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It’s warm.
That’s the first thing that Francis Crozier registers every morning as he wakes. It’s warm. It’s always warm now, and that unsettles him. He would have thought that after four bloody years of nothing but cold and ice, he’d relish in a little warmth, but instead here he is, pacing the Quarterdeck of the HMS Victory with the intensity of a man possessed.
Either side of him, the ocean spreads out, endless, beckoning, but Francis keeps his eyes resolutely on the horizon. The weather has been unchanging for at least an hour, but he can’t quite shake the unease that sinks deep into his skin. They are so close to England now, but so close means nothing if a storm decides to brew. Francis did not die on the ice, and he will not die here.
He can tell the helmsman is tiring of his incessant movement.
Francis knows full well that on this ship he has no command, and by rights shouldn’t even be stalking the Quarterdeck, but he can’t bring himself to go below. After months of unrelenting Arctic openness- of the ice, of the sky, of the rock- a ship’s quarters seem unbearably claustrophobic. It’s like the set up for a bad joke: a captain afraid of his ship. And yet.
They had crawled, broken, bleeding, all eight hundred agonising miles to Fort Resolution, more corpses than men, by the end. They had eaten the stores of seal meat that were stocked there. Then they had eaten their boots. Then they had eaten… worse. When Ross had appeared with the HMS Victory and rescue, James had been too weak to stand and Francis had thought he had been hallucinating.
But. They had lived. It’s something Francis clings to when the nights become dark and empty.
A plank creaks to his right, and Jopson appears at his elbow. The man’s face hasn’t lost the hollowness of starvation, but his eyes are wide and attentive as he touches Francis’ sleeve.
“Sir, Captain Fitzjames has sent away his steward.”
Francis grasps his meaning immediately and nods, though he doesn’t move from Jopson’s side for another second more. The gentle touch on his arm lingers for more than is strictly proper, but Francis recons they abandoned proper somewhere between the lead poisoning and scurvy.
At last, he pulls away, glancing towards the companionway that leads below deck.
Jopson leans forward, “do you need a light down there, sir?”
Francis can’t quite help his smile, “you know you’re not my steward anymore, Lieutenant Jopson.”
“Aye sir. Old habits,” He’s humouring him, as most tend to do with Francis these days. He claps Jopson on the back.
“I’ll see to James.”
With one last glance to the sky, Francis ducks down to the lower deck. Like everything on the HMS Victory, it’s neat, orderly, and he has no problem making his way to James’ cabin. The men he passes nod at him, and he nods back- apparently it's what you get after a failed Arctic expedition and an appalling loss of life: respect.
The door to James’ cabin is slightly ajar, and Francis pauses for a moment, peering in. James sits on his berth, pale skin gleaming in the dim light of the oil lamp as he struggles with his shirt. Like Jopson, James’ body is still hollow with starvation, a hundred cuts and lesions on his skin still struggling to heal, and yet- Francis can’t take his eyes off him.
It’s only when blood begins to seep through the linen of his shirt that Francis forces himself into action.
“You should stop sending your steward away, James, he’s been on deck three times in the last hour, working himself up into a right state.”
James doesn’t smile, hardly even glancing up as Francis enters and shuts the door. More blood stains the shirt.
“Fussing over me like a nursemaid. I can’t stand this cabin any longer, Francis, I should be with the men.”
“Half our men are still bedridden.” As you should be.
James says nothing, continuing to wrestle with the shirt. Stitches snap. Correcting his tone, Francis tries again:
“James. You’re not well.”
With a last effort, James jams his arm through the sleeve before- he gives a bitten-off cry as the linen catches a lesion and rips.
Before he’s even aware of moving, Francis has surged forward and is kneeling by James’ berth, supporting his second’s body as the man crumples. James slumps into his grip, breathing heavily.
“Francis-”
“I know.” Francis closes his eyes, briefly. “We can’t let the men see you in this state, eh?”
“I don’t need-”
“Damnit James, I’m not your bloody steward, I’m your friend.”
Finally- finally- James’ eyes meet his, clear despite the pain. They flicker. Something rises in Francis’ throat and he pushes it back in favour of releasing James to sit back. All the places where James’ skin had met his feel colder than any Arctic wind.
He can sense James observing his every reaction. With a shake of his head, Francis lets his mouth tick up.
“Let’s get you out of that shirt.”
Gently, ever so gently, Francis untangles James from the linen, taking stock of the bright crimson that peppers it.
James shakes his head, “Goodsir will have my head for that.”
“That man’ll be more fierce than your Chinese sniper, I’ll wager.”
James laughs and then breaks off with a groan, sinking deeper into the berth, “oh don’t, Francis. Laughing hurts.”
A painted basin lies by him and Francis seizes the cloth next to it. As he presses it to James’ skin, his second winces.
“Damn, that’s cold-”
Francis only has to give him a look and James breaks off. And then neither of them can stop the laughter until Francis is doubled over and James is gasping.
“Christ man-”
James waves him off, “that doesn’t leave this room. I’ll never hear the end of it-”
“Oh but James, what will the poets say?”
“Blast the poets, and blast you if you don’t stop making me laugh.”
Francis just shakes his head and continues cleaning the blood off James' skin. There’s a sudden silence as he takes stock of every hitch of breath, every wince as the cloth presses too hard or too close to an injury. In his periphery, Francis can see James’ gaze watching him intently and applies himself to avoiding it.
In, out. In, out. James’ breathing steadies as Francis runs the cloth over his torso again and again. Soon, Francis realises he’s mirroring it- some traitorous part of him wishes they could stay like this forever, breathing softly in the dark.
“Give me your arm.”
Silently, James complies and Francis lifts his wrist to see the lesion James had ripped. Careful, he wipes away the blood, fingers lingering too long over the sensitive skin of James’ forearm. James shivers- and then suddenly this is too much. Francis pulls away.
“I’ll fetch Goodsir to wrap you up.”
“No-” James catches himself, “you’re doing such a capital job, Francis. Don’t bother the man.”
Francis’ eyebrows raise as James forces himself to sit upright with a wince.
“I’m hardly a healer, James, I’m just as likely to make you worse. And then it will be my head Goodsir is after.”
“You did well enough in the Arctic.”
Francis sighs. James is right, as he so unfortunately is these days. With only one doctor, they’d simply have to make do as best they could on that long march south. In fact, Francis is more than a few toes down in that regard.
“I thought you didn’t want to be nursed,” Francis says, he sinks back to his knees anyway.
“Not when it’s you.” James gives half a laugh, “you’ve seen me worse.”
It’s true, Francis knows. James holds out his forearm for inspection and Francis takes up the roll of bandage by the basin. Against the white linen, James’ skin seems a more healthy colour.
“So,” Francis begins, “have you given thought to what you will do when we arrive home?”
“My memoirs, I suppose. Visit Sir John’s family-” James’ voice falters slightly, “hope I’m stationed in the Mediterranean for a good long while.”
“Christ knows we all need the sun.”
“Aye.”
Francis makes the mistake of glancing at James’ face. There’s a muffled sort of desperation written there- come with me, it says, come with me. But then someone passes by outside and James turns away, saying nothing at all.
“I had a dream last night,” James blurts, staring at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing in the whole world. Francis inclines his head, waiting for the man to continue. Anything is better than this heated silence.
“I keep dreaming that I’m back there. Every night.”
Francis knows what he means. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in the Arctic. Sometimes he’s hearing Blanky’s screams from high up on the mast as the tuunbaq mauls him, knowing that it’s all his fault. Other times he’s watching James starve at Fort Resolution, helpless, or at the carnival, burning. Occasionally, he’s on King William Island, staring at the gravel, at the sky. Alone. Those are always the worst.
“I understand, James.”
“No, it’s- it’s the same dream every time.” His voice drops to a whisper, “I lose you, Francis, every night. I can’t bear it.”
When Francis speaks, his voice is so low and intense, he surprises even himself: “that will not happen, I swear it. I am here, with you.” Always. He does not have the courage to say it.
But then he feels his face turn traitorously red and Francis drops his gaze to the bandage and ties it off. Shoddy work, but adjusting means more of those gentle touches that set fire to Francis’ skin. Hesitant, James pulls his arm away with a soft sigh- and without permission or cause Francis’ eyes trace upwards, over James’ stomach, his ribs, his chest where his heart sits, up the slender column of his throat. They linger there. No further.
Just under James’ jaw, a spec of blood sits.
Slowly, so carefully slowly, Francis reaches out, brushes it away- and can’t make himself pull back. Under his fingers, James’ pulse is rabbit-fast, breath stuttering with every slight caress. Almost imperceptibly, his body shifts towards Francis. In the soft glow of the oil lamp, James looks almost ethereal.
Francis Crozier is not a religious man, but here, in this moment, he understands why men devote their lives for something greater than themselves.
“Francis-” James' voice is weak, trailing off into a silence that is so thick Francis marvels that neither of them choke on it.
“I will follow you.” Francis’ voice is hardly more than a breath. “I will follow you, James.” Anywhere. Just say the word, and I will be there.
James’ eyes flutter shut for a moment, opening to stare into his with such clarity that it momentarily robs Francis of breath, nevermind sense.
“My captain,” is all James says, and suddenly Francis can breathe again. It’s the greatest effort in the world to move away his hand, but he manages, rocking back onto his heels. His gaze catches on James’ lips before he turns away, grabbing a fresh shirt.
“Come on, let’s get you up.”
Something clears in the atmosphere as James stands and allows himself to be helped into his uniform. The air is less close somehow, less frantic. As James finishes buttoning up his frock coat, Francis straightens the epaulettes.
“There. You look fit for a ball.”
“I hardly feel up to dancing.”
An image of James dressed as Britannia at the carnival flashes through his mind, and Francis has to press his lips together to keep from smiling. He’s sure it’ll take less than James will ever admit to get him dancing again.
He offers his arm, steady, as James supports himself. Together, they make their way through the ship, across the fo'c'sle and up onto the top deck. The wind immediately snatches at them, tugging at their coats and hair, though it seems to revive James, who takes a deep breath in, face relaxing.
At the horizon, the grey-green sea melds with the sky so Francis can’t see where one begins and the other ends. For a moment it seems as though there is no sea or sky, that they are suspended in an endless, perfect limbo.
A seagull cries above, shattering the moment.
At the railing beside him, James takes a deep breath, and then frowns.
“The air is different here. Less… open.”
Francis just nods, still trying to fix his gaze on the now non-existent horizon. There are things they’ll leave behind in the Arctic forever.
But, he thinks, as James’ fingers brush his, not everything.