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It starts with a handshake and a warm smile at your introduction at Greenhithe. It starts with mutual respect, and long, enthusiastic discussions between equals. It starts with the companionable walks between the ships, with your visible breath mingling in the cold arctic sunshine. It starts with shared stories and laughter over dinner, and hands that fall to the table just a little too close together. It starts with an unintended brush of fingers as he hands over his journals, and it starts when you take notice of the way the outer edges of his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you.
It starts out on the deck of Terror, watching the sunrise--for however short a time it will shine--and catching his eyes looking at your face rather than at the horizon with a gaze so tender as to make one’s breath catch. You hold his eyes for a moment and smile softly at the way the sunlight shines through his hair.
It starts in the (for once) blessedly empty sickbay with a crash of glass and a splash of crimson on your hand, and an oh my, how clumsy of me. He hurries over with worry on his brow and gentle hands to examine the gash, and proclaims with relief that it doesn’t need stitches. He cleans the cut (though you could’ve done that yourself) and wraps the bandages delicately with practiced fingers. Your heads are bent close together (you imagine you can feel his breath on your skin) and your gazes catch while his fingers linger just a little too long on your hand. Eyes wander down to your lips, so enticingly close, and truly all you would need to do is lean forward… You both pull away at the same moment, before the temptation can take you. He turns away, and you pray he hasn’t seen the bright tinge of disappointment in your eyes.
It starts with a request, bulling past your anxious hesitation; you speak it softly but firmly, and it feels intimate in a way that it shouldn’t--not something so simple. His back is turned from you when you ask, so you only see his face after he turns back to you with a smile and a compliment that so gracefully denies your request. The compliment no doubt brings a blush to your cheeks, but there’s still a ball of disappointment that takes root in your chest. You don’t blame him. You understand perfectly why it has to be this way, why this careful distance you’ve crafted between yourselves has to be maintained. Knowing this, though, isn’t enough to stop a subtle melancholy from coloring your interactions for a time afterward that even persists when he offhandedly titles you Doctor, causing pride to warm your cheeks.
It starts with smoke hanging acrid on the biting frigid air, Lady Silence’s blood still slowly drying on your hands. As soon as you’d settled her away from the fire and the panicked men, you return to the crowd to search. To see who is left. Everyone around you is doing the same, desperately searching for their loved ones. You see Bridgens and Peglar embrace out of the corner of your eye. The longer you look, the further your heart sinks. You finally feel a hand on our shoulder and turn to find him there and the relief crashes into you, blocking your throat and stinging your eyes with tears. Your voice chokes out, I am so very glad to see you made it out, and it’s not enough, not by a long shot, but he replies, As am I, in a voice so heavy with emotion that you think he understands perfectly. It’s then that you notice the blood staining his sleeve, and alarmed, make to examine it. He lets you, and you find a shallow but still bleeding knife wound in his upper arm. Gravely, he tells you that his escape was narrower than most. His eyes wander to the smouldering ruin of the tents and you know instinctively that he’s thinking of the men who were not so lucky. Your hand slips from the knife wound down his arm to grasp his hand. It is a breach of the boundaries between you, but right now you don’t care. From the way he holds onto your hand like he’s drowning, you don’t think he does either.
And it starts after, before abandoning the trapped ships you’ve sheltered in these cold years--not homes, but as close as one can come to such in this desolate landscape. You have spoken to the captain about about the poisoned food--not that much can be done about it now--and the knowledge hangs constant like a lead noose around your necks. (There’s another knowledge hanging there today, one that has been there longer, and it is heavier now than it has ever been.) Terror’s sickbay is nearly empty when you slide open the door. There are no patients present, and most of the equipment has been carefully packed away already.
There’s no real reason for this visit, and you both know it, though you make an effort to make it seem as though there is, discussing patients on Erebus, and the fact that the sickbay over there is near completely cleaned out. Eventually there’s no more business to discuss, and no more reason for you to linger, but linger you do, quietly helping store away the remainder of the medical supplies, soon to be transported out to the sledges. He passes you a jar, and when you reach out to grab it, your fingers touch against his more than you had intended. You both freeze there just a moment too long, hesitating for what can’t be more than seconds, but feels like an eternity. You come to your senses and fully take the jar, turning to walk to the crate and store it, but a hand gently grasps your wrist.
Harry. It is said hoarsely in a quiet voice, and your heart jumps to your throat, because how long have you wanted to hear your name on his lips? As you turn back towards him, his hand remains resting there on your wrist, warm through your sleeve. He looks at it as though it had moved without his permission, and he opens his mouth as though to apologize, but before he can, you step forward into his space so that your chests are now nearly touching. He’s looking you in the eyes now, and he slowly brings up his hand to rest softly against your cheek. His eyes slide down to your mouth and he leans forward, eyes glancing back up to your’s, asking permission, before brushing your lips together oh so softly. In response, you reach up to grasp the back of his head, carding your fingers through his hair as you do, and pull him closer, kissing him more firmly.
When you finally breathlessly pull away from one another, it’s only far enough to rest your foreheads together, sharing breaths while he lovingly strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. And in this moment, even with all you’ve been through, and all you’re about to be put through, there’s a warm sort of happiness that has bloomed in your chest, and you can’t help the smile pulling at your lips. You open your eyes to see that he is smiling as well, and for a moment, you are perfectly content with the world.
That is how it starts.