Chapter Text
It takes Edward Little nearly 24 months aboard HMS Terror to break the Articles. Nearly two full years since setting sail from Greenhithe. Compared to the usual “never” aboard ship, and the equally as usual “anytime he has coin to spare at one of the more reputable disreputable establishments for naval men of his tastes” while ashore on half-pay, it’s a decidedly middling score.
He finds that he does not care overmuch at this point, really. That certainly wasn’t the case when things started this. He did not go about it easily. There are very few things Lt. Little goes about easily – most days, every breath feels like fulfilling a duty.
He knows the men see him as reserved, rigid in his adherence to the rules, and that is quite alright. After all, that is how he ought to be as First Lieutenant – steadfast, reliable; a link between the captain and the rest of the officers, someone Crozier might rely on.
If he were a laughing man he’d snort to himself at the foolish thoughts that had preoccupied him when he’d first thought of his commission. It had taken barely any time whatsoever to see that there would be no “linking” no “relying,” no relationship with Crozier beyond the barebones.
With the first deadpan “Dismissed,” Edward knew what to expect from the next few years. The captain seemed quite content to simply do his job, and make the fact that he had to do so everyone else’s problem. Crozier spent much time alone, with only his letters and Jopson for company. He also seemed little interested in changing this state of affairs. Edward had barely conversed with the man between Greenhithe and Greenland, and after Greenland – with no more prospect of letters being received or carried away to England until they reached the other side of the Passage – Crozier’s foul moods had only devolved further.
But even the fraught relationship his commanding officer seems to have with everyone aboard (and existence itself) would not have been quite enough to make Edward cross the line. While he knows himself, he also knows his duties and the dangers he might invite if he were to act on his desires. For years this has been easy. For the duration of his commissions, he’s almost a different man. Edward Little’s personhood and desires are neatly stowed away at the bottom of his sea-chest, to be retrieved once his work is done and he is back to months of languishing on half-pay.
He hadn’t expected this expedition to go any differently. He hadn’t expected that they’d be frozen in as unexpectedly as they had been, certainly hadn’t expected the death of the expedition’s commanding officer. So come Spring 1847 Edward Little has little hope that there will be a return to England, and as such the ever-present fears of a court martial or disgrace that have governed his adult life… lessen.
He may not be a foolhardy man, but he is a man. There is only so much misery he is capable of enduring without even the littlest reprieve.
Camaraderie within hierarchy is hard to find, especially the kind Edward might desire, so for a time the only leeway he allows himself are looks, furtive glances of appreciation of the men around him. He does not intend to act. But as Crozier’s moods sour, and his presence on deck becomes as rare as his presence on Erebus, he finds himself making the trek across the ice regularly, accompanied by the First Mate. Hornby is younger than him by a few years, around Jopson’s age if Edward wagered a guess, though far less arresting in appearance than the steward.
Still, he is a handsome man, straightforwardly charming, and Edward feels the ice between them thaw before their first journey over to Erebus is over.
It’s friendly, of course, at first. They banter about morale, sometimes nigh-gossiping about the ABs and petty officers – it’s a gentle camaraderie, not unlike what he feels around John and George, but it feels fresh and new enough to be intriguing, to occasionally fill Edward’s mind with other ideas. If his hand lingers a bit when he prevents the other from slipping on the ice, well – that’s certainly no one’s business but theirs.
The misery of their shared duty certainly helps endear him to the other man – shared suffering has a funny way of flattening ranks and bringing forth unexpected fondness. So rather swiftly in the grand scheme of shipboard dynamics, Mr Hornby becomes Frederick – at first only in the quiet intimacy of their long, cold walks flanked by Marines; then he stays Frederick in the slops room on Erebus; then Terror; sometimes even in passing on deck – until Edward has to caution himself against using the first mate’s first name when giving Crozier his reports.
The slight frisson, the thrill of closeness that no one else suspects is galvanising, Edward feels closer to alive than he has in months whenever Frederick slides by him as they head towards the slops storage, seemingly uncaring about the world-upending way their shoulders touch. But the way he glances back at Edward as he opens the door is far from uncaring.
Edward feels warm.
He feels warm, and alive, and allows their gloved hands to touch on the cold wood of the door.