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The wick of the lamp has burned down to almost nothing, spluttering out the last of it’s life in little spits of flame as it sinks down into the well of oil.
From out beyond the circle of it’s weak light the sickbay is wrapped in darkness, each of the candles dotted between the gently swaying hammocks having surrendered to the endless arctic night some time ago. The shadows creep in across the tilted floor until they wrap like an icy blanket around the shoulders of Doctor MacDonald, the broad sweep of them bent in turn over his books on the table. What little work he may have been attempting has been long abandoned, much like the no longer steaming teacup balanced precariously on a copy of Bentley"s Miscellany, dangerously close to his slowly slumping elbow.
It feels like sacrilege to disturb the scene, its deep pits and shadows making it more of an oil painting to Harry’s eyes than anything from reality. If he had Lieutenant Irving’s artistic touch perhaps he might attempt to render it charcoal. It would fit so neatly in between his lined sketches of arctic fauna, long abandoned in the face of their great peril, despite the softly heaving movement of life in the room, of the swinging hammocks and MacDonald"s own shallow breathing. Perhaps it is this unnatural quality that stills his steps at the door, an invisible hand at his chest holding him from stepping into the yawning dark. His own candle flutters, it’s light barely shining sheltered as it is by his palm, mindful of the men hanging in their restless dreams throughout the forecastle behind him.
“Do you plan to linger long in the doorway Doctor?”
“My apologies Doctor Macdonald - I didn’t wish to disturb you.” He wades out into the ink dark sea, shuffling until he can place his candle down opposite the other’s so their light pools together. Across the table Macdonald looks drawn; the captain’s illness and their crew"s absence, berthed on Erebus as so many of them are, seems to have pulled all comforting jollity from his face. “I fancied you asleep.”
Macdonald lets out a quiet, aborted laugh and rubs one ink stained hand across his brow. “I suppose I ought to be Doctor Goodsir-”
“Harry. Please.” He can only assume it’s the late hour or the way their candles surround them in a bubble of light that cut them off even from the sickbay, their true home of these long years, that finally pulls down the last of Macdonald’s polite defenses. Or perhaps they are finally friends. The reason, whatever it might be, Harry finds does not matter at all, just the quiet roll of his name from Doctor Macdonald - Alexander’s - tongue.
“Harry… I ought to have been asleep several bells since, but here I am...” He spreads his hands at his notes, the words beginning their journey across the white of the page in neat cursive and ending in a sloping scrawl that’s illegible even to Harry’s well trained eyes. “... for all the good that it has done me. And here you are also? Did you not return to Erebus?”
With this he tilts his head up to find Harry’s face in the darkness, blinking up with the slow rising surprise of the tired. Each flutter of his eyelashes pulls at something in Harry’s heart, a shock of anger at the unfairness of their situation piercing through as he fancies he can see his friend be dragged under the relentless waves of exhaustion with every passing second. He is fighting the same currents, perhaps if they cling together they can keep each other afloat.
“Ah, I failed to begin my return before the weather changed - Master Blanky forbade anyone from going out in such a storm of ice. As such I believe I am stuck here overnight.”
“With somewhere to sleep I hope?”
“Well…” and here he pauses, embarrassed now in the face of friendliness to justify his own late night wanderings. “I had a strange hope to take advantage of a spare bunk in here. I never could get the hang of a hammock, all too much like being suspended in a spider’s web.”
“And you are afeared of spiders Harry? I never thought you to be such a man.”
“Let us just say that my interests lie in the, err, squishier and saltier varieties of animal on this earth.” His words seem to amuse Alexander, and he trips over himself to pull more of them out of the air, as if the momentary joy of his embarrassment could fill, for a second, the dying lamp with fuel to burn a thousand hours. “Though they are fascinating creatures to be sure! But perhaps at a distance, or pinned safely for viewing beneath a microscope.”
“Very well then Harry.” His name again! It seems a present every time and a habit that will stick; the thought of it enough to make him blush. A name should not be such an honour but here, within the careful regulation of the navy, such a familiarity from a respected man is an unexpected pleasure. “We shall find you a bunk. I think I know of one which willnae see it’s owner tonight. Come to bed, so you can sleep well enough for your cold walk tomorrow.”
He stands, abandoning his notes and his teacup in favour of lifting the little candle Harry brought in to light their way. For a giddy second Harry imagines him reaching out to take his hand and pull him like a tugboat into the safe harbour of his arms, but it is a passing fancy - one born of tiredness alone, he tells himself sternly. For he is a grown man, not a child that must be led by the hand up the wooden stairs to bed, with a hot cocoa and a story besides.
Alexander - Alex, maybe? No no, that’s entirely a step too familiar - leads him out through the forecastle, a bobbing guiding light as they weave between the hammocks. Even though the ship sits in her prison of ice they gently sway with the tossing and turning of the men, there is no true stillness here. They duck through the galley and out into the little corridor of doors and curtains that separate the officer’s tiny islands of privacy. Most are closed and the men behind them presumably lost to slumber, but some are open; the one Alexander seems to be leading him towards, Jopson’s, assumedly tending to the captain even now, and Little’s, who Harry remembers passing as he made his way out onto watch some time ago.
They reach the doorway and Alexander gestures him in, propping himself up on the doorway to watch as Harry shrugs his coat across the chair beside the desk and lights from their candle the corner lamp. It blooms into a soft yellow light, casting across a bookshelf filled with titles Harry recognises from his own studies.
“This is your cabin.”
“Aye.” Alexander doesn’t seem troubled, just twinkles merrily at him and takes back the candle from Harry’s gentle grip. “And like I said, it’s no likely to see much use tonight by me.”
“But... but surely you need somewhere to sleep? Please, this is very kind-”
“I’ll hear no arguments Harry, not at this hour. You can even borrow a nightshirt if you like, I doubt you brought one of your own.”
Harry doesn’t quite know how to argue against that, and will not raise his voice to Alexander for fear of upsetting their new friendliness and for waking the neighbouring men both. Instead he nods, turning slowly to take in the whole of the small space, trying to figure out how best to slot himself in where he would cause the least upset. He doesn"t quite know what to do with himself at all, the warming thought of being allowed to use Alexander’s nightdress and the guilt of stealing his sleeping place from him war in his mind until he is quite struck immobile by it. Alexander seems to take this momentary lapse as a signal that he has fallen asleep on his feet, for he has moved into the room to catch Harry by his arm and gentle him down onto the edge of the bunk.
“Oh pet you really are tired.”
Pet? Was he not only made ‘Harry’ a minute ago. Now ‘pet’? His mind shutters for a second, like a cog catching on it’s turn, and all he can really do is blink up Alexander, so haloed by the lamplight that even his eyes seem to burn gold like stars.
“Think you can do your own boots?” He nods, hands grateful for the mindless task, and sets to it quickly pulling feet from boots and stockings, shivering as the cold air hits flesh. Alexander has turned, reaching down into one of the draws to pull forth a shirt and he takes the opportunity to shed the rest of his uniform, accepting the shirt when Alexander proffers it, eyes averted.
It should only be the work of a moment to slip it over his head and button it, but his limbs seem to have turned to lead at the mere anticipation of sleep. It takes him what seems like an age to wrestle his limbs through the cotton tent, and longer still to pluck each pearlescent button into place. Eventually he is done, and can shift awkwardly under the blankets, wriggling to find an approximation of comfort in the cramped space.
“Alright pet?” Oh, Alexander hadn’t left, just stepped back into the shadows of the doorway. He comes forward, dimming the lamp where it dangles just outside of Harry’s reach. A kindness, though one that hides his face in half-light as once more the little candle is all that illuminates the space. It does not matter much to Harry, whose eyes are losing the valiant battle to remain open. Then there is a warmth on his face, and for a second he fancies Alexander reaching out a hand to tuck a stray curl away, fingers lingering to stroke across his neck in a gentle caress. But when he cracks an eye open, Alexander’s arm has melded once more with the darkness, his hands both cradling the candle’s base.
“Don’t read too long, you’ll ruin your eyes.” He’s not sure it comes out intelligible, his mother’s words of warning filtering through the descending haze of sleep and the pillow he’s pressed his face against. But Alexander smiles at his words and inclines his head in understanding before he turns and leaves, so something must’ve come through. In the morning, Harry resolves as he drifts off into slumber, he’ll prod Alexander into bed as soon he has dragged himself from it - for it appears that as the doctor looks after the men, he must look after the doctor.