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"What are you doing, precious little thing?" Harry drops to his knees and elbows, straight onto the snow. The little Arctic hare before him just stares, bemused, its nose twitching slightly. Harry curls up, makes himself as small as possible, he needs the hare to trust him, to see him as a friend, not a predator.
Somewhere to his right, atop a nearby snowy hill the men are working, calling to each other but that doesn't seem to bother the hare. It just stares at Harry like he's a very peculiar sort of rabbit, one uncharacteristically large and hairless. Then ever so slowly it hops up to him, sniffs his gloved hand.
"Mr Goodsir! What on earth are you doing?! You will catch a chill!" God, can Doctor Stanley project his voice! He's not even raised it that much and still it sounds like he's right by Harry's side, speaking directly in his ear, and not standing at the top of the hill.
The hare turns its head towards the sound and Harry seizes his chance. Swiftly, he grabs hold of the creature by the scruff of its neck, glances quickly between its hind legs (female, bless her) and lifts it up to show his superior.
"I cannot see from here!" Stanley's exasperated eyeroll is damn near audible.
"Why don't you come down then?" Harry shouts back, tucking the now trembling and kicking hare into the crook of his elbow. Stanley doesn't say anything but he does start advancing carefully down the hill, a slender column of navy against the white snow.
Then the most remarkable thing happens. Doctor Stephen Stanley, always graceful, always able to stay firmly on his feet amidst even the roughest of sea storms, loses his balance. And it happens so suddenly! One minute he's slowly making his way downhill, the next his arms are wildly outstretched, flailing, his legs give way. He falls backwards, still surprisingly graceful, and travels the rest of the slope flat on his back, coming to a rather convenient halt at Harry's feet.
And Harry can't help himself. He snorts.
"I'm glad you're amused," Doctor Stanley grits out as he sits up.
"A hand, sir?" Harry releases the hare, extends his arm. Grudgingly, Stanley takes it, uses it to hoist himself upright, the pull of him upsetting Harry's balance just a little, dragging him forward by a fraction of an inch. They freeze, still hand in hand, incredibly close.
It's not the first time they've been this close to each other; there isn't much space on the ship, physical proximity is unavoidable. But there's something different about this closeness and Harry can't quite place it but if he were to explain it he would use words such as "voluntary", "kind" and "warm".
"I think I got snow down my collar," Stanley allows himself to experience the minutest of shudders and Harry is instantly enchanted by that simple act of vulnerability.
"Turn around."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Turn around. Let me help."
Stanley complies, with a sigh. His entire back is coated in a thin, sticky layer of snow; Harry dusts him down, gentle but brisk. He lets his hand slip, quick and timid, under the collar of the other man's greatcoat and shirt, in search of stray melting snow. His gloved fingertips catch at the ginger hair at the nape of Stanley's neck, where it curls delightfully. He'd never noticed that before but then, in all honesty, he'd never had any reason to be staring at the back of his superior's neck.
(He has absolutely been staring at the back of his superior's neck, more than he cares to admit. Doctor Stanley is very finely built, very beautiful, the way Greek statues and candles in Papist churches are beautiful, and Harry can't help but look, discreetly, and imagine, in the confines of his cabin...)
"Mr Goodsir, what are you doing?" Stanley turns around abruptly and in doing so dislodges Harry's hand, sends it sliding along the line of his neck, onto where presumably his clavicle is hidden beneath layers of uniform, coat, underclothes.
He does not have a good answer to that, worse still, he does not have any answer.
Stanley draws closer, fills up Harry's line of sight with himself, slips a gloved finger under his chin, tips it upwards.
"What...?" Harry starts but is silenced with a large leather-clad thumb pressed to his lips.
"I am not a fool and I am not blind."
"I'm not sure I understand..."
"Come now, Mr Goodsir, we are grown men! It may reassure you to know that your attention is... not unwelcome."
Silence falls. The men, Harry realises, must have finished for the day and headed back to the ships. He's frozen, anchored to the spot by the piercing gaze of Doctor Stanley's blue eyes, by the long fingers framing his chin. He should say something at this point but what could he possibly say to the most beautiful man in the Empire?
"Your bone structure is striking."
"Good heavens, Mr Goodsir!" Doctor Stanley laughs. The soft throaty rumble of that laugh vibrates through his arm into Harry, makes his body tingle and his heart flutter with anticipation.
"I wish you would call me Harry."
"Then it is only fair that you call me Stephen."
"That does indeed seem fair."
Doctor Stanley- Stephen purrs approvingly and leans in, presses his forehead to Harry's. God, is he cold to the touch! They're all cold, always cold and it's been so long since Harry has last been touched with even a modicum of tenderness...
"What are you doing?" He whispers shakily. The only answer he gets is dry lips pressing against his with the force and heat of an advancing army; he yields immediately to that fiery incursion, unable and unwilling to resist.
"Come to my cabin after supper," Stephen whispers back, just a tiny bit breathless. Before Harry can say anything he turns and heads off for the ships.