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Sir John arrives on the aft deck, gazes out at the setting sun, and takes a deep heavy breath. It’s unbearably cold these days and the shivers are bone-deep, even through his furred captain's coat. He hears a faint squeak, a familiar sound on a ship with wooden floorboards, but of a higher pitch than usual. He raises his brows and gives a taut-lipped smile as he turns to face the person, pretending he isn’t in as deep as he knows he probably is.
“Afternoon captain,” the slender and unreasonably tall Fitzjames says, his voice breathy and smooth.
“By God’s Grace, it is, James. How are the men?” He replies, mostly caring about how James is faring.
“The men are in great spirits, but setting up for bed now. I’m rather worried the curmudgeon Crozier might affect their attitudes in the coming days, though.” James admitted.
Sir John glances at him in warning, having already told him before that sharing any ill will towards a superior, despite it being Francis, does no good.
“Francis is a good man in a bad place. It would do you good to treat him well.”
Fitzjames wants to motion across the frozen waters at Terror as if to point out the waves of negativity pouring off the man and into the men around him, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns his gaze to Sir John’s furrowed brow, then to his hazel eyes which reflect the vibrancy of the land James used to walk with his beloved.
“I can treat him well from across the bay. It’s meeting in person where he becomes abrasive”
Sir John sighs, “Be that as it may, James, you are only as good as your superior and you should keep that in mind when considering where to place your faith and support.”
If James has had to learn anything in building himself, it’s knowing when to restrain himself from going further, this being one of those times he’s sure. So he swallows the bitterness down and sniffs out at the cold expanse, trying to end the subject.
If the triumph of their efforts is to come, he knows he must give his all, and ensure that the people he cares for can see him once again.
After a quiet moment, Sir John speaks again, hands clasped behind his back like it’s already said and done.
“A captain’s dinner could mend the strain between you two. I’d trust you’d get along, for my and the men’s sake.”
Fitzjames blood goes cold. A dinner? With Francis? Have we not learned the error in our past feeble attempts at bridging this gap?
“Have you invited him?” Fitzjames tries, his voice all hope.
“I’ll send a man over in the hour. Have you some sort of plan for the night otherwise?”
“I haven’t, regretfully. I can manage to scrounge something up for us, as you’ve stated it’s important to display our cordiality to keep the peace in our already delicate situation.” James states, defeated.
Sir John smiles, that awkward display of a smile he uses when he hopes that an issue will be put to bed. He’s used it on the Admiralty, on Sophia, on his wife, on Crozier, and now on Fitzjames.
As if waiting for a pat on the back, James lingers in Sir John’s company. Looking the man up and down for a brief moment, until he realizes that the conversation was meant to be over.
Sir John simply nods his farewell and smiles at James, pulling his coat close as he ducks below the deck, escaping from the cold and the daggers he could feel James staring into his back over the whole ordeal.
Fitzjames buttons his shirt up all the way. He has no doubt he will look better than Francis, or at least more put together than the drunkard's usual garb.
It’s not even as if he has to try much in comparison, though he does put a little more effort into his outfit and hair if nothing else than to stick it to him.
He sets out the cutlery. Not the best the ship has, mind you, but good enough for Crozier and Blanky if he so chooses to accompany him.
The crew has fallen asleep by now, so James had to cook the pheasant on his own. Luckily, his mom showed him how to properly prepare
almost every meal the ship's cooks make. He has half a mind to sear Francis’ portion a little more than his own, but remembering the look Sir John shot him makes him decide otherwise. He really should attempt to make tonight work. He decides he should try, but the moment the tide changes he goes with it.
Looking in the mirror, he looks quite handsome for a last-minute meeting. He runs his hands through his hair, pours a glass of scotch, and sits at the table. The steam coming off the pheasant is mesmerizing but only for a moment. He hears a hearty knock on the door frame.
“Come in.” He tries to say with an air of respectable excitement. He hopes he manages, for the sake of getting off on the right foot.
Crozier doesn’t look terrible, even Fitzjames is not too proud to admit that to himself, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He’s managed to clean himself to a point expected of a captain, or at least he combed his hair. Either way, James is pleased with his effort.
James stands to greet him, taking his hand firmly but not shaking it.
“James.”
“Francis.” He motions to the chair across from him “Have a seat”
Francis stumbles slightly before taking his seat. The chair thumps as he pulls it up to the table.
“A bird?”
“A partridge. I thought it appropriate, symbolizes new beginnings. And we had stores of it.” He almost drones, motioning over the bird.
Crozier nods. So that’s why they’re here. New beginnings. No doubt it’s Sir John’s idea, trying to make them act as friends beyond their jobs. He eyes the whiskey in James’ glass for a moment.
“Got started without me?” Crozier alleges.
“It’s only a sip, Francis. You’ve had plenty in your day.” James jabs back, silken in his voice to hopefully soften the words he’s saying.
Francis lets out a hearty laugh. James is floored. A laugh? Did he earn a laugh from Crozier? He tries to be normal about it, but internally he’s beaming with pride. He isn’t sure he’s ever heard the man laugh when it hasn’t been bitter, some wretched angry thing rattling up out of his chest. To hear a real laugh with him makes things feel casual almost, not as if it’s some sort of reputation stunt on Sir John’s part. Pretending helps. It reminds him of life beyond this place and what could have been should they have met at some Admiralty ball instead of in a place that would rather see them dead.
“The meagerness of the meal aside, it looks freshly prepared. Who made this?” Crozier queries.
“I prepared it. The cooks had all gone to their quarters by the time Sir John concocted this meeting.” James explains.
“I see. I suppose that explains a fair bit, apart from how you came upon the knowledge to cook it. Were you in service prior to your current status as a Commander? Surely I’d have heard the stories if you were.”
“I’m not sure I understand where that conclusion is coming from, Francis. Surely you had a mother? It’s a basic enough skill to be able to feed yourself.”
“I have a mother, and my mother has a chef. Certainly, you didn’t expect that I’d have been obliged to provide company in the kitchen, did you?” Crozier scoffs slightly, but not before taking a swig.
“We don’t have to do this, honestly. You could March back aboard Terror and I could tell Sir John how we talked all night, how we laughed into the early hours and had to cut it to an end when the sun rose. It’d be easier on both of us.”
“And end our verbal sparring practice? For what reason? Despite all appearances and your opinions of me, James, I don’t mind your company nearly as much as you’ve been led to believe. I’ve been in much less hospitable quarters in my day, I’ve been up here before if you’ll remember.”
James takes a sip of his drink and eyes the ceiling for a moment, trying to muster up all the good behavior he has left in him at the end of such a long, frigid day.
“I haven’t forgotten, no. Sir John mentions your experience when it’s due. While I don’t always see things exactly as you’d have them, I do respect you. It isn’t with any ease that I suggest we forego our evening but if we can’t be cordial it may be necessary.”
“I’m plenty cordial, James. You must excuse me if I come off otherwise, I’m sure you understand the toll living up to an expectation placed on you can have on a man, can you not?” Crozier says, finally cutting into the bird on his plate.
“That burden must be so tiring, Francis. But it is not nearly as hard to carry as the expectation that one will fail. You’ve been held to a high standard, yes, and the odds have always been stacked against the both of us, but only one man at this table has been fortunate enough to be captain of his own vessel. Not to distract from the obvious decades put into your work, but surely you see where your rank and your privileges lie.”
“Heavy it is, the responsibilities I have are those which have never occurred to you. You may be right that I’ve been given a high rank, a large privilege, but it was not unearned and the responsibilities which accompany it may even outweigh its benefits.” Crozier argues.
“You forget it is the both of us in this place. You are not the only one isolated from those he loves, nor the only one alone when he returns home.” James says this with a somberness, not his usual intonation of resentment.
“That isn’t true. This voyage will grant me something greater than the entirety of the passage. I will not return to loneliness.” Crozier says as if he needs to say it to believe it. James’s brow twinges for a second, painfully aware of what he is referencing. Sir John had confided in him about Francis’ involvement with his niece many times, each time more fed up with his attempts. Admittedly James had called it pathetic, pining and pining for someone so obviously unattainable. He’d hung his head when Sir John told him, shook a little with distaste, and told him he hoped Francis would give up the chase. It seems now, sitting across from the man, in a large wooden vessel frozen into the pack ice of an unforgiving cold land not of his own, that Francis has not at all given up that chase after all. If anything, he's clawing at the ice and snow with bloodied fingertips trying to break through. It makes James’ chest hurt. He isn’t sure he’s ever been loved in such a way. Sir John had treated him as a distant son, but to be fought over tooth and nail even when it seemed more than impossible to reach him? That’s something else entirely. As much as he should hate to admit it in the case that Sir John somehow hears him from above, Miss Cracroft should be lucky for him.
“You came all the way out here--frozen into the sea itself, for Miss Cracroft? Francis, I was told you were a smart man.”
Crozier takes a sip of his drink and his eyes roll towards the ceiling as he swallows, tilting his head at James as if to warn him of where he’s treading.
“If you were as smart a man as I, you’d leave it,” Francis says, trying to chip at the edge of the plate with his thumb.
“I’m smart enough to know our situation is dire. You can’t possibly be content risking your life for--for that.” James says, exasperated. He means it, truly he does. As much as he pretends to know little of Francis and Sophia’s romantic life, the truth is he knows a great deal. Or at least as much as Sir John knows, which as her ward he does know enough. Chaste stolen kisses, fumbling fingertips together, sleeping apart, living like a captain and his wife, being buried side by side as if they laid that way in life? James cannot imagine. He never wanted such things, certainly not of some socialite.
He always thought he’d end up alone. Wintering in a cabin, vacationing on the shore of some island. But alone nonetheless. He was fine with it, really. He figured he was just one of those people not suited for love. But sometimes he gets a rush, like a young boy with his crush, the only issue is it always came with the most inappropriate of his companions: Sir John, even Crozier. He buried that part of himself each time it reared its head, knowing such feelings likely arose from the months of isolation on the cold waters. It’s only natural, he's sure. To think that none of the men aboard haven’t been in similar straits is surely unbelievable. He’s seen Sir John at the rail in the early mornings, coat pulled up around his face, smiling to himself. He talks so fondly of Lady Franklin, in a way that makes James wish he were meant for great things like that. Great things at all, even. He’d come here for great things, hadn’t he? To feel that rush deep in his blood, something to remind him that the word ‘fraud’ doesn’t have to taste so vile in his mouth. He can at least try to understand Francis in that way. Are they not but the same man, desperate to be seen?
Francis has longed like James, undoubtedly. Maybe even more. He’s been pining for years, and while James has always thought it indecent and pathetic, pining means he hasn’t lost hope. Is that not more noble than being resigned to solitude, when solitude is not what one wants? Francis represents everything he resents, the hope for a better, more fulfilling life. Hope for the future. James has only ever wanted to accomplish his career goals, to establish himself as a navy man and as a powerful figure. To be published in the paper alongside the likes of George Keith Elphinstone— someone he’d read about and heard stories from his crewmates about through the years.
“Some of us have risked our lives for less.” Crozier shrugs, actually making an attempt at not coming across as bitter. He’s very much aware that that sort of attitude would do nothing to help their situation. He does think about joking about the hole in James’ arm and asking if it's worth the story he got out of it. The thought makes him snicker to himself and Fitzjames’ eyebrows raise in being so unused to the noise.
“You think our situation is amusing? I know you think you are in a superior position in life as the man who always presumes to know what is best and dwells on the worst humanity has to offer, but we are both at this same crossroads and I am the only one willing to compromise.”
“Compromise is unhelpful when it comes to human lives. Sacrifice is more prudent.” Crozier retorts, “I was not laughing about our struggles, but rather the stories we can get from them. I know you find solace in those, and I found it pleasing to think we might talk about these events with a smile on our faces when it is all over.”
“How uncharacteristically sentimental and optimistic that idea is for you.”
“Oh James, you think of me so plainly. I am more than I might seem when at our direst straits. Have faith that I am capable of some fun.”
“I will have faith when I bear witness to it. Until then I may keep you in the light you’ve painted yourself in until now.” James fires back, unamused but curious.
“I don’t see you throwing any balls aboard Erebus. Think of it: no slops. No lost noses. A drink.”
James sits up a bit, leaning forward.
“Have you?” Fitzjames asks as if it's some sort of scandal.
“No, of course not. We’ve hardly the coal for that. Though…” Francis starts and trails off as if he's trying to stop himself from making anything worse than it may already be.
“Though? You think it’s an idea.”
“I was just thinking that I’m sure it’d be worth the coal if you were to attend. For the men to see.”
James smiles and nods a little, understanding.
“Ah, for the men. Of course. I was unsure what you were playing at.”
“It’d be great for morale, surely?” James asks, not at all sure of himself.
“I’m flattered you think my presence would boost morale. But if you’re looking for a captain's approval, you have it.”
“For all your faults, the men look up to you. They enjoy you.” James says, the most sheepish he has ever been despite his efforts to appear stoic.
“They do?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you feel, James?” Francis prods, his brow arching.
James is still for a moment, the face of a man that Crozier knows is trying to decode the social scene. He’s seen it as many times as he’s worn it himself.
“As a captain? Professionally?”
“Or as a man. Plainly. Off any sort of social record.”
James pauses again and takes a drink, trying to come up with a way to describe how he feels about him. It's complex. He's pathetic. He’s intriguing. He makes him itch. He also makes him feel hopeful. He isn’t unattractive, James would be an idiot to ignore the role that plays in this work. There’s an image of a captain, and Crozier was blessed with it. He laughs and rolls his glass in his hand.
“I haven’t had nearly enough for that honesty. I'm not entirely immune to the…captain image.”
Francis pours James another glass.
“What if we just talk for a while?” Crozier finally says.
“I don’t see why not,” James says, sitting down and crossing his legs. His guard still isn’t fully down, but it slips away with every sip. His mind eases and his apprehensions about the social dynamics disappear, swiftly replaced by laughs.
“And she said I could find love in the lake!” Crozier roared, slapping Fitzjames on the shoulder. They’ve found their way next to each other, playing Blackjack.
James roars with him, losing all semblance of composure, cackling as the tears of joy roll down his cheek.
He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. His hand brushes against Croziers, they ignore it but it happens a few more times before the jokes finished. What he can’t ignore is the warm tingle in them that hangs around far after they touch. It makes him feel silly, like some schoolboy. He smiles a little more freely now and he’s glad Francis is doing the same it seems.
He plays with the edge of one of his cards idly, leaning in just a little more. It’s so cold here up North, but the cabin is warm and the drink helps. Francis feels warm too, rolling off in waves that James wonders if is just his imagination. He realizes it's happening again, isn't it? He’s fancying something that he can’t pursue--or rather he shouldn’t.
“Can I tell you something?” Francis says, suddenly serious.
“What is it?” James says, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his cheeks growing pink.
“I have few regrets, and one is that we got off on such a bad foot. I wish we could have had this since the beginning.” He avoids eye contact, playing with the condensation on his glass.
James doesn’t quite know what to think of this. But before he can even think he’s speaking.
“I like being like this with you. You make me feel.. good.”
“Ah, that's the alcohol. Don’t forget you resented me a mere hour ago, James.”
“It's not the alcohol. Well, the alcohol helps me talk but it doesn’t change how I feel.”
“Why have you never told me? We could be friends, could’ve worked together.” Francis asks, sincerely.
James tilts his head, smiling a little too much and he’s aware of it.
“Would you have believed me?” He tries, ignoring the way that Francis suggests them being friends or coworkers makes him feel a little disappointed. It’s not that he wouldn’t value it, it’s just that it’s clear to him that it wouldn’t stop whatever he’s feeling from making itself apparent over time. If friends are what Francis can give him, then he knows it’s friends that he has to accept. Still, he tries, setting his cards down and leaning on his elbows.
“I might have. I think we have more in common than most people, actually.”
“Unhealthy work-life balance?” James hums.
Crozier shakes his head, “I mean on a personal level. I know you feel for others as I do— not just at home, but at sea. You have the same glint in the eye I hope I can conceal, the one which would cause me to lose all authority, the one which I suppress. I see it in you.”
James narrows his eyes for a moment in thought. Is he that obvious? If Francis is saying what he thinks he is, then his unattainable goal isn’t that unattainable after all. Inappropriate, maybe, but not a lost cause. He breathes deeply and clears his throat, trying to dislodge the words that want to come out and ruin the whole thing.
“They send men to sea for years of their lives. It’s…expected that things happen when it’s cold or morale is low. That’s not what I’m saying, Francis. That is the stark difference between me and all of this. It isn’t for lack of choice, it’s for lack of attraction. I don’t…you understand that it isn’t desperation.”
“I know, James.”
“Yes, but--”
Francis softens his eyes for a moment and angles his face at him, trying beyond all his might to convey that he is no stranger to this. Francis has always found a fondness for men, as much as he has women, and age has done nothing but strengthened it.
His hand moves slowly as if they’re back home at some Council event where appearance is all, his palm gliding over the back of James’ knuckles, his thumb settling into the dip between his thumb and fingers. He traces quietly, over the smooth skin, protected from the world by layers and layers of wool. James is so smooth, so seemingly unmarred by the world around him, so unlike every other man in the discovery industry and any other man that has ever taken a liking to him.
“I know , James.”
Fitzjames stares down at their hands as if he’s been struck, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He turns his hand over, clasping up around Francis’ hand ever so carefully as if he’s afraid to ruin this. As if Francis is joking.
“You’ve…explored this? Beyond in dreams?”
Francis smiles, slow, like they’re at some port town bar instead of the captain’s dining room.
“You’re asking me about my exploits? Oh how close we are, James!”
“I’m serious.”
“Sir John would love this. The two of us talking like old friends.”
“He absolutely would n--is that what you’re doing? Even now, trying to prove yourself?” James questions, pulling his hands away partially before Francis leans in to grab them again.
“No.” Crozier nearly growls. His eyes glazed over, and he grabs James’ wrist, firmly holding it as he looks up and leans forward.
“Your pulse has quickened,” Crozier says.
James pulls back. “If this is your idea of collecting evidence against me I should inform you that if anyone here comes out looking unfavorable it’s you.”
“Evidence is for cases of wrongdoing, James.” He sighs “I don’t believe anything wrong is occurring here, do you?”
“No, but at least one man on this expedition will.”
“And neither one is in this room. What is the harm in humoring this?” Crozier says plainly as if it’s not something as serious as a taboo between high-ranking members of a world-famous expedition.
As if pondering the rhetorical question, James purses his lips. The hair on the back of his neck rises as he feels a kiss being pressed into his hand. Startled, he takes a half-step back, only to be pulled back in by Crozier. He lets out a quiet breath before he quickly begins taking control and pressing a kiss onto Francis’ lips.
Francis responds like every dream James has ever had about things like this, every guilty pleasure of his mind that had him sitting up in bed staring off and hoping against hope that nobody ever finds out. Francis kisses him, drops his hands, and brings one to his face, rough fingers feeling over his jaw. James wants to scream. Instead, he leans into him, leans into the place where the skin blurs and James finds himself more a part of Francis than he would’ve previously liked. Now, however? It’s all he wants. He pushes his drink deeper into the table and hums happily, letting his hands fall into Francis’ lap.
Time moves quickly in the heat of it all, James finds himself unbuttoning Francis’ dress shirt, the taste of scotch between them, their mouths moving as quickly as their hands.
“Slow down,” James whispers, removing his hands from Crozier's chest.
“Have I done something?” Crozier says, adjusting himself swiftly.
“No, no nothing unforgivable, we just need to pace ourselves. This may be our only chance.”
“You want it to last longer, James? I’m more than happy to oblige, but… honestly, I’m intoxicated by the prospect of tasting you.” Crozier reaches down to palm James’ impressive cock.
James curses and kisses him again for as long as Francis will let him before the man is shoving him back and scooting the chair out from behind him to settle on his knees on the floor. A captain on his knees before his commander, lips shiny and flushed and eyes searching up at him should feel strictly wrong. It should twist in James’ gut and tell him no, this is upside down. And yet it does not. When Francis speaks again, low and genuine, James hardly knows how to respond.
“You’re familiar with this? Of what I’m saying?”
James nods and lets Francis guide his hips forward in the chair as if he needs any guidance at all now that the thought is blooming in his head.
Francis tugs at James’ pants, taking him in his hand and providing spit as he pulls at his hardening cock. James looks down, breathless. His mind is both racing and silent, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest. His body tingles, a warmth building and radiating throughout his goose-fleshed skin. His mind is finally blank, his mouth occupied, teeth biting the inside of his cheek. The sensation draws a small moan from him, a noise Francis enjoyed.
Francis takes James in, to the base of his cock, Crozier earnestly massaging his cods with his free hand.
James Fitzjames. Francis Crozier. Two men once at odds— in fact, often. Yet the contempt which once kept them opposite each other in conflict now fuels the fire between them. Francis looks down, daring not to look at James.
He’s found his joy at last, enthusiastic in his new task. The man James once spoke of uncharitably, on his knees bringing him to physical ecstasy. After all they’ve seen, all they’ve been through together. James has never seen Francis this energetic, this… happy. Their temporary safety has been found in the company of one another. James’ cock swells under the pressure of Francis’ tight throat. Francis cares very little about how he looks, but James notices the slobber dripping down his chin, the flush taking residence in his cheeks, the tears pooling in his eyes as he takes down every single centimeter. His mouth swirling around James as if this is the only sensation he’s ever wanted, ever needed.
The usually combative captain taking the orders from James: “Like that, yes. Swallow around me when it’s time, we can’t leave a mess for Sir John.” Francis follows them as if they were law, and performs them perfectly. If heaven is real, Francis thinks this is how it feels. He is no hedonist but he could stay like this for a million lifetimes.
The cool of the ship, of the ice which awaits them, taunts at their hot skin. They could use this exercise more regularly even if only to keep warm. Holding the back of Francis’ head down one last time, James grunts as he releases into him, a duteous Francis swallowing down every drop of him, humming as he does it. Sweat dribbles down the back of their necks, James’ hair an uncharacteristic mess. Crozier’s wearing a drunken expression, clearly pleased with his performance, smiling up at him.
In violation of all procedures, all naval standards, and regulations, they’ve not blurred the lines between them but entirely crossed them. A silent pact has formed between them, an understanding. Nobody is to ever know.