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Chapter Text

There are smears of blood on the ledger when Edward first opens it.

He doesn’t usually go through the ledger, or at least not recently. John has become oddly obsessive about the numbers, poring over mathematics and inventory as though it were the only thing keeping him sane. He is always prepared for the officers’ meetings, running through each report with an almost eerie, precise dedication. It sounds rehearsed, as though he were reading from a script, but neither captain seems to pay it any mind other than what the information can tell them.

Edward minds, however. He minds a fair bit.

So here he sits, the ledger open in his lap and its pages sporting streaks of dark scarlet that crinkle ever so slightly when he runs his fingertips over them. He would recognize blood for what it is any day, of course, but he does not know what its source could possibly be. A nosebleed, perhaps? Is John prone to such things? He will have to ask Gibson if it has ever been a concern before.

There’s a darker voice that whispers a forbidden word, however. Like every other officer on the ship, he is aware of the symptoms, and bleeding heavily is amongst them. But he will not speak it aloud, nor even think it.

Edward swallows hard, and waits patiently with the ledger spread over his knees.

Sure enough, John eventually returns to his cabin. He seems distracted, perhaps even distraught, but he stops in his tracks as soon as his eyes catch Edward sitting on his cot. Edward eyes him critically, but other than the typical malaise and exhaustion that has befallen them all, he looks… acceptable. He still wears his scarf, and it adds some small illusion of comfort to his otherwise pallid countenance. His hands, too, still sport the warm gloves with the woolen fingertips removed that they’ve all taken to wearing.

There are many words for John Irving, but lovely comes to mind despite the circumstances. His soft hair, his green eyes, his trimmed beard and the freckles that dot across his cheeks… Yes. Lovely. But Edward must choose to put that aside for now.

“John,” he says as a greeting, nodding.

The lack of designation had long been a signal to the three of them that they may relax around each other, but in recent years they had barely bothered with it at all. Only George has really bothered with attempting any sort of deference when there is anyone of higher standing around them. Edward can see now that John recognizes the use of his name for what it is— an invitation to be candid.

“...Hello, Edward,” John answers, though it takes him several seconds. There is a jittery air about him. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Edward sighs through his nose, a deep noise of weariness that originates from the very marrow of his bones.

“I think we can disregard pleasantries and ignorance, John,” he says softly, and gestures towards the page still open, blood spattered like ink across the otherwise immaculate penmanship. “You know what I wish to discuss.”

This time John’s lips thin, as though he is biting back words that he cannot bring himself to say.

“It will not happen again,” is what he settles on, and Edward frowns. “It is only… well, it is cold in the stores, and my fingers grew chapped. I did not mean for it, but—”

“John,” Edward interrupts. It is unusual for him to be so blunt with either of his fellow lieutenants, but it is also unusual for John to be so cagey with him. Private, perhaps, but not to this degree. He wonders if he has been avoiding George as well. “My concern doesn’t lie with the blood on the page. My concern lies with the man who put it there.”

He can tell that John is refusing to look at him, even if it appears he is; his eyes are wide with a nervousness that keeps his gaze just to the left of Edward’s ear, and they flick back and forth.

“It was…” John trails off again, but seems to gain some small amount of steam. “My hands are… poorly.”

“Your hands are poorly,” Edward repeats, though not in a dismissive way, and surely not to ridicule. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

John swallows, still looking anywhere but at Edward. They have all suffered an injury in one way or another, but kindly Doctor McDonald has been seeing to them as often as he is able. And hands above all are simply not something any man can afford to lose.

Finally, Edward watches as John begins to hesitantly tug on the sewn edges of his gloves. It is slow going, as John still seems uncertain about whether or not to admit to whatever ails him, but once both hands are in the open he holds them out, fingers spread, for Edward to see.

Not sure whether it should be considered proper or not, Edward takes a moment to set the ledger down on the bed beside him before he reaches out and carefully takes John’s hands in his own. He lets them rest perpendicular to his own fingers, so that he might better see the damage.

And damage there is.

Edward feels his stomach turn as he takes in the extent of it. There are cuts across several of the knuckles, and the others seemed to have simply split from how dry they have become. John’s right little finger and ring finger alike both have awful scarring and new injuries, and it is finally clear where the blood on the ledger had come from; why it had been smeared. Bruises too litter several of his knuckles, giving the impression that John had gotten into some sort of fight. But the worst—

“John,” Edward says in horror, fully realizing what he is seeing, “there is gangrene here, in your nail beds.”

“I know.”

“You mustn’t neglect your health, John, not when we already stand at such a precipice—”

“I know,” John repeats, louder and with more pain. “But I-I’ve… I have been having… unclean thoughts. Impure. Ever since I saw—”

He cuts himself off, his pale cheeks glowing pink beneath the freckles there. Edward has often found himself looking at them, wishing he could count each one, but John is averse to both long bouts of eye contact and the touch of another man. It would be rejected most utterly.

“...ever since I saw something I did not wish to see,” John finishes lamely, and Edward wishes he could probe further. But he does not. He only allows John to continue, hoping he might receive some sort of satisfactory explanation for the harm John has brought upon himself. “It has plagued me. I must work to banish it from my mind, and the pain keeps me… alert. Wise to it.”

As though allowing such rot to take hold of his skin were a punishment. The very idea of it turns Edward’s stomach clear over. Without quite meaning to, his hands grasp John’s just a little tighter and John winces in pain.

“John,” Edward says, for what feels like the hundredth time. “This isn’t right. You are not well. Have you seen Doctor McDonald? Or Doctor Peddie?”

John shakes his head, the apples of his cheeks growing dark with shame. Edward had meant that his hands were not well, but he is beginning to realize that this sort of self-flagellation must also be stopped. He carefully pulls John towards himself, heedless of how it forces John to stand between his knees.

“Edward—” John protests weakly, but Edward just squeezes his hands again, though it is far gentler than last time. John still flinches.

“There are simply no thoughts I can bring to mind that could ever possibly convince you this is an appropriate course of action,” Edward says, thoroughly grave. “Nor could I imagine any sight that could lead you to this, either.”

John’s eyelids flutter in agitation, as though he is picturing the very sight itself, but he only purses his lips and looks away again. He’s being incredibly guarded, yet he allows Edward to once again look over his hands and catalogue in his mind the various wounds that need tending to. He is no doctor, of course, but he is sure that if they only went to the medical bay that one of the doctors there could give John some sort of salve to help with healing them.

When he brushes his fingers carefully over one of the blackened beds of John’s nails, he receives another wince of pain. It makes him look up once more, and this time he meets the seafoam green of John’s eyes. Truly, it is the only reminder of the sea that still feels present. John is looking at him as though there is an ache that goes beyond the one in his hands.

”John,” Edward says yet again. “John, you must tell me what has led you to this. Perhaps I can help, perhaps these thoughts—”

”No,” John says immediately, shaking his head and trying to pull his hands away, but Edward holds tight. “I cannot say them aloud. I will not.”

”You can,” Edward insists, “and you must. This cannot stand. You will hurt yourself past what is possible to heal. If the infection in your skin spreads—”

“No,” John repeats, more frantic. Edward rarely hears this tone from him, yes, but it is not the first time. John is becoming tense and panicked, and Edward knows it will only take a little more to get him to speak. It is a cruel thing to do, but it is necessary.

“This may have to be brought to the Captain’s attention,” Edward says quietly. It is not a threat, nor a bluff. It is simply the truth. “Sir John had given his orders for when we did not feel well, and I’m sure Captain Crozier still follows them now.”

John looks around the room as though perhaps his limited possessions might save him, or perhaps Gibson might appear at the eleventh hour to become a hero in his own right and save John from the misery Edward is attempting to laden him with further.

”I—I don’t—”

“John.”

Something must break down the center of John’s composure, because his face crumbles and his chin falls forward into his pretty scarf, eyes closing tightly.

“They’re about you,” John whispers, sounding as though he is in agony. “About you, Edward. I cannot allow them to continue. The pain is a reminder that these thoughts are an affront to our Lord God.”

Edward goes still. John takes that moment to tug his hands away, holding them close to his chest.

“About me,” Edward repeats slowly, turning such a thing over and over in his thoughts. An affront… there are only so many things that would be considered so. There are only so many things that John himself would consider a sin when it came to another man. “Oh.”

His clipped, quiet reply comes out unbidden. He cannot help the confusion nor the realization that fills such a simple response, and it only serves to make the situation worse immediately.

“Please,” John begs, the panic cresting into a wave that crashes through his voice and pitches it high in desperation. “Please, Edward, I swear that I would never act upon them. I pray every day that they leave me in peace. I do not mean to offend, and I do not want to lose your friendship—”

Edward stands abruptly, and John in his fear steps back and straight into the wall for how little the space is. He is the taller of the two, but his posture seems to make him small before Edward’s sudden silence. He’s watching Edward like he’s afraid the worst may come to pass. A lashing, or hanging, or to be left to die alone upon the ice.

And that will not do. Edward has never considered himself a particularly intimidating man, and he does not want that to start here.

With careful movements, he reaches out and gingerly takes John’s ruined hands into his own again. It is a much gentler movement than John had clearly been expecting, because John only blinks and then allows the touch without argument. They both stand there in John’s little cabin, and Edward breathes out slowly to steady himself. This may be the bravest thing he will ever do in his life, and it is upon a ship that does not sail, in the middle of a vast nowhere. Not a battlefield, but a simple little officer’s cabin.

“You will not lose my friendship,” he says softly, and lifts his eyes once more to meet John’s. “Our friendship is what brought me here in the first place, John.” He tilts his head in question, and perhaps even in earnestness. “This was not merely my duty as First. This was more than that. Do you not see how I have come to care for you?”

John’s wide, shocked eyes search Edwards’s for any lie, yet Edward knows he will not find any. What a position they find themselves in. It could almost be laughable. Edward knows of John’s piety, and of his reputation as a stick-in-the-mud. To confess to the impure, sinful thoughts of another man he has suffered would not be something he would do lightly.

“We are both men,” John finally says, as though he could read Edward’s thoughts. “Such a thing is… it’s…”

He trails off as Edward lifts one hand, still cradling John’s upon his palm, and presses a kiss to bruised knuckles.

“Go on then, John,” Edward says quietly, though his voice is almost firm. His lips dust across the dry, chapped skin of John’s fingers. There is dried blood under his nails. “Tell me all about God’s eyes looking down upon us. Maybe He’d finally get a glimpse of the Hell that He has put us through these last several years.”

John snatches his hand away once more as if burned.

“Don’t,” he hisses, but it sounds more like a plea. “Don’t say these things, Edward.”

“Then allow me to act,” Edward says, but before John can protest further, Edward only moves towards the exit. “We are going to go to the medical bay. And if you will not allow Doctor McDonald to tend to your hands, then we shall simply ask him for supplies ourselves and come back here. But I will not let you walk around untreated so.”

John stands there, back still against the wall, looking positively dumbfounded. He seems as though he’s not quite sure what to say next, or what to do. He merely stares at Edward like the latter has grown a new head.

“I have already told you,” Edward says softly, as though comforting a spooked animal, “you have not lost my friendship. I would see that your wounds are attended— whether by our physician or myself is irrelevant. I care for you regardless of your confession, and I will continue to do so. Should you choose, we will never speak of this again.”

There is a beat, and he watches as John looks down at his mangled fingers. There is still time for them to heal, as long as they aren’t forced to overwinter again. There is still time to heal whatever may have happened in this cabin, as well. It will be up to John either way.

John looks back up and nods his head, reaching to pull his gloves back on. He does not say anything else, and Edward does not push him to. But they do walk side by side, and Edward can just barely hear John let out a soft sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

This is how George tells it:

They had been coming over the ridge after failing to find any game and spotted Hickey attacking John. George, in a moment of uncharacteristic rage, had lifted his rifle and fired. The bullet hadn’t killed Hickey, no, but it had embedded itself in Hickey’s left thigh and taken him down to the stones.

(“They clattered,” George will say, his hands still shaking. “The stones clattered when Hickey fell, and John was coughing up blood. It all seemed to echo in so vast and silent a place.”)

John had been speaking with Netsilik people who had fed him seal, and George had collapsed to John’s side and pressed shaking hands against the knife wounds just under John’s sternum. Begged and pleaded, he said, all but prayed for these people whose names he did not know to help them, to help John. They had heard the desperation in George’s voice, even if they didn’t understand the words. They had helped.

On the stones, Hickey had just laughed.

-

So that is how Edward finds himself now: sitting alone in a tent, staring at nothing in particular, while John is silent and still on the furs next to him. He still breathes, yes, but neither Goodsir nor Bridgens are sure if he’ll wake up at all. Such news shouldn’t come as a surprise, not in the face of all of this death and misery, but for Edward the pain of it is almost too much to bear. He would rather still be frozen to the deck, still ferrying himself back and forth between ships with whiskey hidden underneath his coat, than sit here as helpless as a newborn.

Thick cloth flaps heavily as George carefully pushes his way through the little entrance to the tent, his expression drawn and his skin pale.

“No change?” he asks softly, almost a whisper. In truth, Edward would almost prefer he shout if they thought it would wake John up any sooner.

Edward shakes his head. His fingers are loosely threaded together between his knees where he sits beside John’s makeshift bed. There is no feathery down of back home underneath him, nor the now familiar comfort of the straw from the ships; only whatever blankets they could afford to spare between the sick growing sicker and those few furs that the Netsilik had been kind enough to give them. His head still reels from such an act of grace after all their expedition has done to their people, but he cannot bear to question it. Not now.

“Is it time for my watch?” Edward asks dully, looking over at George. He, too, should have more grace towards his fellow Lieutenant, and he knows this, but his energy has left him. He can only do his duties and then return to his silent vigil.

George looks over his shoulder as if someone might magically appear to help him with as awkward a situation as this.

“Well… yes,” he says, and his voice is achingly gentle. He looks as miserable as Edward feels. “But if I am to be honest, Edward, I can extend mine. I know that you have been…”

He trails off, as if unable to find a word suitable for the way Edward has been utterly useless in the last two days. For George to be speechless, Edward must truly be a mess. He takes a breath deep enough to close his eyes, and then lets it out slowly.

”No,” he says. “No, I could use the distraction.”

All the years they have served upon Terror together and yet Edward somehow still underestimates how well George can read him. He stares at Edward with those sharp blue eyes, clearly searching his expression, then shakes his head.

“You are distracted enough,” he tries to protest, but Edward stands.

His joints ache, as does his stomach and his head and just about everything in between. The seal that the Netsilik had given them is slowly but surely beginning to work its magic against the disease that plagues the crew, but that same meat had still been few and far between. He had barely been able to dribble chewed raw seal and water into John’s mouth from the little bowl he’d mixed it in, and eventually Bridgens and Goodsir had taken pity and herded him out of the tent.

And how difficult that had been, too— to soften the meat without swallowing it when it was all his body had wanted. Perhaps in a way it had been more of a torture than anything else he could imagine, but he had watched Bridgens carefully massage John’s throat to get it down and it had been worth it. If John lives, there are no praises that could express his gratitude to their makeshift physicians.

“I trust there have been no difficulties with Mister Hickey,” he says now, choosing to ignore George’s protestations. That, at least, gets George to shift from sadness to a kind of anger that still sparks somewhere in his chest.

“Jopson has not let him out of his sight,” George replies, but moves to take Edward’s abandoned seat. “I imagine Captain Crozier is still thinking of what to do with him.”

”I suppose it will depend on whether John lives or dies,” Edward says, his voice monotone, and George winces.

“I… yes,” he says, his voice faltering. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?”

“The death of Mister Farr will be enough, I’m sure,” Edward continues, wondering if he will be the one to read the charges or pull the rope. Whatever Crozier asks of him, likely. “But two deaths on his hands will be more than enough to convince the men.”

“...melancholic,” George says in reply as Edward lifts the tent flap to leave, and Edward pauses in confusion before remembering what George had been unable to express about Edward’s mood. “As if you are already grieving.”

Edward swallows, but does not turn around. He only slips outside to report to the captains.

-

It had been difficult to convince John at first. Difficult to convince him that two men could truly have the sort of relationship that wouldn’t condemn them to burn for all of eternity. Indeed, John had practically avoided Edward for two weeks following the incident with his hands, and try though he might to corner him, Edward couldn’t seem to do it. A slippery fellow, when he wanted to be.

But Edward is not a cruel man, and he knew it wouldn’t be so easy as to murmur a few sweet words and tenderly care for John’s wounds. He gave him space, and gave him time, and kept his promise to leave it in the past should that be what John wanted to do. There were other things to worry about. Many other things.

Yet he pined a little, regardless. He is only human, after all.

The push to get everything packed and ready to go had been a sudden one after the disaster that was Carnivale. There was simply no amount of grog that could ever erase the smell of burning human flesh from his memory, and Edward shoved himself into his work as much as possible, trying to avoid having to think of it. Much to do on Terror, and much to prepare for. That always seemed to be the way of things now.

Edward was halfway through sorting out what little he thought he could take with him when there were a few knocks upon his door. They were soft and almost weary, as if the person outside were halfway to changing their mind, and Edward furrowed his brow.

“Come in,” he said, but then smiled when the door creaked open and John silently let himself in, closing it softly behind himself. He wasn’t quite looking at Edward, and his cheeks were pink. But he still smiled at the floor when Edward said, “I was hoping you’d come see me, John.”

“Yes,” John replied quietly, and then looked up at the ceiling instead. “Most of my things have already been packed. I thought I could come see if you needed assistance.”

Edward chuckled quietly, raising an eyebrow. Being around John always seemed to bring back whatever happiness had been lost to the ice. He was glad to see that even with their distance, that had not changed.

“You do not need an excuse to come see me, John,” he said, and it was true. John hesitated, biting at his bottom lip in a way that Edward had to struggle to ignore. They had so little time for anything, and yet Edward found that he would’ve waited an eternity. Perhaps the lead was getting to his brain at last.

“We abandon ship the day after tomorrow,” John said finally, and his gaze slid over to Edward. “It is hard to believe we will leave behind the only home we have come to know in the last several years.”

“...yes,” Edward said slowly, though he could not hide his confusion at what John was getting at.

The sound of skin rubbing against dry skin became loud in the little cabin as John began to rub the pads of his fingers together, back and forth, clearly trying to expel energy that he did not want. He was still gazing up at the ceiling, as though trying to find the answers of the universe in the wooden planks.

“I have had thoughts again,” John finally admitted, sliding his gaze back down. Edward paused in his tidying, looking over at John with an unsure pinch to his mouth. “Thoughts I could leave upon this ship, if truly I wanted to. Thoughts I could pray for the Lord to forgive, and thoughts that I could keep ignoring. But I-I… I do not want to ignore them any longer.”

Edward felt his breath catch.

“Could we…” John looked as though he were ready for the ice to swallow him whole, as if his brain were catching up to what his mouth had already confessed. “Could I—”

“Whatever you would like, you shall have,” Edward said, voice as even as he could manage. “We would never have to speak of it again, if you decided you did not want it any longer.”

John made a soft noise, close to a laugh.

“...I would like to kiss you, Edward,” he said, sounding as though he were admitting it to himself just as much. “But I am too frightened to do it.”

Edward could hear what it was that John was trying to ask, and he was more than willing to listen. It had been all too easy to carefully cross his little cabin and stand before this beautiful man he cares for far too much. When John did not flee for his life, Edward took his jaw in both hands and tilted John’s head to press their mouths together.

The kiss had been sweet, unsure in a way that reminded Edward of being a schoolboy struggling to kiss his first love. John had likely not kissed anyone in quite some time (not that Edward had, either), and Edward knew him to be unmarried like many of the other younger crewmen—like himself. So he let John puzzle it out, and only held John’s elbows in his palms to draw him just a bit deeper into the embrace.

“See?” he asked when they parted, his voice a touch lower. “Not so terrible, is it?”

“No,” John breathed, and smiled before leaning back in for another. “No, I suppose not.”

So came their clandestine meetings in those last days aboard Terror. Edward could not help but mourn the time they may have spent together in this way before the order to abandon ship had been issued, but he tried not to let it bother him terribly. He had these moments now, and every time his fingers brushed against John’s in one of the hallways or upon the decks made him smile softly to himself.

As they had continued packing up their belongings in their rooms, John had quietly slipped inside Edward’s when no one else was looking. His eyes had darted about before he’d carefully closed the door.

“Inviting ourselves in, are we, Lieutenant?” Edward teased lightly, folding up a quilted blanket in his arms.

“Oh, you are insufferable,” John replied, the slightest burr coming through. It spoke to a childhood in Edinburgh, and Edward sometimes found himself wishing he could hear it more. There was still a tenseness to John’s limbs, and he still had that prey animal jitteriness about him, but Edward could easily see the smile that was on his face. “We’re almost done with the preparations outside.”

Edward made a quiet noise.

“It will be a long time before we can spare a moment together again,” he answered, and John nodded. It had clearly been why he had let himself into Edward’s quarters, and now that they’d acknowledged it, the question of it all hung in the air between them. “Hard enough to spare a moment together on the ships. I imagine a tent will carry little privacy.”

“Yes,” John nodded, and looked about for a few seconds. He seemed to consider his next words very carefully. “And I wanted to express my… my disappointment.”

“In?” Edward asked, growing amused despite himself.

John frowned at him, and it brought to mind an angry, ruffled cat.

“In our lack of privacy,” he said pointedly. Some of that old haughtiness had come through, though it was quickly dashed by the way that Edward chuckled through his nose and edged closer.

John watched him, his eyes on the movement, but he did not move away nor did he try to stop him. Both of them were exhausted, full of aches and pains and long bouts of seizing hunger, yet Edward felt a small glimmer of hope. Hope that perhaps something could come of this one day, should they escape this frozen wasteland. Hope was likely all that they had left.

“John,” Edward said, and John’s shoulders squared. “You needn’t ask. You may just act.”

This time, John had sighed loudly and looked away before taking a step forward and, indeed, acting rather than speaking. He took Edward’s jaw in both of his hands—tenderly wrapped with gauze and smothered in salve now—and gave him a light, gentle kiss. He still seemed hesitant, nerves rattling his bones around enough that Edward could feel the quivering, but he did not back down from what he had set out to do. Edward kissed him back, his own hands finding John’s shoulders and running them down towards his elbows.

“There,” John said when they broke apart. His cheeks were pink. “I acted.”

“You did,” Edward said cheekily. It seems as though he had felt more happiness in the last week than he had in the years since they first set sail. “Is that the last kiss I am to expect for the time being?”

John pretended to consider.

“There could be another,” he finally allowed, and Edward had grinned before leaning in again.

And here he stands now.

A lonely man, staring vacantly out at the vast and empty wasteland before him, around him, perhaps even inside of him at this point. Too much has happened, and too much has been weighing upon him. He wishes for it all to go away, and he wonders what he could be driven to do should John die and rescue does not ever come. He wonders what sort of man he will be when that last bit of hope is dashed upon the ground.

It would all come down to his loyalty to Captain Crozier, he thinks. There is no other man besides John that Edward would follow to the ends of the earth, even if the reasons are vastly different. He would trust no one but Crozier to somehow lead them back out of this Hell. But what Edward does from there all depends on what happens next.

As though he had been voicing his thoughts aloud, however, a yell breaks through his miserable reverie. He blinks and looks around, trying to pinpoint exactly where it is coming from, and what the person is saying.

The camp, he realizes, it’s coming from the camp.

“Edward!” The voice is George’s, pitched high with its frantic energy. “Edward!”

Edward turns immediately, some of the wind rippling his coat around him as he can see George waving at him from just inside the camp’s edge. And then George cups his hands around his mouth and says three words that have Edward sprinting back as fast as his weakened legs will take him.

“Ned!” George shouts first, a rarely used nickname that will always catch Edward’s attention. And then: “John’s awake!”

-

Edward hovers near the exit as Goodsir looks over John with his lips pressed thin and his kind, gentle hands roaming just about everywhere any of them can see. Edward knows his anxiety is beginning to press upon them all, but he can’t stop staring and no one dares to ask him to leave. Short of a command from Crozier or Fitzjames, he’s fairly sure they couldn’t get him to leave this tent without bodily carrying him.

“We are not out of the woods yet, to use a less than appropriate idiom,” Goodsir finally says, his voice grave. “And I am still concerned about the lead as well as the scurvy… but consciousness is a good sign indeed.” Then he smiles, so friendly and sad that Edward’s heart aches all over again. “It is good to see you awake, Lieutenant Irving.”

John looks less than so, but he manages to swallow and whisper, “thank you, Doctor Goodsir.”

Goodsir looks for just a moment as if he wishes to correct John on something, but then shakes his head to himself and glances over at Edward.

“I will delay my examination report to Captain Crozier by a few minutes, as I have yet to write it down,” he says quite pointedly, and Edward finally tears his eyes away from John to stare at Goodsir instead. He understands precisely what is being implied, and it tightens up his throat with emotion.

“...thank you,” he echoes John, and Goodsir once more smiles kindly.

“Of course,” he says, gentle in his tone. “I’ll be back shortly.”

As soon as Goodsir excuses himself, Edward is across the tent like a bullet, dropping down onto his shins with such force that it quakes all the way through him. His hand flies to the side of John’s face, holding him as close as he dares. John’s skin is so cold against Edward’s fingers that it brings him back to their long years on Terror, and his lips are so chapped from the lack of water or nutrition that they too remind Edward of the pancake ice that had once been their only obstacle. So many distant memories, and yet he will never remember any with quite such clarity as he will this one.

“John,” Edward breathes, pushing back John’s bangs with his thumb and trying not to speak too loudly. “John, you’re alive.”

John blinks slowly, and he is so pale that every last freckle upon his face seems almost as dark as his hair. His head lolls towards Edward, though, and when their eyes meet Edward can see how he tries to smile.

“Am I?” he whispers, clearly in pain. “I don’t… feel it.”

“Yes,” Edward says, and takes John’s hand in his own, the other still cupping his too-cold cheek. It had been the hand he had helped John wrap up during what feels like a lifetime ago. “You are. By God, you are.”

Something glitters briefly in John’s eyes, as though he’s torn between chastising Edward for such flagrant use of the Lord’s name or perhaps teasing him for apparently believing again. But he seems too weak to say either, and only stares at Edward as though trying to convince himself that he’s real.

“Captain Crozier will want to question you when you are stronger,” Edward continues, refusing to look away. And then he says perhaps the second bravest thing since boarding that ship so long ago. “I can hold him off until you feel you are able to speak with him, if Goodsir cannot.”

John lets out a long, weak breath through his nose and then slowly nods his head. Edward cannot imagine that Crozier will be particularly forceful in his interrogation, of course, but Edward knows he also longs to finally expose Cornelius Hickey for the weasel that he is. John’s testimony will be critical in that, but Edward selfishly does not want to let him out of his sight.

Which reminds him—

“Your glass,” he says, still rubbing soothingly at John’s hairline. “The Netsilik, they have it. Did you…?”

“Yes,” John mumbles. His voice is barely there, and even with so simple a word it still seems a trial. “They… they may keep it. It was a… a gift.”

Edward doesn’t want to stop touching him. He has never been a very tactile sort of man, but he almost feels that if he lets go, John may simply vanish before his eyes. It frightens him, as foolish a notion as it might be, but he will nonetheless fear it anyway.

“Edward,” John says, blinking slowly as he looks up at him, and Edward nods to show that he’s listening. “I… I thought of you.”

Had John slapped him across the face, it would have hurt less than what those words do to his heart now. The shaky inhale he takes to steady himself comes fluttering out before he takes a chance, carefully cupping John’s face with both hands now and leaning forward to press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. John can barely kiss back, and it is a woefully dangerous thing to do when they could be interrupted at any moment, but he doesn’t care. He needs John to know.

“You don’t have to say any more,” he mutters, and presses their foreheads together as he closes his eyes. “There will be plenty to say later, when you are well again.”

“I had… regrets,” John whispers, anyway, like he’s desperate to confess. “Many of them. How I… took our time together for granted— ah—”

He makes a sudden, pitched noise of pain that sends his head back into the bed. Edward all but scuttles forward in alarm, reaching out to take John’s hand in one of his own. He squeezes and lets John squeeze right back. John hasn’t the strength for the grip to hurt Edward, but his pain alone does the job by far. Edward’s heart cannot take the agony of it.

“Hush,” Edward says, trying to offer comfort. “Save your strength, John. Don’t try to talk anymore.”

John’s free hand struggles upwards until it’s touching down upon the blankets, where just underneath there are bandages wrapped tight around his middle. It must be an unfathomable pain, and Edward wishes he could help carry it.

“I have regrets, too,” he says quietly, when John has settled again. Oh, but does he. So many that he could never catalogue them in a lifetime. “I regret that I was not there. I regret that I didn’t tell you once more how I feel for you before you left. John, I would have gone the rest of my days mourning what I should have said to you and did not.”

John’s eyelids flutter, as if he is fighting back the threat of sleep to continue listening. Neither of them could have imagined this is where they would be when they first stepped aboard Terror, and Edward knows this. But he can see that John is fading again.

“Live with me, when we return to England,” Edward says, almost begging. It’s a sudden, desperate decision that he would have likely not made any other time. “As friends, as lovers, as whatever you desire. I do not care. But we will make it back. I have to believe that if I am to go on. I must believe you will come back with me, too. We will find a way somehow to make it through. I will not accept any less. Will you come home with me, John?”

With a great effort, John nods.

It is as if all the air in Edward’s lungs expels itself all at once, and he can barely let out a breathless laugh. He kisses John’s fingers again, just as he did the last time. They’re limp, cold, and chapped. But John manages to squeeze Edward’s hand just slightly and smiles weakly at him, his eyes already drooping shut again.

“John,” Edward whispers against those cold, motionless fingers. His heart is tightening in fear and despair, and he is grateful for the privacy that they had playfully doubted once. “Do not go. Not yet.”

This time, John shakes his head.

“I won’t,” he slurs, but Edward watches as his head goes limp again; as his grip weakens in Edward’s. But he still breathes. Edward can still feel his thready heartbeat against his fingers, and he counts each one to remind himself that John is still alive.

He will not say it until John is awake again. He cannot bear to have it be a goodbye, rather than a declaration. So he sits upon the floor with John’s hand in his own, staring at him with tears burning the corners of his eyes. He had not lied. Edward has so many regrets that they threaten to choke him alive, and the greatest one lies before him as still as death. He is not sure how many more he can possibly shoulder before it becomes too heavy a burden to bear.

Still, he raises up off his knees just enough to press a careful, lingering kiss onto John’s lips in the quiet of the lonely little tent. Just a few days before they had been sitting side by side, and Edward had reached out and squeezed John’s thigh to silently reassure him while they made plans with the captains. Just a few days before, John had looked over at him upon Jopson’s promotion and shone that brilliant smile at Edward that he had so rarely seen nowadays. And now here they are.

There’s shouting from outside suddenly, and Edward straightens up with John’s hand still in his own. He feels a tension in his back, afraid immediately of what it is that could be going on out there after all of the other disasters and deaths they’ve had. But then there’s the thump of boots upon the ground, and the flap of the tent flies back. Edward doesn’t let go of John’s hand.

“Hold— hold tight, lads,” George says between heaving breaths, having clearly just run all the way. “There’s word of a boat.”