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Thomas Blanky finds his captain in the stern of Terror, watching their destination fade into the horizon as they sail in the opposite direction. The sea is dark, the sky is a brilliant blue, and Francis’ glower is a thundercloud in an otherwise perfectly lovely day.
Blanky leans up against the railing, lights his pipe. Takes a long inhalation, and then glances sidelong at Francis. “So…”
Francis meets his eyes. He says nothing, but his eye twitches, just slightly.
“Entirely the wrong direction for hours now,” Blanky notes. “And no sign of them turning around.”
Francis grumbles something noncommittal. If Blanky were a speculative man, he would bet money on it being Fitzjames’ name, but after how cool their first meeting had been at Greenhithe, well, Blanky’s not certain he could find anyone to bet against.
He stands there and smokes his pipe in silence, watching the Whale Fish islands get further and further away. When the islands are well and truly gone, and the same can be said for the tobacco in his pipe, he carefully tucks it away again. “I’ll have them signalled.”
Francis stops him with a gloved hand on his forearm.
Blanky looks down at his arm, and then up at his captain.
“Don’t bother,” Francis says, voice dark, and breath smelling faintly of whisky. “Let them work it out on their own.” He takes his hand from Blanky’s arm, goes back to gripping the railing and glowering at the vast horizon.
Blanky stands there a moment, considering—but they’ve a long voyage ahead of them, and Francis will drag himself out of it eventually. He always has in the past. “You’re certain that’s the stance you want to take, captain?”
Francis fixes him with a sharp look.
Blanky gives him a loose salute, turns to leave before remembering. “Oh, you may want to check with your steward.”
“Hmm?”
“He was distressed you’d gone up without your coat.”
Francis raises his eyebrow, and then shakes his head. “It’ll get a hell of a lot colder than this,” he says.
“He likes to do his job,” Blanky says mildly. “You know he sees you dodging him as a personal insult.”
At that, Francis chuckles. “Point taken,” he agrees. “I’ll track him down.”
Blanky taps Crozier’s shoulder companionably. “Jopson will appreciate that.”
📦
Jopson raps on the door of the great cabin with his knuckles, slips inside without opening the door wide enough for anyone else to see in. “Sir?”
Captain Crozier looks up from where he’s sitting at the table. “Ah, Jopson. Has something happened?”
Jopson’s eyes glance over the glass on the table—half-empty—and then the bottle on the sideboard—two-thirds empty. He closes his eyes a moment, thinks of the best way to phrase things, and then opens them again. “You’ve a request for an audience, sir.”
Crozier flicks his hand, gestures loosely at the other side of the table. “You could’ve just let them in, Jopson.”
“From Erebus, sir.” Jopson clarifies. He glances back behind himself, where he can hear words being exchanged with Lieutenant Little. “It’s Commander Fitzjames. About the—”
“—navigation mishap, I suppose,” Crozier finishes, disdain dripping from his voice. He gives Jopson a dark smile, tosses back the remainder of his glass and stands to pour himself another. “You may as well send him in, then. I’d like to hear his reasoning for failing to notice or correct it.”
Jopson nods. “As you request, sir.” He ducks back out into the hall, dodging Neptune, and turns the corner to find their handsome first lieutenant physically blocking Commander Fitzjames from proceeding any closer to the great cabin.
“I have come all the way over here, damn the hour,” Fitzjames is saying, “and I demand—”
“Commander Fitzjames,” Jopson says, louder than he needs to—but it has the effect he wants of both Fitzjames and Lieutenant Little turning to face him.
(If he’s perfectly honest, he cares much more deeply about the latter than the former.)
“Captain Crozier will see you now, sir,” Jopson finishes. The proper thing to do would be to escort him in, but as Fitzjames stomps past him in a whoosh, his greatcoat flaring out behind him, Jopson decides to focus his efforts in a place where he can actually make a difference.
Namely, in the flustered first lieutenant currently running his hand back through his hair.
Jopson lowers his gaze to said lieutenant’s jacket, clearly put on in haste—not surprising, given the late hour. “Excuse me for pointing it out, but your jacket is buttoned crooked, sir,” he notes calmly.
Lieutenant Little glances down, curses, looks back up at Jopson guiltily.
“I’m sure you were half-asleep, sir,” Jopson soothes. “You did well to intercept him, that bought me the time I needed.” He steps in close.
Lieutenant Little looks over Jopson’s shoulder at the hall to the great cabin, and then back at Jopson. (He hasn’t stepped away.) “Do you think we…”
“They’ll be fine, sir,” Jopson says smoothly. Raises his hands to Lieutenant Little’s collar. “Here,” he says. “Let me help you with your buttons.”
📦
Francis is tucked away in the stern of the boat again, gazing into the bay and trying very hard not to think of anything, when Blanky finds him.
“We seem to be making a habit of this,” Blanky says mildly as he packs his pipe. “What’s the entertainment this time, as we’re anchored in place?”
Francis rolls his eyes, makes a gesture toward the water. “Can you believe this?”
Blanky looks toward the shore, snorts with amusement. “Talked some of the Inuit into lending them kayaks, did they?”
“You’d think it was a party,” Francis grumbles.
“They do look like they’re having fun,” Blanky says. He leans against the railing, glances over at Francis. “Still at odds with Fitzjames, then?”
Francis snorts, turns away from the water and leans his back up against the railing. “Useless peacock. Follows Sir John around like an over-eager lapdog.”
Blanky glances at him, but doesn’t say anything.
Francis wouldn’t normally take that as encouragement, but he’s particularly irritated at Fitzjames at present. Has been since Greenhithe, listening to him blather on about magnetics when he’d only just learnt them. “He’s inexperienced. He’s loud. He’s vain. He was more concerned with—with saving face than he was with completely missing that Erebus was going entirely the wrong—”
“And, there he goes,” Blanky says. “Arse over teakettle.”
Against his better judgement, Francis turns, looks. Fairholme is still paddling around in the calm water of the bay, as is Le Vesconte, both far enough out from shore that the water is a deep blue, but he doesn’t see—
—there.
An upturned kayak, the bottom of it exposed to the sky.
Francis leans over the railing, looking for the waterlogged curls, the boisterous laugh, looking for anything at all, any sign of Fitzjames. Reaches for his spyglass but all he’s got is a flask—
—there’s no movement on the surface of the water. He’s too far away to see clearly, but there’s no movement on the surface—
“Christ,” he breathes. There’s no way for anyone to make it over there in time, Fairholme is paddling some distance away, they’re too far from shore, the other kayak is empty, bobbing on the water like—
“Looks as though Le Vesconte can swim,” Blanky observes. “Just there.”
Francis squints at the water, just in time to see Le Vesconte’s silver hair disappear underwater, next to the overturned kayak. Counts off the seconds in his head. Ten, twenty. Thirty. Then sixty seconds. Ninety. Two minutes. Two and a half—
Both heads break the surface at the same time, arms slung about each other’s shoulders. Le Vesconte’s hair is darkened near to black by the water, and Fitzjames’ curls are flattened, his drenched locks hanging long down his back.
They’re laughing.
“Good god,” Francis says.
“They’ll be lucky if they don’t geld themselves in that water,” Blanky says. “Wasn’t much above freezing this morning.”
Francis watches the two men separate, swim to their respective kayaks. Le Vesconte makes an attempt to clamber back into his kayak before giving up, and starting to kick toward shore, steering it awkwardly.
“We haven’t even left civilization behind yet,” Francis gripes.
“Speak for yourself,” Blanky says.
Francis glances back at the water, only to see that Fitzjames has hauled himself halfway back onto his kayak. He’s not wearing trousers, and his drawers are soaking wet, and cling to his skin. (His legs are longer than they have any right to be, and his arse is far more shapely than the layers of his clothing, over-tailored as they are, imply.)
Beside him, Blanky is chuckling.
Francis looks away, but not before Fitzjames rolls over onto his back, drawers clinging just as snugly in the front as they were in the back.
Francis looks away, but not soon enough.
📦
Dundy rolls his eyes, swallows his whisky before speaking. “Well, why on earth did they send you Crozier’s tea and sugar in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” James exclaims, ignoring his perfectly good drink in order to lean forward and bury his head in his arms, where he mutters something that Dundy doesn’t quite catch.
Dundy pats him on the calf. They’re both crammed into Fitzjames’ cabin—James on the bunk, with his knees pulled up, and Dundy seated in front of the desk. His eye falls upon the papers still laid out there, and he shifts James’ glass over to the side, pulls one of the papers closer. “Oh dear,” he murmurs.
James makes an exasperated noise. “What?”
“I didn’t realize you’d gone so far as to sign for them, James.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” James says mournfully. “They loaded all his tea and sugar onto Erebus because I signed for the damn stuff without realizing. I went down and looked earlier today, after I got dried off from our impromptu swim, and it’s buried so far back in there that there’s no way they’ll be able to unload it and shift it to Terror without delaying everything.”
Dundy whistles, and pushes the paper back where it was. “You’ve really endeared yourself to Crozier, haven’t you.”
“We haven’t even properly left yet,” James says. He tugs at one curl. “He hates me.”
“You’re not serving directly under him,” Dundy points out. “Sir John appreciates—”
“It’s not the same,” James whines.
“What is it you want from Crozier, then?”
James’ eyes widen, slightly, but instead of answering the question, he looks away, and that’s enough for Dundy to finally put together the things James isn’t saying.
Well, then. “You should have mentioned it earlier,” Dundy suggests easily. “I’d have talked you up more.”
James has gone slightly pink. “Don’t start,” he pleads.
“Could have spoken to your charm and dedication—”
“Dundy, please—”
“—your exemplary skills handling long weapons—”
“—come now—”
“—and that particular bit of skylarking in—”
“—Dundy.”
Dundy grins at him, takes another drink, the whisky warming his throat pleasantly. “He’ll come around,” Dundy offers. “I’m sure once we get going…”
“Ah, it’s too late now,” James says, still fidgeting with that curl of hair. “We’ll hardly see each other on separate ships, and I’ve enough to overcome anyway.”
“He was very thorough in his criticisms the other day,” Dundy agrees.
“And that’s only the parts I told you,” James says. He stretches his long legs out on the bed. Glances over at his own whisky, but doesn’t pick it up. “He smiled at Terror’s ice master the last time I was over there.”
“Most men do smile on occasion,” Dundy remarks gently.
“I wish he would smile at me; don’t I deserve his fondness?”
“Jamie, darling, you’ve essentially stolen his tea and his sugar—”
“What if I give it back?”
“You said yourself it can’t be unloaded—”
“The least I should do is tell him.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m going over there,” James says, his voice brooking no argument. He shifts on the bunk, reaches down to partially open one of the drawers and tug out a cloak. “I can at least explain to him what happened before he realizes.”
“—there’s not much benefit to that when everything is already said and done.”
“No, I’m going,” James says insistently. “Thanks for the advice, Dundy.”
“I didn’t advise you to—”
James slides down onto the floor, presses his lips briefly to the top of Dundy’s head, and then steps over him entirely, leaving his cabin in a swirl of navy cloak and the faint scent of lavender.
Dundy blinks. Sighs.
Far be it from him to prevent James Fitzjames from whatever it is he’s set his mind to, no matter how high the chance of failure.
📦
“—and it’s all been loaded already but I brought this over, and I’m certain we can work out some sort of arrangement to, er, make the best of a bad situation.” James clasps his hands behind his back, and just—waits, half-expecting to be evicted immediately, and sent back to Erebus with his tail between his legs.
Crozier glances down at the tea caddy sitting on the great table, and then, slowly, looks up at Fitzjames. His eyes are remarkably blue.
James waits. Watches as Crozier crosses the room, opens the chest, looking at the contents, and then, oddly, looks back at his desk, where he had been occupied writing a letter when James had arrived.
He watches as Crozier plucks a second glass from the sideboard, pours a finger of whisky in it before glancing over at James, and then pouring a second and offering the glass.
James steps forward to take it. Waits for Crozier to refill his glass before raising his. “A willing foe and sea room,” he says, softly.
Crozier gestures with his own glass, and they both drink in silence.
(It’s good whisky—better than the whisky he’d shared with Dundy earlier.)
Crozier speaks first. “You’ve recovered from your mishap earlier today, then.”
It’s mere chance that James is looking away when Crozier says it, thus giving him the moment he needs to school his expression before he makes eye contact. Of course Crozier has heard. And of course it is yet another thing that he can flagellate James over. Another thing to add to the list of James’ flaws, as Crozier perceives them—and, based on the other day, he perceives them in great detail. “Yes, thank you.”
“…water couldn’t have been warm.”
“It wasn’t,” James replies. The need to brag about his swimming prowess is right there, on the tip of his tongue, but something about the intensity of Crozier’s gaze calms the impulse. Regardless, the room is warm, and James unclasps his cloak, drapes it over one of the chairs and stalwartly attempts not to think about the varying reasons he is feeling so—
“It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze,” Crozier says. “Considering how you were dressed.”
James glances at Crozier. “Were you watching me the entire time?”
Crozier sets his glass down. Immediately thinks better of it, and picks it back up again, as though it’s a shield. As though it’s protection against a thing that he is trying, desperately, not to say. “Not the entire time.”
“You saw me pull myself up onto the kayak.”
Crozier’s face darkens. It’s the same colouring his skin took on the other day, when his voice was raised, and he was castigating James for being irresponsible and uneducated and unskilled.
James is reasonably certain that Crozier isn’t angry now. He leans back against the table, offers a concession. “It was the only way I could fit. I hadn’t intended to flip myself upside down like that.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t drown,” Crozier says.
James smiles at him, then, because the irony is that he wouldn’t have drowned—had, in fact, nearly been out on his own before Dundy had dove down to retrieve him—but if this is what it took to get Crozier’s attention? It was worth the time spent fixing his hair.
“I don’t understand what’s so funny,” Crozier says tightly. His knuckles are white where he grips his glass.
“I’m not laughing,” James reassures him. “But…”
Crozier’s jaw is set, his face stubborn. “Go on, then.”
“I was wondering,” James says. He hesitates, just for a moment—but the risks he’s taken in the past have paid off, and there’s no reason to expect this one won’t as well. He shifts the register of his voice, strives to make it as coy as possible. “Did you like looking at me?”
Crozier blinks. Sets down his glass and crosses the room to where James leans against the table, glaring at him all the while, and standing much closer than is necessary considering the time of night, and the fact that they can hear each other just fine. “The last time you were here—”
“I remember.”
“—I accused you of being a vain man, James Fitzjames.”
“I regret to advise you that I am, indeed, a very vain man, Captain Crozier,” James says, voice low.
“Don’t start with me,” Crozier says, and he’s close enough now that James can feel Crozier’s breath on his face.
(Their thighs are very close.)
“I like to be told when I’m appreciated,” James continues.
“You should strive to be more focused on your duties, then,” Crozier says, and he brings his hand up to a point where it is very nearly, but not quite, touching James’ face.
“You made it sound as though I was quite incapable of performing any of them.”
“There’s…time for you to apply yourself—”
“I don’t like to be derelict in my performance,” James agrees.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Crozier says.
His hand twitches just as James turns his head, and Crozier’s fingertips brush James’ hair.
(James expects him to pull back as though he’s been burned, and that would answer that question in a way James could respect, even if he didn’t like it—but Crozier doesn’t pull back at all.)
James watches Crozier’s face carefully. Notes the trembling of his hand, which continues even after he’s put it back by his side. “You didn’t answer the question.”
Crozier meets his eyes. “You asked whether I liked looking at you.”
“Yes.”
“Does your vanity know no bounds?”
“No,” James answers honestly.
Crozier rolls his eyes. Steps in closer, his leg between James’.
(Not close enough.)
“If I answer your question honestly,” Crozier mutters, “I give myself away.”
James shrugs. “Then let me incriminate myself first.” He tugs back his sleeve, inserts his hand between both their bodies at hip level, palm facing Crozier.
Crozier’s eyes are the bright blue of glacier ice, and his scowl cracks as he glances down at James’ hand between them. “I won’t praise you for the offer,” he says irritably.
“But you will praise me when I follow through,” James offers.
“Are you any good, Fitzjames?”
“I dare say I’m better at this than I am with a kayak.”
“Practiced, are you?”
“Extensively.”
“...well, go on then.”
James grins, and Crozier steps forward into his waiting hand.
📦
It is far too early for anyone else to be awake, but Edward Little finds himself joined at the stern of Terror by the captain’s steward regardless.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Jopson says, his voice a calming wash over Edward’s thoughts.
(His gloved hands are on the railing just inches apart from Edward’s, and Edward detests himself for how consciously aware of it he is.)
“I’m not used to the endless sunlight,” Edward says, by way of explanation.
“Ah, yes,” Jopson says. “No sunrises to be had at this time of year, I’m afraid.”
They stand in silence for minutes that drag on into a pleasant eternity, before the silence is broken by the even more pleasing tones of Jopson’s voice.
“Commander Fitzjames and Captain Crozier are meeting at present,” Jopson says, voice low as though he’s confiding a great secret in Edward. “I thought it best to make myself scarce.”
Edward frowns. “What on earth are they meeting about this early in the morning?”
“Tea, I think,” Jopson says, and his smile is brighter than any sunrise that Edward has ever seen.