Archive of Our Own

Stepping into the lower decks of Terror, James feels distinctly as if he is boarding a ghost ship.  And but for the ten of Terror’s crew who have elected to stay within her severely lilting hull, it is true that she sits devoid of life, masts looming darkly in arctic skies.  It sends a shiver down James’ spine, to think this is what the ships will be should they abandon them to march across the ice - quiet testaments to their folly. 

It is virtually silent below decks, and dim - lamps lit only intermittently for the few crewmen that remain.  James is tired, and feeling particularly annoyed- and well might he, being temporarily in command of two ships berthed deep in polar ice, and the man who should be his first locked away here like a child made sullen and tired by their own tantrum.

He has come buoyed by a hastily downed snifter of brandy for strength, a page from Francis’s own book.  Unhappy with the excuses fed to him for the other Captain’s absence, vague statements that he is ‘unwell.’ If Crozier had not already been unwell the weeks preceding his self-internment, shaking if he must go more than a few hours without his blasted drink, temperamental and drip-nosed - well, James does not know what he can possibly be like now.

As he approaches the great cabin and Crozier’s bunk, he makes out Jopson - sat on a stool as if on guard, book in hand. Jopson rises immediately at the click of James’ approaching boots.

“Captain-” Jopson begins almost immediately, just as soon as he’s managed to cock off a salute.

“You don’t need to salute me below decks, Jopson” James interrupts, “nor doff your cap. I know that you are a man who does things by the book, but there isn’t another soul present. We can do away with the formalities.”

There is some small, indistinct noise from behind the door Jopson obstructs. James’ eyes shift towards it and back. “Well, perhaps one other soul.  It sounds as if our dear Captain Crozier still lives after all.”

Jopson clears his throat.  “Captain Crozier is unwell, sir. Is there something I can be of help with for you?”

“Do not take this as an insult Mr Jopson, but I did not go through the trial of donning my slops and making the trek from Erebus to speak with you.” He nods his head at the door. “I’d like to see my First with my own eyes, please.”

“Captain Crozier is -”

“Unwell. Yes, you’ve said.”

Jopson clasps his hands behind himself, clearly finding it a trial to resist a superior officer. “He has ordered that no one is to see him, sir.”

“Not even I?”

“Especially not you. Sir.” 

James’ eyebrows rise up and Jopson dips his head, abashed, rushing to add, “Those are the Captain’s words, not my own.”

His mouth quirks up at the corner involuntarily. How like Francis, to single him out in such a way. Anything to avoid FitzJames, even if it means asking a Steward to disobey a Captain. It stings more than he would like, and he feels the familiar roiling in his chest, of tangled hurt and anger and sorrow for what he wishes their relationship could be instead of this.

His tongue presses into the ridges of his lower teeth as he breathes in. “Well, this is an order. I don’t question your loyalty to your Captain, Jopson. Nobody would.”

“He is not in a state fit for your company, sir.”

James can guess at why Crozier is locked away. After Little came to pilfer James’ own liquor on Crozier’s behalf. Whether it is voluntary or out of necessity alone, to avoid the indignity of crawling to James for more, he doesn’t know.  But it is clear that Crozier is drying out.

“I would not say Captain Crozier has been fit for company for much of our expedition,” he says to himself, an echo of his earlier thought, then continues louder for Jopson’s benefit “I am fully aware that he is not well. I’m here to… offer my support. As it were.”

Ill-advised as it was to be out on the ice alone coming here, ill-advised as it is to be in close quarters with Francis at all. He hates that he misses Francis. Actually misses the lush, a man who had proven most disagreeable to every overture of friendship when Sir John still lived. But there have been flashes of kindness in those icy eyes as well, flashes of recognition.  An occasional apologetic shoulder clap.  It burns him to find that he is desperate for more of those moments.

And the brandy in him is helping him to more freely admit, some of his distaste for Francis is from jealousy - yes. Possible that it grew partially from the contempt he saw in Francis’s eyes at table, when James told a story, when James did anything of good humor that Francis seemed to think foolish. He both longs for Francis’s attention and dreads it, because with it comes that look of contempt.

And the absolute truth of what compels him to this visit is that, James knows Francis had been right, left empty as is he is by Sir John’s passing.  They will need to depart the ships, soon - to embark on foot. They can not suffer another winter here. It eats at James inside, to be wrong. This slowly dawning recognition that perhaps things will not be just fine. James has stared death in the eyes many times in his previous adventures, whatever Francis may think of his past - and this is the first time he has felt himself flinching even slightly in its face. It gnaws at him even more that he has come not only to - admit this to Francis - but because he feels a compulsion to lay eyes on him and see that all is well. The disagreeable bastard.

Jopson seems to be thinking, eyes still downturned. “To be perfectly frank with you, sir. I don’t know that he would recognize you, or remember your support once given.”

James nods, slowly. He likes to paint himself as fearless, but there is a pit in his stomach as he imagines how he will find his First. “Then there is little harm in my seeing him. You can blame me, Jopson - say that you were using the privy when I came. Or that I shoved you bodily out of the way.” 

He can feel that they are stale-mated across from each other, and so he steps forward - just barely brushing past Jopson, who he still half expects to physically halt him from entering. Jopson takes hold of his arm as they draw abreast.

“Captain FitzJames” he breathes, “please understand - the Captain may say things, but he will not mean them, later. Likely won’t remember them.  Please go in with a charitable and… Forgiving mind.”

James meets Jopson’s eyes and nods once, firmly. “I understand.” Jopson nods once in return, tiredly, and leaves him. He waits with his hand on the door until he hears Jopson’s boots in the ladderway, then pushes his way in.

There was a time on their journey where James may have sneered, or rolled his eyes to see how Francis looks now, curled in on himself in the bed, a pitiful lump. Perhaps he would have thrilled, to see the confident man layed low. He is wrapped in blankets - James wonders idly if Jopson is the one that tucked him in like a babe, swaddled up as he is - but one arm is broken free from the cocoon, wrapped up to cradle round his face. He seems to be in only a white shirt, cuff turned up and rumpled.

He is so pale - and that is something to say, here in the Arctic, even of a man with Francis’s normally ruddy complexion. There is a sheen on him, presumably sweat. James is frozen in the door at first, thinking him insensate - until Francis’s arm shifts slightly, and the low lamp-light glints off of one feverish eye.

“James,” the lump croaks. And it brings him back to his senses enough, at least, to step into the narrow bunk room and close the door behind him.

“Francis,” he returns, suddenly awkward despite the conviction he felt as he marched here in the biting cold. Conviction to - he hadn’t known what, at the time. To yell at Francis, to admit his own wrongness, to seek comfort in the other Captain’s company.

He is preparing a reply to the inevitable vitriol, the anger at Jopson’s having let him in, but Francis only stares at him, that single visible eye unfocused. He shucks his great coat finally, feeling ungainly in so many layers in the close quarters; hangs it deliberately from a hook on the wall. Pulls his bulky gloves off next, buying time.  There is a minute as he thinks of how to start. It would be easier, if Francis were to yell at him as he expected, or be asleep entirely. He could slink off, tail between legs, safe in his own anger or disappointment.

What he does not expect, at all, is when Francis’s voice comes again, haltingly. “Are you well?”

He freezes again. “Am I - lord am I well? ” He is so disarmed by the question that he barks a surprised laugh. “I am not the one that has been sequestered in his bunk for nearly two weeks, now.” He takes off his cap, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I’m frankly surprised to see you breathing.”

Francis does not reply, only lets his eye fall closed with a gentle hmm . His thinning hair is mussed, likely despite Jopson’s best attempts to keep it combed. James looks about, presses his tongue to his teeth. The many words he had meant to say, half-formed, have fled him.

“You look awful.” is all he can find.

“That what you came to say?” Francis asks, and he believes if the man had more energy this would be the berating James had expected. “Have at it.” The last he can barely get out before he begins to shake suddenly, and James, alarmed, sinks next him without thought.

“Are you-” His hand hovers over the other man, uncertain what to do, wondering wildly if he should call for Jopson (as if the man is a doctor, as if James hasn’t seen men in conditions worse than these.) But the tremor is short, and as it abates Francis only coughs.

“Water,” Francis rasps, voice small “please, Jopson.”

His brow knits to hear the other name, but he sees a glass on the stand by the bed and he leans to reach it, realizing as he tries to hand it to Francis, who does not stir to receive it, that the man is not truly aware any longer. His heart sinks. He expected Francis coming down from the drink to be angry, to be laying here feeling sorry for himself. He did not expect the tremors, or that he would shift in and out of awareness as he is.

“Here,” he prompts, trying to press the glass to Francis’s one exposed hand. He is overcome by a sudden need, when he again suspects that perhaps he should instead call for Jopson to return - to help, to be the one to help.

He moves from crouching to instead sink onto the narrow bunk next to Francis, gently moving the arm from his face - taking the other man’s head in one hand without thought, finding it heavy and damp with sweat as he cradles it up with some effort. Just enough to angle the rim of the cup to the thin lips. “Swallow,” he finds himself saying firmly, as if to a child taking their medicine, and Francis does finally part his lips, needily taking down a trickle of water. Only his lashes are visible as he drinks, fluttering and pale.

He lets the other man’s head down as gently as he can manage, keeps the cup grasped in one hand just to have something to hold to. A physical pretext for sitting so closely to Francis, that he can feel the furnace heat of his body radiating from the blankets.

“I’m not Jopson,” he says more to himself than anything, “but I suppose I’ll have to do, for the moment.” He only hopes there is no need for the bedpan that peaks from under the bunk. That indignity he does not care to witness.

They sit quietly as he listens to Francis’s labored breathing. It smells of soap - like Jopson has washed Francis recently perhaps - but underneath is the unmistakable scent of sick, of a body unwell. It hurts him more to see Francis in this state than he expected. The brandy he’d had, liquid courage indeed, burns in the pit of his stomach.

“Why are you here?” Francis murmurs. James does not know to whom he is really addressing the question, but he responds regardless.

“I came to - to make sure you were well. Or unwell. Or, I don’t know, really.” He looks at the glass in his hands, sits as still as he can, facing away from Francis now. Conscious as ever of the space Francis's presence fills behind him, a pressure he always feels when they are in the same room. Even when he - loathed Francis - even then there had been some tension that ran to his own body when the man was near, taut like a bow.

He has always thought that the saying that love and hate are two sides of the same coin - thought it to be nonsense. Two emotions so opposite in his mind that he could not fathom one turning to the other, or the two mingling til they could not be distinguished any longer. Until the Arctic. Until Francis Crozier.

After a beat in which there is no reply, he resumes. “I intend to- I don’t know. To apologize.” He barks a laugh. “Or to harangue you again, for your disagreeableness. I don’t know.” His weight on the bunk has dipped it towards him, and he can feel Francis brought gently against him by the gravity, through all the layers of clothing and blanket. His face burns hot and he buries it in his free hand.

“I should go. This was a poor choice.”

Before he can stand, as his tired knees creak with intended movement, fingers grip through is jacket, weekly.

“Stay,” Francis says - barely audible. “Please don’t go.” It is slurred to the point that James questions if he heard correctly. He looks down behind him, wryly.

“You don’t even know what you ask.” He rubs the hand over his face. “I’m not even here, for all you know.” There is nothing compromising about their position, but still he finds himself listening to every creak and groan of the ship, fearful of footsteps approaching. He is hot with shame simply for having come here, for being so desperate for Francis’s company. That is not the man he is, or tries to be. He hates this, hates seeing Francis pitiful and desperate. Above all it is Francis’s strength - his boldness, his unyielding nature - that he has always respected. Perhaps tried to project, himself, in emulation.

To see him vulnerable and human is too much. It disappoints him, in a way.

The fingers are still on his coat. “Wished you would come.” Francis says quietly, and James' head whips round, stricken. “James.”

His heart beats in his throat. “Why?”

“So cold,” Francis says, though his skin burns. “Alone.”

“Jopson is here.” James says quietly. He thinks Francis may still be confused, may still not truly know it is him there. “You are not alone.”

“I’ve been alone this whole damn - expedition.” He breathes softly, but audibly. “Not for lack of others’ trying. Did it to myself. You - Sir John. Both said as much.”

James’ face softens. “It’s the drink.” He swallows dryly. “It is- strong of you. To go off it like this.” Francis doesn’t respond. “You only ever tried to do your duty. By the men.” And you were right, and we were wrong - those words, those he can not bring himself to say. “I am sorry I have been unkind. Only - the way you look at me, sometimes. I can’t bear it.”

He looks down at Francis again, in the space between his arm and coat. Francis’s eyes are open, staring at him, and James is surprised at the anxiety in the man’s next words. “How do I look at you, then?”

His lips twitch. “With hate.” He sucks at his teeth. “I know you think I’m some - some show-boater. Vain, and with a post that is ill-gotten and undeserved.” 

Francis barks a laugh, and his eyes drift closed. “No. Well, yes. At first.” James thinks that his voice keeps drifting, between lucidity and the whispers of a man dreaming. He feels Francis’s fingers twitch weekly in his coat. His side still presses to James’ back. “I hated how - beautiful you were. How easy it was for you, to walk around regal and. Dashing. Sir John’s new pet.”

James starts. He is staring at the wall wide-eyed, now. He’s stuck on the word, beautiful , he can’t even get past it to anger at the implication he was just a lap-dog in Francis’ mind. “What?”

“Mm. So put together and - posh. And me, the Irish curmudgeon, the butt of the joke. Not taken- seriously.” The words are slurring worse again, barely enunciated. “Just watching, watching you. The way you smell. Judgment in your eyes.” 

He has to let out a breath, finally.He’s practically shaking from the effort of being still, of not looking back again. It’s the fever making Francis say these things, he knows. He licks his lips carefully, finds them chapped by the cold on his walk here. “I don’t hate you, Francis. I.” He can’t finish.

There is no way to say, that when he watched Francis - it was not judgement, not normally. Maybe anger, at seeing a competent man made base by drink. Anger that Francis refused to acknowledge him as anything approaching an equal. 

And there is certainly, most assuredly, no way to tell Francis that indeed - his eyes came to look for selfish reasons, reasons that would get him a court-martial if indulged. That he found Francis’s masculinity so pleasing, shoulders so broad, expression always like steel. That the wry turn of Francis’s lips, that little suffering smirk, sent a thrill through him. That he thought the dress uniform far more becoming on Francis, golden epaulettes stately. Francis looked like a commander of men, left James feeling as if he were just a boy of low birth playing dress up. To hear his voice booming orders effortlessly, it sent a shiver up James spine, left him playing a game of looking, trying not to look, trying to see if Francis looked.

In common society he perhaps could have let these passing fancies go - being a man of his persuasion had taught him, above all else, not to spend energy where it was not visibly reciprocated. And never on-deck, never while in the service. It was too dangerous. But in the arctic, each day the same as the last save for those that brought new fresher horrors - Francis had become his fixation. In all the cold and the pain and the uncertainty there was Francis, stood there steadily, ready to act even when deep in his cups and self-despair.

“You are lucky that I know that you’re not currently in your right mind. Another man might take what you said - differently.”

“Would that you were really here.” Francis sighs it out. “Good god, my head.” The hand leaves James’ coat finally, blessedly, is raised again to Francis’s face. He glances back again to see the blanket knocked down further to Francis’s shoulders, the undone top buttons of his shirt. Collar splayed open to show the pale skin of his neck, and James hates himself so much for noting the few freckles that trail over his collarbone, the start of pale hair. Francis’s chest rises and falls, shallowly.

He can blame anything said here on the fever, he thinks wildly. And to himself, on the brandy. “And If I were here? What then, Francis?”

Francis seems to shudder again, violently, grunts. “I’d ask for your friendship. And-” he cuts off, still shaking, hand grasping again at James, closer to his side.

It is innocent enough. James takes his hand, marvels at the clammy feeling of it. “You have it,” he says sincerely. “What else do we have out here but- but for each other.” He strengthens his grip. “I will be better to you Francis. When you make it through this. Just please - understand that I am trying. I am not the pampered ass that you think.”

He is surprised when - gods. Francis brings his hand up unsteadily, to press his forehead to it, as if just James’ skin can bring him succor, keening. “That is not what I think.” And even more shocking, when Francis moves his lips to the back of his hand instead, a weak ghost of lips but there, certainly there. How could James mistake the feeling when his lips burn so hot, when his breath comes out in a humid steam. “Want you. Absolute - bastard. I drink and drink and drink and you’re still in my head. Only pretty thing I have.. To look at...”

His heart is pounding. Damn if he doesn’t feel Francis tongue poke out to prod him wetly, just for a moment, like he is testing his taste, and his lips part. “Francis -” he says, guiltily. Can the man even hear him? “You’re unwell.”

Francis snorts, releasing his hand. “Will you come again?” Francis asks, eyes bleary and unfocused. He stares past James now, not at him. “Please.”

To hear Francis beg turns his stomach, though it has been the subject of some of his less proper day-dreams. The room is suffocating. He wonders again if Francis knows it is him, truly.

“Yes.” He says, quietly. He rises to go, too - damn him- too frightened to stay much longer. “Yes, I’ll come back.”