Chapter Text
Lewis stood silently at the river's edge, watching with bleary eyes as the last streaks of sunlight reflected glimmering shapes across the stagnate surface. Thoughts flicked across his mind in quick succession as swiftly as he cast them aside; he didn't wish, refused to rather, dwell on what could have been. On what he wished were true.
No. That road was dark and unkempt, the trail's path nearly indistinguishable, over grown with invasive weeds - thorny plants encroaching on what was once a clear and straight road.
His mind felt the same. His thoughts, which he believed he had understood, or could learn to understand in time, were now in utter uproar, a turmoil far beyond what he could control let along comprehend.
As if I could soothe them even if I tried, he thought as he cast his gaze downward. Maybe it was cynical, maybe it was realistic. Regardless of what his musings could be interpreted as, Lewis was nothing if not firm in his beliefs regardless of outside interpretation.
A tragedy weakened by the pangs of mortality. Too real, too frightening to be published in print. Maybe that was how he felt about the journals.
Yes, he promised the President, Mr. Jefferson, his friend and mentor, that he would compile the lengthy documents for publication. But as the months lingered on by, the morose inkling sensation he could not pinpoint prevailed and prevented him from making so much as a dent of progress in the papers since his return.
It was close to three years now since the return arrival of the Corps of Discovery. He remembered the day clearly, how could he not?
His men, smiles plastered on their gaunt faces, their fatigued frames overpowered by the joy of their final stop. Finally, home at last. Yet, why did Lewis feel like he had trailed off course, like he left something out there in the wilderness? A piece of himself, one he couldn't quite determine with accuracy, but he knew was somehow crucial to his very being, to his sanity.
He remembered it well, that day, the end of their historic journey, their success becoming renown not only across state boarders, but internationally.
The Corps of Discovery Returns.
He mulled over various possible headlines the papers could print in announcement of their arrival as he and his men had trekked the final pathway back to St. Louis. Their journey, cut down and summarized for men and women at home to read, maybe a page or two of words attempting to describe their two year long adventure within the foreign wild lands.
Lewis laughed at the path his thoughts had taken him. Oh, how they will never understand, will never comprehend, the events that transpired those two years abroad. All their stories and encounters, troubles and turmoil, victories and achievements, reduced to mere words that will never do justice in conveying their journey to the masses.
No one could understand what they went through, what they survived, what Lewis experienced.
Changed. That was the one word that Lewis believed could ever come close the describing his experience. He overheard men say it as he walked down the streets of the nation's Capitol, the men he used to sit with during government meetings, who he used to have the occasional evening drink with. He heard it whispered from the mouths of gossiping women when he went to the saloons.
"Another one," he would mumble as he poured the remains of his second drink down his throat without looking at the barmaid. By now she understood. He used to go to different bars in an attempt to lessen other's recognition of him, but there are only so many places he could escape to, and in less than a year he gave up his facade and settled on one place, becoming a regular patron almost nightly.
Maybe that was why compiling their journals was proving to be so difficult. One would assume the struggle lay in the vast collection of pages and drawings he had to decipher. Yet, Lewis had no quorum with the extensive nature of this undertaking. No, that was not his problem. The persistent issue, the sole reason for his lingering on for years now to present the finished account of their journey to the president, lay in Lewis's own inner state of distress. He could admit it now, at least in his current state of solitude, the mental block that surrounded him whenever he so much as thought about trying to write, only now, in the isolation his sparse rented suite provided him, could his mull over such thoughts.
Isolation, although it did inspire impressive thought from time to time, had the tendency to promote feelings of distinct loneliness within Lewis, a loneliness he refused to analyze but could not stop himself from dwelling upon when he was alone.
He made to walk back to his room, the wind's chill, while not disturbing his body, was distracting to his thoughts. He closed his eyes, barely registering the creaking of the wooden planks underneath his feet as he walked mindlessly up the stairs. He tried to stop his mind's persistent dissociating from his body and it's frequent longing to venture into the past, to bring it back into focus on his current setting and situation.
He made to sit on the edge of his modest bed, hands moving from their tense position held against the side of his trousers to run down the length of his clothed legs in a vague attempt to quell his petulant thoughts, his fingers finding a temporary solace in their deadly grip on his knees. He could feel blunt nails sinking into his skin through the light fabric, his palms feeling the sharp pressure of bone underneath them.
Every story evoked a distinct memory to the surface of Lewis's mind. Each one causing him to lose himself in the phrases and sentences scribbled on the worn parchment, causing him to go back to the time being described within those words. Even if it wasn't a page from his own writings, he could imagine all that went on through others' words, even Clark's sparse writing sent his mind reeling as he recalled the stories his friend would verbalize as he jotted them down.
William Clark. The man was, after all these years, still an enigma to him. Clark, with his smiles almost as quick as his way with a weapon, proved to be a never-ending mystery to Lewis, one which he had long since resigned himself to try and discover.
Some may disagree, since as it was, many considered Lewis to be the more reclusive of the two Captains, and Lewis knew this, and he understood. But neither strangers nor their own men understood Clark, not like he did at least. Recluse though he may be, Lewis came to recognize that he wore his emotions on his sleeve despite all his trying to conceal them. Clark couldn't be read that easily.
The man appeared to others like the idealized version of a stalwart commander, their own American Ulysses. He exhibited all the qualities: the tact and uncompromising strength necessary to lead, the strict adherence to rules and regulations. He was the archetype of a leader, all his characteristics working in conjunction to produce a man of exuberantly authoritative nature in every sense of the word. And yet still, Clark remained a compassionate man at heart.
They balanced each other perfectly, Lewis always thought. From the moment he met General Clark back in his military days, they had just clicked, and when it was Lewis's chance to command, he knew there was no one he rather have at his side than Clark. Clark had filled a certain void Lewis didn't know he had created inside himself, the space conforming, molding itself neatly to encompass Clark's smart words and comforting personality inside.
Lewis smiled at this, at the genuine joy he had set aside for his friend.
Friend, oh, how words could scarcely describe what kind of man Clark was to Lewis. Writing had always been a sort of escape for Lewis whilst out in the uncharted territory. He and Clark would sit on the misty grass after supper, their men doing whatever it was they did off on the other side of their make-shift camp grounds. He and Clark would write in their journals, recounting the day's adventures. Clark would often talk out loud as he wrote, his voice like a mellow song in the back of Lewis's mind.
He would always finish first, his writing style being sparse and to the point while Lewis sometimes spent hours detailing the minute aspects of his day. When Clark finished, he'd poke at the fire, maybe add a few more kindling leaves to ensure it wouldn't go out on his friend, and then leave Lewis sitting there to be alone.
Yet, Lewis remembered the night when Clark changed his routine, that first night in which Lewis was granted with a taste of something he had started to believe he would never experience.
It was just like any other night. They sat across from each other at the small fire pit, each cataloging their respective escapades for the day. Clark had finished writing and Lewis heard the faint sound of slapping pages as Clark closed his journal.
Normally he wouldn't take notice of his friends movements, too lost in his own thoughts to ponder over another's. But the sound had penetrated his mind, the little noise somehow compelling him to lift his head and look at his friend.
Clark was looking at his and suddenly Lewis felt a tinge of embarrassment creep up under his skin. It was uncalled for, but the idea that Clark was sparing glances his way without his notice made something flutter inside him. He acknowledged his friend's stare with an upward quirk of his lips and then dropped his gaze, shifting his focus back to his writing.
He heard Clark stand a moment later, the noise once again disturbing his writing. Usually Clark's movements just blended into the sounds of the night, yet for some reason tonight Lewis couldn't help but focus on them. He stared at his journal, pen in hand, as he tried once against to get his thoughts back on track.
Was Clark trying to get his attention? Lewis was never a man to understand the subtle side of human behavior for all that he exhibited himself. Although Clark was not usually subtle in his ways either.
Ink dropped from his pen into the crease where the pages of his journal were bound. Lewis didn't notice, his blank stare a front for his now restless thoughts.
Was it the fire making him feel so warm? Maybe it was just the heat of the night but Lewis felt the blood rushing to his face. Why was he reacting like this? He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry; he knew why. He'd known for a while now. The fleeting thrill he felt when he and Clark exchanged warm smiles, the racing of his heart when he and Clark shared moments along together, like right now. He felt it every night, everyday, ever since he met the man, he'd known.
Oh god, I'm in love with William Clark.
He tried to stop the traitorous turn his thoughts had taken, to cut off the logic behind the reason for his inappropriate longings before he got lost in this revelation. Ink was running down his finger tips, the viscous liquid smearing into his skin as he clenched the hand that held the pen. His nail dug deep into his flesh, he hoped the small measure of pain the action elicited would be enough to distract him from his mind.
"Mm, Lewis, what are you doing?"
Lewis only just refrained from jolting his head up at the sound breaking the quiet night, with it, also breaking his unrelenting thoughts.
"Ah, nothing, Clark. I just got distracted a moment there," he said with a wave of his hand in a movement he hoped came off as nonchalant, flicking ink across the grass and speckling the dry earth with black stains.
"Oh," he heard Clark mumble before moving to sit down next to Lewis. "You don't mind, right?"
"Ah, no. Of course not. Why would I?"
Clark shrugged. "Well, I dunno. You usually like to do your writing alone."
"Maybe you just assume that I do."
"Possibly," Clark said, the word trailing off his tongue and leaving them shrouded in silence.
A moment passed before Clark spoke again. "You can continue writing you know. Unless I'm disturbing you, in that case I can go-"
"No, don't go," Lewis started, shocked by the desperate tone in his voice. "I mean, you aren't disturbing me." Lewis looked up over hooded eyelids and met Clark's eyes for the second time that night. His revelation was a constant beat in the back of his head, pounding on his brain, willing him to reveal the truth he just discovered about himself to the man sitting next to him.
"Clark-" he began, but stopped himself.
No, he thought. He knew he could not, could never say a word about this to anyone, especially Clark. That sort of affair would be scandalous and had the potential to ruin a man. And besides, Clark had a woman waiting for his return, what was her name? Julie? Juliette? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he keep this secret to himself.
Lewis resurfaced from his thoughts to see Clark looking at him expectantly. Oh, he's waiting for me to speak.
"Ah, yes, Captain, my pen seems to have leaked, do you have a spare cloth on you?"
Clark blinked at him with a perplexed expression before his eyes drifted to Lewis's ink stained hand and his mouth morphed back into his regular smile.
"Anything for you, my friend," he said, as he produced a small cloth from inside his jacket pocket and dipped it into a nearby water glass. He made to give the rag to Lewis but stopped, his smile waning.
"Lewis, your hands are shaking, are you all right?"
Lewis let out a worried laugh as he looked down at his restless hands.
"Nerves," he responded all too quickly. He reached for the cloth in Clark's hand but Clark instead moved it out of his reach, taking Lewis's hands in his own to stop the involuntary movement. He took the damp cloth to his friend's dirty hand and proceeded to wipe away the black streaks as best as he could.
"My friend, do tell me what is troubling you," Clark tried, knowing already what his friend's response would be. It was always the same, he didn't know why he expected this time to be any different. He just wished Lewis would be as open with him as he was with Lewis. Lewis always had to make things so complicated when all Clark wanted to do was help.
"It's nothing Clark, really," Lewis said in a weak attempt to stop Clark from prying.
"Come now, Lewis, why must you always conceal your troubles from me? What can possibly be worrying you out here?"
When Lewis didn't respond, Clark took to rubbing small circles on his friend's palm, a gesture he remembered his mother used to do whenever he was distressed as a little boy.
"Clark, stop," Lewis said, annoyance slipping into his voice as he pulled his hands away and cradled them to his chest.
"Alright," Clark murmured under his breath but loud enough that he knew Lewis still heard him. "I'm just concerned for your health, Captain."
"Well, your concern is appreciated but highly unnecessary," Lewis bit out, resuming his role as captain rather than friend.
"Now, if you excuse me, I would very much like to be left alone."
A beat passed, a moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely as Clark tried in vain to search Lewis's eyes for the source of his vexing troubles, but he knew now was not the time. Although Lewis never pulled rank on him, Clark knew his place in the chain of command. He wouldn't pester his captain, friend or not. "Of course, Captain. Good night."
Lewis didn't look up until the sound of retreating footsteps disappeared.
Surfacing from his thoughts, Lewis picked up the drink on the bedside table in his rented room and brought the bitter liquid to his lips. He closed his eyes, wondering not for the first time what would have happened if he had told Clark right then and there. Would his reaction have been different? Different than what happened in reality, from what he said when Lewis finally did tell him. Either way, it didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. Clark was not his, never was, never would be. He was foolish in clinging on to the belief that they could run off together. Oh yes, he had entertained that fantasy one too many times to know it would never come true. He tried though, after their return, tried to keep Clark close to him like they were before, but between their new duties and Clark's romancing, Lewis came to realize it was a hopeless endeavor.