#hints of future hartving

[gigi-sinclair]

Sins Not Tragedies (rated G, implied Jopson/Little, future Hartnell/Irving)

AKA “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?”

For @theterrorbingo square “there’s nothing to be afraid of.” And it was supposed to also be for @zaphodbeeblebro, but it kind of got away from your prompt, so I’ll do another one for you later!

CW for period-typical attitudes. Title, naturally, from Panic! At the Disco

John Irving is not a fool.

He is no innocent, either, although he knows many people think it of him. He is familiar with the weaknesses of men. He even has sympathy for them. That is, after all, why he sought to rehabilitate Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson himself, rather than turn the matter over to the captain, as protocol demanded. His mercy was justified, it seems. Mr. Gibson has not complained of any further assaults, and it does not appear Hickey has turned his deviant attention elsewhere. Perhaps the flogging, unpleasant as it was, proved just the lesson he needed.

This, however, is something else. Rather, it is the same thing, but John cannot possibly react to it in the same way.

Hickey and Gibson are men of the lower ranks, of the lower classes. As is Jopson, for all his extreme familiarity with the captain. In everything, they require a guiding hand, a patient teacher. They cannot be expected to have the capacity to withstand temptation—and John can acknowledge its lure is all the stronger after so long here in the ice—without the help of their moral superiors.  

Lieutenant Little should require no such assistance. The man is a first lieutenant. Soon to be a commander, if the Admiralty hasn't already decreed it. There is no excuse for what John glimpses as he passes the storeroom late one night.

The ship is all but abandoned now. For some reason, all three lieutenants—Little, Hodgson, and John himself—remain on Terror, even though only Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Captain Fitzjames are left on Erebus, but the crew is scant. They have suspended the formal system of watches. Still, the creature is out there, and they must remain on their guard. John comes down from the deck after spending long hours of staring at the ice, alert for the creature from Hell. He should go directly to bed, but he needs a cup of tea to warm him up. He heads for the galley, passing on his way the captain's pantry.

This little room, Mr. Jopson's territory, is usually sealed off from everybody else. Today, the door is ajar. Curious, John approaches, with a mind to shut it if there is nobody within. Instead, he sees what he immediately wishes he had not.

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. It is enough for John to make out the figures of Jopson and Little standing face-to-face, much more closely together than even the small pantry necessitates. Edward's arms are around Jopson's waist, while Jopson's hands rest on Edward's shoulders.

There is nothing inherently scandalous about their placement but, again, John is not a fool. Edward's position is not to prevent Jopson from slipping down the perpetually slanted floor. Jopson, while an attentive steward, is not brushing lint from the lieutenant's lapels. This position speaks loudly and clearly of illicit intimacy, and John at once feels unwell.

Abandoning the idea of tea, John retreats to his bunk.

He has to inform the captain, but, at the moment, Edward himself is captain, and, until now, doing a fine job of it. In all the years they've known each other, Edward has never struck John as weak, or as at all lacking in character or morals. If anything, he is one of the most upstanding officers John has ever met. He is the last person John would have expected to fall prey to such deviant desires. If someone like Edward can fall, John thinks, twisting his hands anxiously, then what hope does anyone else have of resisting?

John sleeps very poorly. In the morning, while he is hungry, he cannot bring himself to go to the wardroom for breakfast. He does not know how he is meant to face Edward or Jopson, how he is meant to make polite conversation with them knowing what he knows. Instead, he buries himself in that which he has always found most comforting: his Bible. It helps little. His mind, quite unbidden, keeps returning to what he saw, and, more salacious yet, that which he did not see, but which was implied.

When a knock comes on the door, John starts. Of course, it is only Gibson, here to help him dress for the day.

“Mr. Gibson,” John begins, as Gibson fastens his stock about his neck.

“Yes, sir?” Gibson looks at him with his wide, pale eyes, and John realizes he does not know what he wishes to say.

He lands on, “Thank you.” It sounds awkward. The way John feels.

“Of course, sir.” Gibson nods and excuses himself, leaving John once again alone with his ceaseless thoughts.

But not for long. Scarcely minutes after Gibson's departure, there is another knock on the door. Mr. Hartnell looks in, the sight of him reminding John, for the first time, that they are meant to meet today.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartnell,” John says. “I had quite forgotten our appointment.”

“No trouble, sir.” Hartnell looks poised to leave. John can't blame him.

The idea of John helping Hartnell come to terms with the loss of his brother through Bible readings would have been a good one, if Hartnell himself seemed at all inclined to want it. He never has. He comes to John's cabin diligently three times a week, sits and listens to John expound upon the Biblical themes of love and forgiveness, but the fidgeting and the chewing of his thumbnails indicate quite clearly that he longs to be doing something else, probably far away from John. John, unsure how to react to this, has bullied on, convinced he is doing the right thing by offering a subordinate the natural, God-given wisdom of a man of a much higher social position and rank. In the cold light of all he knows now, John has to wonder if he was ever right to interfere at all.

“We ought to stop this,” John says, his heart as heavy as his sigh.

“For today?”

“For good. I am no physician, Mr. Hartnell, nor am I a Biblical scholar. I have offered you all I can. It is time for you to seek solace elsewhere.” Harsh perhaps, but true, for Hartnell's own sake if nothing else. Hartnell's face falls. He is a very handsome man, John notes, not for the first time, and therein lies the true crux of this matter.

John always thought he was immune to Thomas Hartnell's charms, as copious as they are, because of who John is. His faith, his background, his rank, all are sturdy armour against sin. But Edward, while not as overtly religious, is just as Christian, and even more highly placed than John. He, quite obviously, has succumbed the lure of a much lower-ranking man.

Rather than flee as he should, Hartnell steps inside, and casts his gaze across John's walls. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I've always liked these paintings of yours. That cat's the spitting image of my sister's moggy.” Hartnell nods at one of the paintings. A black and grey cat, it was an experiment in monochrome painting, and not one of John's great successes. “Old Tom, we call him.  It's quite a thing, to have to share one's name with the cat. I suppose I already share it with half the men I meet. The occasional animal oughtn't make much difference.”

John blinks. “In Australia, we had a bull called Red John.” A huge, ornery beast. John hasn't thought of it in years. It was an ill-tempered old thing that fathered more calves than any other in the area. An irony which, at the moment, does not escape this John.

“Well, now, sir. That is a namesake to aspire to.”

Despite himself, John laughs. It makes Hartnell smile in turn, which sends something soaring in John's breast. “You have helped me, lieutenant,” Hartnell goes on. “Even if it doesn't seem like it. I ain't...I'm not half as addled as I was before I started seeing you.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“It's the truth.” He bites his lip. John immediately looks away. “You are a good man, sir. One of the best.”

John cannot be silent. “You say that because you do not know me.” Does not know the dreams he has been keeping at bay by clinging to his rank, his position. Has not seen the lake of depravity into which John knew—absolutely knew—he would never dip a toe, until he found Edward Little, of all people, splashing about right in the middle of it.

“I think I do.” Hartnell's expression is so earnest, John wonders, for a moment, if he really does see right through him, and, more amazing still, is not utterly disgusted. “I can come back this evening, if you're too busy now. I would very much hate to miss our discussion.”

“Yes,” John hears himself saying. “This evening.” Perhaps everything will be as it was by then. Perhaps the genie will be back in its bottle, and all will be forgotten. Strangely, that thought doesn't make John as happy as he would have expected it to.

Hartnell's smile grows brighter, making him radiant even in the weak Arctic light. “Until tonight, then, sir.” He turns to go.

“Take the painting,” John blurts out. Hartnell stops. His cheeks burning, John takes the monochromatic cat from the wall. “If you like it, that is. Could be something to remind you of home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hartnell gazes at painting as if John has presented him with an artistic masterpiece. It's prideful, but John's heart swells to see it. “For everything.”

When he's gone, John brings out his watercolours. He's not sure what he is going to paint, but despite it all, he has an urge to make something joyful. Perhaps, John thinks, Edward is not an infallible paragon of virtue. Perhaps none of us are. And perhaps, he adds, even though thinking it may well be Arctic madness or the beginnings of scurvy or brain fever or some other deadly malady, it is possible to live on regardless.