Chapter Text
James sucked in a sudden breath, instinctively wrapping his lips around the little bead of blood that arose from where the needle had poked into his thumb. A second too late, the sharp tang of iron hit his tongue, and he yanked his thumb back out, “Ugh. Gross.”
Goodsir chuckled, standing on his tiptoes to try and reach a book from the top shelf of Erebus’ library, “How many times have you had to turn down Mr. Bridgen’s offers to fix that for you?”
“At least a dozen.” James sighed, squinting down at his clumsy stitches, which were comically large in comparison to the tiny stitches running along the inner seam of James’ cream-coloured coat. He’d never given particular thought to just how long it might take someone to make the pounds of clothes he had to don every time he stepped above deck — not until he’d told Bridgens he wanted to try doing it himself in an ‘exercise in self-reliance’.
In theory, he was training for skills he would have need of eventually, if his talks with Francis were any indication. This coat was going to be seeing far rougher usage by next year, and as much as James absolutely hated having to admit it, he wasn’t sure how far a sixty-something-year-old Bridgens might get during those eight hundred miles.
“It’s cruel math.” James groaned, during one of their meetings.
Francis gave a sympathetic sigh, “Yes, but it’s math that’s going to be done for us, whether we like it or not.”
“Are you alright, sir?” Goodsir asked, laying a hand on James’ shoulder.
“Hmm?” James blinked.
“I asked what you were staring at, and you didn’t reply. Are you feeling well?”
“Oh, uh, yes… quite.” James yawned, setting his work down with a defeated slump. He needed to stop thinking about such morbid things around his men — otherwise they really would think Francis was beginning to rub off on him.
“What book were you trying to reach?” he asked, nodding towards the shelves.
Goodsir blushed, “Oh, you don’t have to get it for me, sir. I should’ve just fetched a chair all along.” He lugged one of the chairs over and proceeded to climb onto it, now comfortably at height with the tallest shelf, “See?"
James grinned, “Are there many chairs used as step-stools in the Goodsir household?”
“Only a few.” Goodsir admitted, thumbing through the volumes, “I’m afraid I got that from my mother’s side. Most of the Goodsirs are fairly tall.”
“And I’m sure that subject never came up during various tussles with your brothers?”
“Certainly not, sir. We were perfect little cherubs.”
The way he said it, it almost seemed like Goodsir was speaking in earnest. But at the last second, Goodsir’s neutral expression split into a grin, and he chuckled at his own joke.
“Ah, of course.” James nodded astutely, “As was I.”
Goodsir snorted, then tilted his head, digging in-between two particularly thick tomes, “Hello, what do we have here…?”
James turned to see what Goodsir was holding, and nearly fell out of his seat trying to get up, “Harry—!”
“I say, these are exquisite drawings.” Goodsir said, stepping down from the chair and fanning the flashcards out like a deck of playing cards for James to see, “Did you make these yourself, sir?”
“Well, I…” James coughed, shrugging his shoulders.
“And here you were leading us on to believe you could not sketch to save your life.” Goodsir said, turning them back in his hands to admire each individually.
As if summoned by the scent of potential gossip, the cabin door slid open and Le Vesconte stepped in. Setting his cap on the table, he brushed a hand through his snow-dusted hair, “Did I miss anything while I was out?”
“No.” James said, at the same time that Goodsir said, “Yes.”
Le Vesconte walked over to them, with little pretence of being in the room for any other reason. When he saw what Goodsir was holding, a wolfish grin spread across his face, “Oh I have got to see what mine looks like. Split the deck, would you?”
“Christ save me.” James sighed, “You know, drawing quickly to get your meaning across is entirely different from portraiture. And besides, so many of you all look the same, I had to be precise with my renditions.”
“Ah, there’s me!” Goodsir pointed, showing off the small drawing like it was a beloved cameo, “They are quite fetching, truly! Perhaps in another life you could have been an artist.”
Le Vesconte reached the end of his own stack, and tutted, “Oh dear, I wouldn’t show Captain Crozier his portrait. You’ve given him quite the furrowed sneer!”
James sighed, “At the time, it was the only expression I’d seen on the man’s face.”
Le Vesconte’s eyebrows raised, “And now?”
James sputtered, snatching the cards from him and setting them down with a thunk on the table, “That’s enough of that. If you’re going to come swooping in here like a vulture, you might as well do some work.”
“Oh, yes, because I haven’t got enough of that lately.” Le Vesconte muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“It’s important, actually.” James glanced at Goodsir, “And… I think something that needs to be discussed in private.”
Goodsir blinked, then jumped to attention, “Ah, yes, of course. Let me just…” he reached back and snatched his intended reading from the bookshelf, before scurrying out and away.
Any mirth on Le Vesconte’s face was already drained by the time James turned back to him, his expression again grim and resigned, “So, what’s this important work you have for me?”
James did not have to wait long for Le Vesconte to report back. He’d given the man two days, but Le Vesconte was tossing a sheaf of papers onto his desk by the next morning. James read each with increasing trepidation, setting them down with a sigh as he finished.
“And you’re certain of these numbers?” James asked. Judging by the deep furrow between Le Vesconte’s brows, James had a fairly good idea of what the answer was going to be.
“Very certain, sir.” Le Vesconte said. He would not meet James’ gaze, “With your permission, I’d like to have the men start moving the tainted cans towards the back, and keep the ones that appear untarnished in a separate group.”
James nodded, “Yes, good. And tell Mr. Wall and Mr. Diggle to emphasise salt meats in their menus now, not the tins.”
“Aye, sir.” Le Vesconte said, rubbing his brow. He’d taken the news of the lead just as badly as James and Francis had, but seemed to be channelling his frustration into counting and organising the cans.
At first, James expected him to simply leave as he always did. When he did not hear fading footsteps, he looked back up. Le Vesconte still stood there, rocking on his feet, opening and closing his mouth as if he wanted to say more.
They were interrupted by sharp, panicked screams from down below.
“Christ.” James swore, rushing out into the hall. He could hear Le Vesconte right on his heels as he ran towards the nearest ladder and scrambled down into the orlop. There were about seven men working there at this time of day, and each of them looked just as confused and spooked as James felt. Their fear quickly subsided, however, when they spotted the source of the screams, and the atmosphere turned from fear to embarrassment.
Tucked into a corner and sleeping on a few sacks of potatoes, Mr. Collins tossed and turned, seemingly struggling against invisible foes. His shouts were panicked, quick bursts against the hushed quiet of those who, up until this point, had not noticed Mr. Collins’ hidden spot.
“Let me through.” James said, the crew parting quickly as he walked over to the dark corner. Mr. Collins was wrapped tight in his greatcoat as usual, always dressed as if for a blizzard, regardless of whether he was above deck or below. Oily curls of hair hung across his eyes, and his arms wrapped around him more like a straitjacket than a hug.
“Henry.” James said quietly, crouching down in front of Mr. Collins. He knew well enough not to touch someone who was having a nightmare, lest his body end up with an additional injury. He repeated the man’s name, both first and full, in a quiet but steady voice, “Henry Collins, you are safe. You are on Erebus. The year is 1847 and you are safe.”
Slowly, Mr. Collins awoke, eyes bleary as he dragged himself from sleep in fits and starts. He blinked up at James, who was little more than a silhouette against the lantern Le Vesconte held behind him.
“Sir?”
James smiled kindly, “Hello, Mr. Collins.”
The man looked from James to Le Vesconte, then one-by-one took in the rest of the men there. They all looked down or to the side, not making eye contact with Mr. Collins, and some began to return to their work as if nothing had occurred.
Mr. Collins’ face grew red, and he stammered, “Did I fall asleep, sir? I can assure you I meant only to rest for a moment, but…” he looked around the room again, “It’s quiet down here.”
James patted him on the shoulder, “No need for worry, Mr. Collins. There is nothing to be ashamed of — plenty of men are afflicted by nightmares.”
Mr. Collins nodded only slightly, his hands fidgeting at his side. James had friends who’d come back from Afghanistan with a haunted shadow in their eyes; who would refuse to even acknowledge their PTSD. They would take cover when the toaster popped, or scream during the night, or lose track of time and place, their eyes distant and stricken with terror. If modern men struggled to confide in anyone, how much more so would a man from the 19th century?
James shifted tactics, raising his voice slightly, “Now, attend to your duties on deck, Mr. Collins. I want a full report on the state of the ship’s position within the ice: if she’s canting, if there’s danger of ice piercing her hull, that sort of thing. And please make sure to confer with Mr. Reid on the matter.”
Mr. Collins straightened up, squaring his shoulders and giving a decisive nod, “Aye, sir. A full report.”
James watched as the man strode towards the ladder with a renewed sense of purpose. He turned to Le Vesconte with a grin, “Two birds with one stone, as they say.”
He found Le Vesconte staring back at him with an assessing eye, “And what is the second bird?”
“We’re walking?” Le Vesconte said, his voice hollow as he stared out the window, “Is there really no other way?”
James sat down across from him, splaying his hands, “Francis and I have gone over every eventuality we could think of. We stayed up so late one night that Jopson started making breakfast for two.”
Le Visconti nodded slowly, “I was curious why you’ve been spending more time on Terror now than your own ship.”
James leaned forward, “Listen, I know you are stretched thin here. And I have a plan to fix that. But I promise I am not abandoning you or the men — far from it!”
Le Vesconte sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, “We have enough supplies, if we ration and include the tins, to last us till next autumn. I know it is not ideal to eat from them, but the alternative…” he gestured towards the timid sun outside, which casted meagre rays onto a landscape that was more jagged and treacherous than the moon.
James pinched his brow, nodding, “Yes, we discussed that as well.”
“You’ve been discussing quite a lot without the advice of your officers.” Le Vesconte said.
“We were going to tell you, I promise, we just…” James sighed.
“We have time, James. We can wait this out just like last year. There may yet be leads next spring.”
“Perhaps. And don’t mistake me, Henry, we do plan to wait for next spring, it’s just… more so because leaving now would have us trudging across King William’s Land through months of darkness.”
Le Vesconte’s eyebrows rose, but then he blew out a sigh of relief, “You could have mentioned that little detail at the beginning of this conversation.”
“I know.” James groaned, “I… trust me, if anyone is acutely aware of just how much I’ve been fucking things up, it is me. And I owe you at least a thousand apologies for all of it. But I also know that the ice might not give us till next spring — to wait for leads or to walk out.”
Le Vesconte tensed, “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Collins. I didn’t task him with that report just so he’d have something to do.”
“Are the ships in peril?” Le Vesconte asked.
“Terror’s bow has risen nine inches since last Mr. Blanky measured.” James said, turning to look out at Terror’s strange silhouette in the twilight. Even from here, he could tell their sister ship was beginning to list.
“Do they know why?”
“Francis says it’s a pressure ridge.” James mimed with a hand, tilting it up and off kilter, “Mr. Blanky calculates that if her starboard keeps rising at the same rate, we won’t be able to stand on her deck by Easter.”
Le Vesconte sighed, “When will they start moving Terrors over to Erebus?” He glanced up, “That is where this is going, correct?”
James paused, looking down, “After Irving’s next sermon. The men won’t question having both crews together if it’s done then. And Francis assures me we will only have to take on volunteers first.”
Le Vesconte scoffed, “Have you not been paying attention to the atmosphere aboard Terror during your many trips there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… we might not have enough room to provide for all of Terror’s volunteers.”
James frowned, “It is not so dreary over there, as of late.”
“It is dreary everywhere, James.” Le Vesconte said, “Because we are stuck. Because of the encroaching darkness. Because of that woman.”
James froze, “Silna is our guest, she is welcome here.”
“No, you and Captain Crozier have welcomed her.” Le Vesconte said, “The crew have not. The officers have not — none besides Mr. Goodsir, anyhow.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, we are better than this!” James snarled, standing up, “I will not have these ships descend into dangerous, hateful ignorance all because you think she’s—”
“I do not think anything of her, sir.” Le Vesconte said tightly, “I simply listen to and observe the men under our command. The safety of whom we are actually responsible for ensuring.”
“She is innocent in this, Henry.”
“Don’t.” Le Vesconte pointed at him, his voice low but sharp, “You do not get to call me that. In fact, as far as I’m aware, you have done nothing to deserve my friendship nor any place of command in the navy, much less that of a captain.”
“Well then you can do all the court martialing you like if we get back to England,” James snarled, “But you will have to mention the fact that it was I and Francis who carried you lot out of this godforsaken place.”
Le Vesconte rose slowly, light from the cabin’s lanterns casting dark shadows across his brow, “You say we may not have until next spring to wait this darkness out. Well I completely concur. But it will not be the ice coming in that you will have to worry about.”
James scoffed, “Is that a threat?”
“I have no intention of harming the Netsilik woman, but I cannot guarantee her safety beyond officer's quarters.”
“You most certainly can. You can tell every one of the men that they are not to touch a single hair on her head!”
“I cannot guarantee her safety.” Le Vesconte repeated through gritted teeth, “Not here, and not on Terror.”
James fumed, “Did you ever think perhaps that she’s the one keeping us all safe? Hmm? That her presence here is what keeps the bear away?”
“Do you believe that?” Le Vesconte asked, raising an eyebrow. When James did not give an answer, he stepped forward, voice low, “You should listen to your advisors more often, sir . We can hear what the men say, even if you cannot.”
Without waiting to be dismissed, he turned to leave the room. James heaved an exhausted sigh, “What is it that I am not hearing, Lieutenant?”
Le Vesconte glanced back at him, “They’ve been making it in the hold, sir. You’ll see.”
The walk to Terror was never an enjoyable one. Even in the best of weather, it took about 45 minutes to get across, and that number had kept climbing as the ice built up and the darkness bloomed, turning the space between them into a nightmarish maze. They’d long ago placed guide ropes weighted down by barrels to mark the way, but it gave James little comfort on this particular crossing. They’d been extraordinarily lucky these past months with no sighting of Tuunbaq, but James was always straining to hear every creak and shift of the ice for signs of something heavier.
He’d come to Francis bearing dreadful gifts the first time they had a proper meeting, and now he was bringing more. The cold forced him to keep his hands tucked within his pockets, and he hated every time his fingers brushed up against the foul trinkets.
“Captain coming aboard!” a voice above called, and it took James a second to recognise it belonged to Mr. Macbean, Terror’s Second Master. The deep well of guilt that had taken up residence in James’ chest peeked open once more, and he pasted on a smile as he tipped his head in greeting to the man.
You should know all of them by now. You might be the last person to ever see them.
The crew and officers of Terror were not surprised to see James by this point, especially near supper time. It was late enough in the year that the sun was already setting around 3 o’clock — James was beginning to think of it as his “only one hour left of walking” indicator — and so most of the crew were finishing up their own suppers by the time he stepped on deck.
Usually, James would not trouble the men by having them stand at his arrival, simply slipping down the ladderway and off into officer’s country before those dining in the mess could see him. Now, however, he stopped short, peering across the lingering men. As had been ordered, they did seem to be eating primarily food not from the cursed tins, and there were few complaints coming in to either ship’s sick bay.
But… was there a darkness lurking underneath? Did Terror have its own little surprise tucked away in some secluded corner?
“Oh, Captain Fitzjames, good to see you.” Jopson appeared from nowhere, slipping off James’ greatcoat with efficient ease. James was out of most of his winter gear before he could even turn to look at the man.
“No, please, I need something from my coat.” he said, reaching into one of the pockets. His face twisted into a grimace automatically, and he held out the little charms away from his body.
“Sir, what is…?” Jopson stopped himself abruptly, biting his lip. James could practically hear Jopson correcting himself in his head, remembering it was not a steward’s place to ask nosy questions.
Lucky for him, Jopson was probably one of the most reliable men onboard Terror whom he could question.
“Have you ever seen anything like these on Terror ?” he asked, holding up a talisman he’d found in a hidden alcove in the hold. It, along with several others, surrounded one of Silna’s tools: a type of knife she referred to as an ulu , but to James looked kind’ve like a pizza cutter. He had no idea who the first man might have been to steal the artefact and turn it into a shrine, but the trinkets and totems placed alongside it were definitely made by several different hands.
Jopson examined the charm dutifully, turning it around in his palm, before handing it back to James, “I cannot say that I have, sir. Shall I take you to Captain Crozier now?”
James sighed but nodded, following Jopson into the great cabin, and was surprised to see the place fairly well lit, with lanterns hung from various spots along the ceiling. Beneath them, Francis already sat at the table, and flashed James a small smile as he entered.
“James, please, sit.” Francis gestured to the seat on his right. It was almost nice having this new routine of sitting down for dinner with Francis… even if the topics of discussion were usually quite grim.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Francis asked, pointing to James’ hand.
James bit his lip, and shoved the charms into the pocket of his dress coat. “The matter can wait. I’d much rather talk about something pleasant for a change.”
Francis snorted, taking a sip from his glass, “If you can find the topic, I’ll happily entertain it… unless it’s one of your stories again.”
“Oh don’t worry, Francis, I won’t bore you by talking about myself.” James said, “Let’s talk about you for a change, hmm? How are things on Terror?”
“Well erm…” Francis coughed, “You said you wanted to speak of pleasant things?”
James sighed, letting his head drop back till his ears touched his shoulders. He stared up at the hanging lanterns. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised that Francis was a wet blanket on the best of days; he was a pessimist to his core, and probably proud of the fact.
“Were your previous voyages like this? Mr. Blanky tells me you have not always been so melancholic.” James whispered conspiratorially, “Maybe even cheerful , sometimes.”
“Well there was more to be cheerful about during past voyages.” Francis said.
“Oh, such as?”
“The company, for one.” Francis stopped pushing his fork around his plate, “I think you know perfectly well by now that I am not like most men. I do not enjoy listening to war stories, bandied about by men who must all lean back in their dinner chairs to make room for the paunch they’ve developed between those memories and now.”
“Is that where you’re keeping all of your stories?” James said, glancing down at Francis’ waistline. At Francis’ glare, he offered, “Perhaps a bit of paunch is just the byproduct of middle age.”
“Doesn’t seem to be on your list of upcoming conditions.” Francis replied sourly, stuffing a slice of salt pork into his mouth, “Surely Mr. Bridgens is still feeding you over there.”
“Of course he is.” James bristled, “I just… don’t feel so hungry any more.”
“That may change.” Francis said quietly, shaking his head, “Trust me on this, James, I have had to walk out more than once in my career, and the best advice I can give any man in preparation is to treat himself like a cow that’s going up for slaughter in the spring.”
“You mean fatten myself up?” James asked dryly.
Francis shrugged, “You will need muscle to pull the sledges, but it’s the fat that will keep you alive along the way. Skeletons, I have found, do not make for good haulers.”
James set down his spoon, letting it clatter against the wood, “About that, Francis… would it not be quicker to walk directly across King William’s Land? I mean, I understand travelling along the shore in case the ice melts, but… what if it doesn’t?”
“Now who is being the pessimist, hmm?” Francis grinned.
“I’m serious. I think…” James sighed. Might as well give it a shot. “I'm worried we’re not going to make it out. That we’ll take too long, and the food will run out, or the bear will pick us off along the way—”
“Tell me, James, I am curious,” Francis said, his voice oddly tight as he sawed through another chunk of his food, “Is it the dying that has you worried, or not making it back to England?”
James blinked, “Pardon?”
“Survival tends to wring out the true nature of a man; reveals what he’s most afraid of.” Francis said, “I’d like to know what yours is.”
James huffed, “Right, sure…”
“I’m waiting.”
James smirked, “I show you mine if you show me yours?”
Francis sputtered, hastily wiping his mouth with a napkin. It did take some needling, but if James could angle his words just right, he’d found he could get Francis’ face to turn strawberry red. A talent which he was having quite a lot of fun developing.
James hid his smile, leaning back in his chair, “Very well then… I would say dying. I have no wish to end up between Tuunbaq’s jaws. And I’ve heard starvation is both miserable and boring.”
Francis barked out a laugh, “Dying of boredom! I should have guessed that answer. How very like you to fear the one thing most men look forward to in their old age.”
“I think you might say the same thing.” James canted his head, flashing Francis a grin, “I found Ross’ account of your voyage south. Read it from cover to cover.”
Francis grunted, “Lucky him.”
“From what I’ve read, the Crozier in his retelling is quite different from the one Terror has been treated to these past three years.” James raised an eyebrow. “Contrary to how you’ve been acting, I actually think you like adventure. Thrive on it, even.”
“Well, as I said,” Francis sighed, “I had better company last time.”
The room lay silent for a moment, as Francis took a swig of his drink, and James studied his ever-perplexing face. Usually James was quite good at reading people’s expressions (sometimes before they recognised the emotion themselves), but Francis could be a tough nut to crack if he felt like it. If he had something to hide.
“If better company is what you’re missing, then how can I become that?” James asked.
Francis shook his head, “It is not about…”
“Isn’t it? You know, in all of these memoirs, I keep reading about the importance of the bond between a First and his Second. How an expedition’s fate rests on its captains’ ability to get along.”
Francis sighed, “Stop it.”
“‘A beautiful friendship’, for many. ‘Closer than brotherhood’, for some. Is that what you want, Francis?” James asked, leaning ever closer, “Is that what you go to the poles for?”
“It is not.” Francis bit out.
“Then perhaps it’s a nice bonus? Hmm? Someone to keep you warm on the coldest of nights?”
“Is there a reason you are interrogating me?” Francis scowled.
James suddenly leaned back, splaying his hands, “You said survival brings out the true nature of a man. I simply want to know what yours is.”
Francis rubbed his face, releasing an exhausted groan, before shoving his plate away and turning to fully face him.
“I have had a lot of time to think during this expedition. Too much time, perhaps.”
“Oh? And what’s haunting that mind of yours?”
Francis worked his jaw, glancing away, “I… I’ve been thinking a lot about Captain James Knight. Do you know of him?”
James paused, then shook his head, figuring that if Francis was asking, it was a safe bet the previous Fitzjames hadn’t met the man.
Francis continued, “He was an old explorer… back in 1719. And not just old in that sense, but also getting on in years, not unlike – if you’ll forgive the comparison – our Sir John. He wanted to captain a ship from Hudson Bay to find the Northwest Passage.” Francis smiled grimly, “His level of ambition would’ve put the Discovery Service to shame. The Passage was not enough for him. No, he had plans to find gold along the way. Bring a bit of the whaling industry up north, too.”
“Well, why settle for less?” James said, sipping at his wine.
Francis snorted, folding his hands over his stomach, “Then he and his crew were never seen again. All that was found of them was their abandoned ships and some signs of wintering on a nearby island.”
James frowned, “No graves? No… no signs of where they might have gone?”
Francis turned his gaze towards the dark windows, “Nothing. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air.”
James titled his head, examining the unreadable expression on Francis’ face, “And do you think that’s what’s going to happen to us?”
For a moment, Francis did not move. Then, suddenly, he turned, staring directly at James, “Captain Knight had forty years of experience working in that region. He knew the dangers, the risks… he knew what could happen out there in the great white nothing. And he went prepared. Even brought bricks and coal stoves, should he need to build shelter on land. He was experienced, he was cautious, and he set sail with every preparation that could be had in his era.”
James shuddered, “And he was never seen again.”
Francis nodded, tapping on the table with each syllable, “Never. Seen. Again.”
James slumped in his chair. Francis scratched his nose and sighed.
“I am not surprised you’ve never heard of him, James. Most have long forgotten about him, as is the way with failed expeditions.” Francis smiled sadly, “It’s not the thought of being forgotten about that scares me, though. I don’t venture to the poles for fame.”
“Well what do you venture here for, then?” James asked, “Why did you even come on this expedition?”
“I was… compelled.” Francis said, voice barely allowed past his lips.
“Compelled by what? By whom?”
“Miss Cracroft.” Francis said simply, though it looked like it hurt to say it.
Who? James wanted to ask, but this was not like Captain Knight, where James could feasibly feign ignorance. This was someone he was supposed to know.
Good as James was at maintaining a poker face, some of the confusion must have slipped through, as Francis’ grip tightened around his whiskey, “I can imagine the things Sir John told you about us… discussed whenever I was not around.”
“Francis, no, we didn’t…” James bit his lip. “Sir John did not speak much of her at all, beyond anything he would have felt comfortable saying in public.” He stared at Francis earnestly.
Francis squinted at him, rolling his jaw till it popped, “Very well, then. Did he ever feel comfortable telling you she rejected me a second time?”
Ah. James coughed, “No, no I did not know that.”
Francis' eyebrows raised, though his expression softened, “Of all Sir John’s many qualities, I confess I never thought one of them would be discretion.” He placed his palms on the table, “But, as you have proven yourself, virtues can be nurtured in even these inhospitable grounds.”
James rolled his eyes, “If he and I have managed, does that mean you’re just a late bloomer?”
Francis snorted. Usually, James would have expected him to chafe at the insult, but increasingly his responses had begun to change. There was something… hiding beneath the scowls, almost like pleasure. And against his better judgement, James wanted to pick at it.
“So this expedition, this… conquering of the Passage,” James poured himself another glass of wine, “It is all in the hope that Miss Cracroft will not reject you a third time?”
Francis’ smile slipped, “Perhaps. Though that still was not the reason I joined.”
“Well why, then?”
"'Keep Sir John safe, and ensure his judgement.’" Francis said, “Those were my orders. It's what she asked me to do.”
James frowned, “It is for her, then, that you go to the poles.”
Francis remained silent, examining the last drops lingering in his cup, “Originally.”
James squinted, “Then what changed?”
Francis looked up at him, and for a crystal-clear second, James could see the answer hiding in Francis’ eyes. Then the curtains were drawn again.
“Oh,” James tilted his head, “I was right.”
Francis stood up, “I don’t know what you’re—”
James sprang up, following Francis to the drinks tray, “I got it right, didn’t I? When I asked you how I could be better company.”
“It was not like that. Ross and I were only ever friends.” Francis said, pouring another drink.
“So you’ve never thought of a man that way? Closer than a brother? Closer than anything?”
“I am not interested in that kind of relationship.” Francis gritted his teeth.
“Then what is it you desire, Francis?” James asked, gesturing towards the windows, “What are you afraid of? That Tuunbaq might see and have us court martialed?”
Francis slammed the flask of whiskey down on its table, “You are a reckless and ignorant fool—”
“Then educate me.” James breathed, abruptly coming to stand over Francis, “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Francis stared up at him for a long minute, then licked his lips. He took a step back, tossed back what he’d poured into his cup in one swig, and then set the glass back down on its tray, “Jopson!”
The door to the great cabin slid open, and Jopson poked his head in, “Sir?”
James whipped his head between the two in confusion. Had he misread Francis after all?
“Jopson, please clean the table of dinner and see to it that Captain Fitzjames and I are not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” Jopson replied, as if having been asked to dust the bookshelves or sweep the floor. James barely had time to gape at the man before he found himself being led by Francis to the captain’s berth, its door sliding smoothly behind him and throwing them into darkness.
“Francis, what are you—?”
Fingers grabbed hold of his jaw and pulled him down, a pair of lips alighting on his own. He had imagined that a kiss from Francis would be a hesitant, dull thing, but as soon as James leaned into the kiss, Francis surged forward, wrapping his hand around James’ waist in a way that could only be read as possessive.
Francis growled, “You want to know how you can be better for me?”
“Yes.” James panted. So much for hiding your crush.
A leg wrapped around James and folded him at the knees, sending him falling backwards onto a soft surface, “Then lie back on that bed and shut up for once in your life.”
James cackled, “Sorry, I don’t think I can follow that last order.”
“I could have you on insubordination, you know.” Francis grunted.
James scoffed, “You could have me in a lot of ways if you stopped being a prick about it.”
Francis swatted him in the rump, and James grinned wider. He could just barely make out Francis’ blush in the dim light coming from the doorway. Suddenly, remembering Jopson was still outside, James stopped.
“Your man… can he be trusted?” James asked, able to hear Jopson picking up plates.
“Jopson wouldn’t tell where old King Arthur was buried if I forbade him from speaking.” Francis scowled.
“Oh so you know where that is, then?” James said, assisting Francis in hastily removing his dress coat, “Because I have quite a few colleagues who would sell their own arms for that information.”
Francis rolled his eyes, a gesture which James was almost certain Francis was picking up from him, and climbed on top of James. His fingers fumbled with some of the buttons on James’ trousers.
“Going straight for the bullseye, are you?”
“Hush.” Francis said.
“Well you could at least pretend that my dick is attached to a body.”
“My god, you truly don’t shut up.” Francis snarled, leaving James’ fly to instead ruck up his shirt, “How have you managed to stay in the navy this long while being such a chatterer?”
James shrugged, “My handsome looks? Good humour?” He was abruptly cut off by Francis meanly twisting one of his nipples, eliciting a gasp that was rather more erotic than James cared to admit.
“So this is what you like, hmm?” Francis murmured in his ear, “Getting yourself into trouble?”
“I’ve barely ever been out of trouble.” James said. Francis’ nipped at his collarbone, and he shivered.
“I am shocked to hear that, James.” Francis said flatly, leading his hands down James’ torso. When he reached his waist, James’ hips reflexively bucked, failing to hold still as Francis pressed bruising kisses along his chest.
“For someone who isn’t interested in this sort of thing,” James panted, “You certainly seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Francis smirked.
“I wanted to know… if this was just you experimenting.” James said, nearly choking when Francis suddenly slipped a hand down James’ trousers and grasped firmly around his cock.
“Does this feel like experimenting?” Francis grinned.
“Hnng, nope.” James breathed, giving in to a shudder of delight that rippled up his body. Francis rubbed delicious strokes along his cock, and with his free hand, Francis again returned to James’ chest, rolling a nipple with the rough pad of his thumb.
“I could ask the same of you.” Francis whispered.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” James let his eyes flutter shut.
“Miss Silna,” Francis grunted, “I thought for certain you and Goodsir would have to fight for her hand.”
“What?” James asked, slowly catching up to what Francis had said. When the words crystalised in his brain, James shot up, yanking Francis’ hand away, “Why on earth for?”
“Your regard for her.” Francis said, as if stating the obvious, “The way you treat her kinder than you treat anyone else.”
James huffed, brushing errant hair out of his face, “I am kind to her because few others are."
"Yes, but—"
"She doesn’t even speak much about her tribe, have you noticed that?”
Francis blinked, “She is a private person...”
“Silna will talk freely about animals and plants and body parts that turn Goodsir’s face the colour of a tomato, but she doesn’t talk about her own people. She never seems eager to reunite with them. Did you never wonder why?”
Francis sighed, “I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”
“Because she’s afraid to. She doesn’t fit in, to some extent, and we killed the only family she did feel comfortable around, so now she has nothing. She has no friends to return to. Her entire life up to this point has been training to be a shaman, and for the first time in her life she’s experiencing a chance to just be herself.” James said, “Is that not enough reason to treat her kindly?”
Francis stared at him, lips parted for a few moments before speaking, “I forget sometimes. That you can read people so well. Is that how you looked at me, and saw what I wanted?”
“I saw it, yes.” James frowned, “But I don’t think I can be content with just that.”
“I told you, I am not interested in relationships.” Francis muttered.
“I know.” James said. He neatly buttoned his trousers back up, tucking his shirt in as he spoke, “I thought I was the same. But a lot has changed since I came here, Francis. I’m realising now that being a body warmer is not as much fun as it used to be.”
“I do not think of you as a—” Francis protested.
“Oh, don’t you?” James stood up, smoothing out his shirt, “Besides, if you think I am the type of person who only doles out kindness in exchange for favours, then you have grossly misjudged my character.”
He turned towards the door, hearing Francis stand from the bed suddenly, “Oh, I never thought that, James. After all, you’ve hardly ever been nice to me.”
James stopped at the door, his fingers curling around its solid frame, “Good night, Francis.”
“Don’t forget your coat.” Francis said, scooping it up from the floor and tossing it at him.
James caught it deftly, remembering its contents, “Oh, and you might want to check your ship for superstitions.”
Francis scoffed, “My ship is full of sailors, and sailors are always superstitious.”
“Maybe. But ours have been getting into arts and crafts.” James said. He placed the handful of Erebus’ charms and tokens on Francis’ desk, and left the way he came.