Work Text:
Hickey's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep.
He'd never liked sleeping—it was too vulnerable, and losing hours every night to unconsciousness had always irked him. But, he slipped in and out nonetheless, drifting to and from awareness, to the pleasant tune of his captain's heavy breathing from the cot across from his. It was such a simple thing, to be sharing a tent with Crozier, but Hickey found himself elated by it regardless, in every moment that he was afforded the privilege. It was far more than he deserved, after what he'd done, but Crozier's mercy was boundless, and Hickey was infinitely grateful.
Hickey's thoughts slid slowly southwards, though Crozier remained at the forefront of his mind. His hand was in his trousers and teasing at his prick before he could even conjure the thought to touch himself, and he exhaled softly to contain a moan. Crozier had never taken him properly, not since the first time, and Hickey yearned for it, desperately—but it wasn't his place to ask, and so it was simply a nighttime fantasy, instead.
Crozier's hand, laced through his hair, pressing his face down into the pillow… another hand spreading his legs, and fingering him open with brutal efficiency… Crozier shoving his cock in before Hickey was ready, making him scream… tears streaming down Hickey's cheeks as he was thoroughly wrecked by his captain, panting and moaning and none of it making any difference to how he was treated…
Hickey allowed himself a small gasp, and his eyes fluttered as his hips bucked into his hand. And then he stilled, abruptly, as he caught sight of a shadow that should not have been there.
A figure stood between Hickey and his captain, and though he could only see the man's back, he recognized it immediately. It was hard not to recognize Billy Gibson, after how long they'd been intimate—that was over, now, though, since Crozier had freed Hickey from his madness. He felt bad for Gibson, sometimes, but he simply didn't fit into Hickey's life anymore; it wasn't personal, but it was finished, as Gibson had once said himself.
And Gibson was now in Crozier's tent, in the middle of the night, clutching a small object that glinted silver.
Hickey rose, slowly, being incredibly careful not to make any noise louder than Gibson's rapid breathing. The steward was completely still, holding the blade aloft, but Hickey didn't trust him to stay that way. And then, in the span of a single moment, Hickey’s emotions turned from placid to tumultuous, and he quivered with rage.
How dare he.
Gibson's hair had grown long, and Hickey grabbed a fistful of it to pull him back with. The other man yelped, and Hickey took the opportunity to shout, "Captain!" before shoving Gibson towards his own cot. Gibson's knees hit the edge of it and buckled, folding his body across the spot where Hickey had been pleasuring himself just moments prior; Hickey was on him in a second, wrestling the knife out of his grip with one hand and holding him down with the other.
As the blade entered Hickey's grasp, Gibson momentarily stopped struggling, and met Hickey's gaze with wide eyes. "Cornelius," Gibson gasped, and Hickey felt himself hesitate, perturbed by a sudden sense of deja vu.
Then, Hickey regained himself, and swapped the knife to his other hand so that he could hold it to Gibson's throat. "Don't move," he warned, sternly, "or I’ll unbutton your sternum."
Gibson's Adam's apple bobbed against the edge of the blade, and he said nothing.
Hickey turned his head, slowly, but only as far as he could without breaking eye contact. "Captain!" he called, again, and he waited. He didn't turn back until he heard the sound of Crozier beginning to stir; then, he snapped his head around and pressed the knife into Gibson's skin, hard enough that he'd be cut if he simply breathed too forcefully.
"Hickey…?" came Crozier's confused inquiry, and his blankets rustled to indicate his rising. "Hickey," he then repeated, sharply, and Hickey knew he must have caught the details of the scene. "What are you doing? Release him, now."
"Sir." Hickey's posture reflexively stiffened, and he obeyed, jerking the blade away from Gibson and stepping back. He turned the knife over in his hand, and turned to offer it to Crozier, hilt-first, as he explained, "I caught Mr Gibson in here without leave, standing over you and holding this. I reacted in the way I saw fit, sir."
Crozier studied him for a moment, and Hickey's prick decided to remind him of its existence in that same instance, twitching under Crozier's inspection. He didn’t take the knife. "I see," he answered, and his gaze slid over to Gibson. "Is this true, Mr Gibson?”
"It is, sir." Gibson's voice was breathless, and his eyes were wide. Hickey knew he probably wished to lie, but found his lips betraying him; the sight of it sent a heady thrill of self-satisfaction through his body.
“And what,” Crozier demanded, firm and dark in a way that thoroughly reignited the flame in Hickey’s gut, “were you intending to do, had Mr Hickey not interrupted you? Answer me.”
Before responding, Gibson took a moment to glance at Hickey, looking deeply hurt. “I… I was intending to kill you, sir,” he admitted, his head falling back down to stare at his knees.
Crozier wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “Explain yourself.”
It was then that Gibson pushed himself up from Hickey’s cot to sitting, lurching as if he’d been pulled by an invisible string, and his chest heaved. “I had everything,” he breathed, visibly squirming as he tried to avoid obeying the order, but he was utterly helpless. Hickey loved to see the other men like this; the only thing he loved more was feeling it himself. “I had— I had Cornelius, I had influence— power, even, more than any officers’ steward ever should, and everything was perfect.” When Gibson raised his head once more, focused solely on Crozier, his expression was twisted with desperate fury. “And then you stole it all from me.”
Hickey looked to Crozier for guidance and found his captain’s face impassive. Personally, he was dumbfounded by Gibson’s admission—the way he saw their acts of treason, the disgusting state of their camp, and then their subsequent rescue very nearly horrified him. Hickey found it hard to trust that Gibson actually believed such despicable things, to the extent that he would conspire to murder Crozier, and yet the evidence was right there, before him, in Gibson’s own words. Rage bubbled up beneath Hickey’s skin, and he fought it down, attempting to mask his feelings the same way Crozier did.
After a long moment of silence, Crozier heaved a sigh and waved a hand dismissively in Hickey’s direction. “I’m too exhausted and too sober for this,” he griped, and he turned away from both of them, back towards his berth. “Mr Gibson, you’re going to obey Mr Hickey as if he were me, and not fight him, is that understood?”
Gibson grimaced. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir?” Hickey questioned, but it went unacknowledged, as Crozier forded ahead.
“Hickey, you deal with him,” Crozier ordered, bluntly, and Hickey froze. “You’re the one that caught him. Punish him however you see fit.” As he spoke, he sat down heavily on his cot, with a groan that went directly to Hickey’s groin. “You heard him complaining about me stealing you from him, after all. I’m sure he’d appreciate your attention.” He snorted a weak laugh, there, and Hickey’s heart jumped embarrassingly.
“Ah— of course, sir, whatever you wish.” Hickey caught Gibson giving him a sour look, and pointedly ignored it. “Er… do you mean right now, or should I—”
Crozier sighed again. “Yes, now, Hickey. Lord knows I already lose enough sleep from all this nonsense you’ve infected me with, so I don’t care what you do with him, or where, as long as it’s not in this damn tent.” He paused, fixing Hickey with guarded eyes, and thoughtfully ran his tongue over his lower lip.
Hickey suddenly noticed just how hot it was in the captain’s tent. He might’ve even been sweating, but it was hard to tell with how enraptured he was by the motions of Crozier’s mouth.
“I’ll inspect your work in the morning,” Crozier told him, gruffly. “If I find Mr Gibson appropriately cowed, then I might consider rewarding you.” Then, while Hickey was still reeling from that, he barked, “Now, out, you two, before I change my mind and decide to give you both the cat.”
Hickey was on the other side of the tent flap before he could even muster the thought to obey. When he looked to his side, Gibson was there, slouching as if he was trying to fold himself into a smaller shape, and wearing a shell-shocked expression. He opened his mouth when he saw Hickey looking, but Hickey cut him off before he could speak.
“Not a word until we’re inside again, Mr Gibson,” he instructed, and Gibson’s mouth snapped shut into a scowl.
At least one of the storage tents was always reliably empty, especially in the middle of the night, and so that was where Hickey dragged his captive. Though, it wasn’t quite dragging, because Gibson walked where Hickey told him to, but Hickey couldn’t resist holding onto his upper arm just to watch his anger flare helplessly. He’d never seen Gibson so furious—even now, his rage was controlled, as it always was, but Hickey thought it must have been different like this. Gibson’s emotions were his only avenue for rebellion, and so perhaps he was tempted to let them get the better of him.
Hickey felt a dark thrum of power in his gut as they approached the tent, and he couldn’t resist placing his boot on Gibson’s lower back and practically kicking him into it. “In you go,” he said, cheerfully, and the sound of Gibson stumbling into a crate was music to his ears. Hickey ducked in behind him, and a gleeful smile tugged at the edges of his lips—he was going to punish Gibson thoroughly, and Crozier would be proud of him, proud enough to reward him, and he’d live off of the ecstasy alone for months.
When Gibson turned to him, then, he looked pitifully vulnerable, and as delicate as a porcelain vase. Anger had given way to hurt, and Hickey was struck by a sudden sense that he felt bad for this poor, misguided creature. He wasn’t hard on the eyes, either—beautiful, in a sort of ghostly, waifish manner. Hickey remembered having dalliances with this man, before; perhaps they could have those again, once Gibson’s errant beliefs had been sufficiently corrected.
“Cornelius—” Gibson began, and it was a desperate, heart-wrenching plea.
Hickey took a purposeful stride towards him, and punched him in the face, without a single ounce of hesitation or remorse.
Gibson staggered, letting out a ragged gasp as his hand flew to his nose—broken, it seemed, by how the metallic stench of blood invaded Hickey’s senses. “Oh, God,” he muttered, faintly, and he seemed liable to fall.
Hickey was tempted to allow him to, but he didn’t; instead, he grabbed the front of Gibson’s shirt, and roughly tugged him closer. Gibson moved like a ragdoll, unable to fight anything that Hickey did to him, and the knowledge of it was more intoxicating than any spirit. “No, just me,” he jibed, lightly, and it gave him a flicker of deja vu that he quickly shoved away. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that, Gibson?”
“Billy,” Gibson practically begged. “If you have to— at least call me Billy, please.” He sounded broken already; Hickey was delighted to be the one allowed the honour of crushing him into atoms. And Hickey considered the request, but decided that Gibson would have to earn that right, if he wanted it so badly.
“You’re in no place to be making demands, now,” Hickey reminded him, with a gentle tut-tut. “I’ll call you whatever I’d like. And you…” He leaned in, and licked a broad stripe across Gibson’s scarlet-slicked chin, filling his mouth with his blood, before spitting it back in the other man’s stunned face. “You are going to call me sir, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Gibson whimpered, with not the barest hint of passion in it. Hickey recalled when the two of them had passion enough to melt the Arctic ice, but it was revolting, now, to think on the men they’d been then. They’d been no better than animals, and it seemed that Gibson was still in need of a strong hand to tame him.
“Good.” Hickey gave him a sardonic smile, relishing in the way that it made Gibson flinch. “You disgust me, you know that, Gibson?” he went on, tauntingly swiping his thumb underneath Gibson’s nose to smear his blood across his lips. “You think so highly of being a traitor. I was going to lead us all to ruin, out there, and Captain Crozier saved me. Saved me, saved you, saved all of us. And you repay his mercy by trying to kill him.”
“You— you— he’s changed you, you can’t even see it, he’s taken you away from me and you don’t even care—” Gibson was breathing heavily, floundering halfheartedly in Hickey’s grasp, eyes glassy with pain. “I love you,” he confessed, and Hickey felt nothing.
“Maybe I’d love you, too,” Hickey responded, with a shrug, “if you were a bit more grateful that Captain Crozier didn’t simply leave you for dead, hm?” He kissed Gibson, then, stifling the steward’s yelp of surprise with his mouth and eagerly lapping at the sour tang of blood on his lips. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, in the pauses between his biting assaults, “I’ll make sure you never again forget who owns you.”
“Good Christ—” Gibson gasped into Hickey’s mouth, and his hips suddenly bucked against him, revealing his growing arousal. “I—I thought you were supposed to be punishing me—” He choked back a moan, but Hickey caught it nonetheless, and grinned.
“Oh, Gibson,” Hickey purred, before letting his voice drop to a raspy growl, “I am.” And he tore himself away from devouring Gibson’s lips, relishing in his slack-jawed expression, before shoving him into the nearest stack of crates. “Get your shirt off. Quickly.”
Gibson looked as if he wanted to protest, but his fingers worked faster, and he let out a pained groan instead as his shirt dropped to the ground. “Fuck,” he swore, arms covered in prominent gooseflesh from the chill in the air. “I—I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking, I wasn’t thinking, I was just— I was just angry, and I wouldn’t have really done it, I swear— lash me, if you’d like, but don’t… just stop this, now, please— sir—”
“Lay down. On your back,” Hickey ordered, firmly, and Gibson inhaled sharply as he could do nothing but obey. He took a step closer, looming over Gibson with his hands primly folded in front of him. “The captain told me to punish you however I want,” he reminded him. “And you’re going to enjoy it, Gibson.”
Gibson’s eyes widened.
Hickey dropped to one knee, and brought out the knife that he’d confiscated from him, which had remained clutched in his left hand. Gibson flinched at the sight of it, and Hickey chuckled. “Oh, don’t fret, you’ll be perfectly fine,” he cooed, using his free hand to brush a curl from Gibson’s forehead. “Just going to leave you with a little reminder, yeah? Of who you owe your life to. And maybe that’ll teach you to be grateful.”
“Fuck,” Gibson swore, eyeing how the blade glinted in the faint lamplight.
“Language,” Hickey teased, adding another disappointed tut for good measure. “You know I’m your superior officer now, right? So you shouldn’t be cursing around me, or else I might report you to the captain. Again.” He dropped the knife to the pale flesh of Gibson’s stomach, letting the cold metal rest against his skin, and Gibson sucked in a sharp breath. “You’d hate to have to repeat this, wouldn’t you? Or, even worse, force our captain to lower himself to punish you by his own hand.”
“I’d rather take the cat o’ nines than… this, sir,” Gibson snapped, rather boldly for someone with a knife a single flick away from slicing into his abdomen.
“We’ll see.” Hickey took the blade and traced gentle lines into Gibson’s stomach with the tip of it—not hard enough to mark, yet—and amused himself with how Gibson struggled not to twitch. “Do you know his name, Gibson? His full name, I mean.”
“The captain’s?”
“Mm—hm. Who else?”
“No,” Gibson admitted, clearly distracted by the steady threat of the knife on his skin. “If it’s not just Francis Crozier, then no, I don’t know.”
“That’s half of it, yes,” Hickey affirmed, absentmindedly, and he purposefully allowed the blade to slip, then, slicing neatly into Gibson’s flesh. He hissed in pain, but didn’t fight, and Hickey gave him a reassuring smile. “Francis… yes, of course. A good name, don’t you think? Saintly, but not one of the ones everyone names their kid for.” He finished the first, long stroke and raised the blade, then quickly struck two shorter cuts into Gibson’s belly before the steward could react.
“Christ, please—”
Hickey ignored Gibson’s pleading and continued, moving the knife over and carving another vertical line, the same as the first. “Not sure where the next one comes from— never asked, never been told. Rawdon. Got interesting sounds, don’t you think? Kind of odd to get your lips around.” The curved line was difficult, and so Hickey took his time, before hastily slashing out the last mark to complete it.
Gibson’s chest was heaving, forcing blood from his wounds with every shuddering breath he took. He’d fallen silent, and Hickey was vaguely disappointed—there was something so cruelly satisfying about hearing him beg.
Hickey started the next incision and went on in the same conversational tone. “Moira’s after that, the other one you didn’t know. I think it suits him. Not that he’s ever asked me, obviously.” He shook his head and laughed at his own joke while giving Gibson a few more even cuts. “Do you agree, Gibson? Hm?”
“Oh, go to Hell,” Gibson snarled, visibly wincing as the action disturbed his injuries. “You absolute rat bastard, you.”
Hickey grinned. “I’ll have you know that my rat parents were happily wedded, thank you very much.” He turned the blade over in his hand, watching Gibson’s blood spill over the edge, and then dropped it back down to make the final, curved stroke. “Last one—Crozier, of course. Our intrepid Captain Crozier. Our saviour.” Hickey tossed the knife aside, no longer needing it, and sat back on his knees to admire his handiwork.
Gibson’s eyes fell to his stomach at the same moment, and he shuddered, looking green. “Oh, God,” he groaned, and Hickey knew he was taking in the letters that he’d carved into him, now freely spilling blood across his skin.
FRMC.
It would be impossible for Gibson to forget whose authority he bowed to, now.
“You’re beautiful,” Hickey mused. With one hand, he trailed his fingers over the marks, and with the other, he teased at the buttons of Gibson’s trousers, invigorated by how both motions made him gasp and flinch. In a flash, Hickey thumbed both of the buttons out of their holes and slid his hand into Gibson’s smallclothes to grasp his hard prick. “It’s alright, Billy. You’re going to be good, now, aren’t you?”
Gibson groaned, canting his hips into Hickey’s grasp, visibly unravelling as soon as his Christian name passed his lips. “Fuck, okay—”
“You’ve learned your lesson, hm?” Hickey slid his hand over Gibson’s shaft, stroking him roughly, and swiped his thumb over the head to gather a dribble of his pre-ejaculate.
“Yes,” Gibson repeated, breathlessly. “Yes— yes, fuck—”
It had been a long time since they’d been intimate with each other, but Hickey still knew exactly how to play Gibson’s body like a fiddle. The muscle memory was there, in the flick of his wrist as he jerked Gibson’s prick, and it was mere moments before Gibson was spilling into his trousers. Impassively, Hickey retracted his hand and wiped Gibson’s spend off onto his stomach, where it mingled with his blood.
Then, Hickey smiled softly. “I love you, Billy,” he murmured, and he meant it. He’d never been so gorgeous before as he was now, soaked in his own blood and seed and staring up at Hickey with wide, owlish eyes. Unable to contain himself, Hickey leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Gibson’s mouth, with his hands resting on the other man’s hips in a facsimile of caring support. “You stay right here. I’ll go fetch Dr Goodsir to tend to your injuries.”
Gibson’s eyelids fluttered, and he responded only with a quiet, pained moan. Hickey patted his cheek and stood, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he laid weakly in a small, scarlet pool. If Hickey had been an artistic man, he would have wanted to preserve the sight in paint; it really was something stunning.
Hickey left Gibson alone in the tent, and as he went in search of Goodsir, he wondered if Crozier would be satisfied with what he’d done.