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Hodgson is still at the entrance of Goodsir's tent. Goodsir is still pointedly ignoring him. It is still dark, outside, and the camp is quiet.
"You know, I…" Hodgson starts, softly, and he winces at the sound of his own voice breaking the silence. "I really ought to thank you, properly, Mr Goodsir. And— and I thought that I might be able to bring you some comfort, as well."
Goodsir squeezes his eyes shut. He does not wish to speak, and encourage Hodgson to stay any longer, but it appears his lack of response has not had the intended effect. "You have said quite enough already, Lieutenant," he murmurs, just loud enough for Hodgson to hear. "I would appreciate the company of my own thoughts, if you would."
Hodgson inclines his head, obediently, but does not leave. Instead, he takes a single step through the tent flap, and closes it behind him. This action stirs Goodsir from his horizontal position—he sits up, startled, and regards Hodgson with furrowed brow. "I do not need to speak," the lieutenant says, carefully, anxiously, "to give you my thanks for my life, nor to do my best at— at— God, I apologize, Mr Goodsir." The next words from Hodgson's mouth are earthshattering, but so are many things, these days. "I have never been quite skilled at seduction, as it were."
"Is that what you are attempting to do?" Goodsir questions, more sharply than he intends. "Because you're quite right—you're very poor at it." Hodgson flinches as if Goodsir's struck him, and it only harshens Goodsir's mood. "I fail to see any reason that I should let a coward and a traitor into my bed, and I urge you not to try to enlighten me. Spare yourself the embarrassment and see yourself out."
Hodgson does not move. "I do not ask to share your bed," he breathes. "Please, I… you may take what you wish from me, Mr Goodsir, and I shall not resist you. You are entirely correct—it is what I deserve, and I submit myself to you now as… as an offering, of sorts." His voice quivers. "I am not worth much, I know. Your cruelty is justified. But, even though I can't kill Mr Hickey, I—I am your man, and the captain's, not his."
It is hard for Goodsir to stop himself from harbouring sympathy, still. And at this point, in this place, when so many things have gone wrong, it is difficult to convince himself not to allow one more wrong thing. They are all damned, regardless, and perhaps he can grant one last mercy by giving Hodgson his wish.
"Please stop talking, Lieutenant," Goodsir tells him, as calmly as he can manage, "and come kneel, just here." He gestures vaguely to the spot of canvas floor between his legs, and spreads his knees a little further apart to allow Hodgson enough space. And he waits.
Hodgson swallows, thickly; Goodsir watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat with passive interest. Then, after a moment of hesitation, Hodgson obeys, and comes to the indicated place, slowly lowering himself to the ground while refusing to make eye contact. "Please," he mumbles, quietly, his face curtained by hair that has grown unruly since abandoning the ships. "Don't call me Lieutenant, not here, not now."
"Be quiet," Goodsir snaps, his irritation getting the better of him. It infuriates him, the way that Hodgson keeps rank, even when they have next to nothing, and his attempts at connection that only serve to show how much of a stranger he is. Goodsir has learned bitterness, and Hodgson has volunteered himself to take the force of it. "Your hands—put them behind your back, and keep them there."
Hodgson visibly chokes back a 'yes, sir' as he once again does as he's told, and locks his hands together. The movement forces his chest ever so slightly forward, pushing his face closer to Goodsir's groin, and Goodsir notes the barely-audible hitch of his breath as Hodgson's eyes fall to the seam of his pants and widen.
There is still something sweet about him, Goodsir muses—a sense of innocence, almost. He cannot hate George Hodgson, but he can certainly run him into the ground, and see if he can still haul in the morning. At the very least, his misery will be something beautiful.
"Good boy," Goodsir murmurs, and Hodgson lets out a strangled cry. He sounds pained, almost, and so Goodsir replies with tenderness—he takes Hodgson's chin between two fingers and tilts it up to meet his gaze, and studies what he finds there.
Hodgson's eyes are dull, as are Goodsir's own. There is no light left to be found, where they are.
"I would have use of your mouth," Goodsir prompts him, lightly pressing his thumb into the centre of Hodgson's lower lip. "Open, please." His bedside manner is well-developed; he finds it hard to abandon, even now.
Hodgson's mouth falls open as if his jaw were on a hinge, and Goodsir is intrigued by the pooling lust in the lieutenant's eyes. He wants this—he desires Goodsir's praise, and likely also his abuse. As a man of science, Goodsir is compelled to investigate, and he's glad for an experiment that will not end in death.
Goodsir undoes his trousers with his other hand and removes his soft prick; the physical strain his body has been under for months now has left him less responsive than he ought to be, but he's confident that it will be no issue. He gives himself a couple of deliberate strokes—just enough to make his shaft usably firm—and watches how Hodgson is enraptured by his motions, intrigued by how it gently stokes the barely-smoking coals of lust in his gut.
Hodgson's hair feels like straw under Goodsir's fingers when he moves his hand back, giving himself a stronger grip on Hodgson's skull. Goodsir coaxes him forward, with a gentle push, and Hodgson allows it; he lets out a shuddering gasp and wets his lips with his tongue, then tentatively takes the tip of Goodsir's length in his mouth.
Goodsir's hips stutter forward, and he stifles a noise by turning it into a weak grunt. "Ah," he breathes, and he does not feel warm, but he thinks that he might feel less cold than he has in a long time. "Good— good, yes, Hodgson—"
The praise spurs Hodgson onwards, and he surges forward, a faint spark in his eyes, to take Goodsir down as far as he can. Disappointingly, that doesn't seem to be very far, as he quickly chokes, and reflexively tries to seize back. Goodsir doesn't allow it—he tightens his grip on Hodgson's hair, and it gives him a cruel rush of power as tears spill over the edges of Hodgson's eyes. He's begging, silently; Goodsir forces him to struggle for a single moment more before he releases him. He finds his own actions repulsive, and yet he cannot stop himself.
Hodgson gasps for air, his saliva clinging obscenely to Goodsir's length and his cheeks drowning in saltwater. "Mr— Mr Goodsir," he wheezes, and there is an overt tone of desperation there that makes Goodsir's stomach twist. "Please, I can—" He tries to lean foward again, but Goodsir sternly keeps him at arm's length.
Goodsir winces and looks away; he feels sick. "I told you," he says, carefully, "to save yourself the embarrassment. Goodnight, Lieutenant." And with that, he gently shoves Hodgson away from him and tucks himself away, intent on resuming his position of unawareness from before.
Hodgson does not move for a long moment, but Goodsir can hear him sniffling as he struggles to stem his tears. Goodsir does not turn back, and tries his best not to listen too closely.
Goodsir can tell when Hodgson finally stands, and retreats towards the tent flap. "I will—" Hodgson starts to say, a bit louder than is appropriate, and then he catches himself. He drops his voice, and starts again, and even the fiercest of ignorance cannot protect him from hearing what Hodgson tells him next.
"I will see you in Hell, Mr Goodsir."
And he leaves with haste.