Work Text:
Come now, Stephen, you've nary won a thing in your life. Perhaps this could be something you fare well at?
Stephen Stanley looked back at his reflection, unconvinced.
Unlikely.
When the leaf of paper had been nailed to the mast a few days ago, many of the men had laughed. Typically, Stephen was one of the last men to know what was happening.
He had complained quietly and in a purposefully low and unheard voice at the men tromping down the ladders, spilling snow and ice into the medical bay in search of warm water and towels. The men rarely spoke to him, save to ask about illness, so it allowed Stephen to tend to them without pause in their conversation, and Stephen considered himself a good listener.
The subject sounded petty at first, like schoolboy quarrels. Surely these men could not be bragging about kissing of all things? Stephen could barely think the word, let alone consider the image.
He's heard sailors talk in detail of many conquests, all of which are enough to make even the most experienced harlot blush, but never had he heard such ferociousness about such an overhyped and- in Stephen's opinion- adolescent courtship. However, it soon became clear that there was some form of competition afoot. One that involved a prize title.
"It's probably the captain's way of keeping us distracted." One of the men said, to which another replied with raucous laughter that was quite unwarranted for the comment. Stephen glared up from a bowl of hot water to address the laugh, and without meaning to, had joined the conversation.
"You're on that list too, doctor." There was an undercurrent of hysterics in the man's voice.
Stephen felt his face pale, but he was careful not to react. So careful, in fact, that he simply stood there motionless long enough for the men to burst into laughter.
"You need a sit down, doctor?" One laughed.
"You shouldn't concern yourself," another added, "I wouldn't think it's your kind of scene."
And that's why Stephen felt as if he should make it his mission to prove those men wrong. Only now that he was thinking about it, maybe he wasn't cut out for this sort of thing after all.
After lamenting in the mirror, Stephen crept above deck to peruse the offending list. He was light on his feet for a man of such stature, and so he was confident he went quite unnoticed. The list paired off the men, and a decision was to be made between each pair. Stephen found his name quickly.
Oh the misery.
He was paired with Tom Hartnell, a young little lad he was. Oh, a flaxen blond haired thing. He undoubtedly must have kissed hundreds of women. Stephen felt despair drop like a stone in his stomach. It seemed as if the odds were clearly unmatched. How could he possibly compare to the virality of youth? He'd have to embrace every man on this ship before he'd even come close to faring well against the odds. A respected ship's surgeon, reduced to a dockside sodomite.
What an odd thought, Stephen. He caught himself.
Although…
How was he to be sure that's not exactly what every other man on this ship was doing? Skewing the results in some perverted test of skill. Oh, the horror, the sinfulness of it. Then, that's exactly what he will do. He will beat them all at their own wretched game. He will show them that he is deserving of something.
A new found vigour took Stephen from the deck into the medical bay.
He paused.
He did not want to kiss an ill person.
He didn't really want to kiss anyone . He found it a rather childish form of affection, far too vulnerable and far too easy to get wrong. And so many factors to consider! One's breath! One's height! God no, far too much work. Stephen had never kissed a woman and felt any real satisfaction from it. He also found it unnecessary to analyse this sentiment. This was simply how every man must feel. In fact, it seemed much more exciting to perform such an act with one of his own, like more of a display of dominance rather than an act of pettish romance.
Yes, indeed.
Stephen was standing in the middle of the sickbay, feeling rather flustered.
He should work, not think about such foolish games. He cleared his throat, gliding towards the table that he so often used as a workbench, only today the table was being used to rest a sailor. Stephen carefully loomed over the body, pushing thoughts of this silly competition aside to check the patient without rousing them.
And who would this boy be except none other than Tom Hartnell, the very boy Stephen did not feel like seeing at this moment. Hartnell was breathing steady and his eyes were closed. He did not appear pale or sickly. Stephen's brow furrowed momentarily. Looking at the boy, he now remembered that Goodsir had made a pig's ear of his brother's autopsy.
Why not pair the boy with Goodsir? That could result in much warranted revenge. It was unlikely that Goodsir could even fantasise the word 'kiss' unless he was writing a dictionary with the word included.
Stephen sighed quietly through his nose. He supposed it would still not help his own case. The only way Stephen could win this would be if he were paired with Fagin. Even then, it might be doubtful.
Just then, Hartnell's eyes opened. Stephen masterfully resisted the urge to flinch. He reminded himself that this was not the other Hartnell brother, and he had not in fact just risen from the dead.
"Oh!" Hartnell exclaimed, looking rather embarrassed. Stephen cocked a brow.
"You do not appear sick." Forever the wordsmith.
Hartnell began to chuckle but it seemed as if he stopped himself. He sat up.
"No, forgive me doctor, I was just resting my… uh… eyes a little as I waited for you."
Stephen narrowed his eyes. No doubt the boy knew they were paired off.
"Was Mr Goodsir not at your service?" Stephen took a short step back to allow the boy to swing his legs over the side of the bench.
"Uh, no he's, well, I don't know."
"I see…"
The room lapsed into uncomfortable silence, wherein Stephen made consistent eye contact and Hartnell did his best to be polite about it.
"What do you need my services for, Thomas Hartnell?" Stephen swilled the name as if he were reading from the parchment pinned to the mast once more. The use of his full name seemed to set the boy back for a moment, but he smiled pleasantly with a hint of tightness in his fair brow.
"Well, as I'm sure you're aware-"
A simple sigh cut the boy off.
"If this is about the… announcement on the mast, then save your words." Stephen swept the deck with his eyes as he spoke, his voice bored at the back of his throat, feigning disinterest. "I am a doctor of medicine, not…" he couldn't finish the sentence for fear of sounding childish. Caught in a brief moment of panic, his eyes darted up to meet the boy Hartnell's and discovered that he was grinning coyly. Stephen straightened his posture, looking down at the boy.
"Something amusing?"
"Can you even say the word, doctor?"
Of course he can, foolish boy. He's not embarrassed by a word!
"Which word?"
The boy Hartnell was glowing with a nasty pride. He leaned conspiratorially forwards on the bench, his voice lowered.
" Kissing ." He hissed, and Stephen narrowed his eyes, working his tongue around the cave of his closed teeth to quell the urge to back away. He stayed silent. Hartnell leaned back, looking pleasantly innocent.
"Does it make you flustered, doctor?"
Foolish boy.
"No."
"Then why is your face colouring?"
Stephen swallowed, his collar feeling too tight, too high under his jaw. When did this boy become so mischievous? Last Stephen heard of him it was from the other side of an operating curtain.
"Why do you take any interest?" Stephen raised his brow, Hartnell simply smiled as if he were doing nothing wrong at all.
Then the boy leaned in again, his head the height of Stephen's collar from his perch on the table. Stephen didn't move, instead tilting his gaze down to perturb the boy. Or so he hoped.
"I will win this, at least over you." Hartnell spoke low but nicely, as if telling a trusted friend a pleasant secret.
Stephen went cold and hot at the same time, turning his head down to properly address the boy in what could only be described as shock. Hartnell had in fact perturbed him . Hartnell, his face mere inches from Stephen's now, continued to smile softly, holding the doctor's eyes comfortably.
"Are you flustered now, doctor?"
True to his word, Stephen could not answer. This boy was an imp. He swallowed dryly, removing the egg of disbelief from his throat before rasping in a deep whisper:
"Have you no shame?"
Before Hartnell leaned up to softly capture his lips with his own.
The kiss didn't last long, it was merely a touch, a ghosting of sensation, and yet Stephen was frozen in place. He had not reacted, had not reciprocated, but had not pulled away. He hadn't even closed his eyes, merely blinked.
Hartnell looked more than pleased, almost childish in his glee that he had seemingly bested the stoic doctor.
"I've yet to find any." Hartnell grinned, the bench creaking as he leaned away. As he hopped to the floor, Stephen attempted speech, but was unable. Barely a kiss, and yet already so different to those he had shared with women. Stephen could not best that.
That settled it then. Thwarted at the first hurdle by Thomas Hartnell, he had to accept his defeat.
Ashamed, Stephen didn't watch the boy leave.