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Chapter Text

May, 1846

        Harry Goodsir examined the bandages on George Chambers's head and decided that it was adequate enough. The poor boy went down to the hold to fetch the ship's cat and tripped over some misplaced coiled ropes and hit his head on the edge of a crate, hard. He also spilled the bowl of tinned food that he brought as a bribe all over himself.

        "And the critter who always avoided me finally came up, just to use me as its mess table." Chambers said, frowning at the empty space behind Goodsir in annoyance.  

        Goodsir said: "You might feel disoriented for a few days. I will let the captain know, in case you find it difficult to speak up about reducing your duties."

        Chambers beamed at Goodsir: "Thank you, doctor! I'm glad I found you instead of doctor Stanley in the sickbay tonight, I'd rather bleed meself to death otherwise."

        "Come now, you are in no danger of that." Goodsir gave Chambers a light pat on the side of his arm, "The doctor doesn't bite."

        Chambers complained: "You don't know if you are freezing to death in a snow squall or being treated by a doctor, really. You care about the crew, Doctor Stanley doesn't even pretend to. Small wonder that he's got no love from us." 

        Before Goodsir could think of a reply, the boy's face tensed and the frown was wiped off completely. Chambers's expression assumed one of deliberate nonchalance. He stood up and bit his lower lip: "Thank you, doctor."

        With that, the boy slinked away. Goodsir turned to follow him and found Stanley looming by the doorway like a malevolent spirit, who moved aside slightly to let Chambers pass. Chambers lowered his head and mumbled "Doctor Stanley" as he did so. Stanley hummed in acknowledgement, there was no discernable expression on his face. He took a chair, sat down at the operation table and started to read.

        Goodsir washed his hands. Before going back to his cabin, however, he dallied by the doorway and looked back.  He backtracked and took a seat opposite to Stanley. He put his clasped hands on the table and leant forward.

        "I'm sure he will revise his opinion if only he gets to know you better." Goodsir said.

        Stanley turned a page and dismissed it: "What a ship's boy thinks is of no significance."

        "I don't agree with him, if you care." Goodsir said.

        Stanley looked up, his pale eyes betrayed nothing, he regarded Goodsir for a few seconds and then returned to his book. Goodsir could tell that his eyes weren't moving however, but seemed to have fixated on a point, Goodsir did not believe that he was actually reading. 

        "And.. forgive me for being presumptuous, doctor, but I don't think it's love that you might require." Goodsir suggested softly, tentatively, "If you are ever tired of writing in your journal or feel that you wish for company other than books, I'm always here."

        "Journals have the admirable quality of being silent, mister Goodsir." Stanley said, "And books don't try to be on a first name basis when you read it."

        "I can be silent." Goodsir said, and then, "Nothing needs to change."

        Stanley let the book splay out on the table and held it down with his crossed arms, he was reading again. Goodsir waited for a moment, watching. When Stanley read, he was rather like a graveyard statue with marble for flesh, the softness of curves that were integral to the human form deceiving; he was utterly still, other than his saccading eyes, unless he was turning over a page, which he also effected with the slightest possible manipulation of his index finger. Goodsir sighed and decided to find some employment before turning in. It was a good time to familiarise himself with Doctor McDonald's notes on the Esquimaux customs. He had read them already but his notes required organising.

        An hour or so passed, Stanley got up and put back the chair. He lingered by the table opposite Goodsir. He stood there for so long without any movement, Goodsir was compelled to look up at him, meeting the doctor's eyes. His face was about the same height as the lamp and was very close. As a consequence, it appeared to be unusually bright, as if his skin glowed and his hair was aflame, so accustomed to the dimness, Goodsir had to wince. Stanley's half of the sickbay was plunged into the dark by the shadow he casted. It was so enormous it had no discernable edges, it filled the entire space.

        "Your offer is appreciated." Stanley said, quietly, then he blinked and looked away, as if a curious thought just occurred to him, "Goodnight, mister Goodsir."

        "Goodnight." Goodsir nodded.

        He watched Stanley's tall form retreating from the lamplight, melting into the dimness, and then it disappeared from view. Down the darkened hallway, his footsteps gradually diminished.

Chapter Text

February, 1846

        Upon a piece of paper, Stephen Stanley wrote down the following:

        His training in anatomy can be rated adequate. He is a knowledgeable and insightful naturalist without the arrogance and blatant eccentricity often present in such persons. He is diligent in his duties. I respect him as a junior colleague. 

        I am not completely against his personality. It is unseemly for a gentleman to be so effete and timorous in his conduct and tone of voice, but this trait does have its uses when the patients are distressed. It is not unpleasant to be in his presence, although not enjoyable either.

        It perhaps has become a pastime of mine, watching him work. Curiously, it produces the same effect as looking at a bird. Long hours could easily be passed without pain and agitation observing a dovekie. He resembles one, in the colouring, temperament and mannerism, perhaps here lies the explanation of this effect. It is somewhat amusing to see him fumble when he notices. He is a useful assistant but requires supervision. 

        He cannot be said to be a delightful person, too garrulous. Tolerably good looking, when he does not go without sleep again, whereupon he takes on a ghastly aspect and his smiles become forced. They look better when they are produced naturally, by accident. Best when he thinks no one is looking. 

        There are no particularly attractive attributes in his physical appearance that I can observe. He is too short and his whiskers are more comical than handsome. His eyes are too soft, too expressive and too effeminate, bordering on irritating. The lines of his face are too severe, his skin too easily chaffed by the wind and his face too prone to blushing, which does him no favours. He is neat, at least, despite the hair. The only saving grace in his overwhelming mediocrity.

        There is nothing particularly of note, nothing extraordinary, regarding this person. Nothing worthy of praise, certainly, and plenty to criticise. There is nothing special about him. You have finished your cursory examination, of his ability, his character, his appearance. There is nothing that appeals to you in any way. You are forced to share a sickbay with him in the past year, or otherwise tolerating his presence in the great cabin. Man is a creature of habits, you are used to his presence, any change is bound to create some disturbance. Without an assistant, the surplus work you have to cover is increasing your stress. While looking at him feels similar to looking at birds, contemplating the stuffed birds does not seem to quite replicate the same feeling. His absence simply deprived you of this c̶o̶m̶f̶o̶r̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ (crossed out) distraction. 

        The explanation is plain. There is nothing to cogitate about. There is no puzzle. You know very well that this mood will arise without cause, whether he should be absent for a week or not.

        This is not because you

        I do not 

        Stanley frowned. He squeezed the paper into a ball and discarded it. Outside, a blizzard was raging. The weather showed no sign of relenting its efforts. He was safe from the elements, the sylvester stove was pumping heat from below. The sickbay was empty, cold, and painfully, painfully bare. In its lack of motion it seemed the backdrop of a painting: abstract, unreal. Reality was just out of reach. Like licking around a bad tooth, he wondered about the words that he could not put on paper, ideas that he could not manifest in his mind. Fire might cleanse them, secrets shall remain secrets when they were a smear of ash, but thoughts were immortal once they were brought into being, and sentiments were wounds that could never heal.

Chapter Text

February, 1848

        Rain slid off his skin, wind circumvented him, a sudden gust toppled his hat and sent it backwards. The world was in motion, yet he was still, pinned in place by his heaviness. Between the brief lag of mental realisation and physical mobilisation, Stephen Stanley was struck by his imperturbability. What was he expecting? Rain cannot soak him to reach his bloodstream: canals of blood so tame they might well be lapidified. Wind could not ruffle his skin as it would water, teasing out wavelets and ripples. He turned to fetch his hat, which was tumbling down the street as he walked briskly after it. With each gust the hat flew further, stolen under his clutch the moment he swooped down to catch it. It was comical. Late afternoon, Alfred road, a middle aged man with receding hairline running after his hat. A few pedestrians walked on the other side of the street. No one offered help: spare him that indiginity at least. Stanley ran a few steps, leather soles clattered over slick cobbles, his wet hair stuck to his scalp. Then he stopped and watched his hat tumbling down, being steered hither and thither by the flirtatious incitation of the wind. A moment, then he turned on his heels. He went back to his lodging with his hair soaked. He did not care.

        His soul, if he had one, would be murky. The sediment was never given a chance to settle. Perhaps the heaviness in his bones was what made kneeling easy. To settle between Harry Goodsir's legs came as natural as breathing. No, he mused, it's more natural than that. 

        His cabin was almost completely engulphed in gloom, lingering twilight came through the prisms in the corridor, candles and lamps were yet to be lit. The officers were mostly on Terror now, the purser was playing chess with Bridgens. They had an hour, perhaps less. He could see Goodsir clearly enough, the colours were muted. The assistant surgeon sat in the chair, in his shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat, his bare legs in the dark reminded Stanley of moonlight over a pool of blood. He took Goodsir's sex in his mouth, it felt as if a mild Spring day was resting on his tongue and filling the hollow of his cheeks. Goodsir put his hand on Stanley's head, not to push him down on his member or as encouragment, but to pet him. Wide, gentle strokes, over his scalp, his nape, like how a mother might, sending her son to sleep, when tears still streaked the boy's face, whose dried trails would be erased by the same hand come morning. He wouldn't force Stanley's pace even as he was bucking his hips involuntarily and his breathing had grown frantic. His hand remained soothing as he came undone in Stanley's mouth, with more force and rigidity in it perhaps, as it struggled within itself. Stanley thought it amusing. He did not like to swallow another man's spend, but he thought it easier to clean up this way.

         It was Stanley who could not figure out how to be gentle, even if he was the man in the more compromising position. 

        "Won't you touch me, at least?" It came to Stanley from above, like the broken whisper of an angel.

        Stanley looked up, moving only his eyes: whatever strength left in Goodsir had departed, he lolled, sinking into the chair, his legs had parted wider, a flower blooming, unfurling its lips, coaxed open by the warm air of spring, by Stanley's breathing. His eyes glinted as they held Stanley's. He looked deflated, if anything. And it was not simply the relaxation effect of their indecency.

        "You... you never touch my... well, unnecessary places." Goodsir said.

        "Do you want me to?" Stanley asked.

        "Not if you don't wish it." Goodsir said, hastily, his hand on Stanley's head had fell onto his shoulder like a bird shot down, "I understand that attachment expressed in that manner doesn't come easily to you. It's not important."

        Stanley gauged him. The hand on his shoulder seemed to grow heavy. The smile he saw was forced. He could tell, since the man seemed to always forget to manipulate his brows in cooperarion with his lips. And even then the smile only went half ways. It was less encouraging and reassuring than blatantly pleading.

        "I feel that you are... performing a duty, almost. You don't have to do this if you don't like it." Goodsir said. 

        Stanley sank down to rest on his heels, not breaking eye contact with Goodsir, however. His own mind was opaque, bleary eyes gazing into a bottle of iodine. He recalled his wife and it occured to him that an act of this nature had never been anything other than duty.

        He simply did not know how.

        The hand, soft, warm, full of strength, came to rest on his cheek.

        "It's alright." Goodsir said, softly, leaning forward and settled close.

        Stanley laid his hand on Goodsir's left knee as if he was touching the surface of the moon. Irregular solidity wrapped in supple skin stretched taut, its underside was soft, the skin slack, a singular spot of warmth. He was a physician and a naval surgeon, he had palpated more knees than he could recall: arthritis, cartilage erosion, dislocation. But that structure suddenly became alien to him. Its anatomical names ceased to matter and he could not proceed as he was taught to in medical school. He was not looking for an ailment or learning its anatomy. He did not know how he was supposed to touch it. He pondered as he caressed Goodsir's knee, exploratory. Goodsir looked on.

        An idea came, from whence Stanley could not tell. Perhaps it was nature, an instinct that he had expelled out of him making a return. Keeping his hand wrapped around Goodsir's knee, he scooped forward and kissed the other man's inner thigh. Above, in the increasing darkness, he could discern a hitch in Goodsir's breathing, the small sound fell over his head like a withered petal. Stanley caught himself smiling into Goodsir's tender flesh, it was like smiling against water, so he kissed him again, further up this time, following the femoral artery. 

        Goodsir whispered his christian name: everything they said in the dark could only be whispers. 

        Asking: would he do it again? Stanley ran his free hand under Goodsir's shirt: furred abdomen, subcutaneous fat over tender entrails and on the sides of his torso, dipping under his probbing obediently and molded to his hand. he could feel Goodsir's ribcage expand and his stomach rose sharply as he inhaled. He kissed him again, almost pressing his face to Goodsir's groin, smelling lye, musk and semen. Skin this far up the thigh was surprisingly silky, the flesh plump. Was no part of this man's body not soft?

        "Stephen." Goodsir said. He sounded as if he was in disbelief.

        But would he do it again?

        Wider and wider, Stanley caught himself smiling, he hid it in Goodsir's thigh. He supposed that he was as happy as he could ever be, yet his logic could not explain this terrible heaviness over his heart, illusory knuckles sank deep into it, kneading, grinding, like blunt teeth, trading spasmatic fury for glum insistence. The agony of which knocked the air straight out of his lungs. He felt that his every organ was being strangled by rebellious veins and arteries. But wider and wider he smiled, and he frowned, and he was rigid with tension.

        The hand, the hand, it led him up by the jaw to face its owner.

        "What's on your mind?" Goodsir asked, concerned.

        "Nothing. It is just my mind." Stanley answered, emotion did not tint his voice, so that his pain would not either.

        "Will you feel better if you try to formulate it?" Goodsir asked. He brough the other hand up too to cup Stanley's face proper, his thumbs rested before Stanley's ears, stroking the skin beneath his right thumb as one would a small feather.

        "It's nothing, mister Goodsir." Stanley said, dismissive. He slipped a measure of his sickbay harshness in the delivery.

        Goodsir leant forward even further, so much so that their noses were inches apart, most of his face was almost out of focus at such proximity. "Please." He said.

        Stanley bridged the distance to kiss him, he was tall, it didn't take much reaching. Almost as soon as their lips made contact and Goodsir's beard tickled his face, Goodsir pulled away, kept him down with his hands.

        "Don't hide your pain so," Goodsir entreated, "Not from me, at least."

        The agony intensified, as Stanley looked up at Goodsir. His face open and frought with worry, his thick brows tortured. 

        He remembered a goldcrest the cat brought in one day, the size of a thumb even with the tail figured in. He picked it up easily, admiring its olive plumage, its beak resembled the point of a bodkin. There was no fear of hurting it further, no delicate handling. It had already suffered the cat's kiss of death. What could he put to words but bitterness and venom, how could he offer his caress but with a claw? Goodsir was alive, he was too alive. He was right in front of him, in a state of undress, asking for him to pinch and fondle, and Stanley did not know what to do with him.

        His longing was a crack in the ceiling, he stared at it, falling asleep.

        "I am terribly tempted to kiss you right now, Stephen." Goodsir said, his playful cheekiness effaced, "But I won't."

        Stanley frowned. Goodsir's hand smoothed that frown away.

        "You can hurt me." Stanley admitted quietly, he had not yet put the thought into concrete words even in the privacy of his own mind, "I no longer care only for myself. And I cannot affect what might befall you in anyway."

        Goodsir held his face with both hands as if a book, his dark eyes focused on Stanley, inquisitive, flickering, small rapid movement. Then he smiled, shyly, looking down, as if he had read something delightful. 

        He said: "When my brother studied in Leipzig, I asked him to write every day. The little boy who fancied himself my second shadow and stepped on my heels was alone, friendless, in a foreign city. If anything untoward was to happen, I could not even help him, although I love him dearly. My agency of my own happiness was taken from me. It's scary, losing control over something we care about."

        Stanley rested his arms losely over Goodsir's thighs, still looking up: "I'm at your mercy now. I think."

        "We are alright." Goodsir said, stroking his hair anew, caressing his forehead as if he could dispell the fever that dwelled there and burnt forever, "There's nothing to worry about."

        "Was that a satisfactory answer to you?" Stanley asked.

        "If that's all you are willing to share." Goodsir said.

        A beat, Stanley stared, Goodsir chuckled and lowered his head to kiss him.

        It pained him like nothing else. He was too old to feel this way, he mused, and he was too old to kneel for such a long time. As vulnerable as an oyster, he parted his lips for Goodsir. There was a temptation: holding out his hand so he could get hurt as effortlessly as a child, so he could forget how to fall gracefully when he stumble. To fall flat on his face or head over heels, to clamber up but bruised with yearning. Grazed elbows and scraped palms, small stones sticking to his abrasions: these came to him easily then. It was easier to learn lessons than unlearn them, afterall. He wished that Goodsir could be anything but gentle: beat him, bleed him, litter his ruined body with contusions. Then, his outside could match his inside. Goodsir's care was a hailstorm, there was tenderness in its violence, his heart ached sweetly as it bloomed in green and purple.

        In the dark, Goodsir held him and took his weight, as he relaxed. Arms around his neck and thighs squeezed his sides with rare jealousy, Goodsir's embrace was as soft as marrow. He laid the shell of his ear over Goodsir's chest, as it rose and fell, rose and fell, he listened in to the tidal breathing of a sea arm.

        Goodsir's stomach growled in protest, a gurgling whiny sound. Stanley let out a small laugh at this, Goodsir too, holding him closer, he said: "This is terribly embarassing... but as long as I can still suffer minor indignities, all is well."

        A lull.

        No part of the ship could ever be fully silent. There was always sound all around them, talking, walking, laughing. The officers would be back any time now.

        "I'm at your mercy as well, you know." Goodsir said, his voice hushed, "Everything. Everything."

        Stanley could not see. Goodsir put his chin over Stanley's head and stared into the darkness in front of him, at where the half-burnt candle stood, pale against the bulkhead like the ghost of a flame, the shade of a daguerreotype's highlight.

        "You hurt me too." He mouthed. 

        So that only the silence could hear.

Chapter Text

July, 1847

        John used to abuse Harry Goodsir relentlessly in brotherly good humour, regarding how his affections were too easily won: a fruit begging to be plucked, a moist muzzle pressed eagerly to a stranger's palm. Don't give yourself away so lightly , he chided, laughing, if i don't know you better, I'll say that you are flippant . Are you a bee, Harry? Restless, making a career out of burglarising the heart of flowers? Lo and behold, we raised a little libertine.

        Goodsir was eleven and he was cultivating snake's head fritillaries and plucking flowers to impress a girl five houses away, who was three years his senior, a child herself, but considered him an infant. He decided that he was in love, when he tripped over thin air and fell face down in a puddle. The girl helped him up: her knees bent slightly, the fringes of her dress touched the cobbles and darkened with wetness, she smiled and Goodsir saw the blossoming of forty flowers with mother-of-pearls petals, she righted him - who was half a head shorter - and brushed the dirt on his hands and face and knees away. Off you go now, Harry . She said, goodnaturedly. Goodsir blushed, he had known her his whole life, caught dragon flies with her by the burn, but she suddenly seemed a different person, even her name eluded him. He went home, sat down, and wrote embarrassing letters. Comparing golden hair with Laburnum alpinum, eyes with Myosotis scorpioides, her presence with the welcoming shade of an oak on a balmy day, and that he'd want nothing better than to walk along the beach with her. The girl ripped open the envelope and read it in front of him, laughed, without malice. She led him by the hand along the beach, looking for stones and shells; months later, Goodsir was sent to the university. His golden love had married and followed her groom to another town, Goodsir's risible romanticism remained. 

        When Goodsir gave himself away, he did so with complete abandon. Which was what made having affections for Doctor Stanley frustrating. The man still would not acknowledge what transpired between them after Sir John's death, as if he did not take Goodsir into his arms, as if the two kisses that burnt Goodsir's neck were a fault of memory. It was no longer mere stirrings that stole a beat from the rhythm of his heart, whenever he recalled the rare affections in the doctor's eyes as he looked down at Goodsir on that occasion. The wavelets had overlapped and grew into crushing waves, wild horses of water frothing at the mouth, throwing themselves forlornly against cliffs of basalt. 

        There, with his back to him, Stanley sat by the table, wiping his hand. Being roused in the middle of the night and this being the summer months, he was only in his sleeves. The seaman with the broken arm was escorted away by one of his mess mates. Stanley slouched, which could be excused: It was two bells in the middle watch, half past one in civilian time, although the daylight was as bright as noon, it was in fact the small hours. He did not look in Goodsir's direction as he held out the handkerchief, but rather flipped open the sick book with his right hand and reached for his pen, expecting his assistant to be observant. 

        When his assistant did not rise up to the occasion and his hand failed to manifest, Stanley called out with barely concealed irritation: "Mister Goodsir."      

        "Oh I am sorry." Goodsir was hauled out of his trance, walked up to bear the piece of cloth away.

        "You do not need to come to the sickbay if only I was being called on." Stanley said, only pausing briefly in his writing, the pen scratched the paper like crow claws, "It is unnecessary for us both to be deprived of sleep."

        "I couldn't sleep anyway. I thought that you might need help, if not then company." Goodsir said. He slinked up to Stanley, his head cocked to look at the writing over the doctor's shoulder. Then sheepishly: "I always thought the ship during these hours… eerie. The light is as bright as day, but everyone's asleep. There's so little sound, except the ice, which mewls and groans… only serves to exacerbate the lonesomeness. It's as if the crew had deserted the ship without notifying me, or they have all -"

        There, a rather morbid thought better not given voice. Goodsir cut himself off and forced a chuckle: "Well."

        "Died?" Stanley supplied absentmindedly, he signed the date.

        Goodsir watched Stanley closing the book without uttering a word. As the silence stretched on, he decided that avoiding it would help nothing.

        "Yes." He said.

        "I wasn't asleep either, mister Goodsir." Stanley said, turning to face him, his eyes were glassy and the corners of the sclera were bloodshot. Then he smiled, only faintly, giving a curious impression of self-deprecation: "Almost as if we are entombed."

        "In a kist of oak and elm." Goodsir mused. He hovered his hand close to Stanley's collar, holding the other man's gaze. Can I? Was the question. Stanley simply looked at him, he wasn't scowling, although the smile had faded. It was permission, Goodsir decided, if not invitation. The doctor seemed to be in a queer mood tonight. Perhaps the lack of sleep had slackened his nerves and eased his defences. Or perhaps their… dalliance, folly, encounter, an impulsive indulgence of moral weakness - whatever Stanley would call it - its effect had rippled afterall. 

        Goodsir wrapped his hand over the nape of Stanley's neck. He messaged it, applying gentle pressure. The man under his ministration looked at him still, Goodsir could feel Stanley's gaze as if it was a tangible thing, a concentrated beam of light through a burning glass that fell on his face and set it aflame. He dared not look, for fear of blindness. Instead, he peeked under Stanley's shirt collar and something captured his attention.

        "Did anyone remark upon the moles under your neck, doctor?" Goodsir asked, curious. He slid his hand down a smidgen more to rub against them. Five small dark brown spots splattered over light freckles, flat, they formed a zigzag line, W shaped, slightly askew. Goodsir never noticed them, hidden below the collar and neckcloth like so.

        "I am not aware." Stanley said. Goodsir threw a furtive glance and found that the doctor had closed his eyes. 

        "It's just the shape of Cassiopeia," Goodsir said, pointing each out with his finger so that Stanley could feel their location and gain an impression of them himself, "The constellation, I mean."

        "You are interested in human pigmentation now I see." Stanley intoned.

        "My brother taught me ways to find the north, when I was young. Moss growth, the taste of gorse petals… or find the polaris using Cassiopeia." Goodsir said, smiling now, remembering his childhood, shivering in the cold waiting for the moon to set, seeking the same configuration that he recognised on Stanley's skin, "A line that bisects the first dip in the constellation lead to the north star." - he illustrated this too, tracing a line over warm skin.

        "I applaud your accomplishment at celestial navigation then, mister Goodsir." Stanley said, mildly amused. He opened his eyes to regard his assistant.

        Goodsir wondered, looking down at the hard lines around the doctor's mouth: if the sickbay was not flooded with arctic sunshine as clear as ethanol; if daylight had not exposed even the small grooves on their skin, like the cracked patterns on old ceramics; if the sickbay was not so empty and bare with no cosy corners for even a rat to squeeze into. If shadows were here to hide them - like children, squabbling, whispering secrets deliberately lewd to shed their innocence, pretending that the sheet over their heads was the firmament, the darkness their night, their breaths the Anemoi, themselves the heaven shouldering Atlas - if the light would recede like tides and twilight was willing to lend them a few hours of respite. Would Stanley do something? Anything?

        Goodsir had been so hopelessly enamoured of so many people, he told his siblings and friends as much. Sometimes altering a fact here and there, changing the description of a man to a woman, for instance. He could not help but to be easily impressed, a flurry of wind would tease his heart open like a book forgotten on a garden bench, flipping open the cover, the first few pages, a picture: but it was a tease, it was flirtation. However Goodsir might have ached for them as thoroughly as any published poets and thwarted youth. He had not ever felt quite as now, simultaneously vexed, bemused, and aroused.

        Stanley's expression cracked under the exhaustion and sleep deprivation, beneath was mildewed tenderness and a softness that had gone sour, gained barbs, as sharp as vinegar: Goodsir wondered if he would not draw the taste out of Stanley's mouth if he could ever get a chance kissing him. 

        It was not fair, of course. Stanley was completely unruffled. While Goodsir's heartstrings shivered like the silk of a spider's web, his mouth smiled by its own accord. He had gone stupid, his knees had gone stupid, his hand - still on Stanley's neck - had forgotten its motions. He wished to go back to his cabin, sit down, and write embarrassing letters. 

        Fairness did not come into it.

        A beat, and Stanley pulled away from him. He stood up as Goodsir's hand fell, suspended in mid air in hesitation, which was caught and clutched in the assistant surgeon's other hand behind his back, hard, his fingers clawed into each other, entangled like knotted roots. 

        "Thank you for your assistance, mister Goodsir. If your insomnia continues to give you trouble, report it." Stanley said, all professional urbanity, he glanced at Goodsir briefly, nodded - that counted as a Goodnight said - and was raring to go. 

        "I've been attached to so many people." Goodsir said. He surprised himself with his volume. It must have surprised Stanley too, he stopped dead on his track and spun around.

        Goodsir turned meek instantly, his voice dropped, but he still met the chief surgeon's eyes, however hard it proved to be: "You are the most difficult, doctor."

        Stanley did not glower at him, his expression was placid, not a bit surprised, he tilted his brows slightly: "It's time for you to revoke your affection, then, mister Goodsir. I hardly think that it would be difficult for you to break off whatever attachment there might be. There's hardly anything tangible to speak of."

        "How could you say that?" Goodsir asked. He wished to be accusatory, be angry, to lace an edge in his voice with poison, it came out as a pathetic plea instead. He fisted his hands behind him.

        That had the unexpected effect of rattling the man in front of him, somehow, who so often seemed to be immune to overt emotions, if the said emotion didn't involve disappointment. Goodsir would think so, but he had seen too much of what Stanley let slip, intentional or not. 

        "I've never loved anyone better." Goodsir said, his voice hushed, trying to dampen his agitation, "Could you please do me the courtesy and at least acknowledge that you - that you return even a fraction of the same sentiment?"

        Stanley frowned, tilting his head to the side a smidgen. He looked disturbed, as he tightened his jaw and gauged Goodsir, as if he was being cooked alive on a fire pit fueled by nothing but his mental anguish. At length, he approached Goodsir and crowded him with his mass, looking - nay - peering down from his nose. His hands were behind his back too, Goodsir could not see them, he held the doctor's eyes, which were now as harsh as faceted gemstones and could easily bleed a vein with a glare.

        "Mister Goodsir," He said with a gentleness completely incongruent with the glacial coldness of his presence or the complete blankness that was his expression, "If you are bothered by ailments, I will treat you. If you are distressed, I will relieve you. If you fall asleep in the sickbay again, I will make sure your foolishness does not compromise your health. You are my assistant and therefore my responsibility."

        "Will you never say it?" Goodsir asked, "I am not blind."

        "There's no more to be said." Stanley said.

        The question was, which one to believe: his words, or the way he delivered them. He spoke with an almost cooing softness that did not suit the man's face.

        Goodsir could feel a realisation slowly taking form in his mind, oddly comforting, an unlikely source of warmth. He chuckled to himself at the thought: "I have to live with you then, doctor Stanley. I'm not averse to the idea, thankfully."

        "Will you stop pestering me with such strange requests?" Stanley asked.

        "Yes," Goodsir said, following the doctor out of the sickbay, staring at the other man's heels, "But if you ever change your mind, I'd still like to hear it."

        "Do not count on it." Stanley said dismissively. 

        In the past year, Goodsir had omitted all but the most essential mentions of doctor Stephen Stanley from his journal and his correspondences. When he did include them, he laid out his sentences laconically, careful in his precision, like piecing together a skeleton from a bundle of bones: Doctor Stanley did so and so in such and such a situation. There was no embellishment, no sentiment, he did not even often allow himself a commentary. When he did, he tried to be impartial, even harsh. It was safer this way.

        He yearned to talk, however, prudence be damned. 

        In his cabin, he laid out his journal and wrote by the midnight sun: 

         I love the loch most, not when it was as calm as a glass, a placid and stoic eye that beholds the sky in tender admiration. I love it most, when it was accidentally stirred by a trifling breeze, itself surprised, the surface rumpled like silk of water.

        In the margin, he marked the paragraph with five small dots, arranged in the same configuration as the constellation of cassiopeia.

Chapter Text

June, 1847

        Stephen Stanley did not like remembering his dreams, yet his slumber was often fitful and disturbed, the visions that visited upon him were not given time to evaporate. Deprived of the mercy of being awakened gently, he was forced to remember. When he was on land, back in the house he did not call home anymore, he used to rise at five early in the morning. In summer, the sun would have already risen. He would go into the garden to clear his head, and there would be spiderwebs bejewelled with dew, holding spherical reflections of the sky, the colour of flayed salmon. His daughter called the dew night tears. Stanley did not like it. There was no reason prescribing sentimentality upon a world already soaked with it, snot and all. But he did think, from time to time, standing in the garden with no one but the birds for company, shivering in the morning chill. Who could lay claim to the dew? For if you term them as tears, surely they must be shed by someone.

        In his dreams, there were no menacing shadows, unsetting scenery or baleful assailants lying in wait.

        No, it was worse than that. 

        Goodsir told him his nightmares. It was after Sir John's passing, after Goodsir's second brush with death - the man was making a habit of putting himself in such situations, that much was plain. 

        "I was at home, the old house, not in Edinburgh." Goodsir said, cleaning the scalpels in a basin, they faced away from each other, engaged in their own pursuits, sharing only space, "I was in my brother Joseph's bed. My own was just across the room, on my right hand side. I was forced to stare at the door which was half open, paralysed with the conviction that there was something monstrous in my own bed, inches away from me. I could not turn my head, however. And the doorway was no longer leading to the hallway, but a long set of black stairs stretching downwards, as if to Hell. No, I was quite certain that it was to Hell those stairs led. Imagine."

        "You should mind your diet, mister Goodsir. Halve your dinner. Your sleep will improve and I can be spared hearing all about your nightmares every other day," Stanley said, drawing in his journal, "However riveting they might be."

        "Sorry." Goodsir supplied, meekly. 

        Stanley hummed, and then: "Are you always this imaginative?"

        "Not until recently. My dreams now take on a malicious character more often than I'd otherwise like." Goodsir said, there was suddenly no more clatter of metal against metal and the sound of disturbed water swerving in the basin, Stanley took this to mean that he was drying off the instruments with a cloth now. 

        Then Goodsir asked: "Do you dream of taking your exams, doctor?"

        "No." Stanley replied, followed by a small but forceful exhalation.

        "That's one thing I had always been dreaming about and actually remembered upon waking. Dr. Munro, my old instructor, an uninspiring man, hard to please. He had the habit of walking into lectures covered in gore, yet to dry, from some poor person's cadaver. He'd watch me the whole time as I tried to answer, hands folded on top of his cane - he had those huge, hairy, abominably soft pudding-ish hands - the more I could not think the more rapidly he tapped the cane with his finger. Lately I am dreaming of his tapping finger bloodied, he himself dressed in gore." Goodsir said quietly, more curious than disturbed. 

        "It has been a month." Stanley said, referring to Sir John's death.

        "It seems like yesterday." Goodsir said, musing, "And the event seems determined to remain there. In all my future yesterdays."

        "You think too much. There's nothing to be gained, reminding yourself of it." Stanley said disapprovingly.

        "I think it is the event that is reminding me of its existence, rather, constantly so. I do not know how to put it, but I feel that I have little choice, it forces its presence on me." Goodsir said dolefully. He had finished his work. He walked over, lowering his rolled up sleeves and buttoning the cuffs, he asked: "Do you have any further need for me, doctor? I have an appointment with Collins."

        "Consider yourself dismissed." Stanley said brusquely, sparing his assistant only the most perfunctory of glances. 

        "Do you remember your dreams?" Goodsir asked softly. He lingered close with the clear intention of making conversation. How Stanley suffered this man, he'd rather throw himself, naked, into a swarm of bloodthirsty midges, than suffer another gruelling minute of this loveliness incarnate standing in front of him, who would probably sit and put his chin on his knees if only Stanley would ask. 

        "Yes." Stanley said. He shaded the sky depicted in his journal a pale grey.

        Goodsir stood there patiently, careful not to cast a shadow over him, waiting. When it became clear that Stanley was not about to expound upon it, he prompted: "What did you dream of last night, if you don't mind me asking?"

        Stanley considered for a moment, not looking up, he sighed deeply into the open pages in front of him. A sketch of an open field rendered in shades of grey. 

        "Just grass." He said. 

        Ah, he did remember. Grass. An owl flew over it: a field of verdant currents, broad rolling columns, long thin blades bowed before the wind.

        "It's a good dream, then? I miss grass." Goodsir said softly, "Just a small patch will satisfy me. Even if it's withered by the summer, sitting on such grass feels like sitting on ash, but I'll trade an arm for that sensation."

        How about a field that could drown you, mister Goodsir? Stanley thought grimly, finally meeting the other man's eyes. It was Isis unveiled, what he saw could have struck him dead. The look of adoration he found was uncalled for. He was not used to it. Goodsir had always the tendency of making dog eyes at people, wet and glinting and pathetic, not wanting, but longing to please. Vexed, Stanley found himself increasingly the receptacle for Goodsir's overflowing sentiments. He despised this particular weakness, how his mind was immediately quietened when it was held in Goodsir's gaze. With self-mutilation forgotten, the frenzied rackus was replaced by the susurration of wet snow falling over woodland. So naturally, he frowned. 

        "I do not usually dream of things that I still hope to see." Stanley said coldly.

        "Surely we will see grass again." Goodsir said.

        Stanley swallowed a mocking laugh, barely: "Do you think so?"

        "Well, I believe so." Goodsir said, seemingly insouciant. 

        Stanley could feel his eyes grow cold as his gaze sharpened, he studied Goodsir's face in the same manner he would assess a wound. The assistant surgeon grew tense under his scrutiny and wetted his lips. A small gesture that unfortunately, drew Stanley's attention. 

        "At least your dream could be of comfort to you." Goodsir offered.

        "Comfort." Stanley said, without emotion, "We are no unweaned infants. I often think you place too much value on it, mister Goodsir, mistaking something superfluous as essential. It is unbecoming of you to fail here when your judgement is generally sound otherwise."

        "We still have a need for it, I think, infant or not." Goodsir argued, "It has its place. Comfort might be superfluous to survival, but I do fancy it is comfort that makes a man wish to survive. At the very least, it bolsters his resolve."

        "Even in cases where survival is impossible?" Stanley asked.

        "Then comfort is the only thing we can provide, is it not?" Goodsir said, "We cannot wash our charges' blood off our hands and just… leave them, consigned to fate. I sometimes imagine if it is myself on the threshold of death: I am terrified to die alone, unloved and uncared for. I dream of it... I will not wish it on anyone."

        "You won't be alone." Stanley said, simply, his eyes unblinking. Surely not unloved. He thought.

        Goodsir's eyes wandered downwards and he placed a hand on the operational table, he stroked the surface as if he could touch something that was no longer there: "When David Young died - I have recounted to you the strange incident - but that aside, it occured to me how little difference my presence made. I held his face, I clutched him like - like applying pressure to a ruptured artery to stem the blood flow, as if I could stop his vitality from escaping and contain his terror. But he didn't even appear to notice that I was there. He was alone with death, in the end. Alone, and utterly terrified."

        Sensing that the assistant surgeon was spiralling into his reveries, Stanley said: "Mister Goodsir."

        "Hmm? Oh I should not foist it on you." Goodsir said, obviously startled.

        Stanley intoned: "No medical man, no matter how great, could halt the inevitable. It was hubris to try. But you should not completely discount yourself just because his hallucination had the upperhand." and then, "Are you afraid?"

        "Yes." Goodsir's brows knitted together, he looked as if he was at a loss, but he tried to smile: "It is the prevailing sentiment of the crew getting to me, I imagine."

        Stanley reached out and picked up Goodsir's hand off the table. He held it loosely, letting it rest on his palm. It was soft, warm, a tangible weight, like some docile critter drowsy with sleep.

        "You dissaprove," Goodsir started, his tone tame, looking down at their hands, "But you are a comfort to me." Then he flashed Stanley a grin, his cheeks wondrously flushed, "On your better days that is, doctor Stanley."

        Stanley wished to snap back or to scowl. He could perform the latter to remarkable effect even without relying on his stature. But now that he was looking up and Goodsir was smiling at him through his lashes, he found it difficult to wipe his own emerging smile off his face. 

        "How many patients have you lost, mister Goodsir?" Stanley asked.

        Goodsir's face fell, there was no hesitation when he answered: "Five."

        "I have no doubt that you remember every single one of them." Stanley said as he played with Goodsir's hand absentmindedly, stroking his finger, tracing the tendons and knuckles that felt so much like small pebbles, he spoke without inflection, "Their names, faces, what ailed them and what made them smile, every decision you made in their treatment. What did they die of, and how ."

        "I should not dwell on them, I know. But how can I not remind myself, if I aspire to be better?" Goodsir said, the hint of petulance in his voice prompted a bitter half smile from Stanley.

        "You are very welcomed to dwell." Stanley said, "I have stopped counting a decade ago. After a point, it was just a number. It's foolishness, keeping a number in one's mind like a broken chronometer. Why, for sentiment?"

        "Because of Sierra Leone?" Goodsir asked softly, treading on spring ice.

        Stanley turned his face to the left a little, which counted as a head shake: "The act of providing comfort stems from care. To comfort your patient even if he will die, do you court suffering as a pastime, Goodsir? It is nothing but the self-abuse of your own virtues, if you ask me. I have no respect for a medicalman who wears his suffering like something awarded to him, as if it was noble to be affected for the loss of a patient."

        "I was not... completely unaware of this challenge when I entered the profession." Goodsir said, "If I can avoid pain, I will, but not if it deprives a man what's due to him: I will treat him as how I wish to be treated, to try, at least. I know my ability to deal with loss is wanting. But if I am to operate on David Young today, I will not waver."

        "Do you fancy yourself prepared?" Stanley asked, quirking an eyebrow. For what to come, he meant.

        "I wish I am." Goodsir said, his eyes was intense with wretchedness as they met Stanley's, "If only for the sake of the men, I wish I can be."

        Stanley exhaled through his nose and shifted his head as he studied Goodsir's face: so full of the expectation of grief, the sorrow and agitation was achingly naked. I will not wish that for you, he thought, as he let go of Goodsir's hand. He could still feel the tenderness of it between his fingers, it invited him to knead, to rub, to bruise and to mutilate. It was ready to shed its skin so Stanley could peruse bared flesh, a fingernail could lacerate it. Goodsir might cry and Stanley would relish the tears: he wished above all things for this man to remain vulnerable. To rather be the skin of a newborn, unscarred and unhorned. 

        "You will finally be competent, then." Stanley said.

        Goodsir took his freed hand in his other and rubbed at the places where Stanley's hand had made contact, harbouring a rueful smile to himself.

        "What is your appointment with mister Collins about?" Stanley asked.

        "I find watercolours an effective means for relieving his mind. I offered to teach him, also to give him some society. You might have noticed, he has been out of sorts lately." Goodsir replied, he looked at a distant point with his forehead slightly creased, "It's worrying."

        "I do not have much association with our dear second master, but I trust you to have it in hand." Stanley said drily, urbane, turning away from his assistant, "You do not want to be late."

        "Doctor Stanley." Goodsir said with a smile, excusing himself. Stanley could not admit just how much he relished the sound of his last name when Goodsir pronounced it, smiling. There was something about it, when the flesh on a man's cheeks were pulled up against their teeth and the soft palate was raised. He could hear the smile, it turned his name into a warm, approachable and lovable thing. As if it was a joyous affair for Goodsir just to roll it lovingly off his tongue. 

        With that, Goodsir exited the sickbay. 

        -     

        A year from now, Stanley would dream of a sea of grass which once might have thrived exuberantly on these rolling hills, but now parched and burnt by the sun, they had turned golden. Their long leaves were bristle. They stood tall and still in the stagnant air, sentinelling a land of thirst and dreadful longing. He saw Goodsir lying among them, crushing the grass, his mouth open: a cornucopia of shales. But then he was standing beside Stanley, talking excitedly. The blazing sun and the sky that stood still suggested scorching heat, Stanley felt only the absence of feeling. He took hold of Goodsir's shoulder and silenced him with a kiss.

        That was how he realised that he had reconciled with Goodsir's death. At long last, he had admitted Goodsir into his gallery of loss. In the morning he would remember his dream, one orphaned tear among many that bejewelled the spiderweb. It laid there, unclaimed. Then day came and it evaporated, now it sounded silly to suggest that it existed in the first place.