Chapter Text
On the final evening aboard Terror and Erebus , once the sledges were packed full and secured for the night, and the men had begun to drift toward their hammocks and blankets for the last time, James Fitzjames made the short walk to Terror alone in order to calm his nerves.
Strange, that walking used to be such a source of obvious pride to him. Best walker in the Service. And now he dreaded such a simple, natural act, even when it represented their best and most infinitesimal chance at survival.
No amount of marginal skill or vanity could thwart their continued hubris, after all.
Coming down the hatch, he must have made too much noise, or else his steps were familiar; because seconds after James descended, Francis, wearing only his shirtsleeves and plain trousers, poked his head out from the wardroom, seeming first perplexed and then understanding.
“Come in, if you like.”
James obeyed, and closed the door behind him as he entered, although by this point, it was a rather futile gesture. Jopson had been absent from his duties more and more as they prepared to leave behind the luxuries of stewards and private cabins, and yet none of the other Terrors had come up to take his place. It was no small nod to the young man’s affability and helpful nature that Francis seemed to prefer the role unfilled, if Jopson himself could not do it.
Tragically, the altered situation meant the ward room was much less tidy than usual, which James thought rather a damn shame. Various books had been displaced, combined with a slurry of loose maps, papers, and other detritus piled loosely around the officers’ table, likely in readiness for the few men who had volunteered to remain behind.
If they were being forced to abandon ship, it would not to do leave Terror in such condition. Whoever found her – if she were able to stay afloat long enough to be found – ought to be certain she was cared for in her final days. Ought to know they had only done this because they had no better option. The sort of love that could not be reflected in the log book with a single sentence.
It was Francis’s voice which jolted him out of his thoughts. “God’s blood, Fitzjames. Are you straightening the bookshelves ?”
“Oh. Suppose I am.” James let his hand drop, and turned away from the remaining atlases, not sure how they’d suddenly arranged themselves into alphabetical order. “Must say, I feel a bit at loose ends, if you must know. Now that everything’s done.”
“As do I.” Francis gave him a sad sort of smile. “Still seems wrong, somehow.”
Fitzjames nodded once, in a distracted manner, to show that he had heard. It was difficult to think of leaving Erebus, after it had been his only home for nigh over three years. And Francis with Terror, surely the same.
Golly. How long had Francis been on Terror, in total? The number of sea changes she weathered. The toll she took. Was it a full decade, in the end?
James opened his mouth to ask this question aloud, but was immediately silenced once he beheld the glassy-eyed, fraught look now fixed on Francis’s face. The man appeared as glum as if he were being asked to commit a deadly sin, and for once, James could not bear to see him so distressed. There was a difference between Francis’s usual melancholy – full of dark humour and gruff, prolonged stubbornness – and the quiet despair that now pulled at his mouth and distant eyes and normally-mischievous brow.
And James hated that lost expression so much he felt such sadness ought to be erased from Francis’s face, if only for a single moment.
Without pausing to think, without any heed for persons who might admit themselves to the wardroom at this hour on the eve of a long, arduous journey southward, James crossed the room, cupped Francis’s face in two hands, and drew him into a kiss.
He had meant it to be a shock of a thing – impetuous, perhaps even passionate – but instead, the moment turned softer and more tender than either of their previous clinches. This time, it was Francis who was sweetly encircled in James’s embrace, and who swayed slightly on his feet under James’s careful ministrations, as if he knew not how to respond to such gentle and persistent affections.
Thus, when James finally drew back, feeling the heady rush of blood in his temples and chest and elsewhere, he noticed the telltale muscle quivering at the hinge of Francis’s jaw. Combined with the glossy sheen of the Irishman’s eyes in the lamplight, James thought he finally understood the reason for such uncharacteristic timidity, at least in part.
“Francis,” he said first, caressing a bold path along Francis’s pocked cheek with the pad of one thumb. “It’s all right.”
Francis closed his eyes. A bright dewdrop streaked down toward the left corner of his mouth. “You don’t believe that.”
“No.” James leaned in, kissed salt from the side of Francis’s crooked nose, and then captured his lips again, barely catching the top of his cupid’s bow this time. Francis inhaled sharply as it happened. “But I’ll not deny you of it.”
Just as James began to pull back, Francis leaned forward, chasing his mouth as if he had quite forgot to react to the earlier caresses.
“Please – ” shaking fingers grasped for purchase somewhere near James’s elbows, “ – don’t toy with me, James. Not this night.”
“No tricks, Francis.” James threaded the distance between them again, and kissed his dear captain’s furrowed brow. “I promise.” Next, James kissed the bridge of Francis’s nose, smiling as he drew back. “Not immediately, anyway.”
Francis made a soft, slightly-amused noise, and this was James’s cue to capture his lips again, until his fellow captain was slightly breathless, and had got his humour back under him.
“You’ve kissed more than one officer in a ward room, I reckon,” Francis rasped, as James bent his head to Francis’s collar, exploring a constellation of pale freckles with soft nips of teeth and fluttering swipes of his tongue. “Hm?”
Lifting his head, James caught Francis’s blown-wide gaze. Crozier’s pupils were dark starbursts of black against a vivid blue corona, eclipsing everything in their path.
“Yes,” he finally said, and caressed a small line across his fellow captain’s collarbone with the side of an index finger. His other hand settled into the crook of Francis’s hip. “Shall I show you?”
Halting, Francis nodded an affirmative, casting a quick glance at the closed door.
“Come on,” he said, and tugged at James’s sleeve.
Quickly, they stepped into Francis’s berth, which still looked the same as ever. Francis seemed not to know what to do, now; thus, Fitzjames took over, stepping forward into his fellow captain’s intimate space. The inch of height he had on Francis meant they were standing nearly nose-to-nose, and so James cupped the other man’s face in one hand, and tilted his head accordingly to prevent a disastrous collision of noses. And suddenly Francis’ mouth was warm and wet and open under his, and James’ entire body was aflame. Without thinking, he urged them backwards into the carved bedrail, pouring everything he possessed into the kiss. When Francis’s back touched wood, his breath caught in his throat, and when James’s hands tangled in his shaggy red hair, he groaned aloud. God in heaven. James could have elicited a thousand of those lovely, needy noises from Francis’s lips, had they world enough and time, but before he could act further, the door creaked open, and Edward’s voice, careful and distant, rang out through the ward room.
“Captain?”
Gasping, Francis shoved James away at once, scrubbing at his face with one hand as he snarled, “What the blazes do you want, Edward?”
Wordless, James stumbled backwards, now practically sitting on the surface of the desk. Hunching forward, he pinched the bridge of his nose in one hand in an attempt to collect his thoughts. His raised hand trembled against his cheek.
“To fuckin’ talk to you, Francis, that’s what.” Blanky’s voice, accompanied by the hard thunk! of his wooden leg striking the creaking floorboards, echoed loudly through the ward room. “Good Christ. State of this place, they might think we beat ye to death by the damn privy.”
Francis made a resentful noise. The step-thunk of Blanky’s crooked walk increased in speed and volume, and suddenly Tom himself was there in the doorway, balancing himself against the frame with two hands, utterly laconic. James barely glanced up to confirm the ice master’s arrival before pinching at his nose again.
In the absence of – well, what they had intended – a headache threatened to develop between his eyes. James did not think such throbbing was still located elsewhere, but it was likely best not to stand for now.
“Evening, Tom. Edward.”
“Ah, look who’s first down the hatch tonight.” A dark, raspy cackle. “Walloped ‘im in the nose again, eh, Francis?”
If the situation had not been so fraught, and if he were not still trying to appear as innocent as a midshipman merely caught idling at his post, James might have laughed. Tom Blanky, damn him, could always be counted on to bring down the tension in a room.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Tom,” snapped Francis, and strode out of the berth; Tom pegged backwards to let him through. From this angle, James rather missed watching the threadbare greatcoat flapping behind Francis’s legs like the wings of a dark river bird.
Outside in the greater ward room, Francis let out a deep sigh, and ran a hand through one side of his hair before turning to Edward. “What’s the latest report?”
“I – but, sir,” stammered Edward, who perhaps believed Blanky’s jest, as he sounded much more faint-hearted than usual. “Is Captain Fitzjames all right?”
James set his jaw, steeled his nerves, and rose from his makeshift seat. He was second on this expedition above all, and he would perform those duties to the very end. Even if it was inconvenient. Even if their numbers dwindled every day.
“Nothing a thorough report can’t cure, Edward. I’ll join you now.”
Summoning up the most pleasant countenance he could muster, James stepped out into the ward room, ready for what was perhaps the last briefing in Terror's berth. When he reached the table, he was careful not to meet Francis’s eyes.