#bridgens might be cool

[majorxmaggiexboy]

The Terror but at least one other crew member encounters Tuunbaq up close and lives to tell about it, if not entirely unscathed. So they’re in the sick bay minding their own business trying to recover and here come Mr Blanky saying now he and this guy have to have a duel for honor because Tuunbaq is his betrothed, thank you very much

[pomodoriyum]

watchign ep 9.

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mr goodsir is now mr meansir (cruel bedside manner <3)

billy like half chewing with his mouth cause hes thirsty and the words are hard to get out

also billy looks like skellington. woof

this was such a well done scene holy shit. angst <3

OH MY GOD. HES DONE IT AGAIN. THE HAND OVER BILLYS HEART (AND THEIR RING) THIS ACTOR IS SOOOOO FUCKING GOOD.

no for real i think hickey comforting billy right before he murders him is the closest thing we get to pillow talk so far. holy

—

little ans dundy make thwir move..

you know this scene kinda reminds me of the francis nd franklin one at the beginning of the series. its def interestinf to think on.

—

silna!!

—

bye fitzjames !!!

his throat spasms…lovely. <:3

awwww bridgens <3

crozier and fitzjames may as well have been fucking on that cot and it would have been less sensual than that assisted suicide holy cow. very nice

—

BLANKY MAD LAD !

nah seriously he and francis’s friendship is so fucking cute

also francis’s ‘jesus christ’ was so well delivered!

—

peglar bridgens real REAL ouuugh

—

goodsir VIOLENCE upon hickey

hicky, desperately: im NOT owned!!! im NOT owned!!!!!

aww the ring…..

—

blanky cool as usual

soemthinf somwthinf the arctic only allows you throufh when you stop fighting it somwthinf somethinf

—

every1 looking SO dejected in mutiny camp

hickey fucking caressing billys meat oh my god

was that a single raindrop falling from the sky?

des voeux munching that down #hungry

HODGSON FAMOUS CHINA PLATW MOMENT….they are all dissociating so hard.

—

the bg noises of the othwr guys sleeping / coughing etc when hodgepodge goes to goodsir…they are not alone.

hodge that was SUCH a good little monologue great job. also your coping mechanisms are. bad. also i 100% understand: some things. the profound things. frequently only happen once. repetition makes them banal.

—

au where hickey is a yoga instructor

—

tozer !!!!

—

oh my god, the tattoo matching the book. is that peglars diary? or bridgens?

ohhhh its peglars. his love through a poem. bridgens just left to die of a broken heart, huh? woof

—

jopson crozier tender loving care…. role reversal. :) yay

—

oh that is a cruel little trap, hickey. youve outdone yourself

des voeux hair trigger terror moments !!! hes SO fucking paranoid mamma mia

bye hartnell that was very super touching. love how francis is a mother to jopson and like. a dad to hartnell here. he HAS the range

best thinf about this episode is how much everyone is miserable and crying. so much crying its great

face you make when you are super happy about having shot someone

EDWARD LITTLE … i dont envy you.

NICE. great episode. might be my favorite !

[lafiametta]

Ignoring the logistics of why these characters are in the same place/time, which of your OTPs (any fandom) would get along the best? Worst?

This one's tricky, Anon, and very cool — thanks for sending it!

Okay, so maybe because I've got Last of the Mohicans on the brain as of late, I was thinking that Uncas and Alice might get on well with Beth and Daryl from The Walking Dead... I mean, Uncas and Daryl have the silent protector thing going on, plus they've all gotten pretty good at navigating survivalist situations, be it Huron war parties or zombies.

As for who would not get along? This one's harder, but I'm going to go with Bridgens and Peglar from The Terror (my sweet, book-loving boys) and Furiosa and Max Rockatansky from Mad Max: Fury Road. It's not that they would necessarily hate each other or anything... but just that they would be so thoroughly confused by the other couple that it would be like oil and water meeting. (Interestingly enough, both of these stories also involve survivalist situations, but Bridgens and Peglar succumb to it, whereas Max and Furiosa use the narrative to continue their search for the Green Place.)

[ed-teach]

Terrortober Day 6: Dress

For @damienhirstsdiamondskull, who suggested James in a dress to me a couple of days ago, and for @raffaelllllo, who wants to top James’ brains out.

Rated E - Read on AO3

Francis Crozier wouldn’t have thought himself the sort of person to have arrangements of this sort.

It had been going on for a while, several months by now, during which it had become a habit for James to come to him, and sometimes Francis to make the trip to Erebus, the sole reason of those visits being sex.

Maybe it was more. Companionship or simply the need to feel another person’s skin against the own. Francis had had a minor crisis when James had first made advances, but now, especially since he had sobered up, something had shifted between them. Francis didn’t dare think about it too much, lest he find out something he would rather leave undiscovered.

After Carnivale, James hadn’t contacted him; Francis had been the first to look for him and found him curled up in his cabin, weeping. That night was the first they spent together without either of them getting off.

Now, Francis was standing in front of the cabin again, no doubt a much too soft smile on his lips, as he knocked on the door. No reply came from within. Bridgens had told him James was in his quarters, so Francis decided to knock again.

“It’s me,” he called.

Footsteps approached from within, the door slid open a bit and James’ head peaked out.

“Francis! I hadn’t expected you yet,” he said. There was a blush on his cheeks and a somewhat odd twinkle in his eyes.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked nonetheless. If James would rather have some peace, he would understand.

James shook his head slowly, then opened the door a bit wider and beckoned Francis inside. He huffed a laugh when he saw the reason why James hadn’t opened the door all the way before. He was in his undergarments.

“I uh… I found this before carnivale,” James mumbled and motioned in the direction of the bed. A rather simple reddish pink dress was neatly laid out there.

“Oh,” said Francis.

James didn’t reply.

“Oh,” said Francis again, when he realised that the reason James wasn’t wearing clothes was because he had been about to put on the dress.

“You can go ahead,” Francis said softly.

James’ face lit up at that.

It took them a while to get James into the dress, but when he finally turned around to face Francis, there was something crackling in the air between them. Francis swallowed. Dressing James in this outfit had already awakened some interest in his groin; the look James gave him now only made his trousers feel tighter.

“What do you think?” James asked, tentatively.

Francis nodded and stepped closer. “Perfect,” he said, before going in for a kiss. James responded eagerly; he was freshly shaven, Francis realised as he rested one hand on James’ cheek. The other wandered to the small of James’ back, pulling him closer, Francis’ fingers trailing across the soft fabric of the dress.

The bulge between James’ legs was unmistakable against Francis’ leg as he navigated them towards the bed.

“Will you…?” James looked at him as he sat down on the side board. “In the dress?”

Francis nodded. “If you want it.”

James blushed, bit his lip, eyes growing dark as he struggled to get off his underwear from under the dress. Francis took off his boots and joined him on the bed a moment later. Another kiss had James melting into his touch. Francis slowly nudged a hand under the layers of the skirt and up James’ thigh. It elicited a sweet moan from him, that Francis wanted to hear more of. He undid his fly and rid himself of his trousers, while James hiked up the skirt to his hips; his dick was lying against his thigh and Francis noticed when James spread his legs, that James’ entrance was slicked up already. He swallowed.

“You got ready for this?” Francis asked hoarsely. James looked up at him with big eyes.

“Wanted to be wet for you.”

Francis felt like he could come undone just from hearing James speak like that.

“I want you now, go slow and… don’t touch me?” James continued, he was giving himself to Francis like this and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to give James what he desired, in turn.

“Are you sure you’re… prepared?” Francis asked. James nodded and gave him the vial of oil from his bedside.

Francis poured some into his hand, then closed his fingers around his prick, making sure he was slicked up properly. He wiped his hand on the sheets and swallowed. Seeing James spread out for him like this was something he might never get used to.

Carefully he lined himself up, the tip of his now achingly hard dick pressed against the tender opening. As he pushed in, James moaned - a deep guttural noise that left his lips parted and his head thrown back in ecstasy. Francis moved, thrust in, slowly but deliberately while he watched James: the way his blush settled on his cheeks, how his chest heaved under the fabric of the dress. The tight heat of him seemed to pull Francis in, not letting him go, once he was sheathed fully inside of James.

He reached out to him, cupping his cheek, pressing a kiss to James’ reddened lips.

“Move,” James panted, and Francis obeyed. He started to roll his hips, an instinctive motion, driving himself deep into James, as if trying to mark him.

Francis shifted slightly with every thrust, trying to find that spot - the one that made James howl with pleasure, that made his eyes glassy and his body seize up. It took a minute, but the reaction was unmistakable, when Francis succeeded. James squeezed tightly around him, cried out into the cool air of the cabin, while his fingers cramped into the sheets at his sides. Francis felt like he could come in that moment - he was close, wouldn’t last much longer, but he clenched his teeth in an effort to control himself.

His next thrust hit that spot again. James made a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob; he pulled Francis down on top of him, fingernails digging into the skin of his back.

Francis’ rhythm sped up. He was close, chasing his release and so caught up in his pleasure that for a moment it didn’t register that James had reached his peak with a shout; he spent all over their thighs and bellies, the dress was soiled and the blush on James’ cheekbones had the same colour as the rosy pink of its hem. It didn’t take Francis a long time to finish - the sight of James, looking up at him with dark eyes full of pleasure and unspoken desire, made up like this and spread out for him. Just for him.

Francis pushed in once more and was done for. He collapsed on top of James, breathing heavily for several long minutes.

When he pulled out, the dress fell back over James’ thighs. He looked elegant and enchanting - like Francis’ wildest desires and most daring wishes come to life.

“Beautiful,” he muttered.

The shy smile and deepening blush he earned for it made his heart clench with something he was afraid to name but that was a problem for later.

In that moment, Francis kissed James and just then, his world was perfect.

[davantagedenuit]

terror ficlet. 200 words ish. my document title for it is “oh no there’s only one bathtub”.

--

"Francis, don't be mulish."

"No, James. You're ill."

"Certainly not. Bridgens removed my plaster a fortnight ago."

"Says he who feebly leans on his cane."

"Feebly? Pardon?"

Blanky clears his throat from the other side of the linen separating the bath from the rest of the tent. "Gentlemen, if neither one nor the both of you take it, I'll have a dip myself while it's still warm."

Before him and James stands the copper tub full of bathing water, so hot still in the cool air, it steams.

"Tom's right," Francis says. He turns to James: "Which is why you should take it."

"And what of you, Francis? You wait for--what? The week next? A fortnight, until we have another occasion to bathe in hot water...?" James says, his brow all arched.

With all his might, Francis wishes he had not traded his pipe and tobacco with their Netsilik saviors. It is not the smoking he misses, as much as having something to do with his fingers rather than fidgetting hopelessly while he searches for words.

"And Mr. Blanky is right: there's room for the both of us," James adds.

Francis groans inwardly. The warm water's mist in the cold air diminishes as time passes. In the Arctic barrens, this water will be cold in barely a half-hour.

It is tempting, he must admit. The men marinating in their Carnivale pot had been right to grasp that enjoyment while it passed. Lord, how long since he has last felt hot water around him.

He looks up at James--wan, pale, his hair plastered to his forehead, his wrist as slender as the cane his fingers grip.

He nods.

[aes-iii]

(i missed day 4—still working on it—so here’s a conciliatory snip of unrelated francis/james from my drafts. part of something longer? one day perhaps. 650ish.)

he has some memory of the conversation, at least: not so all the days at resolution. many are the vaguest impressions, pain and laudanum like links in a chain leading down into the dark. he remembers francis sitting by the bed, of course—sleeping beside him on the mattress or, more frequently, on the floor; reading in a cracked voice from some insufferable tract on the church. others, too: he is sure there were days when john bridgens slept beside him, and blanky, and henry, too. the factor’s wife he remembers, with her eyes and braids like cast iron and the little bowl of raw liver which she pushed into his mouth. her long cool hand at his forehead.

he ought to be concerned, he supposes, that he can’t remember what he’s said. perhaps had francis’s hand not been in his so many days, perhaps could he not recall francis’s mouth at his temple, he might be afraid: but that, at least, there is no question of. this he recalls:

i haven’t even a name, he’d said, not really.

francis, half serious: have mine if you like. for the good it will do you.

coughing on a laugh—blood, decay—francis, are you asking for my hand? rushing with it, then, the room tilt-shifting like a ship about to roll. and francis stroking a thumb gently over his knuckles, as even as the swell.

well, if you’ll have me. something raw in his voice: wounded, showing its teeth. but amused, too: you won’t remember this, james remembers him saying, day after night, a litany. a swallow. i’m told not everyone aspires to be a captain’s wife.

james hums, drags his tongue against his teeth and the spaces between them. i’ll expect to be kept in comfort, he says. the standard of living to which—a cough takes him, shallow, sick-tasting. he doesn’t bother with the end of the thought.

of course, francis is saying, of course. would you like to sleep in an open boat or would you prefer a room four feet by three and freezing? with a lieutenant to kick your walls all night? he’s smiling, james can hear it, and his unoccupied hand settles on james’s chest—away from the wound, where the pain is less. rubs a soft circle.

oh no, says james. no. i want a london apartment and a new silver service and a green velvet gown for the ball. it’s too many words at once; by the time he’s finished there is no air in his lungs.

on my wages? and half pay at that? francis says, still smiling. for a while says nothing more: lifts his hand from james’s chest to push his damp hair from his face, tuck it neatly behind his ear. the shadows are coming up again, james thinks, and the warm promise of sleep.

green velvet, is it, francis says, softly.

yes, james says, already slipping. and a silk sash.

indeed, says francis, all ache and amusement. what a belle you’ll be.

it ought to sting, catch in his open sores and broken teeth, but it doesn’t. he squeezes francis’s hand and slides below.

[khazadspoon]

One Man And His Wardrobe

With so little comfort to be found in such wilds and wastes as the far North, with so few pastimes that did not remind one of the unending dread surrounding all of them, one turned to the most basic of comforts.

One turned to sex.

Well… sex was generally thought of as an act between two people (or more, and James knew a little of that subject though he shared it with very few people). What James had in mind was rather more simple and singular. A one-man-job if you would.

Bridgens had retired for the evening with assurances that James was not, in fact, in need of his services for the rest of the evening. The man was a known sodomite and might have said yes to a proposition but, as a vain man, James was unsure he could cope with another set of eyes on his body at that time. He thought of the agitated bruises, the sting at his hairline and the damned blood threatening to spill from his old wounds and had to fight the urge to weep. He would not weep, not when there was finally something soft to be found.

He reached into the sea chest brought into the Captain’s berth and carefully lifted the dress from it’s confines. The material shimmered and shone in the lamplight. James lay it on his bunk and ran a hand down the bodice, smoothed out the creases, bit his lip as gentle currents of fevered want began to flutter in his stomach. He stripped the waistcoat, the jumper, the undershirt and breeches from his frame, draped them over the back of his chair and unlaced the dress.

When it fell over his head he stifled a low moan. The act of dressing in such a manner was, in and of itself, a sensual experience. To take an item of clothing so at odds with how the world saw oneself was freeing in a way James had long known he needed to feel. The softness of it against his bare skin was a marvel. The sleeves were a tad tight on his arms, and no doubt the stitches would not stand any rigorous movement (which quite eliminated the idea of inviting other parties to the event, whether with the aim to seduce or entertain) but James relished the tightness. It would leave welts on his skin, kind ones of satisfaction instead of punishment. He thought of Les Vesconte and chuckled to himself. No doubt the man would laugh fondly at his appearance - he had seen James dressed in such clothing before and would of course have asked for a dance, and if he was lonely and cold enough in this damnable place he might have asked for more. The idea was quickly set aside; James was doing this for himself, not for another.

The laces were difficult to tie, what with being at his back, but he managed. His fingers caught and ached, his nails brittle and tender. He ignored that, too, and tightened the laces as best he could. Then, with a shiver as his prick began to stiffen between his thighs, he set the skirts to right with shaking hands.

In the cloudy mirror he saw himself standing tall, his neck long and elegant, his hair shining in the light and a rosy glow in his cheeks. He looked well. There was no sickness belied in that mirror, no desperation and despair, only a pretty face in an elegant gown.

James swirled the skirts and pressed his thighs together, tightened his grip on the fabric to press it to his cock and jerked his hips at the sudden friction. It made him gasp. With one hand he reached up and pressed a hand to his chest, rubbed it against his nipple and shuddered. He thought of himself with breasts, found the idea wanting, and set to enjoying the body he had and the delights it held.

His hand was blessedly warm as he sat and plunged it under his skirts. The skin of his thighs became sensitive as he dragged his fingers over the soft hair, traced patterns into the skin at the crease of his groin. His cock jumped, vied for attention as he parted his thighs for better access. With a little breathy sigh he cupped his balls, rolled them in his palm and tugged gently for the thrill of it. His finger pressed just behind and the sigh was louder, pushed from deep in his chest up his throat. When he gripped his cock in one tight fist it was like a punch to his gut, He groaned into one sleeved forearm and shuddered as his fingers squeezes.

Masturbation was a natural act, one James had partaken in many times. He knew all the ways to make his own body sing, knew how to tug his cock and twist his wrist at the head to make his own toes curl and his eyes lose clarity. He arched his back and lay down, let the skirts gather at his hips and reveal his legs, his thighs, his aching cock to the cool air. His hand moved faster, grip loosening a little to aid the action, pearlescent liquid easing the glide of his fingers as his fist dragged up and down his cock.

A litany of curses built behind his teeth, formed thick on his tongue and blasphemous in his mouth. He swallowed them and bit into the fabric of the sleeve, tasted the must and dust and found it didn’t lessen his arousal. Then, acting almost on impulse, he sucked a finger into his mouth and wet it with the curses he thought he had swallowed. He hitched one leg high, bracing his foot on the cabin wall and pressed a finger into-

“Fuck-”

A single curse, not blasphemy but coarse nonetheless. The pressure, the intensity of a single finger in his arse made his cock jerk in his grip. He felt the tug in his belly and knew it wouldn’t be long. He darted a glance over at the mirror, angled to ensure he could see himself on the bed, and drew in a sharp breath.

His skin was pink with the flush of lust, his mouth open on such a pretty ‘o’ that made his lips seem plump and red. The red and gold of the dress shimmered as the lantern flickered and James could see the shadows play across his thighs where the skirts had revealed them. His gaze fixed on the rapid rising and falling of his chest even as they flicked to his hands between his legs.

The telltale tension in his gut began to mount. He pressed his finger deeper, moved it, grit his teeth against the ragged moan in his mouth that tasted of blood and jerked his hips in time with his fist.

He wanted to come, to spill over in his own hand and feel the bone-deep satisfaction that came with it. His toes curled again as he angled his finger a little, bent at the tip and found that little patch of heaven that resided in the human body. With a breath that was more vibration than breath, the orgasm ran over him. His eyes fluttered shut and his hips canted, rose and stopped mid air, a shiver running from stem to stern as pleasure became the centre of his world.

Then, with shivers of cold coming in fast, he withdrew his hands and washed them in the cold basin. The skirts rustled against the sensitive skin of his prick, his thighs, and he had to pause for a moment to let the sensation pass.

The pinching in his ribs announced itself and the bone-deep satisfaction he had been chasing fled from him. He stripped himself bare and shucked on the nightshirt and drawers with a frown. He pushed the mirror until he couldn’t see himself anymore and settled in his cot to at least feign sleep.

[ratcaulker]

@fitzjmes

James wanders about the room and haphazardly discards his overcoat on one of the wooden seats cradled against the stern windows. The large cabin, previously shared by Sir John and himself has slowly, during the recent weeks, slipped into disarray.  Fitzjames spends more time within the four walls of this study, planning, calculating, and thinking, than he does outside. It gives Mr Bridgens very little opportunity to rearrange any misplaced objects back to their rightful places. Sir John would not tolerate such disorder one bit, but he is not here to dictate on such matters anymore. And James certainly does not have time to think upon the cleanliness of his surroundings.

Mr Hickey, as it seems, is a very respectful man and speaks with careful candour of his Captain. A quality which Fitzjames respects, undoubtedly, as he likes to think himself very much the same. However, the news relayed to him is anything but pleasant, and his features twist into a strict frown upon the discreet mention of Francis’ own needs. With a clenched jaw, the new Captain takes a seat opposite of the caulker. He lays his hands flat on the table and heaves out a sigh, which rattles through his body almost violently.

“I will make sure to supply you with what food you need, Mr Hickey, as it is not up to either of us to determine the real circumstance of the Terror’s supplies,” James assures calmly, just as Mr Bridgens walks in with tea for the both of them. “Thank you, Mr Bridgens. You may leave it there, I’m sure we’ll be able to pour it for ourselves,” he dismisses the man quickly, as to not let him analyse the situation any more than absolutely mandatory. “As I was saying, I will have the supplies ready and packed for you before your return to the Terror,” Fitzjames returns to his agenda, eyes fixed on the tea as he pours out a cup first for Mr Hickey, then for himself. In the Arcitc, he finds, it is easier to disregard the strict societal rules one might have followed back in good old England.

“You did well speaking up of your concerns,” he praises and sips at his tea, which is quickly cooling down. Mr Hickey’s words stir something in his chest; a tiny blossom of pride. Though Fitzjames recognises the looming danger of the situation, he cannot help but feel a certain pride that men on the Terror trust in his leadership. But he has to remind himself, that out of the two, Crozier still is the senior, more experienced Captain, and that it is his duty to stand for his honour. “But Captain Crozier is an Arctic veteran; he is experienced, wise and is a brilliant leader,” James says, emphasising as if reading directly from a book, “It does not do well to sow doubt into the men on his ship, do you understand, Mr Hickey?”

“As for the Captain’s personal lack of resources, I can spare you a bottle or two.” He should not be encouraging Francis like this, he knows. But James does not wish to deal with the consequences of denying Crozier his drink. Not yet, when the wounds of Sir John’s death are still healing, and he finds himself often so very tired. “It is best we do not disturb his habits as of yet. Perhaps later, when we have a better understanding of the situation we are in,” he adds, mainly referencing the loss of Captain Franklin at the claws of that… bear. “I thank you for your honesty.” James sips his tea again, thoughtful. “Is there something else I could help ease off your mind?”

‘…Help ease off my mind?’

Hickey almost laughs aloud at that, but stifles his bitter reaction. His hands fold over the cup of tea. He’s excessively careful how he holds it: he’d do badly to spill the tea or break something so nice. It’s right nice of the captain to have served him, as if Hickey was someone of importance himself.

Where do I begin? I’m stuck in a world of ice for the unforeseeable future. My lover left me and a religious fanatic is breathing down my neck, watching my every move. I’m tired and cold and something out there is hunting us.

No, there’s nothing the likes of you can do for me.

‘Now, I don’t want you to think me a superstitious sailor, sir. I’m not a bit impressed by stories of ghosts and other imaginary beasties. But there’s something bad coming down in the Terror and it ain’t something I can describe easily. It’s like the very walls of the ship are dripping with a nasty kind of feeling.’

He sucks in his breath and takes a moment to drink. He eyes Fitzjames, taking in both the slight disarray of the room and the dark circles under the man’s eyes. Seems like the boy captain hasn’t been feeling so great, either.

‘It’s paranoia’, Hickey says lowly. ‘Won’t be too long before we’re all at each other’s throats. Some of the men are scared to work outside in the open, or even worse, inside the dark of the ship. Not that it bothers me, but I notice these things. Even the officers are snappish, which usually means something’s very wrong.’

Hickey smiles self-depreciatingly.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, sir, but I’m from the kind of family situation most people try to hide.’ He pauses.

‘I’ve lived most me life in cramped conditions. Tiny, narrow streets. It’s dead easy to sense fear in a mass. When something goes wrong and you’re stuck in a crowd, you have to keep moving or you’ll get trampled. That sort of thing, you know? But we’re all stuck here. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. And that’s been messing with people’s heads, I think.’

[henrylevesconte]

For the prompt ask i'd love to see: 26 or 108 for Crozier/Fitzjames , and 60 for Peglar/Bridgens :D

oh these are so good. I’ve decided to put these in two parts so bear (tuunbaq) with me

send me a number and pairing and I’ll write something

Crozier/Fitzjames, minor language, generally just turned into fluff

108. “Ididn’t want you to see this.”

“I didn’t want you to see this,” Francis Crozier groaned,pulling up his blankets to cover his sweaty and miserable face. “In fact, if Iremember correctly, James, I ordered you to leave me the hell alone.” JamesFitzjames smiled down at the Captain, despite making a promise to the older manas he withdrew from the bottle, he had let his curiosity get the better of him.It had been nearly two weeks since he heard a whisper of Francis’ condition. Hecame to him that night to briefly remove Jopson from his station (and boy didthe steward not enjoy his dismissal from duty!)

“You may ask Le Vesconte, but I’m not very good at takingorders when the man I love is involved.” James sat in the cramped cabin, takinga well-worn rag from a well-placed bowl of water, squeezing it before dabbingit gently to the older man’s brow. Francis groaned softly, like a child with anaching belly. His body most likely ached beyond what the younger man could evenimagine.

“Man you love, eh? Piss poor time to tell me, James.”  The once dignified Captain wheezed, nearlybending him in two. James’ quickly forced him back straight in bed. Francislooked up at him with bloodshot blue eyes, he was in living hell all for thecontinuation of their expedition. He remained seated with his knees on thefloor, using one hand to cool Crozier’s face, the other to rub his chest insoft circles.

“I did tell you before this but-,” but they were both drunk,and lord was this not the proper thing to say to a man overcoming an addiction.“But it does not matter now. I’m filling in for Jopson this evening, the lasttime I saw him he was scurrying around trying to eat from one of the tins whilepress your shirts simultaneously. Really that lad deserves a promotion afterall of this.” James smiled even more as Francis let out a hoarse laugh. Francislooked so much older than he remembered, so much weaker. In an instant he hadgone from the melancholic dignitary next door to a shell of a man, fightinghimself. Fitzjames felt pangs of guilt for the grief he had caused him over theyears, how he aided  his addiction.

“He just might get one yet.” Francis wet his lips, situatinghimself to face James. “Tell me a story, and not your Chinese sniper story orthe bird shite island story. I don’t wanna know what’s been going around here.If you’re going to stay and look at me like this, I need it.” The younger manscoffed playfully at him. He loved the man’s adamant detest for his favoritewar stories, and he delighted in tormenting Francis with it to no end.  

“Have I ever told you the tale of how I owned a cheetah forsome time, our ships mascot? Really Le Vesconte owned the beast since hepurchased it off a wealthy Ottoman trader.”

“You owned a cheetah?” Francis raised one brow at him indisbelief and minor bleak acceptance that Commodore James Fitzjames was exactlythat type of man.

“Yes, I did. Co-owned and co-captained with it. You wanted astory, Francis, you best let me continue.”

~~~~~~~

James stayed with him for the rest of the evening,recounting tales from his personal repertoire and keeping the sick man in goodspirits until he managed to sink into a restless sleep. The younger man,already exhausted from the weight of his responsibilities and the growingstrain on his body, managed in besides Francis. Fitzjames was not as immortalas he had liked to think, as blotches of blood poured from his scalp at randomtimes, a telling sign of the onset of scurvy. He was terrified for their futuretogether, for the men of the expedition, and for himself. It’s partially why hesought out the Irishman that evening. Now curled up in the most awkward ofpositions, he felt at peace, even if the world seemed to be falling apart, thesteady breath of his lover kept him whole.

[lafiametta]

@graduatedpillowmonster wanted to hear more about how Henry and John’s dinner date went! (Does it count as a spoiler if I tell you right now that the coq au vin turned out perfectly?)

It was dark by the time he pulled up next to the house, which looked almost exactly as he had imagined it would: neat and modestly sized, tucked a little way back from the street, a pair of leafy oaks framing the stone path that led up to the front porch. Light spilled from the front windows, warm gold beacons shining into the night.

Henry grabbed the gift from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cool of the evening air. His stomach fluttered unsteadily – it had been doing that for most of the day – and as he made his way along the path he tried to take several deep breaths to calm himself. It was only John, he told himself. It was just like dropping by the bookstore, which he did all the time. But it wasn’t really, not if he was being honest, because he had never once walked into that bookstore thinking that he was likely to end up kissing John Bridgens or – in what was now looking like a distinct possibility – spending the night in his bed. Still, he knew it would be foolish to go in with any kind of expectations of what might happen; if John wanted to take this slow, which could easily be the case, he was more than willing to wait. 

And then he remembered the feeling of John’s mouth, so warm and eager as it coaxed against his, which only caused his heart to dance more skittishly against the tight confines of his ribs. 

He pressed the doorbell and then ran a quick hand over his hair, glancing down at himself for a moment to make sure he was halfway presentable. (Not that there was much to be done if he wasn’t, he realized.) 

The door swung open to reveal John, looking sharply handsome in a white slim-fitting button-down and dark jeans, a chef’s apron tied around his waist. He smiled warmly, his hand reaching out to clasp Henry’s shoulder as he leaned in to give him a small welcoming kiss upon his cheek. 

“Please, come in.” He stepped back to invite Henry inside, and it was only then that Henry remembered the bouquet he was holding in his hand.

“Lovely,” John said as Henry offered it to him, looking a bit surprised but accepting it with a gesture of practiced grace. 

(At first, Henry hadn’t really known what to bring: wine was pretty much out of the question, as John knew so much more about it than he did, and buying a bottle of liquor was also tricky, mostly because he didn’t know what kind John preferred – although he suspected his taste ran towards the higher end of things. It was only after several other failed ideas that he hit upon the notion of flowers, which was, admittedly, a rather unconventional thing to give a man, but he thought John of all people would appreciate the sentiment. At the florist’s he had spent some time looking over all his options, finally deciding on a combination of gardenias, lilac-colored dahlias, and peonies so dark and velvety purple they looked almost black. “Lucky girl,” the florist had said. Henry had just smiled, saying nothing in return.)

John took his jacket and then excused himself for a moment so that he could find something to put the flowers in. “Would you like wine?” he asked before he disappeared into the kitchen. “I’ve got both red and white.”

“Whatever’s open,” Henry answered back.

While John was gone, he took the opportunity to have a look around: the space felt warm and lived-in, with touches of forest green and navy mixed with dark wood accents. A fireplace took up part of one side of the living room, the mantle topped with decorative antiques, but the prominent feature, which covered two walls nearly floor to ceiling, were the books. There seemed to be just about every kind imaginable: slim paperbacks and hardcovers with worn-edged dust jackets and even a few leather-bound volumes with gold-stamped titles written across the spine. Henry stopped himself from examining them too closely – he wasn’t at the bookstore, after all – and instead allowed himself to think about what such a collection might represent, a lifetime of words hand-picked and arranged with care, waiting patiently along the shelves like so many old, familiar friends. 

Music was playing softly from a set of speakers in the corner, what sounded to his ears like old-time piano jazz, and he quickly spotted a turntable just nearby, a red-labeled vinyl record spinning underneath the plexiglass cover. It shouldn’t have surprised him – it wasn’t as if he had imagined John making Spotify playlists or asking Alexa to play his favorite album – but still he smiled, slightly charmed by his discovery. 

John reappeared with two glasses of white wine and offered one to Henry. “Cheers,” he said, holding out his glass, and Henry raised his own drink to tap against it, the tiny crystal note left to vibrate in the air.

The wine, he was certain, was delicious, but it was hard to focus on the taste when all he could think about was how close John was standing and how completely delectable his arms looked with his shirt sleeves casually cuffed up to the elbow. His breath began to turn heavy, charged by their unacknowledged proximity. Still, he knew he couldn’t just keep standing there silently holding his glass; he needed to say something interesting, or just anything at all. 

“It smells wonderful,” Henry finally said, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t exaggerating; he could catch the scent of rosemary and garlic as well as something rich and savory he could only hope was bacon.  

John shrugged. “Not much to it, really. You throw everything in the pot and let the ingredients do most of the work.”

They made their way towards the kitchen, where the mouthwatering aroma only intensified, and Henry heard his stomach growl a little in response. The room itself was warmly-lit, with gray cabinets and white-tile countertops, all of it looking remarkably neat and tidy despite the work going on. A cast iron pot sat on the stove simmering away and there was a large leafy salad on the central island. John grabbed a thick dishcloth and pulled a pan of herb-roasted potatoes from the oven, quickly scooping the contents into a serving dish. 

Henry leaned against the counter, gently setting his wine glass down. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Would you mind taking the salad and potatoes to the table? The wine and bread are already there.” John turned his attention to the pot, grabbing a spoon and giving it a quick stir. “The coq au vin’s nearly done, so I’ll be right behind you.”

As Henry walked in, he noticed that the lights in the dining room had been dimmed lower, while a trio of candles flickered in the center of the table, casting a golden glow over their surroundings. Henry’s flowers were there as well, splayed open to fullness in a porcelain vase, looking darkly beautiful and perfect, as if they had somehow been arranged to match the room. The long rectangular dining table was already set for two, but rather than being placed across from each other, John had put the settings along the adjacent sides of a corner, a subtle gesture that struck Henry as a touch suggestive in its intimacy. (Of course, he had never been invited for dinner like this before, so it was entirely possible he was overthinking things.)

He glanced out the wide windows into the back yard; it was quiet and still, the moonlight softly illuminating a pair of patio chaises and the raised bed of a small kitchen garden.

True to his word, John followed soon after him, carrying the pot with both hands and depositing it carefully on the table, a dishcloth wrapped around the handles to protect him from the heat. He served them both, first by pulling out the larger pieces of chicken thigh with a set of tongs and then by ladling out the dark-colored broth, which was filled with mushrooms, carrots, and chunks of bacon. They helped themselves to the side dishes and to thick slices of bread, and John made sure Henry’s wine glass was filled once more before he topped off his own.  

“I’m glad you came,” he said, catching Henry’s eye over the rim of his glass, and then he smiled, tiny fragments of candle light reflecting in his gaze. 

“Me too,” Henry replied, his face growing warm under such gentle scrutiny. 

The food, naturally, was amazing, which he told John over and over again, and it was all Henry could do not to want to wolf it down as quickly as possible. But he soon found himself following John’s lead, slowing down and pausing so he could savor each bite, each flavor, each sip of wine, enjoying himself in the moment rather than rushing towards some unseen finish. The conversation began to flow easily, any lingering nerves or awkwardness smoothed over, aided, perhaps, by the pouring of more wine. They talked about themselves in ways they hadn’t ever really been able to at the bookstore, in ways that were more personal and real than Henry was completely used to, but it wasn’t hard to talk that way with John, not at all. They talked about books, too – it was almost an inalterable habit at this point – and for a while went back and forth about the depiction of female characters in the first few chapters of The Age of Innocence, which Henry was nearly half-way through, before finally deciding that they would simply have to agree to disagree when it came to the works of Edith Wharton.

John surprised him with the news that he had also prepared dessert, quickly heading back to the kitchen and returning with two small dishes of crème brûlée, their sugared tops scorched to a golden brown. He showed Henry how to tap the caramelized surface with the back of his spoon so that it cracked evenly enough for him pick up tiny bits of it with each bite of the custard. 

Perhaps it was the combination of the food and the company and the late-growing hour, but they soon found themselves talking about past relationships – or at least Henry found himself talking about his past relationships – and then he realized he didn’t know that much about John, at least not about that side of him. And there was something he wanted to know, something that had gnawed at him for some time. He hadn’t said anything before, but now, his inhibitions lowered just enough by the wine, he gave in to the desire to ask. 

“It’s just…” He paused, before finally finding some of the words he had been searching for. “You’re a catch, to be honest. Handsome. Educated. You own your own business, your own home. I guess I don’t understand why you’re still…” He didn’t quite want to say it, not when it was going to sound so blunt. 

“Alone?” John offered. 

Henry nodded. 

“You remember the man I told you about, the one I ran the store with?”

Of course Henry remembered. John had never provided much beyond the barest outlines, but from the way he spoke about him, Henry could sense that their relationship had meant a great deal to John and that the impact of his death had been profound.

“Michael was my partner, in every way imaginable,” he continued. “I was young when I met him, like you, but even then we knew that it was something special. We bought the store together, we bought this house together, and after he died, I… well, I wasn’t really looking. I needed time.”

“And now… you’re looking?”

“You could say that.” He smiled softly, his eyes downcast, and then raised them to meet Henry’s gaze. “But from where I’m sitting, I don’t know that I need to look much further.”

They sat there for a moment, neither of them speaking, the air around them charged with something powerful and heavy, something that curled itself around Henry’s throat and pricked hot along his skin. He understood everything John was saying and the invitation that was being laid out before him. A few months ago he would have immediately taken it up and enjoyed what he had been offered, but for some reason he felt the urge to wait, if only for a little while, now understanding that the pleasure to be had in the anticipation was sometimes as great as that to be had in the act itself.

So he cleared his throat, temporarily letting the spell break, and then stood and made an offer to start on the dishes, which was only fair, he said, considering that John did all the cooking. John protested a little – Henry was a guest, he didn’t need to be cleaning up his messes – but eventually gave in, but only with the compromise that he do the drying if Henry insisted on the washing. 

They stood side by side at the sink, each plate and glass scrubbed clean and handed over to be dried, until there was nothing left, and Henry turned off the faucet, the kitchen returning to a steady hum of silence. Saying nothing, he turned a little towards John and reached out to slide a hand along his waist, feeling the warmth of him underneath the fabric of his shirt. He took a step closer until their bodies came up against each other, until they were nearly face to face. But instead of kissing him, he turned so he could graze his nose along John’s cheek, his touch featherlight as he breathed in deeply. 

“Are you sure, Henry?” There was a rough strain in John’s voice, and he smiled a little to think he was the cause for it. 

“Completely,” he murmured.

John’s hand quickly found his, their fingers lacing together with ease, as if simply returning to where they were meant to be all along. 

“Shall we go upstairs, then?”