Chapter Text
Francis felt suffocated by the gloom of the wardroom, the grief in the air was palatable on his tongue, even more than his drink and he struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat. His eyes caught sight of James, very much a boy in his grief and Francis was reminded, quite brutally, that James was a young man. Much younger than he, and while James had seen his own share of horrors, the death of Franklin was overwhelming for him.
It was overwhelming for Francis.
For everyone.
Sighing he sat down and took a moment to gather his thoughts, but to his displeasure all he could gather were the feelings of pain as he looked at the hat and watch laid beside James.
“I never wanted anything as little as I want this now.” He said softly, the confusion of loss and pain in his voice stirring Fitzjames finally. “I do have an order.” He said to Blanky.
With that Francis broke down the current plan, watching as the young man, much more like a boy now, shattered slowly in front of him. Voice breaking on the late captain’s name and tears in his eyes, a confused rage intertwined with grief left his dark eyes wild and lost and oddly enough the older captain suddenly found himself grieving for a man still alive and breathing right in front of him. A man he otherwise disliked, but now felt the oddest pull of empathy for. He was not so besotted by loss as to be sympathetic; sympathy had no place on a ship or in a sailor’s heart. However, empathy, yes, empathy was and perhaps is the only form of feeling for another such as this that should be tolerated.
“One day. I am asking one day to allow our men to grieve.” James forced out.
Francis felt himself buckle.
“And then they go.” He said, voice softer than he’d ever addressed James before and the other man watched him with wide eyes.
The service had been hard, the cold nothing compared to the block of ice that lay in everyone’s stomach as they watched Sir John Franklin’s coffin laid out before them. The wind bit at their exposed skin and it stung painfully, but it was little compared to the hurt of loss that weighed so heavy on their shoulders. They watched and listened silently as Francis read, and he found himself choking on the well-written words Sir John had planned to deliver himself for Gore. James stood behind him silent and stoic, having gathered himself enough to be firm faced and stern once more. The blast of the guns startled them, maybe everyone, but Crozier felt as though it were only he and James that jerked ever so slightly at the sound. Francis had heard it a million times, a lifetime built around sailors made sure your ears were always a-ring with the echo of a military farewell for a friend lost at sea. He should have been used to it by now, and maybe he was until today, maybe burying one of his oldest friends who he had walked away from with anger in his heart had wiped away his immunity to services like this.
He wanted so desperately to drink; to swallow down his grief with the familiar and comforting burn of alcohol and he felt his body respond in kind to the thought and that forced a rush of shame through him. Whiskey was his cripple and his crutch, and he hated the fact he played second fiddle to the whim of liquor. He hated how now, of all times, his body craved intoxication like never before and he felt a horrid, absolutely horrified sense of shame at the fact he wanted to drink his weight in booze so he could forget this awful day. These awful years and the weight of loss that seemed hell bent on crushing him alive. He could feel James eyes on him as they stood, as they stood quietly as Sir John (What was left of him) was given proper burial and finally Francis was able to give the order to disburse. He allowed the crews one day, as promised, and he knew deep down that he may have very well be sending the search party to their deaths.
But alas, what else could he do?
His gut told him few, if any, would make it out of this alive.
So how did he fix it?
He naively thought it could not get any worse than this, not even when Hickey kidnapped the girl and drug her back to the ship like a damn dog to the pound. He didn’t think it could be any worse as he had watched the three whipped, Hickey himself punished as a boy, and James had seemed to shy away from Francis during the spectacle. He had hoped against all hope it could not get any worse when Lady Silence asked him why he wanted to die, and Francis hated that he had felt that familiar want for eternal peace that proved her true. He had not thought it could get any worse until James came into the wardroom and confronted him, when he had spoken his name. He spoke his name with something akin to fury, but concern, something deep down from the younger man’s chest bubbled up his own name with the smallest, but to Crozier, bright bit of worry.
Then there was Thomas….
Dear sweet Blanky who had seen him through so much so faithfully and Francis had pushed him away almost as quickly as he had punched James. Both left an unfamiliar feeling of hurt, not for himself, but the people he had so willingly harmed.
He had felt shame.
Yes, shame was there as well.
But so was the rage.
All the rage and hate and hurt and shame and Francis idly thought that maybe, if this kept up, he would burn hot enough to melt the damned ice, and then they could all go home.
Thomas was a loyal man, through and through and he listened when his captain told him to, in all politeness, fuck off and then the real argument had begun. With a bruise blossoming against his cheek already, Francis and James fought. They fought with words now, but Francis had shocked himself when he found himself struggling to refrain from violence again. James dark eyes were blazing with something, not anger, nor hate, much to Francis’s dismay, but instead, something else entirely.
“We both know what is happening to you!” James snarled.
Francis paced back and forth, laughing to contain the rage he felt as he ran a hand down his face.
“You are what is happening to me!” Francis hissed. “You bloody child! You’ve no right to be here!”
“Don’t try and push this off on me, you’ve been buried under whiskey since the day we left the docks!” The younger said.
They were well past screaming point now.
“You fucker!” Francis had hissed, rushing forward.
He had rushed forward and then, with fist drawn back, he stalled. Sucking in a sharp breath he looked to the younger man in front of him with open shock. James had jerked roughly and squeezed his eyes shut, hands bawled into fists at his sides and bracing for the blow. Crozier had felt his stomach lurch at the sight, at himself, and as his drunken rage smoothed some, he noticed with keen clarity that James hadn’t tried to hit him back before either. What kind of man lets himself be attacked and refuse to defend himself? Was the boy a loon?
‘He’s your second you daf bastard,’ He thought to himself. ‘He’s got no want to hurt you.’
Francis had dropped his hand after a tense moment and looked as James opened his eyes slowly, blinking in shock as Crozier stepped back from him on unsteady legs.
“You’re out of control…you need help…” James said on an exhale, both men feeling the fight leave their bones almost as quick as the heat against the artic wind.
Francis made a face, as if just hearing this for the first time and he went to speak when a crash had ended their impromptu meeting.
Then…everything came crashing down for Francis.
It had all crashed down as a from an order made in a half drunken rage had almost gotten Blanky killed. An order that had cost him his leg, a drunken state that resulted in crew being killed, and still his men had listened and worked and fought for their mad captain who had put drink over his men and Francis struggled with the guilt of it all. James was but a boy, Thomas his closest friend, his sailors like his children. He hurt in a way so foreign to him that when he reached for his always full, yet always empty glass, that night his stomach rolled painfully. It flipped around on itself and had him rushing to his chair, throwing open the top and vomiting into the hole. He had retched painfully and through it all the guilt had burned the worst.
He had three options after that.
Keep drinking and hope it killed him.
Keep drinking and hope it killed him and somehow not his men.
Throw away the drink.
Only one of the options were truly viable for him, and it made him puked again. His pride went with the whiskey and bile, and he realized oh so suddenly that this was his fault. He had been so enwrapped in his own misery that he had allowed it to bleed through into a vice he should have quelled long ago. He had allowed it to taint the gentlest souls who would follow him through hell and back no matter the risk. He had allowed it to break him down faster than the ice built up and Crozier was suddenly keenly aware of the fact he was no longer entertaining that vice but drowning in it. Francis was now very aware that he did need help, or else he would die and take all of them down with him.
They had watched him with open confusion and worry when he had called them in that same night.
The look in their eyes had stuck with him long after they had left, and now, as he lay in his bunk sweating through his clothes and blankets a week later, he felt their gaze upon him once again. Worry from doctor McDonald and Edward, trust from his dearest Jopson, and….something else entirely from Fitzjames. Dark eyes, so unlike an Englishman’s, had watched him with emotions Francis could not place, they had watched him with a look that seemed so familiar, yet foreign and he struggled to short it all out through the pain of withdrawal. He shivered violently and with a sudden urge he bolted up right, stumbling from the bed and to his chair, throwing it open and heaving up a stomach full of little but water and bile and he gripped the edges with white knuckles as his body ached with pain. Jopson was sleeping on the order of the acting captain and James had told him he would send another to help him while Jopson rested. That had been some hours ago, as Francis had fallen asleep not long after, stirring fitfully and coming in and out of an unrestful slumber.
Now he was doubled over the hole and heaved violently, and the sliding of the door and footsteps suddenly alerted him to the presence of another. The door was shut again, and he sighed against the cool hand that laid a warm wet rag against his neck, then gently wiped him clean from sweat and warmed his chilled skin and he slumped against the wood before him. A gentle touch, feather light and full of care rested against his back and Francis wondered who James had ordered to care for him so kindly. His body was spent, any and all energy having left him with the vomit and when he felt a glass before his dry lips he opened his mouth by instinct. The slender hand tipped it carefully and the cool water wet his dry mouth and burning throat. However, as he sipped the water, he felt his stomach roll and he pushed it away at that, only to hear a voice chide him that gave him a great start. He looked wide-eyed and found James crouching beside him, white sweater, dark pants, and high boots the only clothes about him. His hair was unruly, and his eyes were just as dark as ever and Francis looked to him with confusion.
“You?” He said on an exhausted breath.
The younger man looked to him gently, nodding softly. “Yes Francis?”
The man was truly an ill-behaved brat, and Crozier smirked tiredly at the use of his first name.
“You listen horribly, Fitzjames.” He said softly.
James looked at him with mild confusion.
“I told you to not call me by my name, lad.” Francis smirked again.
James gave him a soft smile. “I only listen when you make sense, Francis.”
Crozier huffed a small laugh, or something close to it and Fitzjames smiled wider. It was such a soft thing to see from him, and the sick captain couldn’t recall a point in time since they left the docks that James had ever smiled at him like that. He watched his second tiredly, frowning when James put the glass back to his lips.
“You need to drink a bit more. Then I’ll help you back to bed.” James said quietly.
“I can’t. Just the thought of anything is making my stomach twist.” Francis grumbled.
“Just a bit more. The doctor mixed a medication with it, it will sooth your stomach and help you sleep.”
He heard the sterner tone in James voice and rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He hissed and drank from the cup when James put it back to his mouth.
As suspected it rolled his stomach and he gagged, almost spitting it out. He stopped himself in time though, and with a sharp swallow, drank the liquid. James kept that gentle hand against his back and Francis found himself puzzled when it began to make soothing circles against his skin. Bright blue eyes, very much like an Englishman’s, looked to those dark orbs once more, and he found James busy, much too busy to notice Francis staring. He watched quietly as James long black lashes ghosted against his high cheeks, skin pale against the winter night and his face thinner than before. Not much, not enough that Crozier should have noticed, but he did all the same. Reaching up a trembling hand Francis stalled just before touching and he watched as the younger stilled in his work, looking at Francis calmly. His gaze was answer enough for Francis and the latter gently laid a hand upon the face, skin warm against his fingers and he felt the strong jaw and silken soft hair fall about his hand.
“You’re growing too thin, James.” Francis said softly.
Fitzjames watched him quietly. “I am fine, you are the one I’m worried about.”
Francis enjoyed the warmth of James skin against him, and without thinking he ghosted his hand down the youngers face and gently stopped at his neck, watching as a content look crossed James face and his eyelids drooped. Crozier felt the pulse there, fast and jumpy and he absentmindedly stroked his thumb across it as he looked to the man with tired interest.
“You, worry about me? I never thought I’d see the day.” He said softly, finally letting his hand fall away.
“I am. I know you do not think it, but I am worried. Your men need their captain, and so do mine. They know…they know I am nothing but a second.” James said softly.
Francis’s heart gave a sad beat at that and once again he felt a certain shame wash over him as he looked upon the man he had so willingly tried to tear down.
“You are much more than a second James. You are now the ballast that is keeping our men balanced. You may be infuriating, but you are no fool.” Francis said softly, struggling to his feet.
James helped him up and caught him when he stumbled, and he held him carefully as he took Crozier back to his bunk. Francis was dumbfounded to say the least, but help was help and he’d take what he could get right now. He sighed softly as he sat back in his bed, traces of pitiful warmth still lingering from earlier. He shivered again against the cold and James guided him down, laying him carefully back into his bed and pulling the covers up around him. The acting captain sat in the chair beside the bed, taking the rag and dipping it into the lukewarm water in the bowl on the floor. He rung it out and then reached back to Francis, pulling down the bedclothes and laying the cloth against his chest, wiping gently, noting the visible collar bones and skin that, while flushed, was paler than his.
“You should try and eat at some point. You complain about my weight, but you’ve faired far worse than me.” He said softly.
Francis laughed quietly. “It will be some time yet before I can eat anything. I’m too accustomed to drinking my dinners.”
James frowned. “Still. You can’t hope to overcome this by spite alone. Your body is stripping itself in a desperate plea for more. You should at least take bread.”
Francis looked to him with deep set confusion. “Why are you here James? Why aren’t you on your ship, where you’re supposed to be? You’re not a steward, you’re a captain.”
James stayed silent for a long moment at that, only repeating his movements as he dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and cleaned Crozier. After several moments Francis thought he would get no reply, but just as he gave up waiting, James spoke softly.
“Do you remember when I said, if you want respect, then earn it?” He asked.
Francis frowned. “I do.”
“Do you remember when I asked if you were determined to be the worst kind of first as well?”
Francis frowned deeper. “I do.”
James smiled softly then. “And do you remember punching me?”
Francis smirked softly into his pillow. “I do.”
“When you called us in after everything that happened…when you made this choice. You earned my respect then and I realized at the same moment I’ve done very little to do the same.” James whispered. “I’ve been so lost within my own turmoil that I never bothered to care about how you were doing. I am your second but had made it my job to avoid you as though you were a leper.”
“James-”
“I never bothered to ask if you were alright when Sir John passed.” James cut him off.
The statement took him by surprise.
“I never bothered to check on you for months after. I never bothered to worry about the bottles that disappeared solely under your hand…I never bothered to worry about you at all.” James voice wavered dangerously as he continued, as if his voice was choked by too strong a drink or too heavy a pull from a pipe.
Francis listened silently.
“When you stole from my spirit room, I found myself worried about you for the first time. I couldn’t shake the image of you lying in a coffin just to be buried beside Franklin. I thought fighting you would be the best thing for you, or letting you beat me to a pulp would ease your hate. Maybe I could force you to get yourself together, because with Sir John gone…I had no one to follow. Or so I thought.”
Crozier felt a strange sensation at the words, especially the last, and he found himself suddenly eager to hold onto them, much like they tried to hang on to the sparce heat and sun and Francis felt a sense of fear that, like the heat and the sun… he wondered if he would lose this as well?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
“For that, I am sorry.” James whispered softly, dark brown eyes downcast and shadowed by a shame that had no right to burden him. “I am sorry I let this happen.”
Francis felt as a small part of himself settled as he listened to James, felt as a small, such a small piece of himself respond in kind to the words being spoken. They were not like Sir John’s…filled with false canter and empty apologies, nor full of anger and despise because of Francis short comings. Instead, they were gentle and honest, and James had forgone all pride and vanity, and Francis felt himself warm at this act of genuine honesty. The lad was not John and never would be, and Crozier found himself not only content with that thought, but relieved as he reached out an unsteady hand once more. A stronger and fuller hand than James, fevered and warm and as it wrapped slowly around James’s wrist, Crozier was keenly aware of how small James was in his own palm. He held firmly, but not painfully and stopped the soothing wipes of the rag. The pulse thumping against his fingers sped up drastically, but Francis pushed that oddity aside for now and James watched him closely, muscles taunt and body still, as if waiting for reprimand.
“You may be an aggravating, wet behind the ears, vain, and bullheaded man, James Fitzjames, but you are a good man. Do not doubt that.” Francis said softly but sternly, pushing the cloth away and sliding his hand into James after a moment and holding it gently. “You have done what you could with what you have had. This expedition has had many, many firsts and unfortunately, they’ve all been horrid, and you’ve been witness to it all without veil nor comfort to help you.”
Now it was James that watched silently.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for lad,” Francis stalled for a long moment, his face contorted with a strange emotion James could not place. “It is I who should apologize for treating you so poorly.” Francis continued quietly. “I believe a part of me has disliked you for your hope and confidence, for the fact that you have always steadfastly believed in this expedition. I disliked you because you remind me very much of myself. Of a version of me that has been lost to time and drink, and me, as I am now, do not know where or how to get him back.” The captain stalled for a moment, looking into James’ eyes and a softness came over him. “But it has never and will never be your fault for any of this. You’ve done well.”
James watched his captain for a long moment, and he saw then the smallest traces of the man Sir John had told him stories of. The lighthearted and wild captain, the joker and troublemaker barely tame enough to be a commander. The captain who wore his heart on his sleeve and bled for his men as if they were of his own flesh and James felt the oddest lump in his throat at the praise from Francis now. He was not sure if before he would have ever wanted it, let alone cared for it, but now that he saw Crozier laid out exhausted and open and very much a tolerable man before him, he found it not just an intoxicating thought, but a comforting one.
“But make no mistake lad, if you cross me again, I’ll beat you with a bottle and throw you to the seals.” Francis said after a moment and James felt a laugh pull from deep within him.
Francis listened to the sound, and he found he could not remember ever hearing Fitzjames laugh like that. It was a light and open sound, something that ushered in warmth like a hot summer breeze carried by high waves. As he watched James settle in front of him, smiling soft and dark eyes warm, he found that despite his words having been long said, James had yet to let go of his hand. His skin was soft and warm and had yet to be callused by ship work and sea salt like his own and Crozier found peace in that. Soft hands like others he had held, but none from another man (let alone his second) and he felt an odd warmth in his chest at the realization. Francis held the younger’s hand close, squeezing gently and he watched with a smirk as James ducked his head, almost bashfully. James sat with him for a long time, so long that Francis fell asleep, and he watched the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, James wasn’t sure why he found Francis’s presence so peaceful now. Maybe it was the lack of whiskey and disdain? Regardless he looked on quietly as Crozier slept, breath even and slow in comfortable rest and he looked down at their hands once more. Francis’s hand was warm and still firm around his own, and as James looked on, he found himself shifting into a comfortable peace of mind he had not experienced for a long while. He ran his thumb over the warm skin and as he repeated the motions, much like one did when petting a cat or Neptune, he found himself growing more and more tired.
He would need to leave soon.
Jopson arrived early the next morning, knocking on the door and waiting. After hearing no reply he made his way in, stepping softly so he wouldn’t wake the captain should he be asleep. Moving carefully to Francis room he stalled at the sight that greeted him. Two exhausted captains, one still sick but finally sleeping soundly and the other, just as exhausted, dozed silently next to him. James was still sitting by the bed, but had pitched himself forward at some point to rest his upper half on the mattress. His head rested at his arm and his face was nestled into the captains’ side and blanket, the cloth from the bowl laid on the floor forgotten. The young man smiled softly at the sight and quietly grabbed an extra blanket from the stack of nick-knacks and nothings in the corner and he gently draped it over James. He stalled when he noticed Francis and James were still hand in hand, and somehow even in deep sleep, Francis’s hold was firm, and James had never pulled away. Smiling wider and tucking the blanket around Fitzjames, Thomas whispered softly.
“Good work, Sir.”
With that he turned and stood outside the door to the captain’s room, ever vigilant and turning all who wanted to bother or pester away.
They had earned their rest.