Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house sits threadbare and slanted in a valley of sedge not two minutes’ worth of walking from the sea and her gulls, who wheel overhead and cry incessantly. The whitewashed clapboard siding seems to be caught in the slow process of disintegrating; as Edward looks on from the crest of the hill he finds himself distantly surprised that he cannot see the flakes of paint swirling in the wind even as he stands there, trying to make himself move.  

He had, maybe unwisely, purchased the house (a shack, really, if he’s to be honest) before laying eyes on it. The man from the pub who had sold it to him was a smooth talker but not dishonest, had said, she’s a tired old thing but standing still, and you’ll scarcely feel wind unless you’ve the windows open. He had a wooden tooth and a terribly Scottish accent, and Edward had given him the money that very night.  

Now he looks down on the leaning old thing, at the scrubby grass beating away a pattern against the shore, at the gulls screaming at one another in the overcast sky, and wonders if he hasn’t made a mistake.  

One foot in front of the other, down into the valley, run one scarred and ugly hand over the roughened boards of his new home until splinters stick into the webs of his fingers, ease open the sagging door. Step inside, smell must and old rain.  

Edward has maybe two weeks' worth of groceries with him, all things that won’t spoil: cheese, bannocks pressed upon him by the proprietor of the pub in which he had been staying until now, sausages wrapped in cloth that he hadn’t known how to say no to.  

He sets down his luggage and other bounties on the pitiful table (it rocks, must be one leg is shorter than the others) and hides the sausage away in the darkest recess of the pantry. The rest of the food he sequesters in more accessible places, and then rights a chair that has fallen over in the time between the shacks’ infrequent visitors.  

A quick inventory of the place leaves the suggestion of a particularly sour hermit once having taken up residence; there’s the main room with a woodstove and kitchen table that opens right up into the sad little living area, with its’ two mismatched armchairs and sooty fireplace, and then there’s the single bedroom with its’ moldy bed and mildewed chest of drawers.  

A dingy mirror set upon the top gives Edward such a fright that he starts and his heart skips a beat; he forgets, now, what a sight he must make. It’s no great chore to cross the tiny room and turn the glass over, and is in fact an instigator of great relief.  

Outdoors the gulls are screaming, but Edward has inquiries to make. A circle paced around the shack reveals a well to be a considerable distance away, but pure in quality. There’s a sandy trail down to the seaside; he can hear the sawing of the waves from here.  

Back inside now he unpacks his meager possessions into the set of drawers, wipes down the table, has a bit of cheese and a bannock, drinks some water he hauled (with no small effort) from the well, and then resolves to visit the sea.  

It really is a short walk, would maybe be a pleasant one if he didn’t ache so constantly. It’s growing dark as he toes off his shoes and peels off his socks in the sand, doesn’t look at his hideous feet as he steps into the surf, just wades forward until the hems of his pants are soaked and sits heavily, right there in the water.  

The letters will stop, now. Lieutenant Little has no address here.  

The sea tugs at his shirtsleeves insistently, like a petulant toddler. Lord, how he missed the sea. It was about the only thing he would permit himself to miss, most days.  

Edward considers drowning himself, but he’s not sure that the water would even take him.  

The anniversary of their return passes much as the rest of Edwards’ days do. He rises at the time that he does, goes and makes tea on the rickety little stove, drinks it plain. He’s been trying to find the will to make some basic repairs to the shack, but inevitably his weak body and weaker mind beg him for rest.  

Edward lies back down around noon and dozes until the evening, where he eats a cold supper of whatever he hauled back from town at the beginning of the month and brings in the water for tomorrow. This is usually such a monumental task that he needs to sit on the sagging stoop for a good while before moving again, finding the strength to do a perfunctory wash with a ragged cloth by the basin and change for bed, to consider reading but inevitably agonize over the decision long enough that he falls asleep sitting up, coverlet pulled halfway over his lap and eyelids drooping.  

On the anniversary of their return, though, there is a knock at the door.  

Edward’s been banking the fire in the hearth, face scrunched from the unpleasant heat, and the noise startles him so that he almost tips head-first into the embers. He drops the poker with a dull thump and creeps up to the rickety door, peeks through one of the numerous cracks in the weathered wood.  

Oh, God.  

The man outside knocks again, firmly.  

“I can see the smoke in the chimney, Lieutenant. No use in pretending you’re not here.”  

Edward passes one sooty hand over his face, forgetting even as he’s doing it that there are surely lines of ash now drawn over his horrible cheeks, his nose. The door protests violently as it’s swung open, and he backs away quickly like the man might begin beating him immediately.  

Sergeant Tozer stands, unimpressed, in his doorway.  

“You’re a difficult man to track down, Lieutenant.”  

Edward stares at him, unable to reconcile the man standing before him with the one who takes up space in his head. His skin is ruddy and smooth, no longer chafed by wind and cold. He’s stocky again, sturdy and not frail. His clothes fit him.  

“I’m not a Lieutenant anymore, Sergeant.” Edwards’ voice sounds terrible, rusty and creaking. Tozer smiles, and a dimple sunk into his thick beard makes itself known. “And I’m no Sergeant, so where would that leave us?”  

He invites himself inside, takes stock of the place.  

“Lord, it looks like no one's lived here for a hundred years! You just arriving, then?” He sounds unconvinced.  

Edward clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’ve been here for about three months.” Tozers’ mouth flattens into a slant line and his eyebrows shoot up. “Are you ill? Don’t you have anyone here to help you?”  

Edward finds himself growing irritable at this line of questioning. His head, as it tends to do in the evenings, has taken up a steady and pulsing ache between his eyes. He is tired.  

“Why, exactly, are you here?” He can’t understand it; why Tozer of all people would come knocking; why he had tracked him down, why he’s dusting off one of Edwards’ sad little chairs and taking a seat as if he owns the place. This, the man who had stumbled to camp with Captain Crozier, Lady Silence dragging a half-dead Jopson on a sledge between them, who had pulled the piece of Le Vesconte from Edwards’ grimy fingers and pressed a sliver of seal into them instead, who had tugged on one of the chains pulling down Edwards’ cheeks and asked, casually, “What for, Lieutenant?”  

The Tozer of now shrugs magnanimously, says, “I asked Captain where you were. Been all over Queen and country finding the rest of our sorry lot, and you’re the last name on my list.” At Edwards’ blank look, he elaborates. “I’m making my amends. Figured I wronged you worse than most anybody else, so I’d save the most of my time for you.”  

Lay down those arms, Edward had said, ten thousand years ago. Tozer had called him by his Christian name, and he had a lump the size of a Goldner tin for weeks afterward. He had healed so slowly, then. Still does.  

“How did the Captain know where I was?” The last time that Edward had seen the Captain was the court martial, when both of their dress uniforms hung off of them like navy sacks and the weight of Edwards’ epaulets had threatened to topple him over. Captain Crozier had clapped him on the shoulder when it was over and done, had said, please take care of yourself. The scars on Edwards cheeks were still red and angry, and he felt swollen all the time, then.  

Tozer’s eyes flatten in an excess of concern, like this confirms a burgeoning suspicion. “You wrote to him, remember?” He reaches into a nondescript bag that he must have had on him this entire time, pulls out a piece of paper. Edward takes it when it’s held out, gingerly.  

Captain Crozier,  

Responding to your many letters asking after my health, writing to answer and I am fine. Thank you for the concern and inquiries, well wishes to yourself and Jopson, as I understand he had accompanied you to Ireland. Apologies if this is not accurate.  

Also to inform you that I will no longer be writeable at this address—taking myself to Scotland for the sea and air. Somewhere North, likely. Upon my return I shall write and let you know if it had any effect.  

Be well,

E. Little

The missive takes up not even half of the page. Edward hardly remembers writing it; he had not been well, when he was in England. He is still not well, but at least he isn’t inflicting it on anyone else. Until now.  

“You found this,” here Edward motions at the diminutive totality of the shack, the grubby two-room expanse of his life, “from this?” He holds up the letter. Tozer does that infuriating shrug once more. “You’re not the only one settled in Scotland; I’ve been here a while. Dropped in on Lieutenant Irving, he’s doing fine, and asked after northern towns by the sea. Stopped in pubs, listened for talk about a Navy man with, uh.” He motions vaguely towards his own face, but Edward flushes immediately.  

The scars have faded, minutely, but skin still sags under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. There are dark holes where chains used to be run through, and when he rubs his fingers over the scars (not often, and only in the dark) there are hard bits of skin that hurt when he presses them.  

Tozer, indifferent to his melancholy, says, “And I found a very kind man down in town who told me he had sold a house to just such a Lieutenant, and would I mind checking in on him because they see him just once a month when he comes in for flour and the like and he always looks on the verge of collapsing.”  

Edward squirms in his shirtsleeves, made aware of how pitiful his life must seem to an onlooker. Tozer smiles, but it isn’t in jest. “So I’m come to check in on you. How are you--” here he falters, unsure as to what Edward should be addressed with, if not Lieutenant. Without his minds’ permission Edwards’ voice says, low, “You can call me what you called me before.”  

The dimple in Tozers’ cheek deepens. “Then how are you, Edward?” His accent swallows the end of Edwards’ name in a softened mouth. It sounds good in his voice, something solid, something real; makes Edward feel substantial, not like to blow away.  

Edward swallows, hard. How is he? He eats, mostly. Sleeps too much. Sits by the sea and waits for the susurrus of waves to carry him away, hears the gulls wail and feels a deep gnawing ache in his chest, passes the overturned mirror and resists the urge to just keel over. He cannot possibly answer the question. He cannot answer any questions, ever again. He turns away from the table and tries to quell the shaking of his shoulders.  

Tozer stands from his chair with a scraping sound and crosses to Edward, puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes with strong fingers.  

“Might I stay? Only to help you with the house.” Edward’s roughened and ugly hand finds Tozers’ own and lays there. Tozer is warm. Edward draws in a deep breath, and says, “Yes. You might.” He almost tacks on a ‘Sergeant’ at the end, before remembering that Tozer is no Marine any longer.  

Tozer takes mercy on him, tells him, “If you’re Edward, I suppose I could be Solomon. Sol, if we’re feeling friendly.”  

Solomon. He’d known the mans’ name, in the same way that he knew he had a nose and hair and took up space in the world around him, but it was another to hear it from the bearers’ own lips.  

 Edward breathes, “Like the king.”  

Sols’ smile is in his voice when he says, “Might be. Object to having royalty under your roof? Leaking and all.” Edward shakes his head.  

Solomon, pleased on his shoulder, “Well then, Edward. I suppose that’s just what we’ll do.”  

“Yes,” says Edward. “I suppose we shall.”  

Solomon begins with the table.  

“How you can stand to eat on this blasted thing confounds me, Edward.” He sounds concerned.  

Edward doesn’t tell him that he eats one small meal a day, sitting hunched and still over dry biscuit or hard cheese until he manages to choke it down, and the tables’ rocking doesn’t bother him in the slightest.  

Since Sol’s been here he’s making an attempt at at least looking like he’s eating multiple times a day, more out of shame than hunger, but he knows that he’s a terrible actor.  

The table is steadied, the leaks in the roof patched as best as they can be in the weather, and eventually the entire house is being scrubbed with vinegar while Edward stands by, wringing his hands. Solomon rolls up his sleeves and gets down into it with cheer, chattering all the while, “It’s a trick my mam showed me--the acid eats away at the dirt.” He smiles up at Edward from where he’s attacking the baseboards with a rag.  

“Don’t suppose a posh boy like you ever had to do any of your own cleaning, though. Not a problem, I’m happy to do it. Would you fetch some hot water? I sleep on this floor, mind, want to make sure it’s not going to choke me with dust in the night.” Edward flushes at the mention of the floor, which he’s not been able, in the week that Solomon has been with him, to assuage his guilt over.  

He’s grateful to have something to do, though, so he clomps along to the basin. A thin, cold layer swirls in the bottom, not enough to shave and certainly not to scrub. Edward calls out, “Heading to the well,” grabs the bucket, and shoves out the door.  

There are gathering clouds in the horizon, promising a summer storm. The wind tugs at Edwards’ hair as he treks out to the well, lets the bucket down, hauls it back up. His vision sparkles and fizzes at the corners and he has to grab at the sturdy side of the well before he can heft up the bucket into his arms.  

The beating of his heart is erratic and threatens to cease at any moment--or at least that’s how it feels. Edward takes two steps down the hill and his head begins to swim so badly that he finds he must set down both the bucket and himself on the grass lest he be blown over. He sits there for maybe five minutes, long enough to feel the first drops of rain on his shoulders, head in his hands and breathing sounding harsh and foreign to his own ears.  

Solomon finds Edward slumped over next to the well, upturned knees speckled with dark rain, and says nothing but, “C’mon, now, let’s get you inside, yeah?” He takes up the bucket with one strong hand and takes up Edward with the other, sheparding the both of them inside the shack.  

Sol sets down the bucket by the basin and sets Edward into the squashiest of the two armchairs, deposits a blanket in his lap, pours some of the hard-earned water into the kettle and sets it over the range. When the water screams a boil he presses a cup of strong tea into Edwards’ hands and kneels down in front of him, hands large on Edwards’ bony knees.  

“Now, what was that?” Solomons’ voice is gentle for all his words are questioning. Edwards’ mouth ruckles and he takes a sip of the tea. It’s sugared.  

“I was just a bit dizzy, is all. I’m sorry.” This clearly isn’t the answer that Solomon was looking for, because he ducks his head to hide a grimace that can’t be hidden behind the motion or his beard.  

“Does that happen often? Do you feel well?” His voice is rough. Edward wants to melt into the chair. He wants to boil over and evaporate like the water in the kettle. He says, “I’m not as strong as I was. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you an inconvenience.” He regrets the words immediately; they’re not what he meant and he hates them.  

Solomon’s hands are still on his knees, and he’s still looking up at Edward. “It’s been a year since we returned, and you hardly seem recovered at all. You’re not eating, you sleep half the day--” Edward’s hands clench hard around the cup of tea and he hisses out a breath when his fingers begin to burn. Solomon takes it gently from him (like he had on the shale, the piece of Le Vescontes’ thigh rubbery in his fingers) and sets it down on the scrubbed floor.  

“It’s no admonishment, Edward. I’m worried about you.” Edward’s cheeks heat.  

“I’m well. I’m just recovering, is all. I’ll be well, I will--”  

Solomon’s thumbs rub over the bony protrusions of Edwards’ kneecaps, silencing him. He is very gentle, accent almost devouring his words whole in his mouth, when he says, “You should be recovered already, Edward. Look at me. Do I look like I need any more convalescence?”  

It’s true; Solomon has recovered totally and heartily, broad shoulders filled out once more and face glowing with a hale air. Edward shakes his head minutely. Solomon sighs, reaches up to grip Edwards’ shoulder. It’s absurd how much comfort his touch brings; they were never friends, more adversaries, even, and the man has been sleeping on Edwards’ floor for a week.  

“Where does it hurt, Edward?”  

God, everywhere.  

“I’m tired all of the time,” Edward whispers, “and my head is conspiring to kill me, and I can’t even bring in water--” he has to bury his face in his hands again. It aches, like it had when the chains were riven through it.  

Solomon says, in that matter-of-fact way of his, “You need to eat more, and eat well. I’ve seen your pantry, Edward, no wonder you’re exhausted. I’ve hardly an idea as to how you’re standing. Fresh things, no more of that blasted cheese and whatnot.”  

Edward grabs onto his sleeve like a child, pleads, “No meat.”  

Solomon draws in a breath, squeezes Edwards dry hand. “No,” he agrees, and sounds relieved. “No meat.”  

Edward lets himself be taken to bed, tucked in like a schoolboy. Solomon turns down the lamp. The rain is out in full now, beating against the shoddy roof and rattling the grimy windowpanes in their shells. Before Solomon leaves, probably to take up scrubbing again, Edward whispers, “I’m sorry, Sergeant.”  

Too late, he realizes his mistake. Solomon doesn’t seem upset, though. His back is silhouetted through the doorway when he says, “No, Lieutenant. It ought to be me that’s sorry, yeah?”  

He leaves, shutting the rickety door behind him. Edward turns over, mashes his ruined face into the musty pillow, breathes out and then in.  

A big losing hand.  

On the first sunny and dry day they have, three days after Edwards episode by the well, Solomon announces that he’s going to town. For groceries, he says. He’s been making Edward eat three times a day, but it’s the same dried stuff as before, and it hardly makes him feel any better.  

He seems nervous to leave Edward alone, does three rounds of the cottage before deciding to finally leave. Edward assures him, says he’ll be fine. It’s a two hour walk to town, and then two hours back. Not enough time to do lasting damage.  

Once Solomon has finally left, Edward takes around two of those hours to work up his courage, and finally resolves to do something with his time alone. He puts on his most threadbare set of trousers, his most worn-out shirt, and takes himself out to the sea. The water is so bright in the rare sun that it hurts his eyes, but it’s a good ache.  

He’s up to his shins in the surf, ice-cold and bracing, before he decides that he needs to get in entirely. He strips his shirt but not his pants, wades in with his arms over his head until the rolling waves threaten to bowl him over, and sinks under with his eyes closed tightly.  

It’s freezing; one sunny day hasn’t been enough to warm the water, but it feels real--right, somehow. Edward bobs down and then up again, letting his hair plaster itself to his forehead. He kicks up onto his back and floats until the water stops chilling him and instead rests under his neck like a warm cushion, the sun warming his chest and face. It feels good.  

He loses time, floating like that. It’s almost like sleeping.  

There’s shouting from the shore. Edward flounders upward, head poking above the water and legs beating in a furious tread. It’s exhausting, but it feels good to be working his body. Solomon stands as a solitary figure on the beach, his body the picture of distress. When Edward rights himself, Sol’s hands fly to his head and an exclamation of, “Oh, thank Jesus,” reaches Edward from across the water.  

Sol frantically waves him in, so Edward begins gamely paddling towards the shore. Solomon meets him when the water is at his knees, but instead of helping him up into the dry sand his broad hand finds Edwards shoulder and shoves, hard. Edward comes up from where he’s fallen, spluttering indignantly.  

Solomon’s face, he sees, is red with upset. “Lord, Edward,” he rants, “I come back and you’re nowhere to be found and I run out and I think you’ve gone and drowned yourself, sweet Jesus--”  

Edward sits with waves lapping around his waist, dumbfounded. Solomon rakes both of his hands through his hair, damp with sweat from his long walk hauling whatever he’s brought back from town, his trousers wet up to the knee with saltwater. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for— did I hurt you at all? I didn’t mean to, Christ, you scared me, I’m sorry.”  

This time the hand extended is, in fact, a helping one. Edward accepts it, lets Sol steady him. He breathes out, “I wasn’t trying to scare you.” Solomon chokes on what might be a laugh. “No, I suppose you weren’t. Was the water alright, then? Seems bloody cold where I’m standing.”  

Edward’s pants, where they’re not still submerged, stick to his skin in a mélange of salt and dampness, and he finds that yes, he’s rather cold. Solomons’ warm hand peels back the hair crusting to Edwards’ forehead and his eyes squint in the sun. “You’re burned almost to a crisp, though.”  

As a matter of fact, Edwards’ skin does feel tight and uncomfortable where it’s stretched across his face, his chest, the parts of him exposed to the sun while he floated. He scrunches up his nose as an experiment and winces at the feeling. Solomon’s hand removes itself from his forehead when he says, “Let’s get out of the sun, yeah?”  

Edward allows himself to be led back into the shack, and sees the bounty Sol had dragged back from his trip. How he managed to carry all of it this far is a marvel; or, rather, would be a marvel if Edward hadn’t borne witness to the muscles in his arms, his back.  

There’s more cheese and flour, eggs, what looks to be a bag of apples or something else spherical, potatoes, and other goods. There’s also, Edward notes, a fine bottle of malt whisky. Solomon catches his questioning glance and shrugs. “For a special occasion,” he says.  

He sits Edward down at the table and goes about securing the food, humming tunelessly under his breath. Edward sits still, really feeling the sun on his face now. Solomon notices, takes pity on him. He goes out to get water, comes back and pours some into a wide bowl, hands Edward the water and a rag. When Edward just stares at it, uncomprehending, Solomon rolls his eyes and dunks the cloth into the bowl, applies it to Edwards’ shoulders.  

There’s relief, yes, but there’s also the feeling of Solomons’ steady hands squeezing water over Edwards’ chest, beads of moisture trickling over the sad excuse for a body Edward calls home, the closeness of Solomons’ breath, the satisfied curl of his mouth.  

Edward reaches up before he dies and takes the rag, sets the entire thing over his face like a mummy’s mask, and groans in relief. Solomon’s steps pause, briefly, before they resume their busy schedule around the kitchen.  

“You should go lay down, Edward. That’ll only start to feel worse before it gets better.” Edward peels the cloth off of his face and complains, “I’ve had a sunburn before, Sol.” It’s the first time that he’s called Sol Sol anywhere other than his head. The pleased set to the mans’ face shows that this doesn’t escape him either, though he mercifully says nothing about it.  

“Where would a fancy man like yourself get good and burnt from a hard days’ work, huh?” Edward smiles, and then winces at the pulling sensation on his cheeks. Worse before better, indeed.  

“Horseback riding, mostly.” Solomon scoffs, so Edward quickly continues, “and I’ve been on ships since I was young. You don’t spend as long as I have on deck without a burn every now and then.” Solomon shrugs, as if to concede.  

“Fine, then. But you should still go in and lay down for a spell. I’ll make supper, something with the milk before it goes off.” Lord, he brought milk, too? How strong are his arms? Edward quells this line of questioning quickly.  

He stands, wincing at the pull on his shoulders, and makes for the bedroom. He tries to force himself to step over the threshold, but can’t, instead he hovers with his back turned to the rest of the shack until he hears Sol make a distracted, questioning noise.  

Edwards’ voice is hoarse when he asks, “How long are you going to stay?”  

The noise of Solomon puttering around the kitchen stops, abruptly. Edward gets the sense that Sol’s controlling his tone heavily when the response comes, tight from his throat.  

“Do you want me to leave?”  

Edward shakes his head sharply, trusting that Solomons’ eyes will be on him even if he can’t see as much. Sol breathes out in one sharp burst, like he had been truly afraid of the answer, says with relief wet in his throat, “Then I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.” Edwards’ fingers tighten on the doorframe.  

“I’ll not keep you here for my sake. I can’t-- I can’t make myself understand this. You never liked me, not on the ships, not on the shale, I don’t--”  

“No, I didn’t.”  

Sols’ voice is suddenly hard and forceful, halting Edward’s own in his tracks.  

“I didn’t like you, no. And I suppose I felt a bit sorry for you, yeah, with you always looking like some sort of stumbling fawn after the Captain, like it was your first time walking and he was making you run all over the bloody place, but I never liked you, not really. And when the fucking bear choked on Hickey’s soul or whatever was in there and I had to reach into Tommy’s--” here that strong voice breaks, momentarily, is regained with a swallow.  

“--and I got the keys, and I freed me and the Captain, and Silence took us to the sick camp and then to you, and I saw what was left of you, of all of you, and took away that meat, I didn’t like you. I didn’t think about you at all, to be honest. I’m sorry. And when I knocked on this door I only wanted to say that I was sorry, but then you opened it looking worse than you had in that place, and I’ve never been able to put a suffering dog down so I damn well came inside, didn’t I?”  

There is a haze of silence. Edward can feel his pulse in his fingertips, in the sunburn across his shoulders, in his chest like a bird laying down to die.  

Movement, behind him; Solomon’s feet on the wooden floor. Edward turns his head to the side just far enough to see the blurred outline of Sols’ form in his periphery, but says nothing more, except for a quiet, “And now?”  

Solomons’ fingertips graze Edwards’ bare and burned shoulder.  

“I’m staying until you run me out.”  

It’s a month and a half into Solomons’ stay that Edward puts his foot down.  

“But the floor is fine for me, Ned.”  

Edward doesn’t know when Ned started happening, but it makes something glow deep inside of him. To be known well enough to be nicknamed, like school friends at play. Ned. It’s a dirty trick, but Edward isn’t swayed.  

“Then we can take turns with the bed. I assure you, my sleep is worse when I’m guilty and under the covers than it is assured and on the floor.”  

Sol is making bread, sleeves rolled up around his elbows and forearms dusted in flour. He looks up from where he’s kneading and flops his hair out of his eyes. Ned, sitting at the table, meets his eyes defiantly.  

“It’s not as if I haven’t slept in worse places, Sol.” This might have been the wrong thing to say, because Solomon grunts and attacks the dough at his mercy like it’s Stephen Goldner himself. He mutters, under his breath, “Chivalrous bloody Navy so-and-so--” while Edward scratches a nail along the tables’ surface.  

Finally, the low profanity tapers off until it’s just the two of them again, late evening light painting the edges of the room gold and turning Sol’s hair to brass. Edward clears his throat when it feels like a safe amount of time has passed, says, “I think the dough is fine now.”  

There’s a brief interlude where the dough is covered to proof overnight and Edward gets up to help clear the dishes, the two of them working in practiced tandem in the minute space, saying little. Edward goes over to the hearth to bank the fire; it’s getting colder at night as the grass gets brittle and brown in the earth. Autumn is on its’ way.  

Solomon waits until he’s done, and then says, “I’m going to sleep on the floor, Ned. You can sleep wherever you want, but I’m sleeping here.” He shakes out the blankets that make his little nest in the corner of the main room, and makes himself comfortable in a way that suggests he’s aware that he has an audience. Edward turns down the lamps, trying to figure out if he’s angry or not, before deciding that he is, maybe a little little bit.  

He storms off to the bedroom, not listening to Sols’ triumphant huff of breath, grabs the coverlet off of the the bed and marches back out to where Solomon is reclining in his victory. He places it down on the boards with little fanfare, and then flops himself down atop it. Solomon groans, “Come on, now,” but Edward has made up his mind, says, “Goodnight, Solomon,” and turns over.  

It’s terribly uncomfortable--not just because of the hard floor, but because Edwards’ slapdash bedmaking hasn’t been quite effective at cushioning his brittle body, and his bones scrape against the wood. After a painful silence, Solomon sighs and shoves at him. “Come on, budge over.”  

He waits for Edward to roll off of the blanket, and in the dim moonlight coming through the window Edward watches him take some of his own blankets and spread them over Edwards’ pitiful one, shift his pillow over so he’s half off of it and Edward can be half on it. He pats the nest invitingly and waits for Edward to shift over. It’s much better, this way, and the sigh that comes from him must confirm as much to Sol, because Edward can see the curve of his smile when he rolls over and turns his back.  

Neither of them are asleep come ten minutes later, and Edward finds that he can’t stand to listen in silence to Solomons’ breathing without doing something drastic.  

“Solomon?” Edwards’ voice sounds plaintive and pathetic, and he cringes.  

There’s a shuffling from beside him, and then an answer, “Yeah?”  

“Why aren’t you a Sergeant anymore?”  

A tremor, tiny and violent, wracks Solomons’ body, but he takes a steadying breath and his voice is that of a man trying to tamp down his emotion when he replies, “Dishonorable discharge. Captain tried to vouch for me, but he’s no Marine and we’re a cagey bunch. They’re a cagey bunch, I suppose.”  

This statement hangs for a minute before Sol follows up with his own inquiry.  

“And why aren’t you a Lieutenant anymore?”  

Ned chokes on the hurt that the question dredges up within him, which comes as somewhat of a surprise. “I was supposed to be a Commander, actually, when we returned. They promoted me while we were gone. Tried to give me a new commission, to chart the Passage. My sister found me with a bottle of arsenic in one hand and my resignation in the other.”  

Solomon breathes, “Christ, Ned.” He rolls closer and touches Edwards’ shoulder, curses. “Lord, but you’re cold.” His big, warm hands start moving up and down on Edwards’ upper arms, trying to bring some heat into them. Edward closes his eyes against the concern he sees in Sols’.  

“I left England a month later. I couldn’t do it, the court martial was just hellish, and they were so wroth over our vague details about Sir John, even though we could tell them every lurid thing about Fitzjames’s death and did. Well, the Captain did. I mostly sat there, alone. The last lieutenant, with John and Jopson in hospital and Gore and Fairholme hardly having lived out a year and George--” he has to catch his breath before his finishes. “And, and Le Vesconte.”  

Sols’ hands pause on his arms and his calloused fingers dig in to squeeze. “I did worse, Ned. I ate worse. You’ll not have judgement from me.”  

Edward reaches his own hands up to clutch at Sols’, and says nothing. Solomon continues, “You know, I was promoted, too. Until I wasn’t. Color Sergeant.” His voice has taken on a dreamlike quality, like he’s not fully there. “I found out on the day I was discharged. Some kind of joke on me, played by God or whoever’s listening.”  

Edward feels as though he’s dreaming, too. “I vomited on Captain Croziers’ shoes when he told me that the Admiralty wanted me to seek the Passage again.” Solomon ducks his head into their conjoined hands and smiles, lips brushing againt Edwards’ knuckles. “And what did he say?” Sols’ tone is more amused than upset, now.  

“To keep an eye on my drinking.”  

There’s silence, but the browned grass beats against the outside of the cottage in the night breeze off the water. Last week, Solomon had gone to town and hauled back a sack of chalk dust. “I’m going to whitewash the siding,” he’d said, and done so. He’d stripped out of his shirt, sweating in his exertion, mixed the concoction in an abandoned halved barrel, and gotten right down into it. Edward made lunch and supper, and averted his eyes from the window when Sol passed.  

Now, Sol says in a rough voice, “Turn around, Ned.” His arms come around to lock over Edwards’ chest when he follows the instructions, chin pillowed on Edwards’ shoulder. Edward bends his head like a penitent at prayer and draws up his knees where he lays.  

“Next time,” Solomon says, “why don’t we just share the bed. My back is aching like anything.”  

One of his thumbs is rubbing circles over Edwards’ wrist, slow and soothing. Sol keeps it up until Edward succumbs to sleep, never faltering in his rhythm.  

Edward’s been having dreams.  

Strong hands hold him down, a bodys’ length is laid across his own, someone calls him Ned and good until they mean the same thing, over and over.  

In the morning, he can’t meet Sols’ eyes.  

Autumn and then Winter pass without fuss, life continuing on in much the way that it has before. The day is spent doing upkeep in the cottage (Solomon), or reading (Edward), or just speaking to each other, in the manner of friends. At night they curl up in the too-small bed and breathe warmth into one anothers’ hands.  

Edward is getting stronger, able to bring in water and assist Sol in one thousand petty tasks. Spring comes round with a world wet with growth, the sea an old and beckoning friend. The gulls scream in the wind, but now it sounds more like joy than anything else.  

Sol is good at repairs; he can look at any rickety old thing and know exactly how to fix it. One night, in front of the fire, Edward asks him how. Solomon has his legs spread out straight in front of him, hands pillowed on his stomach, head tilted back as if he might doze.  

“Used to be a carpenter, before I was a Marine. I liked it.”  

Edward can picture Sol, sleeves rolled up around broad forearms, knuckles buried in soft curls of wood shavings and fingers bent to the task of creation. He likes the way that it looks in his mind. For Christmas Sol carves Edward a box. “For your medals and such,” he says, in a voice that suggests he has seen the collection of things hidden under the mattress that Edward can’t bring himself to throw away or face in their entirety.  

Edward gave him a new pair of boots that he had been saving for himself, because he likes the heavy sound of Sols’ footsteps from across the room when he’s not careful. He likes knowing where he is.  

When Spring comes in full Solomon rouses Edward by yanking the covers off of the bed they share and crowing, “Spring cleaning! Come on, up with you, we’ve work to do!”  

Work to do there is; Sol puts Edward through his paces. They drag the mattresses outside on blankets to air, they scrub down the windows outside and in and then tackle the floors until the entire shack reeks of vinegar and they have to take a break to air themselves out. Solomon makes Edward rub a concoction of beeswax and oil into their furniture while he himself does something to the fireplace that leaves his face sooty.  

Later that night they take turns hauling water until they have enough for a bath, heating it up over the stove until it’s no longer frigid. Sol makes Edward go first because he’s less dirty, but Edward doesn’t take his time because he wants for there to be some water still warm for Sol.  

The bath is set up in the kitchen—it'll be easier to empty outside in the morning—and so when Edward’s clean and dry he goes and knocks on the bedroom door to let Solomon know that it’s his turn. Sol opens the door, already having taken off his shirt in preparation for disrobing completely. He smiles at the sight of Edwards’ wet hair. Their shoulders brush when he passes, and Edward closes the door behind him gently.  

Maybe twenty minutes later, Sol enters the room. Edward has his feet up in front of him while he skims his book, trying to ignore the sounds of water coming from the other room. Sol’s fresh shirt sticks in a slightly translucent layer to the places where his towel couldn’t reach. Edward scoots over to make room on the bed, which Sol hops up onto immediately.  

Edward’s tired, but it’s a good tired; the exhaustion of productivity. He glances over at Sol, his hands behind his head and chin tipped up until the light from their single lamp catches in the line of his lashes. He cracks open one eye and looks over at Edward through it, lazily.  

“You ready to turn in?”  

Edward dogears his page and sets it on the chest of drawers, gets up to dim down the lamp and waits for Sol to pull back the covers before he slides under them. Usually Solomon will attach himself to Edwards’ back as soon as the lights are off, but tonight he just lays there next to him as stiff as a board.  

Edward reaches out with a tentative hand and catches the bones of Solomons’ wrist with his fingers. “Are you well?” he breathes. A mood has descended over their room, existential and terrifying. Solomon turns his face towards Edward in the darkness. The curve of his cheek is just visible. He says, haltingly, accent rounding out the words, “I wish you would just tell me what you want.”  

Edwards’ heart is jumping in his chest.  

“Do I need to tell you?” He’s begging, now. Don’t make me say it.  

Solomons’ whole hand shifts up to capture Edwards’ and squeezes, roughly. “Tell me to leave off, at least. Please . Before I--” Edward reaches his other hand over to encompass the one that’s already being held. “I will not. Sol.”  

Sol groans and inverts Edwards’ world, throwing his hands up over his head and straddling his lap, kissing him with ferocity but no teeth. Edward whines through his lips and tries to give it back as good as he’s getting, but he’s so tangled up in Sol’s smell that nothing else makes sense.  

They break for air and Edward begs, “Please, God, oh my God,” and Sol mashes a kiss to Edwards’ jaw, says, “Hang on, oh, Lord,” and starts moving against him. Edward whimpers and bucks up, Sol presses back down, says roughly, “Come on, love, so good, sweet Jesus,  Ned, come on come on come on,” and looks him in the eye when he cries, and comes, and cries.  

Captain Crozier,  

Writing to put your mind at ease; it’s been some time since our last correspondence and I apologize. Can’t write after returning to England because I will not be--I’ve elected to stay in Scotland for forseeable future. Wishing you and Jopson well, have written to John also but trust you’ve been keeping him in your letters same as I. Maybe we’ll make time for a visit.  

Tozer is in good health and I likewise, the sea is bracing and good to me as ever. Must confess that I cannot yet face myself in the mirror, though Solomon says that it will be fine and I’m being dramatic and though I’m loathe to agree with any assessment of my character in such bad faith I am forced by conviction to believe him. Apologies for ramble; am writing very late at night.  

Find myself some nights like this missing dinner in the wardroom on Terror , and then remember the food and am cured of my nostalgia. Previous statement struck for making a foul attempt at humor, please forgive me. Must reiterate the lateness of my writing. Have had more than one glass of malt whisky please do not be worried I only indulge occasionally and never alone. Do you remember when we got John drunk on sherry at Christmas and he recited half of Luke under the table until George put him to bed? Terrible pudding that Christmas but excellent company even if I did not know it at the time.  

As always I thank you for tolerating my erratic response. Solomon would like to add something I will apologize beforehand for he is also rather drunk we are very sorry.  

Sincerely,

E. Little

P.S. Captain Thank you for Writeing To Edward tho it Has taken much Convinsing to shake out A Reply and half of my Good Whisky woud Love for you to Visit Sometime tho the Shack is Not Much and rather Ugly we are putting Good Work into it and Thank you Forever. Be Well please.  

SOLOMON TOZER  

P.P.S I have explained to Solomon at length the virtues of spelling a lesson which he has not taken to heart again begging you to forgive us which you have always done most ardently and wholeheartedly. Please write again, would love to correspond more. Thank you for sending him to me a favor for which I will never be able to express gratitude. Spent the day in the sea teaching him to swim and was glorious hope you will understand.  

Again most affectionately,  

Edward Little