten that they had made only last week is an impossibility with the boats behind them and the count of bodies strong enough to haul dwindling. He knows other captains, other men- better men, perhaps, who would not have found themselves here to begin with, starving and desperate- would have pushed harder. Perhaps left the sick to their misery, furnished with food that they can barely choke down. Perhaps left personal items, left the boats, and then stumbled the endless miles to the sea with only a prayer for rescue and the last vestiges of the men they once were left behind.
Francis is a fool, maybe, but not in this. He has lost so much- he cannot leave the best parts of himself behind too.
In the end, it had been simple to call a halt. James could not be hauled, the sick were crying out in the boats, those who had the strength to scream, screaming themselves hoarse, and Francis would spare them whatever suffering he could.
Francis has always been a grasping thing. Covetous to the last, drenched in vice, and gripping tight to whoever- whatever- is closest, be it James Ross or Sophia or the the neck of a bottle. Or all three.
He has relinquished each of those things, unwilling to the last, and he'd thought himself free. He'd embraced life with a different albatross wound round his neck: Duty, responsibility, one step forward after another, beyond the reach of hope and despair.
But now-
He wants still, when he ought not to. He clings when he would be better served by letting go. He will not do James the disservice of calling him a mere distraction, but Francis knows that he is focused on the welfare of one man above all the others.
It is James who breaks the silence, saying hoarsely: "You won't look in on the men?"
"If anything changes, Little or Jopson will inform me," Francis answers, and that is that. James smiles, a shy, close-mouthed thing that does not look quite right on his face. He's lost teeth, his mouth is surely filled with blood, and Francis is grateful to be spared the sight. Bad enough his wounds are reopening- a horrid discovery by Goodsir, when he'd collapsed-, bad enough that Francis cannot stitch them together and simply will James healthier, for he's no doctor and even if he were, they've no cure yet for the true cause. But to see his forced merriment while he suffers is more than Francis can bear.
"I would rather be here," he admits. With you, he does not say, but James' eyes soften anyway.
"I would rather you here too," James replies, a tinge of shame to it. "Selfish of me to hoard you to myself so, but I cannot help it."
"Hoarding, as if you were some great dragon," Francis scoffs. "Hardly, James. This shan't even be a footnote in the newly lengthened tale of that Chinese sniper of yours."
James is quiet for a moment. "Do you know, I can't quite remember how it starts?"
Francis' chest twists.
"Zhenjiang," he prompts, gently, but James shakes his head.
"No, I- I think I've had enough of it, for now. God, not two years ago, you'd have rejoiced to hear that." A huff, nearly a laugh. "I'm afraid I'm all out of stories, Francis, but I can't sleep just yet. I don't suppose you've one for me? Something happy. Perhaps from your Antarctic voyage?"
"...I can manage something," Francis answers, unable to keep the doubt from his tone. "But I do not have your taste for it, so forgive me that."
"Nonsense." James dismisses this easily. "You have your charms, I assure you."
That- no, Francis cannot dwell on it, nor the surge of affection that threatens to overcome him.
"I do my best," he says dryly instead. "Very well, then. Van Diemen's Land, while Sir John was governor and James- Ross, that is- and I were there before the Antarctic. Ostensibly to prepare, but there was less preparation and more parties than I'd expected."
"I imagine you must've been mortified," James puts in, light and teasing. Francis is glad to hear it.
"I was not yet so soured to them then," he admits. "And at the time, Miss Cracroft was in attendance at many." It feels so terribly far away; he cannot remember what it is like to hold Sophia in his arms, and to think of dancing with her, he sees it as if through a curtain. "You might say that I had more motivation to make an appearance then. But- no matter. James got it into his head that we ought to outdo them all before we left, you know. And he's a difficult man to deny. He thought to lash Terror and Erebus together there in the harbor, and use them both for the ballroom. None of the fine homes could match their glory- and I very much doubt that the halls took anywhere near as much work to furnish. Or if it did, it was not on my part. And dear James, he was a tyrant in his quest for magnificence." Francis can hear his voice slipping towards fondness, and he does not stop himself. Surely in this he is allowed sentiment; James Fitzjames has bared himself, and so Francis is willing to show his own hand. "Though you are not outdone in that respect. Perhaps it is something in the name."
James laughs at that, a rusty, muffled noise. "Perhaps. Strange that I should have so much in common with him, though."
"Is it? You both lay claim to the title of Handsomest Man in the Navy, both have captained Erebus most ably, and you both have my trust," Francis lists easily. But he cannot be so light-hearted now, and he has often been too stingy with the praise James needs. He does not think overmuch on why he feels he ought to compensate now. "And you are of course both brave beyond believe, and honorable. Capable leaders, men who other men want to follow."
James' eyes go very shiny, and Francis clears his throat, looking away. He has said more than he meant to, but James has that peculiar effect on him these days.
"Tell me about the ball, then," he says softly and mercifully. "The old girls must have been wonderfully dressed up for it."
"You'd have cried to see them," Francis admits, grief tinting his voice. He does his level best not to think of the ships he's left in the teeth of the ice, nor the few men with them; part of him feels as if he ought to have stayed for how much he loves and owes them- it is more than an inglorious, watery grave, he is sure. James' face grows somber, and Francis knows he is thinking of the same thing.
But their duty is to the men, first and foremost, and Francis knows they would not walk out without him and survive.
"It was a wonderful night," he makes himself say. And so he continues on, stories of a different pole, a happier time. The sort that he's been begged to tell and has always demurred, leaving it to James Ross, who, while he outshines Francis easily, admittedly does not have quite the talent for embellishment as James Fitzjames.
Strange, that he should think of them in such comparison. Stranger yet that he should not find Fitzjames to be wanting, as he might have not even a year ago.
But these words come easily, and he keeps his voice soft as he sees James slowly slide towards sleep, until his breathing deepens and evens.
It will not be the last time James sleeps, he tells himself.
It cannot.
Time slips by, syrupy. Francis hears the men move around outside, shale clacking and shifting beneath their feet. One watch, then another. Someone crying out in their slumber, quieting gradually rather than suddenly. The flicker of silhouettes through thin canvas, the best they could manage with the sturdier supplies long since abandoned, all familiar.
It is no different from their last stop, but different yet again from the one before- they had lost two men to sickness that night, and had buried them deeply in the morning. Two bodies less to haul makes no difference to their load. Two souls suffering less makes it easier to bear, in a strange, cruel way. Not even Sir John Ross had faced this. Not even Sir John Franklin, bless the man and damn him for his stubbornness that in turn will damn them all at the end, did worse than eat his own boots.
Francis smooths his thumb against the notches of James' knuckles. He counts the beats of the world by the shallow rise and fall of a fragile chest, packed in what makeshift bandages they can spare.
But today, tonight, the silence does not take him.
Instead there is a new flurry of movement, the shape of a man Francis does not know, the clamor of voices he does not recognize- new ones, not the men he has walked all these miles with, and not those who mutinied and still stalk them as a specter in the distance.
"Frank," says another James, the first one, and the name feels like coming home, like an ill-fitting coat wrapped around his shoulders, warm all the same.
"James," he breathes out. He can hardly believe it; he hadn't hoped for rescue, only for the endless march to be broken up by a river in which they could fish, what few of them might remain.
He had not hoped for life, himself, nor for their desperation to be resolved in one fell swoop, yet here it is.
James Ross, arms extended, smiling like the fucking sun.
His embrace squeezes Francis tight, back into the shape of a man who knows to be a man.
And he returns it.
We are saved, he mouths into the coat beneath his face.
"I have you. I am here, you are safe," James echoes his thoughts, fierce.
And Francis believes him.
It is a while yet before Francis takes him into the tent to properly meet James. Not for lacking the desire to- no, Francis is surprised to find that he rather looks forward to it, and he dislikes leaving James' side more than he has to. It is strange for them to be separate at all. Even when James could no longer haul, he would always be in the boat Francis himself was strapped to, within hearing distance if not within immediate reach as he is when they curl up together at night and Francis counts the beats of his heart, willing vitality into it.
No, it is nothing but the logistics of rescue- that great, impossible thing, one Francis can hardly believe even now- that keeps them apart. Delegation, a summary of their newly combined resources, a murmured warning that the men will not abide tinned food- not at present, and Francis will not insist- though Francis has yet to share the whole sorry story. He instead offers the truth: That even those who are still standing need the fresh meat that has been brought, for if the scurvy has not yet gotten so severe, it is better to prevent than treat. Francis is among the few who show little sign of it beyond uncommon exhaustion, but he knows the spectre of it well enough to accept his own portion when it is given.
There is a tour of the camp, scant as it is, and Francis' refusal to see it from the eyes of the men who have come to save them: Shabby, screaming of desperation, barely surviving. There is dealing with Le Vesconte, tragically still relatively hale, and Little, and arranging for how they may haul and transport the sick with them. James has brought with him McClintock, who Francis had liked in a distant way but respected for his expertise, and most importantly, a brace of fresh, strong men willing to strap in with the few of them still well enough to haul.
Maps, the tracing of a direct route, only fifty miles or so- such a short distance that Francis could nearly weep with it, for they shall make it to the Enterprise and the Investigator within the span of a week, and even that is an overly generous estimate, according to McClintock. They aren't to move just yet, not until the men are well enough that the sledges will be bearable for those who cannot yet walk, but there is little rush. Enterprise and Investigator are in sight of open water, and there is no risk of a freeze to trap them.
And then, finally, the day's toll taken and the camp bustling with activity and life in a way it never has been, Francis brings his oldest friend into the tent to meet his dearest. He has not given much thought to the meeting, yet now he finds himself standing ramrod straight
"Sir James Clark Ross," he pronounces to Fitzjames, who is upright- and Francis dares to imagine, looking stronger for having been fed- and smiling wanly, close-mouthed. "Commander James Fitzjames- Captain now, truly- and my second on this expedition. He has been- invaluable, a braver soul you would not find elsewhere."
"The pleasure is mine," James says, and bows neatly at the waist. He betrays no surprise at Francis' perhaps excessive praise, but it is no more than James deserves, to his mind. "We have met before, though I wish circumstances now were less dire."
"Captain Crozier is too kind to me," Fitzjames replies. He sketches out a bow as best he can while seated, and Francis' chest twists to see it. He remembers what an elegant figure James cut in his dress uniform, epaulettes and buttons gleaming, all flash and charm. Empty, or so Francis had found it, but he is not what he once was.
They are past vanity, perhaps, and Francis still finds him beautiful, but he is achingly grateful that James does not comment on it at all.
"Frank is never kind to those who do not deserve it," James retorts with an easy smile. Ah, but he's been touched by the poles too, if not this harshly. Francis would do well not to forget that; they'd suffered in the Antarctic together, and even without Ann, they both knew he would never return to the ice.
"I have no pretensions to kindness at all," Francis puts in, and James both Ross and Fitzjames laugh at him.
This, too, does something to his heart that he would rather not examine.
He had not thought to want it. He had not at all thought he needed it, but it is a balm. This, of all things, settles in his soul that the rescue is real, that they will return. That they have survived, for James can laugh and his dear James can laugh with him, and Francis has a sudden, powerful vision of the three of them comfortable with a roaring fire in the hearth, Ann smiling indulgently down at them and Fitzjames hand in his own.
To want is a terrible, dangerous thing. Francis has always been undone by it; to have this would destroy him, he knows.
He tucks it away instead, with the rest of his foolish hopes, but he does not forget.
"You," James says, lifting one too-thin hand that Francis wishes to clasp between his own. "You do not get to claim unkindness any longer, Francis. Not when you are the reason we are still here, when you have proved, time and again, that you love your men more than God himself does. Whether they deserve it or no."
"I am the last person to judge what another man deserves," Francis tells him. He keeps his voice light, but he feels Ross' eyes land on him searching lyrics, and he almost flinches from the scrutiny.
He is not the man who left Greenhithe, embittered, drunk, and defeated. But he is not sure he can see he is a better one.
"You overestimate what others deserve but underestimate what you yourself do," James Ross says, one hand clasped to Francis' shoulder as if he can pour strength into him through it. Perhaps he can, for Francis is more cheered than he ought to be by the contact. "It is your one blind spot, Frank, but now you've another pair of eyes to serve as assistance, it seems."
Francis feels the heat rise to his face, and curses his complexion for not the first time.
"Just the one eye at present, I'm afraid," James corrects him, as if the slow degradation of his body hasn't been fought bitterly with all his strength. "But I'm given to believe that it'll improve rather quickly with the supplies you've brought."
Ross nods solemnly; the changes in James must be starkly obvious to a man who last saw him fluttering about society and charming all in his wake.
"So it shall," he says firmly. "I had better leave you to your rest, Commander, but we shall speak later, hm?"
"Of course," James agrees. There is something of hope on his face, dawning like a new day. It is beautiful to see; Francis feels as if he might weep. Hope, returned where he had never thought to see it.
"Rest well," Francis tells him as he's swept out of the tent yet again. He cannot make an excuse to stay- and James does need to stay abed as much as possible to regain his strength before they are to move him.
But he shall.
Francis smiles, and basks in their salvation.
James- Fitzjames, that is- is with the other sick at the ship's infirmary, Goodsir and Bridgens both busying themselves with the doctors, eager to help how they may now that they have true supplies, fresher lemon juice and better foods to stave off the onset of scurvy. The question of the tinned provisions is not one that Francis is equipped to answer in turn, as he does not know how much poison a man can ingest before he is past the point of return.
The scurvy is their main concern at present, though it is rapidly becoming less of one- and it is his hope that as it recedes, the lead's effects too will lessen. The rest, as he had told Goodsir firmly, would have to be taken after they were a comfortable distance from death's door.
When they have been plagued with so many ailments- spoilt food and then starvation, lead and scurvy and hours of walking and hauling with no fresh meat to be had-, it is impossible to separate each cause from the end effect. Useless, certainly, for Francis to try.
He may only make a nuisance of himself in the sick bay, watch as lemon juice and meat (caught not even a week ago, according to Bird, for their hunting parties had met with more success than Francis' own) are poured down unresisting throats. He may only sit, no longer able to hold James' hand close as he did in the scant privacy of their tent and then the bedroll they shared, and count the shallow, ragged breaths.
And he does, religiously, for as long as he is allowed. He cannot leave them now; he still feels as if he will wake up and realize it is a cruel dream, instead of reality, and he'll find himself on the ice- or worse yet, the shale- again.
There is little enough that he has to do; he is not the captain of either of these ships for all that old Bird and James Ross know him well. And James is more indulgent of him now than he would be otherwise, though Francis does try not to make a nuisance of himself.
They dine together, they berth together in swaying hammocks in the Enterprise's great cabin, and the closeness is a balm to a wound that Francis had barely noticed for all the others. It helps, even as his thoughts stray towards James in the infirmary, weakened still but nearly ready to berth elsewhere according to the doctors. It's the bullet wounds that are the trouble, with how badly they'd reopened and then become infected. They have closed back up now, but only just, and James is still weak for it.
"You were very far away, old man," James Ross says, and jolts him out of his worn track of worry. He strides about the cabin while Francis sits comfortably before the fire, legs stretched towards it. "A drink?"
Francis looks to find him already pouring a generous amount of whisky into a tumbler, turned to liquid gold to match his the copper of his hair.
He braces himself for the inevitable rush of want, the desperate desire that had driven him nearly to the brink of death itself. How he had begged in those days, how badly he'd craved it. Francis shudders at the memory- the gnawing hunger, worse even than during the march, the indignity he'd been too insensate to recall but still stings.
But it doesn't come, it doesn't flood and cripple him and loosen his tongue to weakness. It is- manageable, where otherwise he would have succumbed instantly, or helped himself before it was offered.
"No," he says, throat dry. "No. Just tea, if your steward hasn't retired."
James' eyes widen in surprise, his hand stilling. Another finger's worth of whisky sloshes out of the bottle and into the glass; the sound is agonizing. The scent turns his stomach, it sours to one of sweat and sickness and vomit, and the bitterness of his last drink at Blanky's bedside floods his mouth. It hadn't tasted different then, really, but the sight has seared itself into his mind.
"Tea, then," James agrees, and he rings for the steward to ready it.
There are questions brimming in his eyes, and a tension to his shoulders, but Francis merely breathes quietly and counts each inhale, until he is deadened to the smell.
The tea, when it comes, is strong and bitter. He savors this, does not dilute it with sugar. He hadn't before, and he doubts he can stomach sweet things now. Not just yet.
He braces himself for James to ask about the tea, but he does not. He's always had a sense for what Francis most needs to speak of, and the story of that trial, while distant, is one he does not know how to voice to one who was not there.
And- besides that. There was a time where Ross matched him drink for drink, after the Antarctic. Francis means no censure, but he fears it will be taken as such.
James downs the whisky in a few burning gulps, not savoring it like he usually does, and comes to sit beside him. The tension is gone, his mouth is red and wet, and he looks terribly earnest in the warm light.
"Dear Frank," James says, almost sighs. His hand is warm on Francis' knee, and Francis does not close his eyes. Only relishes the touch, commits it to memory along with James' dear face, the lines at his cheeks and the shadows beneath his eyes.
And still now, he wants, though it's no longer the ache that it was in those early days on the ice, when he could barely set foot on Erebus but for absence that cut as keenly as a knife. It is not that he'd forgone seeing James again- Francis had not allowed himself to think on failure, on death, even as it dogged every wretched, hard-won step they took across ice and shale- but that it is one of many things Francis put away and did not let himself think of.
There are many things he could say, none of them right, and it would not matter to this James.
"I missed you," is what he says instead, blunt and raw and utterly honest. He has never been well-practiced in deceit if it wasn't aimed at himself; only then is Francis a most accomplished liar. "I wished you had been with us- then I could have been assured that our course was true. But perhaps it is best you were not."
He does not want to picture James in the desolation of those hauling days, nor in the chaos and haunted nights when the Tuunbaq would prey on them at the ship's. Bad enough that the other men had to live through it- worse yet that many did not-, but Francis cannot find it in himself to wish such suffering upon his friend.
He cannot imagine a world in which it does not end like this, but for one where they starve slowly on the shale. And that is too grim to voice, when they only narrowly avoided it.
James' throat works as he swallows. His eyes are suspiciously wet, and Francis' own sting.
"Do not say that, now," he replies. His voice too is hoarse, choked. "Would that I had."
Words fail Francis now in truth as he tries to imagine it. James, reduced to a desperate, starving thing as they all had been at the end. Or James rushing out onto the ice, headfirst into the creature's jaws. Or James, in Franklin's place instead, torn asunder and dragged beneath the ice, to darkness where his hair would no longer shine and his smile would be bloated, gnawed on by strange fish in this freezing place-
Gorge rises in his throat and burns.
"No-," Francis rasps out immediately. He closes his eyes and it proves a mistake; instead he looks to James, to the living, breathing man before him- haggard, yes, but not diminished for it. "No, I- would not have had you endure what we did, my dear boy."
He knows what they were reduced to, what they nearly did and what others succumbed to before hope of rescue. Francis knows the gnawing hunger of near starvation, the knowledge that the dwindling supplies of tinned food were just as deadly only in a different way. He would not see James suffer so; Francis, himself, has always known how to suffer.
And he would not see one of his dearest friends changed irrevocably in this way.
"What happened?" James asks. "I know you do not wish to speak of it, but- they will ask you, when we return."
Francis would laugh, if he thought the sound would be anything other than hysterical and terrifying.
"What did not happen?" Francis asks, his head tipped back to the unfamiliar planks of the Enterprise above him. "Being trapped in the ice far longer than we intended. Not- not being fucking listened to, thanks to Sir John's desire for glory. I- no, that is unfair. He wanted the Passage, he believes in it as I no longer do."
"It was to be his redemption," James murmurs. Bis hand rests over Francis' own, a warm comfort.
"And even after his death, he has gotten it. He will be a hero," Francis says, unable to stop the bitterness from seeping into his voice. "Or a martyr, or a saint- Lady Jane would settle for nothing less. But never a fool, and it is I who will bear the scrutiny for this. The deaths of good men- men who might have lived otherwise." He lets out a slow breath. "But that is as it should be. Decisions I made and did not make are what doomed them in the end."
"You take such responsibility onto yourself, old man." James squeezes his hand and it stills; Francis had not realized the old tremor had come back into his fingers. "If he did not wish to listen, he would not have heard, no matter how hard you tried."
"Even before," Francis bites out. "I ought to have done more. Surveyed the tins myself perhaps, since half spoiled and those that did not poisoned us slowly. Pushed back at the choosing of the officers- Fitzjames chose good men, I'll not say a word against them now, but only a handful of us had ever been to the Poles before, let alone successfully. I ought to have-,"
"Taken command?" Ross asks. An ungentle thing, gently said. "You yourself did not feel fit to it."
Francis' jaw clenches. "I was not then. I was not for a good portion of the time I was in command. And now? I need not worry about being granted a command again, I am sure. My resignation is doubtlessly tendered, the court martial will leave me in disgrace."
James eyes spark, and he stands abruptly, yanking Francis' arm up with him. "To even survive as you did- a knighthood, at the least. As to command, do not think you have no allies in the Admiralty, Frank. Should you wish it, you shall have the choice of postings." He pauses, glancing down at their linked hands. "Though I might hope that you do not choose another search for the Passage, nor the far South."
Francis cannot fathom returning to the ice after all it has taken from him; he has nothing left to offer it.
He once thought that when they returned from the Antarctic, though.
And if it should be that upon their return to London, James Fitzjames no longer has need of him nor the patience to indulge Francis in his fretting, his selfishness, then he cannot say where he may go- or what is left for him to return to. England is bleak enough on its own- the Rosses are dear to his heart, of course, but they have with each other the peaceful domesticity Francis has always desired, and he would not intrude upon it.
The ice, though.
"Not any time soon shall I feel the call of the Poles again," Francis says slowly. "At the least I've observations to record and papers I may publish for the Royal Society, and that will take me some time."
Tension seeps out of James' shoulders, and Francis ought not to be so surprised to see it.
He raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you worry about me, James dear."
"Only what will become of you if you dare leave Fitzjames behind for the ice," James counters, a laugh playing at the corners of his mouth though it does not reach his eyes. "Ah, Frank. Is it not my prerogative as your dearest friend to worry such for you? Doubly so, for Ann would doubtless want me to convey her own concerns."
"You've always been quite helpless against her," Francis agrees. The words come easier. James makes an expansive gesture, universal to those in the throes of love: How could I not be?
Francis rather finds he understands it better now.
"I'm sure Fitzjames will have his pick of postings too, as soon as he is well enough to take them." He means it to be light, but with a jolt Francis realizes that it is quite true. He shall, and while James is not the same glory-seeker that went North those years ago, there is still something of an adventurer in him, a man who thrives in danger and adores evading death despite coming terribly close to it.
"Chin up, old man," Ross says, and squeezes his hand. Francis does not know what his face is doing, only that it must be terribly transparent.
"I am. I am fine, truly," he insists. "You asked me what happened and there is misery enough, a tale of a- bear, of poisoned food, of mutiny and scurvy and a miserable march which thankfully ended in rescue. But there is some joy, too. That of science, of magnetism. Of reading the ice once more. Of the summer we spent at the observatory, with springy moss underfoot and golden lichen coating the rocks." Francis swallows. "Of- camaraderie, where I had not thought to find it. And of becoming a better man, for a time. I was brought low, that second winter, James dear. What little goodwill I had, I squandered. And when Mr. Blanky lost his leg to that beast, from following my orders, from my anger- I stopped the drink entirely. Fitzjames was the leader of the expedition in name and in truth then, and he did an admirable job. I saw that, towards the end, along with much more I had been blind to."
It is halting, not a clever tale, not at all embellished, but Francis feels lighter for having said it. He cannot offer more of this; each truth must be sliced out of himself and given up, and he has little talent for this butchery.
But there is solace to be found in James' clear eyes, in the way he kneels before Francis and does not flinch from his gaze.
"Then he saved you, Frank, just as you did him, and I must thank him most earnestly for it."
"None of that, James dear," Francis murmurs. "Between he and I- there is no such thing as a debt owed."
"And that is your personal business," James agrees. "But I do not know him as well, though I should like to see what you see in him even now. And if he has even the smallest part in your safe return, in the way you are lighter than you have been in years- if he has drawn you from your unhappiness as I neglected to-,"
"Not neglect," Francis protests, for it was never truly that. He was steeped too deeply in his misery for even James to reach, and Francis had rebuffed many an attempt before his trip to wine-soaked Florence.
"Yes, neglect, for I shied away when I should not have and retreated to marital bliss, believing that you would return to yourself. And perhaps for being so blind as to think that you had, when you were with me, but it is not just when you are with me that counts," James says, so earnest that Francis can merely grumble a token protest. "So I owe him a great deal for making you happy. And for keeping you sane during your trials."
His trials. A neat word for it, Francis thinks, and his mouth twists. A tidy word, that does not encompass the horror of it all- for if it were a trial in truth, Francis would have met his end first, and not Sir John, and James would be the hale and hearty one, not clawing his way back to his former strength. Luck has no place in a trial, but fairness has no place on the ice.
"He did a great deal for the men's morale," Francis says, his throat tight. "And my own. I can say that at least one good thing came of it, and that is our friendship." It feels like sacrilege, but it is true.
"You do not need to tell me the whole of it," James replies. "But know that I am here, and I will try to understand. And it may do you well to speak on it before London."
For he will be raked over the coals by the Admiralty, and there are things that Francis cannot- will not- say. Here is the chance to set his story straight, to practice and rehearse, to close the gaps torn in the narrative with the Tuunbaq removed and- likely Hickey's mutiny, as well. Not all those who followed him did so out of a faith in the man, only a desire to survive.
Francis wishes desperately that James were here to coax him through this, for he is no skilled speaker, and less skilled as a liar. But James is still recovering, and Francis will not trouble him with this.
"Right as always, my dear boy," Francis sighs. He wets his lips with tea- and he begins.
His hands start to shake again halfway through it, and James clasps them close to steady them.
He does not let go, not even through the halting, awful tale, not even as he looks at Francis with the knowledge that he is not being told the whole of it. There are things that Francis cannot voice- the Tuunbaq, Hickey, the whole, sorry story of how he dried out, how close James came to death- but what he can, he does, and dear James asks no questions of him.
Francis is achingly grateful for him, down to the marrow of his bones.
Fitzjames has grown stronger with every mile they sail homewards, further and further from the ice that nearly killed them all. He was not meant for the poles and their cold remoteness, however capable he had turned out at the end- the best second Francis could've asked for, if he is honest, and he tells James as much only to see him fluster, the sight warming his own heart.
But there is a growing strain between them, one that Francis does not understand. He feels it in the coolness James treats him with when they are alone at breakfast, after Ross has left; it is in the studied way he beds down in the sole true berth adjoining the great cabin- for neither James nor Francis could allow him to sleep in a hammock of all things, not while he recovered-; it is in the clipped tone with which he answers Francis' inquiries about his plans after their arrival in England.
So perhaps he ought to have expected it to go awry.
Yet when it all comes to a head, it leaves him reeling.
It leaves him a great many things for all that it is resolved that same night.
Francis had not given much thought to how he himself had changed, only firm in his knowledge that his temperament and indeed many aspects of himself had improved. As they hauled, as they walked and stumbled, he had pared himself away and discarded what was not immediately useful. The drink was long gone, but doubt must be too. Indecision could not be allowed, the appearance of uncertainty had to be excised. Vulnerability, too, though Jopson had already seen him at his worst. He'd fought to keep compassion and kindness; their sick were not to be abandoned, and doubly so when James counted among their number; he'd left what food they could not carry for Hickey's mutineers, though privately Francis does not believe they ever used it, and he shudders to think at the alternative; the dead were to be buried, treated with respect. He had not had to fight as fiercely as he might have expected, to keep these for himself.
For the other men, it is different.
But they did not have James, and they did not have years of scorning such things behind them.
Francis cannot pinpoint what began it all, only that James appeared to be in a stranger humor than usual, restless and oddly melancholic that evening, and it was enough to set Francis on edge himself.
He is not yet past his paranoid vigilance for any setback in James' recovery, searching his slow gait and the lines of his face for any sign of sickness behind the frailty that is too slow to abate. Mother henning, Blanky has called it, with the frank indulgence only years of friendship allows him to get away with. And James Ross merely looks at him with a furrow between his brows, waiting for an explanation that Francis cannot yet give him. How can he, when he has already received all that he can ask for, with Fitzjames' survival?
To broach other topics with the man would be unconscionable, Francis thinks, but in the end he has little choice in the matter.
"More tea?" He asks, peering into James' berth to see the man himself with an empty cup. "Let me fetch it for you."
"No, I'm quite alright," is the response, only slightly peevish.
"Another blanket?" Francis offers, for there is a slight chill in the air here; it bothers him, he cannot imagine that it is not worse for James. "We've a few to spare, I'm sure. You need not suffer the cold."
"No, this one is perfectly adequate," James replies. Francis steps into the berth proper, reaching out to adjust the blanket James has properly, for it is sliding off his shoulders, revealing a slice of skin where it drags James' too-big nightshirt along with it. Francis' mouth dries, and he must tear his eyes away.
"Will you stop treating me as if I'm made of bloody china," James snaps, yanking the blanket tighter around himself.
Stung, Francis withdraws his hand.
"You are recovering still," he says stiffly.
"I am not an invalid to be coddled when you are not off swanning about with Sir James," comes the answer, each word neatly bitten off. "If you may leave me to do that, you may trust I can care for myself in your presence."
Francis' brow furrows as he puts this together, pieces that do not quite fit. He is not surprised that James makes for a poor patient; he knew this already, and the man's recovery is steady enough to be encouraging but slow enough to be frustrating. What James Ross has to do with it, though, Francis has little idea.
"I was under the impression that you wished for some time to yourself," he says carefully. "These are close quarters, and I fear I spend more time fussing over you than you are comfortable with."
An understatement, but Francis would crawl inside James' very skin if he were allowed, so that he might cup his heart and keep it beating with his own two hands.
James merely snorts at that, unelegant but genuine.
"Perhaps. You have been fussing frightfully, it's as if you expect me to keel over should you look away." There is still an edge to his words. "I see you make no excuses as to the first statement."
"I see no reason to," Francis responds. "You require the space, and he is my friend. My dearest friend, perhaps."
This is a misstep, and Francis knows it instantly with how James draws himself up and in, his posture bladed, his eyes flashing.
"Well," is all he says.
"James."
"Which one would that be? Me, or James dear?" The venom in his voice is surprising, and Francis frowns to hear it. James himself grimaces at it. "Forgive me that, too. I'm immensely grateful to the man for use of his cabin, and for our rescue, and- well, I suppose for my life in a way, as without the rescue I did come quite close to those pearly gates."
Francis is admittedly not fond of this reminder, but he is less so of the strange tone in which James says it, as if a part of him still expects the end to come. Francis himself has difficulty letting go of that expectation, but it becomes a little easier, the longer they go with good food, with every morning spent seeing James eat a little more heartily.
"I'll not hold it against you," he says instead. "It is difficult. To face a return where you had expected none."
James looks stricken at this, and Francis merely smiles, thin. "What?" he continues. "I did not lose hope, I could not allow myself to. But I also know my own mind, and my own heart when we set out. It is not what you had to come to terms with, James, but it is perhaps something close."
"Something close," James echoes. "Well, a broken heart is a good deal more romantic than bloody scurvy, I should tell you that. Perhaps less uncomfortable too, for all its pain. Did you truly think the whole endeavour doomed from the start?"
"No," Francis tells him. It is not quite a lie; he had known- complained to Ross, even- that the expedition was not well-equipped with experienced men, that he did not trust the great engines, that he certainly had his doubts about Franklin's fitness for command. The man was a good leader, naturally, but not a skilled sailor. But this is not a doom he foresaw, nor one he would have wished on them, even in the depths of his drunken spite. "Sir John- deserved for it to be successful. But my reasons for going- I believe I knew that a knighthood, that success, would not matter. I went there to lose myself, one way or another. Strange, is it not, that instead I return more myself than ever?"
"I remember wondering how on earth you kept standing, and hauling," James admits. "It was as if the drink had somehow pickled you, that your suffering in drying out had made you immune to everything else that was plaguing us."
"I am sure it would have crept up on me, same as us all," Francis says. "But it is still difficult to say if it was the tins, or scurvy, or merely cold and starvation, towards the end. All the same, I am grateful that it did not take me sooner, nor as hungrily as others."
James' mouth twists. "Yes. Christ, Francis, how we suffered- and to think it was for naught. I wake at night and I feel these old wounds made new ache, though they do not bleed, thankfully. I look at myself in the mirror and I see only what has been lost."
"When I look at you, I only see what has survived," Francis replies softly. "And that core of strength and courage is great indeed."
"Great, yes, but not all of me! I can feel in myself that which is missing, and it makes the prospect of London quite a terrifying one, I must say. After all our travails, to think that I might be undone by the mere thought of a ball. I am not whole," he confesses. "Neither are you. The ice took a great deal, the shale took more, and you cannot tell me that James bloody Ross with his knighthood knows what that means."
James does not look at him, only down at his hands as if he cannot recognize them. He is not finished, Francis knows, and so he merely waits.
"Sometimes I wonder if I even will recognize you when we return to London. Or if I should wish to," James mutters, half to himself, and it is deafening. "Or if we should have returned at all."
Silence surges, devastating.
Ah.
Someone inhales sharply, as if from shock; Francis is shocked to note that it is him.
"Forgive me. I did not mean it," James breaks the silence between them. He sounds horrified with himself, and Francis can only shake his head. He'll not be lied to; they promised each other that vanity was over, that the lies that it required were done, at least between each other.
"I believe you did." His throat is dry, and he closes his eyes to fight away the sudden, powerful desire to drown this misunderstanding in the bottom of a bottle. He knows how many steps it would take to leave this room, and then make his way over to the cabinet of James' stores in the great cabin. The doors are not locked. The cut crystal is stacked neatly above it; his fingers flex around the imagined weight of it, the edges and facets. A phantom burn slides down his throat.
If he were to drink, Ross may join him when he returns from Investigator.
And his sorrows would vanish, he knows that, but that oblivion would only be temporary. And undeserved.
No.
"I have not your skill at dissembling, but I know you, James, as you know me. You meant it, plainly," he says, quiet.
"Francis-,"
"No. Please. Let me finish."
A nod, jerky and unhappy, in response.
"We need not speak of what will happen after our return yet," Francis tells him. They will have to, surely, but- not now. It may be put off. "But we lived, James. You lived. I would not change that. I'd not know what I wouldn't offer to have ensured it, at the start of the whole bloody march. And I understand that such things that may be promised, or may pass between two men on the ice, may not come to pass in polite society. I'll not hold you to anything said in your illness. But I am as I have always been- better perhaps than when we started out from Greenhithe, but at my core, I am unchanged. I'd think you know me better than most, and I you. I treasure our friendship. Our brotherhood, and wouldn't wish to lose it. I wouldn't have us be strangers to one another. Were I to change again- and I doubt I can, old as I am-, I'd want you to know me. And were you to change still, I would know you. That is all."
"You never were a liar, Francis," James finally says. His voice is choked, painful. Francis wishes to soothe it, but he does not know how. He rarely does. He reaches out all the same, a silent plea, and this time, his hand lands on James' shoulder. He squeezes, gentle. "But that- that beggars belief. No, it is astonishing, damned astounding. I have laid myself bare to you, and yes, I'll grant that it was with full bloody knowledge that scurvy was eating me from within, but I would not have done that with another. It remains that no others know the truth of my circumstances, and it remains that I now trust you utterly not to reveal it, though I've half a mind to myself and spit in the eye of the Admiralty while I do." James laughs, the sound cracked. "But I shan't, so you may settle your worries about my scuttling what little of a career may await. I meant everything that I said to you, even that which I might wish phrased more eloquently, or less desperately, or under less dire circumstances."
Francis feels his heart skip a beat, or perhaps two. It's a weak, treacherous thing, not worth the giving, but James has it almost entirely.
"Then you need not worry about what may change upon our return," Francis says decisively. "You must know that I am- devoted, for better or worse."
James looks at him, and his eyes shine, and it feels as if he has been struck a blow from which he will never recover. But it is a welcome one.
"You are, aren't you. You marvelous, ridiculous man," James breathes. "Come here. Come here."
And Francis goes, drawn in by James' magnetism.
There is more after that, much more, but it does not haunt him as that first sentence, even as he curls gently around James in a too-small bunk, listening to his breath yet again.
He does not know whether James was speaking of Francis- and that is a knife to the heart, but a blow that he could learn to survive for he has endured being unwanted before-, or of himself- and this, Francis could not. He had not given thought to what his own return would be like, but never had he considered- allowed himself to consider- that James might not set foot on English soil. Absurd, given the sorry state of their party, and the weight of all the lives that indeed will not be returning, heavy around Francis' neck. He should not put James above them all, he is the worst kind of captain even now, to let his base wants sway him.
But a world without James, one in which James does not smile with that twist to his mouth that deepens the lines bracketing it, or one where his fine eyes do not spark in the light, even if it is rare now? Even one without his bloody interminable stories, which Francis knows fair by heart now- it is unbearable to consider.
He presses his face into the nape of James' neck, and he holds on, as if he can will James back to himself.
The miles between them and England whittle away slowly, and he and James argue no more. It is a balm for him and for, Francis suspects, James Ross, who has gotten into the infuriating habit of slipping him knowing looks when the three of them take their breakfasts together. How James does not notice this, Francis has no earthly idea; Ross is dear to him, but the man is not subtle when it does not suit him. And often when he seeks to tease Francis, it does not suit him.
And Fitzjames' words are still on his mind: I wonder if I would recognize you. I wonder if I would wish to.
It is a heavy thing to reckon with, how he has changed- and how, despite his own response, he may yet change. London is not a place that makes Francis happy, though he is not a man inclined to an excess of happiness to begin with, and he knows well what difficulties await him there. That await them all.
Still, when James corners him after dinner one evening, as they go about their nightly rituals, Francis supposes that he is not giving the man enough credit for his slyness. For this, he does not see coming in the slightest, and he has no defense against it.
"Fitzjames," James says, awkward in the dancing candlelight. He's clad only in his nightshirt, and Francis in a borrowed one that is a sight too long on him, though thankfully it fits around the chest and stomach, albeit snugly, with the weight that had sloughed off him on the march. "That is, your Fitzjames."
Francis does not color at the address, but it is a near thing; his complexion threatens to betray him in this now that there is no drink for it to use as an excuse.
Of course, it matters not. James Ross has known him for far too long to let a mere tinge of pink be any less than a dead giveaway.
His Fitzjames-
"What of him?" Francis asks instead. He will not do either James the disservice of denying this; Fitzjames, based on their conversation earlier, would be most put out, and Ross would never let him live it down when Francis and James inevitably slip up in front of him. It is a small ship, with close quarters between the three of them, and Francis is far from an accomplished liar.
"Ann and I supposed you would stay with us for a time, upon your return," he begins.
Francis must interject: "Even when you mounted a rescue, you still thought this? And even now, knowing what you do- you think it? I will be more of a pariah than I am, James dear. Your good name may well be ruined."
"If it could, Francis Crozier, it doubtless would have by now," Jame retorts sharply. "Pay no mind to that."
He says this easily, a man to whom a good name and reputation to go with it are taken entirely for granted. The irritation is not unfamiliar; Francis had felt it when they were but middies together, him and Ross and Bird, but it was less so then, for they'd accomplished far less to all their names. Certainly, it had been worse after the Antarctic, where James received accolades and Francis received a spurned proposal and scorn.
Now, it stings far less than it had either of those times, but Francis is surprised to feel it at all. He had thought himself past that, thanks to his James.
Perhaps not.
Men, he knows, do not change quite so easily. Old habits always wait with welcoming arms.
"Apologies," Francis offers instead. James looks rightfully suspicious, but soldiers on anyway.
"He's good for you," he says abruptly, and Francis does flush at that, heat flooding his cheeks. "But- ah, I appear to be all out of order. I speak of James Fitzjames precisely because of this reason. He is good for you, and I do not believe that you will be parted from him; in fact, I am sure you will insist on providing what care he will need upon his return to England yourself, and I cannot fault you that. You do so love to fuss."
"I do not," Francis answers automatically, but it is stilted. He had not thought his regard so obvious- it is returned, yes, but what men do on the ice and at sea is so very different from what they do on land. At home. Francis knows this better than most; James Ross knows this well, though he's a greedy thing himself, and has lucked his way into marrying a woman who had allowed him both. Francis would say that he had lucked his way into choosing a man that would allow him both, too, but he has never been able to deny James.
Any James it seems, and that is a curious vice to have with an abundance of them.
"You do, old man," James replies, good-natured. "Now let me finish. Ann and I had wished for you to stay with us, as I was saying. We've quit London proper, no more bloody dismal Blackheath for you. Instead it is Aston Abbotts that we reside in, close enough that I may conduct my business in London, but certainly far enough for your comfort. We'd thought to extend the invitation proper when you returned, and so I have."
"And this is where Fitzjames comes into it," Francis states. He does not know that he is for Aston Abbotts himself; he has not been before, but a quiet life in the country has ever been far from his reach. It had seemed ridiculous then, a thing done only by the wealthy lords or the darlings of the Admiralty- of which James is both, Francis is willing to grant- and he had known that such favor would never be extended to him unless he pried it from their cold fingers with his own bloody hands. And he had thought to do so for a time, before he realized that even such efforts would end in failure.
Now, it seems utterly transgressive. Who is he to deserve such a quiet life, with those who love him? Who is Francis Crozier, the drunken captain, returning in disgrace after having lost all but a handful of his men, after thoroughly eroding what little faith they may have had in him, after disaster once and again and again, coming to England in shame? He does not feel guilt for his own survival, not when it means that more men are returning to England than might have otherwise- and certainly not when someone needed to do what he did. But happiness is elusive, and has ever been out of his reach; this, he cannot reach out to take. He is no longer content to wallow in his misery, but his eyes are clear, and he knows what it is he deserves and what he does not.
He-
"Francis," James says softly. Francis' eyes snap to him: James, limned in faint gold by the firelight like a vision from the past. "Lost in your thoughts again?"
"Maudlin," he forces out. "Go on."
James has always seen too much; he is not fooled by that, but James Clark Ross is a man touched by the poles too, if not by failure. He understands what the ice takes better than most. And he has always understood Francis better than near anyone- it would be better than all, had James Fitzjames not grown so dear to him.
"Ann would be most put out with me if she heard that you did not stay with us because we failed to extend an invitation to him, too," James says simply. "And so I will ask that you speak with him about it. I would not begrudge you a choice to stay with him instead, though I will insist on frequent visits- you two might have use of Eliot Place, if you like, when we are not in London. If you can stand it, of course."
This, Francis had not expected.
"You barely know the man," he blurts out.
"Aye."
"You have only the words I spoke of him when first we were introduced. I called him a preening, prancing idiot, who did not deserve his station. God, James, but how I hated him." Saying this feels like peeling off the bandage on a once-festering wound, only to find it healed. Yes, he hated James Fitzjames. No, he could not say precisely when that began to change, only that it did, only that James is now the other half of him in a way he cannot describe. They are tied together, seemingly permanently, but Francis knows how fragile such bonds may be when they return to a place that only knows the men they once were, rather than who they are now.
"I am aware."
"You- well. I cannot speak as to whether or not you like him, James dear, for he's disgustingly charming." Francis cannot help the smile that pulls at his mouth; James' eyes crinkle in fond exasperation.
"I find him amicable enough." James shrugs. "I do not know what you wish for me to say. No, I do not know the man. I know his reputation, yes, but you of all people ought to be aware that it is not anywhere near the same thing. You say that you hated him, and I see that you plainly do not. The ice changed him, Frank. And I believe that you did as well. You tend to have that effect."
James' mouth twists in a wry grin, the sort that Francis used to kiss off him. The kind that he still wants to now, in a distant, abstract way. It would be a comfort, if he did not suspect some lingering soreness on Fitzjames' part on the subject of Ross. Francis has not told him all, but he has guessed enough.
"I have," Francis admits. "I was- no, I will not say I was wholly wrong about him then. Wrong in how I treated him, yes, but not in my opinions. He is different now."
"Scurvy does that to a man, too," James says. Too lightly, but he is probing, damn him. "Frank, dear. What you all have suffered is abhorrent, and even now I hardly believe it. Is it so difficult to believe that I can see how changed Fitzjames is by it? Even without knowing you half as well as I do, I would not have known him from the man I met in London."
Francis swallows, dry.
"And me? Would you have known me?"
James sighs, exasperated yet fond. "Frank, nothing in this world nor out of it could change you so that I could not know you."
Any doubts he has are smoothed away by the application of a gentle hand to his cheek, the benediction of a mouth against his skin.
"All is well now, Frank dear," James tells him. "Trust in me, if nothing else. And trust in your Fitzjames."
Francis still feels at odds around James, though he knows he has little reason to be walking on eggshells around the man. Their quarrel has been sorted, all is resolved, and yet Francis feels as if a distance has grown between them.
He does not know how to close it.
If it were merely their impending return to London, that would be one thing. But it is not. James is careful around him in turn where he never was before, and he has no godly idea why.
And yet he must make the offer. Decisively, he looks up from the charts he's been studying. Ross is visiting Goodsir and Bird upon the Investigator; Goodsir to speak of the observations the anatomist had recorded on the sea life and samples now returned to the ocean, and Bird perhaps because he is quite sick of Francis' nerves. Francis cannot blame him, for he is sick of himself too, and the tension that runs through the room whenever he and James are together.
He feels pettily betrayed by it, given what a bloody mess James had been before proposing to Ann, but this offer is not quite so serious a commitment. It ought not to be, though for Francis, it feels akin to a proposal. He has done his utmost best not to frame it as such; he's had rotten luck with those, and it's not his proposal, anyway. It's James', reaching out to a man Francis cares for, because he cares for Francis. That gives him courage enough, a warmth in his chest to spur him onward before Ross takes the matter into his own hands, likely with less tact and more theatre.
So he finds James in the berth, reading by the light of a candle with a cup of tea sitting just next to him, and pauses in the doorway for a moment to relish the sight. It is something he wishes to commit to memory, fallible though it may be. He will have little chance to walk in on this in the future- James, comfortable in a nightshirt, hair falling loose around his face, utterly engrossed in his book. Francis cannot help but think of what it would be like, to return home to this frequently; an indulgence beyond what he can allow himself, to be sure.
"James," he says, warm. "I'd hoped to speak, if you have a moment?"
"Of course," James agrees, though there's something cautious in his voice. A long finger marks his page as he looks up at Francis. "May I ask what about, to have you so wound up? Good God, man, but you've half put me in mind of a watch going too fast."
Not an inaccurate comparison, with how Francis feels that they are running out of time.
"After," Francis begins. "If you would like- know that you've no obligation to stay with me, an old man who'll likely be ruined after a court martial to answer for all this foulness-,"
"If you are to face a martial, then so am I," James breaks in immediately. Automatically, perhaps; the tenor of a frequent debate. James has remained an optimist through their ordeal, in his way, but Francis has ceased to stubbornly partake in it. They lived, what better outcome could he have hoped for, wished into existence?
"And I shall face the consequences same as you."
The thing about the poles, and the ice, is that England and all its minutiae seem so small in comparison. Yet they loom large in their immediacy.
"I would not ask you to," Francis says, frowning.
"And you would not need to ask. Is it truly so difficult to believe that you have earned my loyalty and friendship? My- love, even, a hundred times over?"
James trips over the word, but it is no matter. It lands on Francis like a blow.
"You would be upset, if I said yes," he says instead. He feels as if he is still reeling, gasping for breath. "But I was not a good commander, I was cruel to you, unnecessarily so. Forgive me for thinking I did little to inspire loyalty."
"You told me once it only matters what a man does with his circumstances," James says firmly. "And what you did to lead us out of there is what matters. I could not have done it, Francis; I know that no other could have." He swallows, and soldiers on. "I would be at your side, as best I can, and it will not be of any damned obligation but that of my heart, if you need to hear me speak it plainly."
Francis is sure his face must be blotched red, and his heart feels about ready to pound free of his chest. He steps closer, and closer yet, until he is standing just before the bunk.
"Then I shall speak plainly as well," Francis tells him, barely able to believe it. "James Ross has invited you to stay with him- with us, as he has decided to put me up for some time. At Aston Abbotts, where he's apparently succumbed to country life. I told him I would convey the offer, along with his hope that you will accept it. And my own hopes, if you've no other plans."
"Oh," James says. His mouth remains open, soft and lax, and Francis aches to kiss it, to map it anew. "I- that is. Is he certain of this offer? I do not think I could impose."
There is something else in his voice, too.
"You would not," Francis tells him firmly. And he presses on: "But if you did not find it to your liking, or wished to be closer to London, I thought that we might find rooms there together. If you wished. Only if you wished."
The silence between them as James' mouth opens and nothing comes out is a sweet one, chased by the errant thought that finally, James Fitzjames is caught utterly speechless.
"I- are you certain of that?" He asks, as if it is so enormous a thing. As if he hardly dares to believe it.
"Of course," Francis replies. "I have not many ideas of where, but I expect we may look together. And we shall have use of Blackheath for a while upon our return; I do not think James- ah, Ross- is likely to relinquish us from his watchful eye before our business with the Admiralty is concluded. And if he was, dear Ann most certainly will not. You will like her a great deal, I think; she's not so dour as I am, but a sight more practical than James."
"I should like to meet her. With how fondly you and Ross speak of her, she must be remarkable," James says. He means it, and the thought warms Francis' chest: A life he may lead, surrounded by those he cares for. Frequent visits to the country, or hosting the Rosses and their children who might call him and James both 'uncle', if they dared. A domestic bliss which he had not even considered for himself with Sophia, for she seemed above such things, no matter how much they might have cared for one another. "But- are you so eager to quit the company of your friends?"
Not Aston Abbotts, then, but hope for something more kindles in his chest where there was none before. He had thought himself overly bold in expressing his desires- he had been sure that this would ruin them, and he had done it anyway.
But it has not.
"Hardly. It would not be so difficult a journey to undertake to see them." Francis smiles, as gently as he can manage while his chest feels fit to burst. "I would stay with you, James, and you seem inclined to let me."
"You-," James pauses, and then of all things laughs, the sound relieved and merry all at once. "How you can simply say such things is beyond me, Francis, it truly is. I may have fancied myself a poet, but you truly are gifted with a particular way with words, cutting to the heart of the matter without wholly intending to."
"James?" Francis frowns, concerned and not- no, he is not stung, merely confused. James is not laughing at him, nor his offer, he is sure of that. "Are you alright?"
"Ha-! Yes. Yes, yes," he says, breathless in mirth. "We shall room together in London, two officers on half-pay ought to find something that will do well enough. I should like that a great deal."
"Then the laughter-?"
"At myself, you dear man," James admits with a rueful smile. "I'd half-convinced myself that Ross would spirit you off and that would be the end of that. Or worse yet, that you would to propose to Miss Cracroft. You know as well as I do that what men do at sea, or on the ice, is often left aside when the shore is in sight. I'd thought to prepare myself for the inevitable, cushion myself against it, only to find that it had never been necessary to begin with. I feel quite the fool, Francis, and I'll thank you not to say that I look it either."
"I'll hold my tongue on that account," Francis replies, the weight lifting from his shoulders immediately. "Though surely you must know I would not be so inconstant as to abandon you after having confessed the extent of my devotion."
"You are a remarkably steadfast fellow," James says earnestly. It does not feel like a barb. "But weighing myself against your prior commitment to Miss Cracroft, and your attachment to Sir James, I must admit I came up wanting. Oh, don't look at me so, Francis. I know it is absurd, I know your attentions would not waver, and yet-," James breaks off with a rueful look. "I worried. Extensively."
"Never," he swears. "You would not come up wanting measured against either. I will not pretend that James- Ross- and I do not share a deep bond, but you must not think it of the same matter that you and I share. You could not come up wanting in my eyes, James, not now that I know you so well."
"Franklin once described you and Sir James animated by the same soul, I heard," James confesses. Francis blinks, surprised that for Franklin the ghost of James Clark Ross may have haunted the Erebus in the same way it did for him. Sir John was many things, but sentimental in this way was not one of them. Some of this doubt must show, for James adds: "Oh- alright, I wrung it out of Dundy, who wheedled it out of Bird for me, but surely I cannot be blamed for wondering!"
"I had not known you'd been so curious about James Ross and I," Francis replies with an arched brow, and James flushes beautifully.
"Now you tease me, which is remarkably unfair, I'll have you know." James runs a hand through his hair, a newly developed habit. "Perhaps we did not reach the end of all vanity, for it is- difficult to think that I could compete against Sir James at all for your affections. Or even Miss Cracroft, who you proposed to twice."
"She did turn me down," Francis feels compelled to put in. Strange how easily he speaks of it now, with little heaviness in his heart, and no bitterness. "Twice."
"And you believe your miraculous return would not soften her heart?" James counters. "I, for one, would find myself most unwilling to relinquish you a third time were I in her shoes. But as I am not, I would have said yes to begin with, so it'd be a rather moot point."
And how it thrills Francis to hear this, even if he suspects it is not strictly true. But James glosses over the unpleasant parts of his history, transforms them into stories so that he may swallow them whole and sleep at night still, and so Francis does not protest that he would not have proposed so soon after having met James, and James would not have said yes, for they both loathed each other, even if the world was that such a thing could be possible.
He wishes it was, and yet he does not; he'd fall to one knee and into old habits too easily, he can feel the shape of them ready to settle around him like a worn cloak. The whisky, which he will not drink. The wanting, desperate and clawing, which he has tempered and will continue to. Until they reach London, perhaps, and James is fully recovered.
Francis dares to think that James may still choose him then, and it is a giddy, hopeful thing that does not belong in him, but it is there still.
"She was right to do so," he says regardless. "Not to give me hope even as she did, so there's no need for you to make such a face. But even setting aside the account of my birth and rank, there was the drink to contend with. And without that- she'd not wished to be a sailor's wife, only waiting for me to return. I did not know why it should be such a problem then, but I understand it now, though myself I've always wanted someone to return to." His eyes find James here.
"You do know that she's likely to fall into your arms as soon as you set foot on English soil," James says, and Francis is very sure he's only teasing. "As to Sir James, well, I have a vague recollection of you doing the falling when he rescued us."
"You recall no such thing," Francis retorts, but he colors nevertheless. "I see you recover fast from envy."
"You told me that it is different between us, did you not?" James says this with a studied, casual air. "And I certainly believe that, as I've heard not a whisper of interest from you two with naught but a thin door separating us."
"What an interruption that would be, indeed." Francis laughs, for what else is he to do? The other options are to let the heat in his cheeks consume him entirely, or imagine said interruption- which he is unwilling to do. It is a dangerous thing to allow himself to want; both James's indulge him too much as is.
"Only momentarily," James tells him with a smile. "I should think I would be very quickly invited to join, and if I were not, I might take matters into my own hands. Sir James might stay if he wished, of course, but I do not believe I would find you protesting."
Heat rushes to his face.
"I can hardly say that I would," he manages to answer. "Though we speak in the realm of the unlikely and I'll thank you to not give an old man a heart attack with that tongue of yours." This, it is safer not to imagine; neither James is like to let him live it down, should it be known how this affects him. He does not think they are yet close enough to plot against him, but that may well change, if their stay at Blackheath proceeds amiably. And with James' odd jealousy truly put to rest.
Francis regrets his choice of words at the look on James' face, the gleam in his eye that make Francis' breath catch in his throat. Not yet fully recovered, he looks entirely wicked with want.
"Old boy, you might well thank me if I proceeded to do just that," James says, his book well and truly abandoned now. He pushes himself upright, not quite standing yet, but the ease with which he does so is a balm. He beckons Francis closer, almost imperious with it- and in the face of such an order, what is Francis to do but give in to James' magnetism and lower himself to sit on the very edge of the thin mattress, hunched over so as to avoid the low ceiling.
He is pulled lower yet, James' hands firm on his shirt- strength that Francis relishes-, and then James' mouth too is firm against his own.
It mellows, lingers, as Francis cups James' face between his hands: Here is something precious, here is something he must cherish.
This kiss is bright and tastes of the citrus and bitter darkness to Earl Grey, bursting across his tongue. It is far better than the first one they shared, tasting of blood and fear, and the second and third, wary things that they were, stolen as they faced each other in a sleeping sack, huddled for warmth.
It is everything.
"James," Francis whispers, horrified to find his eyes stinging and wet, his throat threatening to swell shut with the wave of emotion that surges over him.
"I have you," James replies against his mouth. He kisses Francis again, demanding rather than soft, with true strength behind it- there is no taste of blood, no clumsiness born of pain or bone-deep exhaustion. It is better than Francis could have dreamed of to have James so, recovering and with those long fingers sliding into his hair, curling into the front of his shirt to anchor him in place. As if there were anywhere else Francis could wish to be, as if he were not so thoroughly caught up in James' magnetic draw that he could not even consider increasing the distance between them.
"You do," Francis agrees with the entirety of his pounding heart. And then, for it is no betrayal, merely the truth: "I am yours, yes?"
James makes a low, animal sound at that, desperate and wanting. Francis is stunned by it- that he should provoke such a reaction, that James wants him so.
He does not get a verbal answer, rather another kiss, one coupled with a pull that nearly has him toppling onto James entirely. Francis cannot abide that; to hurt James, even accidentally, is unthinkable after all that he has endured. Francis has had quite enough of hurting James.
"Come on, Francis," James encourages him. A hand at his back pulling him down further, another sliding downwards to palm between his legs. He startles- not surprised by James' audacity, but by his own reaction, by the sudden urgency, the realization that his body is more than willing to match his desire.
Francis cocks an eyebrow at him, though he suspects the effect is rather ruined by the heat in his face, the way he clumsily lifts one hand to hike James' nightdress up in turn, absurdly grateful to its existence. He is not sure he could've navigated anything more complicated, upon feeling the hardness below.
James keens, low in his throat, at that. Francis leans down to kiss him there, then up along the sharp line of his jaw, the marks down his cheeks, simply because he can.
Touching him all the while, luxuriating in it.
James works at his own trousers in the meantime, cursing quietly when his fingers fumble- and they do so often, which Francis refuses to feel guilty about, even when James swats at his chest and demands that he come off it already.
It is no sooner that his prick is freed that James is insistently pulling him closer once more, his fingers wrapped loosely around it in an exploratory manner that still has Francis biting hard at the inside of his cheek.
"Eager, are we not?" he asks, once he has recovered somewhat. He lowers himself onto his forearms in concession; Francis bears most of his own weight in this way, but they are still chest to chest, their noses nearly brushing.
"And what if I am?" James retorts. "Could you fault me for that, when I have wanted this- wanted you- enough that it near drove me mad? There is nothing wrong with wishing to see that haste mirrored in you, however stubborn you might be."
"I have wanted you every single bloody day we've been aboard this ship," Francis confesses to the skin between James' fine neck and his sloped shoulders, above the still too-sharp line of his collarbone. "And plenty of days before that. I'll not rush the job and be ungentle with you yet."
"Damn you," James hisses out, though Francis does not move his hand any faster. He pulls James off slowly, and relishes how he shudders in his arms. "I won't break, if you wished to have me."
"I do," Francis answers, more sincerely than he means to. This is an accounting too- of his basest desires, of the depths of his grasping selfishness, only now to find that they and more are freely given. "By God, James, I do, but- not here. In a real bed, when we reach London, where we might take as long as we like and there's little need for quiet."
James is quiet for a moment, and Francis knows they are picturing the same thing: A room of their own, warm with a fire roaring in the hearth, and the entire night stretched out before them. Francis would have him then, that much is true- or perhaps the other way around, and he cannot deny the frisson that runs through him at the thought. He wants it all.
"Something else for now, then," James finally replies, his voice only slightly choked. "Come- closer, now, yes. Just like that. I can take a bit of your weight, Francis, I spent quite some time hauling those bloody sleds that may have weighed as much as a hundred of you, or they bloody felt like it."
Francis manages a smile for he knows James means it only as a jest, but a laugh would catch in his throat. Those days on the shale, the honesty between them, have been overshadowed by the moment of James' collapse, and Francis only puts it out of his mind because he sees James right in front of him, haler, alive, adoring.
He is still careful as he settles onto James, not quite between his legs, though the reason for that makes itself clear as James guides Francis' prick to rest in the tight channel of his thighs, his legs pressed close together.
"Oh," he says, slightly strangled, and James only smirks. Francis will have none of that smug attitude, he decides immediately, and he puts his own hand to good use wiping it off his face, replacing it with pleasure.
There is nothing dignified about this course of action, but Francis does not care. They are close, James' mouth against his own as Francis does his damnedest to swallow the loudest of his groans, Francis' prick trapped between his thighs, his hand worked between them at an awful angle as he pulls at James' length. It is the press of two bodies that have not yet learned each other, in a too-small space; the kiss of the desperate, the aching hunger they have for one another making itself known. Francis knows his tendency to vice well, and this is unimaginable decadence.
James, and James, and James.
"Christ," he rasps out, hoarse. His wrist begins to ache, but James' eyes are gone glassy, his breath hitching upon every exhale.
"Faster- more, Francis, please," he begs, and Francis can only comply. The moment James reaches his crisis is one Francis commits to memory as best he is able: the part of his lips, the way his face falls open in pleasure, the flush evident in his cheeks.
It is not long for Francis after that. His movements become urgent as his pleasure crests, and his hand frigging James' prick, ceaseless and wet with his spend. James writhes beneath him, the press of his thighs- not as soft as they might have been, but by God is there more flesh than bone now, proof upon proof of how far James has moved away from death's door- driving Francis to the edge and then off it entirely.
It is blinding in its simple bliss.
He near collapses onto James, and for this imposition receives the weight of two arms slung over him to keep him there, the gesture penetrating even the haze of satisfied lassitude that has settled over them both. Francis will move- he must, soon, so as to make James more comfortable-, but with James' breath in his ear and the tandem thud of their heartbeats, separated only by thin fabric and skin, he is loathe to relinquish this closeness.
He allows it to last for one breath, then another, then another, before he moves.
Francis eases out from between his slick thighs and the distance is unbearable according to James' irritated grumble, so he closes it shortly after, bracketing James in the berth that is just barely big enough for one man- let alone one with leagues-long legs as James has-, and is an almost impossible feat of geometry with two. He does not mind it, though; he relishes the closeness instead, the feeling of being the only two people in the world.
Beneath his hands is a breathing, living James, and Francis' palm splays over his bare chest, his heart, to feel it beating.
And he wants, so badly, though he does not ache with it any longer.