Work Text:
Priestley was curled on the floor of the wardroom, the only dry place on the ship, when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Ray?” It was Putty. Priestley groaned in response—he could not find the wherewithal to form the words, what do you want?
“Oh good, you’re still alive.”
“If you can call this life,” Priestley managed to rasp. He curled tighter around himself, as the ship gave a healthy roll and his stomach lurched in the opposite direction. His eyes remained squeezed tightly closed, a parody of rest.
In between rounds of barometer readings, wind measurements, and seawater temperatures, it was important for Priestley to take time to lie down and wallow. He had not been able to keep any solid food down since leaving Lyttleton two days ago, but if he was hungry, he couldn’t tell. He hadn't gotten much sleep in that time either, of course. His whole body was a lump of pure discomfort, pain and nausea.
In another hour or so, he was due on deck again for a shift at the pumps. Though the thought of it made every nerve scream in protest he would not be a minute late; he never was, but he only just now needed time to be still, and try to sleep, and if only Marston could understand that and leave him alone….
“I’ll be alright,” Priestley said, jerking his shoulder away from Marston’s touch.
“I didn’t know it was this bad,” Marston said.
“Well, good,” grunted Priestley.
“Oh, don’t be a martyr now. We all know you’d rather die than to be seen shirking, but none of us actually want you to. I, for one, would miss you. There’d be nobody to start the applause after I sing, or laugh when I do my American accent. Or tell me off for improper dinner talk.” His hand had replaced itself, further down on Priestley’s hip, where it was engaging in some soothing pets.
Priestley opened one eye. Marston’s face swam into focus, quite close. “Th-thanks,” he said.
“It's a pity the doctors are both as badly off as you,” said Marston.
“They wouldn’t be able to do anything. Nobody can. It’s alright, I’ve just got to see it through—”
Priestley broke off. Marston had moved his hand now to Priestley’s stomach, and begun applying gentle pressure with the base of his palm. A wave of relief radiated from where he pressed, and Priestley let out a very embarrassing noise. Evidently he had been wrong about nobody being able to help. Was there anything at all Putty couldn’t do?
Marston asked, “Is that alright?”
Mutely, Priestley flopped onto his back, giving himself over fully to Marston’s ministrations. After a little while Marston delicately tugged Priestley’s shirt and undershirt up so he could slide his hand beneath it, bringing skin to skin, before starting again. There may have been some more noises—little huffs of breath which verged on whimpers.
If Priestley were not in extremis, there might have been something unsavory about it—he might have worried, and felt guilty about how good it felt. But he didn’t. It was just wonderful, that was all. His stomach had, for a blissful moment, finally stopped trying to forcibly eject itself from his body; there couldn't be any sin in so miraculous a thing. Marston’s motions were rhythmic and soothing. At some point Priestley began rocking up into his touch, quite involuntarily seeking more of that marvelous pressure.
“Come off that horrid floor,” said Marston, and lifted Priestley easily, shifting him so that he was lying with Marston’s lap as a pillow instead of the filthy wardroom rug. Priestley peered blearily up at Marston, quite unsure how to express his gratitude as Marston began to sweep his thumbs in firm arcs up and down his abdomen.
Marston’s look back down at him was not one of pity, which Priestley was by now familiar with from the other expedition members who had of late come across him heaving over the bulwarks. It was something else, but he didn’t know what.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asked.
Marston said, “That’s an interesting question. You might as well ask, why does the sun shine?”
“Well, that’s what God made it for,” said Priestley sleepily. He let his eyes drift closed. When he opened them again, what felt like only seconds later, it was because Marston had stopped touching him.
Priestley blinked and watched as Marston pulled an apple from inside his jacket, and then his pocketknife. Quickly and skillfully, he peeled the apple skin off in one thin dangling curl, and then began to pare off small slices of its flesh.
“Oh, you mustn’t begin to feed me,” Priestley groaned, twisting away in acute embarrassment. How could he possibly repay such generosity and kindness? What would Putty expect of him, and when? Of course, he would do anything for him, he would care for him, but he found it a doubtful proposition that such a capable chap would ever need caring for in any kind of physical way, like this.
“Have it your way.” Marston handed the slice to Priestley and Priestley, somewhat abashed, brought it to his mouth. Gingerly he chewed and swallowed; Marston helpfully began to massage at his belly again. It stayed down, so Priestley took another, and then another—bother, he had been hungry after all.
Soon the entire apple was gone. It had been exhausting work. “Thank you,” said Priestley, and closed his eyes once more. Then he felt a sharp poke. Not a nauseus twist of his stomach, yet—only Putty’s jab. “Ray,” he was saying. “Ray, it’s six bells. Your shift at the pump.”
Marston helped him up and out of the wardroom; by the time he reached the deck alone, he was fully awake, and the seasickness was beginning to creep back in at the edges. He spared a glance over towards the dogs, Marston darting amongst them now, teasing them, dangling food above their heads with a delightful grin, and then tossing it down. Those same steady hands which had just treated Priestley so intently now fondly scratched Dido between the ears.
I just slept in his arms for an hour, Priestley thought. “What was that?” said Brocklehurst, on the other side of the pump. “Nothing,” said Priestley quickly, “I didn’t say anything.”