Chapter Text
"A moment?" Little had murmured to John earlier that night in the lower deck, catching his elbow and gesturing for John to follow him to the passage that led to the great cabin.
For a moment, John felt a spike of irrational fear. What if the lieutenant wished to speak with him because he knew of the dreams John was having last night?
Dreams of bodies entwining in a cramped berth, rubbing together in a sinful chase of pleasure. How the dreams had then shifted, the way dreams do, and how one second they were clothed and the next they were completely bare, pressed closely together so that the cold would not get to them. Edward's voice from behind him, breath warm on his ear, leaving goosebumps in its wake, commanding him to rut against the body in front of him—George's, whose soft moans seemed to echo in the space. Edward's hands on his hips, the line of his body pressed against John's back. Sweat-slicked, something hot and heavy and hard assaulting John from both front and behind.
John had woken that morning breathing hard with his cock straining against his pants. It had taken a long time for him to will it down, his hands clenching his bed linens so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palms through the fabric. Through it all, he had fervently begged God for forgiveness and prayed that he would find salvation, that he would be saved from eternal hellfire and damnation for this transgression.
Afterwards, when the blood flowed north back up to his brain again, he had felt sick to his stomach—not only was he dreaming of such things between men, but it had also involved the two men that he held in high regard. Two men that he considered friends. He didn't have many of those. To be specific, he had one of those, and he wasn't on this ship.
If the other lieutenants knew the depths he had sunk to, if they knew how deep he had dragged them with him—
John had resolved to throw himself much more fiercely into his duties, and spend what little of his free time left deepening his connection with God—perhaps by devoting greater attention to Bible study. He would find peace between the pages of the holy book, he was sure of this.
However, huddled together as they were in the passageway Edward led them into, John blushed. He could barely meet Edward's eyes, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he feared Edward could hear it. Surely, his sin was obvious. Surely, it must be writ clear upon his face.
It turned out he fretted for nought. Edward had only asked John—in a voice bordering on desperation, his eyes dark and wide, sweat glistening on his forehead, and using John's Christian name—if John could please take his place on the first watch tonight, as Lieutenant Hodgson was otherwise preoccupied with one thing or another and could not lend him a hand.
There was a part of John that shuddered, darkly thrilled to hear Edward say his name in such way, so very pleadingly. It wondered how it would feel to push the harried lieutenant against the bulkhead, pin him there. Or better yet, to his knees, so that he might beg better down there.
John caught the thought before it could go much further, horrified at himself. He shoved the wicked thoughts into a box to be locked away, never to be opened again. Perhaps he could be rid of the locked box by flushing it down a metaphorical ice hole.
Having recomposed his mind into order, John caught the tail end of Edward's face falling, his eyes going pinched at the corners as he ducked his head and turned to leave, mumbling apologies for having bothered John and bidding him a deflated good night.
Drat. John had taken too long to respond and Edward had taken his silence for rejection. That was not what he meant to do. The opposite, in fact, considering that he had been hoping for an opportunity to shoulder the man's burdens for a while.
It was just that the last few weeks had been hard on Edward, as anyone with a functioning set of eyes and ears could tell. The captain had been hitting the spirits heavier than ever, and his irritable nature had grown tenfold with it. He doled out more than a fair share of that irritation on Edward. There was a couple occasions at minimum in which John and George had exchanged sympathetic winces from where they could hear raised voices in the great cabin beyond the closed door.
It was clear to see that the lieutenant hadn't exactly been entirely unaffected by it, by the way his countenance became haggard, and his shoulders rounded in on themselves when he thought no one was looking. John and George had extended their offer to help before, but ever conscientious, ever dutiful Edward had always refused. John had thought that he hadn't wanted to seem incapable to his fellow senior officers, that pride may have pushed him to prove that he could be an excellent second-in-command of the Terror.
So, to be handed this chance, and to fumble it so, John could not let that stand. He moved, catching Edward's shoulder.
"I'll take your watch," John assured him quickly.
When Edward turned to face John once more, he seemed in disbelief. His gaze ran over John's face, as though seeking out any morsel of untruth that could be lingering there. John took the opportunity to study Edward right back. He looked to be in worse shape than usual. The light of the lamps glinted off of the sweat beading on his brows.
Frowning, John placed the back of his hand on Edward's forehead before he could think twice about it, and found it cold and clammy to the touch.
"Are you feverish?" he asked, still frowning.
Under his hand, Edward blinked, stunned, once and then once more. He was sluggish to respond, but once he did, he pulled his forehead away. John noticed that he moved his head ever-so-gingerly.
"No," Edward replied, closing his eyes and swaying slightly on the spot for a moment. It alarmed John, the display of weakness that Edward would've undoubtedly hidden had he been capable of it. "It's just—" a wince cut through his words, "—a bad headache. It has been building since earlier this morning, and I thought it would pass by now but it hasn't. I'm sorry, I know you've had three watches already today and you must be fatigued yourself, but I'm afraid I'll be right useless if I take on watch tonight."
The long explanation left Edward a little winded, and John watched as his features twisted with genuine remorse. He needn't have explained himself, John would have taken on the favour anyway. The fact that Edward, usually concise in his manner of speaking, had resorted to rambling was only proving how poorly he must be feeling.
The part of John that had always felt a certain fondness for him—the part that John had failed to lock up along with his dastardly inner voice—thought, that won't do. That won't do at all.
"You should rest, Edward," he said firmly, using his commanding officer tone of voice, the one that brooked no argument. It wasn't exactly a voice that inspired people to do what he wanted them to. In fact, the success rate of it was not great. That he was directing it up the chain of command instead of down did not help his chances. But still, it was worth a try.
He took a risk too, he thought, using Edward's given name like that. For all that John considered them friends, he wasn't truly sure if Edward felt the same. He knew well enough that the rest of the ship, senior officers aside, was under the impression that he was a dreadful bore at best and— well, it didn't bear repeating what the crew thought of him at worst. Safe to say, he did not leave a delightful impression of himself.
Edward stared at John for so long, with such intensity in his eyes, that John started to think that he had committed a grave error. But then the corners of his lips tilted upwards in that small smile of his, and John felt himself exhale and loosen. That smile had become rarer, as of late, as rare as the daylight. To be treated to it felt as if the sun was peeking over the horizon. He took the limited opportunity to bask in its warmth.
"Thank you, John," Edward said. He squeezed John's arm once, turned slowly and carefully, and trudged his way to his quarters.
Later, John found himself on the upper deck of the ship, decked out in full gear against the weather. The fourth bell of the watch had been struck not long ago. It was dark, but these days it was dark at all times of the day, the sun barely, if ever, making an appearance. The visibility was low, too, to the point that John could barely make out where their good neighbour the Erebus lay on the ice with them, the light of their lanterns no match for the impenetrable fog.
The cold seeped into him, the layers all but effective when the temperature was this low. He shivered, hugged himself and rubbed at his own arms when he could get away with it. As he spotted Sergeant Tozer and able seaman Manson heading his way, he stood at full height again, nodding at them.
"Sir," they acknowledged him as they passed. If any of them had been surprised that it was him on watch instead of Lieutenant Little, they hid it well.
As he made his way to the quarterdeck, he resigned himself to a freezing cold watch. With the wretched beast still somewhere out there in the vast, cold void, he could only pray that this remained an uneventful watch. It was not as if John begrudged Edward his rest, far from it; the man sorely needed it. But these were times when only half of his focus was needed, allowing his thoughts to stray from him on their own wretched, selfish paths.
Already he was thinking back to Edward's doleful expression, his hand on John's arm. His eyes crinkling when he smiled. It, in turn, reminded John of when George had winked at him during dinner after he told a winding tale, and how George had nudged his foot against John's calf when he had made a joke he thought John in particular would find amusing.
Swallowing a lump in his throat, he tried to convince himself that it was only that he was grateful for being blessed with great company on this journey. Friends that he might lean on, and be leaned on in return.
But a more treacherous voice in him whispered that lying, even to himself, was a sin.
Heart pounding, he started to recite in his mind the prayer he held onto to guide him back to the righteous path of God when these thoughts bothered him.
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.
His chapped lips moved under his muffler as he mouthed along. As he prayed, he swept his gaze around the night. His spirit started to settle within him, and he felt his high-strung body relax with it.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.
It was then that he heard it. Something moving, fast and heavy, towards him. Before he could even think to react, the world had overturned. Or maybe it was he who had overturned, as though he may have been flung into the air.
He did not remember the landing.
When next he opened his eyes, John was lying in sickbay.
Pushing himself slowly up onto his elbows, he was dismayed to find both of the other senior officers and the captain staring at him. The combined weight of their grim gazes on him had John scrambling to sit up.
A glance around told him they were alone in the sickbay, the rest of the occupants, with the exception of the catatonic Private Heather, had been vacated elsewhere. Considering that the sickbay was never empty these days, with an unending stream of cases of frostbite and symptoms of scurvy starting to take hold, the patient-less state of it seemed to John an ill omen.
"Take it easy, sir," said Dr. McDonald, coming up beside him.
"What— Um, what happened?" John asked, hesitantly.
The four men in the room glanced at each other, something unreadable in their eyes. Dread rose in him. He felt faintly dazed, but fine otherwise. Surely nothing that would warrant the faces the others in the room with him were sporting.
Dr. McDonald looked to the captain, who John realised with a start looked the most sober he'd been in a few weeks.
"You…" there was a pause as the captain carefully selected the right word, "fell overboard. Sergeant Tozer found you on the ice." His words hung rather awkwardly in the air, almost as if that was not where he had planned to end his statement.
"In a concerningly large pool of your own blood," supplied George helpfully, receiving a glower from Crozier and an exasperated look from Edward for his troubles.
The dread grew. John barely held back from patting himself down. Perhaps he'd been drugged to a point that he would not feel it if there was a gaping hole through his body, or if chunks of his flesh were missing. There weren't—he was as whole as he was before he found himself here.
"But I feel fine," he said, though his doubt made it come out more question than fact. He looked down at his hands, on which there were surprisingly no sign of frostbite.
"You are, sir," Dr. McDonald confirmed. "It's a miracle. There was blood on the back of your head and the back of your coat, and we thought it might've frozen on you."
John reached for the back of his head. His hand came away slightly damp, but clear. It was water, not blood. Either the surgeon or the assistant surgeon must've washed it away when he was unconscious.
"I've checked and found no sign of any injury whatsoever on you, Lieutenant," continued the doctor. "You're a bit paler than usual, but that's to be expected what with the cold. Nevertheless, I'd advise you to avoid anything strenuous for a while, just in case." Here he glanced at Crozier. "If the captain permits, of course."
The captain waved him off. Crozier came up to John and gripped a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.
"All that praying to God must've paid off, John. A miracle, indeed." His face twisted with something dark and unreadable, just for a second, barely there before it was gone. "Heed the good doctor's words, will you?" It was not a request. "Take the rest of the night off, and the day, too. I'm sure between Lieutenant Little and Lieutenant Hodgson, they can shoulder your duties in the meantime."
The captain levelled quite the withering look at the first and second lieutenant, who nodded their understanding before keeping their eyes trained on the floor. Despite being the most sober he'd been in weeks, the captain's cantankerous nature had not abated.
Crozier gave John one last searching look and then deemed the situation resolved enough for him to leave.
"Should you feel that anything's off, do come see me, sir," Dr. McDonald instructed John.
"Thank you, doctor," John nodded, standing to follow the other lieutenants out.
The doctor stopped him. "Oh, before you go, Lieutenant."
Dr. McDonald held out something in his fist to John, and John placed a bare, ungloved hand underneath to receive it. He was distantly aware that Edward and George had stopped to linger at the doorway, peering curiously at him.
"This seemed to… bother you when you were unconscious, so I took the liberty of taking it off of you," the doctor explained, tipping the object into John's palm.
There was a sharp jolt of pain. John jerked his hand back, and the offending item clattered to the floor. In the corner of his eye, the two lieutenants exchanged loaded glances.
"Oh, sorry, sir, that must've been ice cold to the touch." Dr. McDonald knelt to take it with a handkerchief, and handed the wrapped item to John.
John took it automatically, thanking the doctor, but his mind was running miles away. For the item did not feel ice cold. It had felt burning hot, as hot as coal, or hotter, even, as if all the fires of Hell had been condensed into one point of space and poured onto his hand.
He looked down at the object nestled in the handkerchief.
It was the cross that he always wore around his neck.