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Chapter Text

Peace. 

What Francis has of it is only a moment’s worth, but after the last months, after the last day, shouts of ‘rescue! We are saved!’ ringing through the camp and his reunion with James Ross—Ross here in the Arctic in the flesh—after hasty introductions and hours of taking stock and giving orders and making plans, a wardroom dinner of unspoiled food and a restless night in which he was too delirious with happiness to sleep, Francis is exceedingly grateful for it.

And James Ross is putting their moment to the best possible use by telling Francis of his son, who is now two years of age.

“You should hear him speak, Francis—oh, the speeches he gives in that language that is comprehensible only to his peers.”

Francis smiles because fatherhood becomes James—a light shines through his eyes as he speaks, emanating from some divine core within him—and because, God willing, Francis shall make the youngest Ross’ acquaintance and hear his eloquent speeches for himself soon enough.  In London and back home.

“Ann and I, we were wondering whether–”  Here James’ eyes flee Francis’, if only for a second, and he huffs out an uncharacteristically embarrassed chuckle before continuing.  “–Well, the poor boy has no godparent yet, you see.”

Oh.

Unable to speak, Francis nods.  That James waited, for him, even as the fate of the expedition must have grown ever more uncertain–  His heart swells with emotion, and tears, of love and gratitude and relief, are in the process of welling up in his eyes, when there comes a dull knock on the canvas just outside the entrance.

Francis wipes at his eyes with haste.  Only a moment of it.  But there will be many more for him to drink his fill of his James until not an inch remains of the chasm time and distance have opened between them.

“I would be honoured,” he tells James, then turning towards the door, calls “come in”.

+++

“Men!”  James has loved that form address ever since he gained the right to use it (Fitzjames that is; he cannot speak for Ross, although for all he knows, Ross may feel the same) and sure enough, the men of the hunting party turn to him, faces laurelled with grins matching his own.

“You,” James continues, surveying their proud faces, “are a credit to your country, that realm, that England, who would be hard pressed to find prouder sons.”  The praise is very much so warranted:  between the circle they form lie carcasses of two caribou. 

“Tonight we feast.”  The men cheer.  He turns just to Ross’ crew.  “And thanks to the bravery and selfless heroism of Sir James and his men, soon we shall all be back home on that most beautiful of lands.”  Another cheer.  “England.”  Cheer.  “Home.” 

The men’s cries, now reaching a fever pitch, roll through James’ body like a thunderstorm.  If there ever was a sound more dearly missed.

Though he does not show it, a part of him is jealous of the hunting party. 

His heart hammers in his chest, his skin is ablaze with a nervous energy that will not still; had he been out there with them, perhaps the exercise would have brought him a modicum of peace.  For obvious reasons he could not and neither does it matter.  He will find Dundy, who owes him a report on the state of their sick.  If the news is good, the two of them stand a chance of changing the minds of their great saviour and his closest friend (Francis) so that they may move on from this camp without delay and walk, reach the Enterprise and the Investigator and sail home.

***

I will kill him, Francis thinks as he marches through the camp in the direction of the freshly returned hunting party.  Even now, there James is, giving a speech as if there is nothing amiss.  Not for long though, because very soon Francis will wrap his hands around that insufferable neck of his and squeeze until he has choked out every last ounce of life from his body. 

He ignores the greetings tossed his way as he walks.  He does not remember the last time he was so angry:  a remarkable fact given that they had a mutiny only recently.  He will have James flogged in public.  He will yell every profanity he can think of at his face, drag him by the ear to the nearest cot, and chain him there for good measure, so help him God.

+++

“You damnable fool!”

Francis has called him much worse, before.  Francis is probably right although not for the reasons he likely has in mind.

“Yes,” James concedes accordingly, “I suppose my butchering of Richard II does deserve rebuke.”

He is annoyed with Francis, obviously, no man enjoys being called out on his folly and at a volume those outside the tent can very likely hear, and yet, even now– 

It is good to see him. 

James has given up on him, has told himself as much; what hazy dreams he had of a continuing friendship upon their return to London has dissolved into thin air the moment he sighted Francis with Sir James, saw the nature and strength of their bond with his own eyes.  James (Fitzjames, and even that is a made up name) can only be found lacking in comparison.  What would they even talk about, in London?  Admiralty gossip?  Fashion?  Francis deserves better than that.  So, James has accepted his place in the future to come and has resolved to have no need of Francis nor any demand on his time.

And yet, Francis calls him a damnable fool, and James thinks Francis, I am going to miss you.

***

So arrogant even now.  So glib.

“James, I do not give a rat’s arse about Shakespeare.  You–”

James does not allow him to speak. 

“I am fine, Francis.”

There is a note of authority in his voice that will not broker argument—as if his left arm is not hanging in a bloody sling.

Aghast, trying to temper his fury, Francis points to it.

“James, you have holes in you.”

Francis could not believe what he heard when Dr Meldrew informed them of it.  Scurvy has reopened James’ battle wounds which have been seeping old blood into his clothes for God knows how long.  That he never said– that he simply chose to walk, to haul, in silent suffering– 

For that Francis blames himself, the burden he must have unwittingly placed upon his friend’s shoulders, but he cannot understand what reason James could possibly have to deny care now, when they finally have an abundance of officers to keep the men in line with, of food and good cheer; when to do so means to risk– everything.

+++

James has changed his mind.  He would like Francis to leave.  He is tired.  He retains his composure as he replies, primly,

“Which, with the aid of fresh lemon juice and unspoiled food, will close again in no time.”

Francis scoffs, disbelieving. 

“Dr Meldrew said–”

“Dr Meldrew is a sad man in no more possession of competence or wit than he has hair on his bald head.  He lives to raise alarm so that he may subjugate his betters to his abominable will.”

Like he said, James is fine.  He could start walking right now and not stop until he has reached Sir James’ blessed ships.  The good doctor may have tended only to cowards and fools under Sir James’ command, but James for one is no stranger to injury or adversity.  He knows his body’s limitations, when to push and when to rest, and does not need to be gently led by the hand to a cot in the hopes that it speeds his recovery by the finest of margins—and he would most certainly know if he was at the brink of death.

Francis looks at him.  James expects even more vitriol to spill from his mouth (even that he will miss one day very soon) but Francis’ voice is surprisingly even-keeled when he speaks.

***

“Wouldn’t you say we have ignored enough alarms for one expedition as is?”

James flinches as if he has been struck, and what Francis means to say is, Dr Meldrew said that unless you undergo strict bedrest, there is every chance you will body will give in, without warning and for good, and if there is a one in ten, no, one in a million chance that he is right and the cost is only a few days spent in bed, how is it not obvious that you should listen?

What Francis means to say is, how dare you, James?  After all that we have been through together, how dare you force me to survive you, to mourn you, when salvation was close enough to touch?

Do you not realise it? he means to shout.  How dear you are to me?  How lost I would be without you?

Something holds back his tongue.  He cannot say any of it.

“Quite right,” James replies with a smile, a small bleeding bitter thing, “I will do as I am told.”

His voice is flat and distant.

It is not right.

Francis is the one who failed them for one, not James—had he employed more tact when he warned Sir John of the ice, had he stopped pitying himself for one second and extended a most feeble branch of friendship towards James before that day.

But his comment has worked, and Francis would do everything within his power to keep James alive.

“Good,” he says coolly.  “I will inform the doctor.”

As he turns to leave, he thinks,

Live.  Be well James, and I will make it up to you a thousand times over.

Chapter Text

+++

Rest. 

It is as straightforward an order as they come.  To execute it, one simply needs to peel away one’s outer layers and unfold the blanket, to sit down on the cot and lower oneself to a supine position; to cover oneself, stare at the mottled canvas ceiling, and stay still.  Easy.  Easy enough that an idiot could manage it.

James has taken off his overcoat and jacket, his sling.  He has seen men fall apart after brushes with danger—an ailment of the mind that flows from an unnatural fear of death.  Cowardice.  Not James, though.  He was being half-carried to safety, half-delirious with the blood he’d lost, and still he’d teased his fellow men.  He had borne the pain exceptionally well; he had neither screamed as Dr Stanley dug the musket ball out of his chest nor whined and wept as he shook later with fever.  So too had he borne himself, with grace, when he broke his leg in Beles or lay in bed recovering from illness in Malta. 

And now—what is there to face, really? 

Dr Meldrew is a fool, and James knows there is not the slightest danger to his life as he knows his own name.  Not that this matters per se; were such a danger present, it would not bother him.  Neither would the said danger be made worse by his lying down.  He is not afraid of the scurvy or the lead in their food or the Tuunbaq.  They have not seen the Tuunbaq, for weeks and weeks.  And now they are all but saved from this frozen hell; ships await to spirit them home.

He stares down at the cot, rubbing the tips of his fingers against his palms.  His palms are sweaty; in his chest his heart beats too fast.  He burns to walk—and failing that, to speak with his lieutenants, take reports on the men, organise their supplies and plan their next steps.  To exert himself and put himself to use.

And yet.

Haven’t you doomed this expedition once with your pig-headedness? Francis said, and he is right. 

Francis will never forgive him; Francis wants him to lie down and James must obey.

He will deposit himself into bed.  It is not difficult to do.

***

Francis imagines it—picking up the young James Ross up and swinging him in his arms until the boy is giggling with delight. 

Does he have his father’s laugh, his smile, his eyes?  Or perhaps what he has inherited is his father’s nose or ginger hair.  The question James asked him rattles around in his head, too monumental to be grasped in its entirety.

But Lt Hodgson is talking now.  Francis must stop merely watching his lips move and listen to the words they are forming.  Hodgson—alongside one of Ross’ lieutenants—what is his name?—is reporting on the successful hunt:  where they encountered the caribou, their numbers, the direction in which they fled. 

Information Francis cannot afford to miss, yet still his mind wanders.  Ross’ family, Fitzjames—his health, the way he flinched.  Francis is supposed to be a new man, a better man now that he no longer touches the drink, and yet still his temper rears its head and strikes before he can stop it.  He looks up to find the lieutenants leaving.

Bollocks.

When did that happen?

His surprise must show right through his face, for James (Ross) beams at him the moment they are gone with an all too knowing smile.  Says,

“In sum, the news is good, and we can expect more successful hunts before we are through with this land.”

“Good,” Francis huffs, “that’s good.”  It truly is:  the fresh meat will do wonders for their sick and they are all sick to one degree or another.  He feels his cheeks heat—at his absentmindedness and perhaps a bit at being teased by James again, after so very long.

James’ voice turns gentle.

“Commander Fitzjames?”

There it is then.  He always could read Francis like an open book.  Francis would not have it any other way; yet he has to fight the urge to avert his eyes when he nods. 

“I’m afraid I was too harsh with him just now.”

His shame is at his absentmindedness, that’s all.  But James replies, “you hold him in high regard,” and it is a question – a looming, enormous question – and Francis finds himself shrinking from it. 

“It’s been a strange expedition, James,” he says, shaking his head, and “we– I misjudged him terribly.” 

It feels woefully inadequate.  It feels like a lie of omission, and yet Francis has no idea what more he could say.  He does not give himself the time to come to an answer nor his friend a chance to respond before he pushes himself to his feet and declares that he must find and speak with Lt Little.

+++

Oh, bugger.  James notices Francis but not in time to duck.  And sure enough, soon comes rumbling with righteous indignation through the camp a cry of “James!”

He watches Francis approach.  He is a convict at the gallows:  terror churns in his gut, commingled with serene resignation, and shame.

“Really,” Francis spits out when he has bridged the chasm between them.  His right eyebrow is arched, his mouth a thin line.  A single word—and James can still hear the rest of it perfectly well.  And here I thought we were at the end of vanity.

At the accusation, the matching wounds on his arm and chest throb with fury.  Vanity—does Francis truly know him so little?  Is it not obvious how little that has to do with why James is wandering the camp when he should be in bed?  Does Francis think he would disobey an order—any order—from him, again?  And yet, the truth remains:  Francis is right.  Vanity is the very fibre of James’ being; it stains everything he touches, speaks and does.

“You needn’t worry yourself, Francis.  I am resting—this is only a short, restorative stroll,” he declares haughtily.  His voice is a stranger in his ears.

Francis' eyes narrow into slits, as James thought they might.  

“You know just as well as I do that you have not been prescribed any bloody ‘restorative strolls.’”

Yes, yes indeed—Francis is far more preferable in his anger than in profound disappointment.  Francis punched him months, years, decades ago and a part of James thought–  Ooh.  So he presses the point, tall, imperious, unrepentant.

“I shall return to my tent now then, shall I?”

***

This man will send him to an early grave—and there Francis was, worrying that he had been too harsh. 

“You are returning to your tent,” he hisses through gritted teeth, doing his best to keep himself from striking him again.

This—James—it boggles the mind.  Does he have a death wish?  Has scurvy impaired his mind as well, or is he truly that vain?  Francis thought he knew him, that he had misjudged him, but the man who stands in front of Francis smirking is not one he recognises.  Or, rather, he is one Francis recognises all too well—a remnant of a time he would put as far from his mind as he is able.

What is your fucking problem? he wants to ask, but he is aware of the eyes that trail them as they walk—the two captains, after a mutiny, after such sudden change—it would not do. 

Thus they walk, and then they reach James’ tent.

+++

In the tent, James takes off his overcoat, his boots (again).  He sits on the edge of the cot.  Francis hovers at the entrance, as if to bar the exit route bodily, lest James make a run for it (again).  He has not said a word on the walk over; neither has James.  It is probably better that way.  Nervous energy buzzes under James’ skin; there are a thousand things he would could shouldn’t tell Francis; he cannot distil any one of them into words.  Not even to irritate.  His special talent, that, always has been when it comes to Francis.  You have admirers, not friends, and it has always chafed you that I am not one of them, Francis had yelled at him once.  He was right.  James wants to walk.  His arm burns; his blood courses through his body and burns.  The cot stares at him, menacing, sinister—a trap.  He makes himself sit down but his pulse will not quieten.  He wants to beg—for the first time in his life—beg Francis for mercy.  He cannot stop, not now.

“You are unwell,” Francis says, and he has transformed.  He has changed.  He is gentle now—unbearable.  James looks up and finds nothing but vast, open concern in his face.  “I will fetch Dr Meldrew.”

No.

“No,” James forces out.  It is a groan, barely a word.  The air has fled his lungs.  He tries again, shaking his head.  “It’s...”  Cowardice of the basest kind.  He touches his temple, forcing in a shaking breath; he looks up at Francis again and wills him to understand.  He cannot speak.  Francis looks back at him and looks desperately uncertain.  Ashamed perhaps, on his behalf.  James cannot blame him.  James cannot allow him to bring in Dr Fucking Meldrew.  Not now. “Please,” James begs—is not above begging—closes his eyes, “a moment.”

A moment.

***

Francis does not know what to do.

He wants to lie James down and send for the doctor (he cannot lose James, cannot take the chance); he has seen these symptoms before (the way James trembles); it was in men suffering from an acute agitation of the mind—and James has told him as much himself.  And yet, if so, whatever could have brought it on now?  James is not one to fold under pressure—Francis would have admitted to that much even when he could barely stand to share with James the air to breathe.  Yet he is unwell and he has been under such pressure, for months—not to mention the cruelty of Francis’ remarks.  Were Francis struck dumb before he could open his mouth. 

James’ hands are balled into fists by his sides, his eyes tightly shut; he rocks in place as he groans quietly with each sharp, quivering breath.  Francis eyes the exit.  He ought to—he wants to—step outside and give James privacy—he cannot imagine that his presence is welcome here, in a moment of such personal weakness.  He cannot bring himself to leave.

James—above all—Francis wants–

He takes a few steps towards the cot—if James hears him, he does not acknowledge it.  He sits down on its edge; he would hold James to his chest, shush him until James had recovered his breath, to comfort him until he was well and calm again.  It won’t do—the injury it would deal to his friend’s pride alone.  And yet to do nothing, when James is in distress–  Francis holds his breath, then tentatively, afraid that he is overstepping, places a hand on James’s back.

+++

Warmth explodes into James’ world.  A spot on his back, the size of a palm.  Francis’ palm—it melts his clothes and sears his flesh, branding him.  Leave, James thinks with dizzying force through the tempest raging through his mind, let me be, let me rot.  He cannot think of a worse fate. 

Francis—he rubs James’ back with such care, and James uses it as a line to pull himself out of the storm and onto deck—as swiftly as possible. 

Once he has gotten a hold of himself, he sits up straight.  Francis takes this as his cue to withdraw his hand.  Francis, the brightness of his touch—James will think on it, but later, later in the dark.

For now he flexes his hands, holds his head up, and huffs derisively.

“That was dignified.”

He sounds strained.  In truth, he is still shaky.  He imagines his cowardice a scuttering cockroach and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

Then, unexpectedly, Francis says:  “You forget the dignified states you have seen me in.”

The remark is a cold shock of water down James’ spine.  He turns to Francis, his own distress momentarily forgotten.  It is not remotely the same.  An officer in the Royal Navy, James is no stranger to heroism; yet, the most courageous act he has witnessed in his career was when Francis gathered them to tell them he was going dry.  Francis’ smile is small and brave and sad.  Is he still ashamed of it?  He knows, surely, how much of James’ respect he earned in one act—then kept earning it, time and again?

This is not remotely the same thing, he burns to say, and do you not realise, Francis?  The example you set for all of us?  For me?  But to say any of it is to open a Pandora’s box—and they do not talk about the before. 

Chapter Text

***

James stares at his stockinged feet, searching for what to say, and Francis half-regrets the allusion he has just made.  What he said has startled him as well; it had been some time since he thought of that awful day.  He could not afford to:  he had men to deliver home.

He’d rather James was cruel and frank now than trouble himself thus.  He could not have stayed silent and allowed James to be consumed with shame over a single moment of weakness, when . . .

They are safe now, Francis realises, and he can and should sit with the sheer depth of his failure as captain and leader.

“It is as if,” James starts, pulling Francis out of the dark recesses of his mind.  His words are slow and pained, and not what Francis expected.  “I am surrounded by an encroaching darkness.  If—as long as I keep moving, putting myself to use, I can hold it at bay, but– if I stop–” 

If he stops–  Oh.  Another realisation dawns on Francis—one that is far too obvious in retrospect.

“That was why–”

“I was roaming the camp?”  James lets out a bitter laugh.  “Yeah.” 

When he looks up, his eyes shine with disgust, with exhaustion and with a plea, as if he wants, with equal despair, to be condemned for his confession and embraced.

As if there was a bone in Francis’ body that could condemn James for it.  “James,” Francis reminds quietly, once he has stolen away his own eyes, “if our respective sins and failings on this expedition were to be tallied and weighed–”

“I would be the clear winner; I am aware.”

Francis nearly smiles at the tide of conviction that has suddenly lifted James’ voice—on his aid of all things.  He shakes his head.

“You would emerge as clean as a newborn babe.”

James scoffs.

“Do you truly not realise–”

But Francis cannot hear what James has to say:  he shuts it down with a wave of his hand.  He has apparently looked up in the process as well:  before he knows it, they are left staring at one another, like two wild things.  Something burns in James’ eyes, furious and wounded and dark, and it lifts Francis’ heart and twists his stomach into knots. 

“What I mean,” Francis says—hears himself say—with a remarkably steady voice, “is that I do not judge you for what you have just told me.”

James looks away then and Francis can draw breath again, however inadequately.

+++

James’ thoughts are a kaleidoscope of butterflies; they flutter in his head and crash into one another in chest, sting and pull at the walls in his heart. 

He would emerge—in comparison—clean as a newborn babe.  As if.  If vanity is a sin so is an unhealthy excess of humility and Francis must be cured of it.  Perhaps Francis would like to stay in touch with him once they have returned to London.  He tries to picture it—London, her crowds, her lights and fogs and buildings and streets, and Francis—laughing, at a joke James has made, a story James has told.  In vain. 

“Well,” he says, with haughty, steely confidence, “I suppose I should lie down.”  He hates himself for it.  He cannot send Francis away but he can keep him even less.

Time and again, you see—James shows Francis the rot that comprises his soul and Francis absolves him from it, anoints and embraces him as a friend and a brother.

To be known thus–  To be met with so much grace–

Too much of it.  This cot—James is meant to defeat it alone. 

***

It is as clear a signal for him to leave as there ever was one.  James seems much recovered, and it is perfectly understandable that, having unburdened his mind, he now wishes to rest—alone.

Francis stands up.  He hears, rather than sees, James get into bed.  His heart is still beating rabbit-fast against his ribs. 

When he glances over his shoulder, he finds James pulling the blanket over himself.  He is rewarded to a smile; it is a bit surer of itself this time as James declares with wry humour, “I will not be defeated by a cot.”

Francis returns his smile in kind. 

“I have utmost faith in you.”

And with that, he should leave.  Let James rest and face his demons in peace.  To sit by the bed, keeping James company—James is just as likely to consider it an insult, frayed as his nerves are, a perceived mark of his weakness.  Do you truly not realise, he had said, voice brimming with unchecked fury.

But, still . . .

Surely, Francis cannot suggest that.  Even if his sustained company would be welcome, it would be unthinkable.

+++

Francis is dithering by the exit.  James needs him to leave; every moment Francis spends inside the tent brings him closer to throwing what slivers remain of his dignity to the four winds and asking Francis to sit with him until he falls asleep.  He still really and truly wants to get out of this cot, to walk, give instructions—hell and damnation, he will even help the cooks prepare the caribou, if it means he does not have to lie here and be still.

Shoo, James thinks turning his attention back to Francis, before I embarrass us both and we can never look one another in the eye again.  They had done that, looked at one another.  Francis looked startled, ashamed, but equally, without guile; open and vulnerable and achingly beautiful.  As God is his witness, as he lies on his back, James understands the dying Lord Nelson—far too well for comfort. 

He closes his eyes and rewards himself to an extended sigh in the hopes that it calms his nerves—or that Francis leaves before he is through.

But Francis says, “w-when I was going dry, during the worst of it, there was– well, there was one impossible thing which I desperately wished for—which I knew would bring me impossible comfort.”

Francis’ voice is strained, yet persevering, and James feels another hot wave of shame wash over him.  Though he knows not what he could have done, he cannot let go of the sense that he should have done something to aid Francis during those horrid weeks of illness.

“There was?” is all he can manage in reply, so uncertain and unknown the territory.

“Yes.”  Francis still has his back turned to James, and he is silent for so long that James begins to think it the full extent of his answer.  Then Francis turns around, and looking James in the eye, he adds, “I wished that Sophia would crawl into my berth and hold me through it.”

There is no hesitation in his voice this time.  For the intimacy of its admission, it is bewilderingly plain.

“Miss Cracroft?”

Francis nods.

That–  James’ mouth has gone dry.  “I–”  What could one possibly say in response?  Through a miracle he recovers in time—or just about.  “I am sure that she will, when we return to London that is– I mean, she would be a fool not to–”

But as James says this, Francis’ right eyebrow arches further and further into his forehead.  That is not why I am sharing this anecdote with you.

Then?

Perhaps there was a modicum of truth to Meldrew’s idiotic diagnosis—James’ mind is too slow and syrupy.  If Francis is not telling him of Sophia to confess to the tentative hope of reunion or the heartbreak of a past rejection, then–?

Oh.  Right.

“I’m afraid I do not have a- a- woman waiting for me at home,” James says, doing his best to sound neither bitter nor dejected as he speaks, “whose remembrance can grant me strength.”

“Right,” is all he gets in return.  Francis does not move but he does break eye contact to stare at his hands and lick his lips.

James is missing something.  A question has been posed, but of what nature—and to what end?

Then Francis . . . flexes his right hand, quite, it seems, by instinct—the hand he had comforted James with only minutes ago, rubbing circles on his back.

Oh . . .

James’ pulse jumps.  Between themselves the scurvy and the lead have decimated his mind, leaving it utterly hollow.  Francis is not—Francis cannot—be suggesting that.  Has he gone mad?  He must have.

It is utter madness for James to reply in turn,

“And–” Although, in order to reply, James first has to clear his throat, so dry and parched it has become.  Oh God.  “I could not dream of asking such a thing from any of the men in the camp.”

Men fraternise on ships, it is true, but James is not that kind of man, and neither is Francis . . .  Surely, neither is Francis, despite how an uncouth mind might mistake the nature of the close bond he so clearly shares with Sir James Ross.  And it is one thing to bugger or be buggered by a fellow officer but to be held by one, by one’s captain, because one is afraid to fall asleep–?  Jesus fucking Christ.

And yet, inexplicably, Francis replies with a quirked eyebrow and stunning ease, “naturally.”

James waits him out, blood crashing in his ears.  Surely, there is another explanation.  Surely– Perhaps he is dying after all.  But soon, Francis adds with only the barest modicum of hesitation,

“And if it was offered freely?”

It would solve everything.  The misplaced cogs that rattle in the depths of James’ body would slot into place.  He would be safe and warm, and he would not be afraid then.  Not of anything.  He would be healed; would be whole—perhaps for the first time in his life.

But.  Here is the rub:  why offer such a thing, why cross such a line if not,

“Out of pity?”

Would he not take Francis’ pity, if it means–  God.  He wants to be—he has to be—strong enough.

Francis . . . walks towards him, towards the bed; his eyes are the colour of glaciers and a quietly brilliant smile tugs at his lips.

“Out of utmost affection and care.”

Out of utmost affection and care.  James repeats Francis’ answer in his mind—then does so again.  Ludicrously, he pictures a snake, which having swallowed an ostrich’s egg sits with its body swollen and distended, unable to so much as move.

He nods, his throat too tight to form even a single yes.

It is apparently as good as the heartiest assent, for before James knows it, Francis is telling him that he will ensure they are not disturbed and come right back.

***

“Jopson!”

Nearly as soon as Francis has called his name, his former steward materialises in the periphery of his vision, as is his talent. 

“Sir?” Jopson replies, helpful as always.

Francis has very much so meant the field-promotion he bestowed and hates to ask Jopson to play the part of a steward once more, and yet, today he has no choice.  What they are about to embark on with James–  In a camp full of men and in broad daylight–

He swallows thickly.  His skin is buzzing, and his mouth is as dry as a dessert—he cannot let any of it show in his voice.

“Tell Sir James to do without me for a couple of hours.  And ensure that Captain Fitzjames and I are not disturbed.”

Jopson nods, with only the faintest of a question in his eyes.  Francis ignores it, instead reiterating, “it is desperately important.”

“You needn’t worry, sir,” Jopson replies, and Francis is exceedingly grateful that Jopson is right—at least as it pertains to their continued peace.

As for James–

Do not think about it, Francis thinks as he approaches the cot.  James has already turned to his side and scooted to its very edge to make space.  He gives Francis a tentative, plaintive look, which seems to say ‘are you sure about this?’ and, if Francis is right, ‘please tell me that you are.’

Francis smiles at James reassuringly.  He draws strength from the unvoiced plea.  He thinks of as little as possible whilst he crawls into bed. 

Then, before he knows it, he is enveloped in James—his warmth, his scent, the solid mass of his body.  It is too much; he has neither held nor been held in years.  It is brilliant, like the August sun on the Irish coast, like all good things in life; the sea mist, a wholesome meal, laughter. 

“Comfortable?” Francis murmurs.  He would not trust his voice with more.

+++

“Very,” James replies, meaning it.  In the narrow space, the two of them fit, like a hand and a glove, like a lock and a key—so much so that it threatens to rip James apart from limb to limb.  He is taken by a sudden urge to laugh, which in his current frenetic state, he does not wholly manage to suppress.

“What is it?” Francis asks.  James can feel every word on his neck, and God, the sensation of it, the heat of Francis’ breath– 

“Nothing,” James replies, shaking his head.  He cannot very well tell Francis the truth.  Had God made it such that I numbered among the fairer sex, I would have beguiled my way into your heart Francis, by hook or crook—and I would have never turned down your suit. 

Francis hums and James can feel it reverberate through his own body.  He should feel embarrassed, ashamed—he is not of the fairer sex and officers really do not sneak into bed together to cuddle.  At the very least, he should have enough decency to feel uncomfortable.  He supposes that he will, soon enough.  Right now, however, he is very tired, and if that idiot, Meldrew, is to be believed, nearly on the brink of death. 

Even then—he has always imagined he would die a true hero’s death, but if Lord Nelson asked Hardy to kiss him as he lay dying, well, who is James to argue with the greatest modern hero of them all?