Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scent of smoke was in the air, thick, cloying, choking. He had not been able to rid himself of it, even though the conflagration of his failed Carnevale was days behind him.

He burrowed deeper into the duvet, each twist of his body concomitantly releasing more of the acrid smell. His neck ached, and below his waist, a tidal pulse was beating a violent tattoo out of the most private parts of him.

Erebus creaked, a long, eerie noise caused by the ice against her hull. He held his breath, waiting for the ice to puncture his inherited ship. The noise abated, and he breathed. But the fever did not abate. And neither did the bleeding. He told himself it had to be blood.

Below the belt, things were not as they should be. He was leaking out, out of the most unmentionable part of himself. It was soaking into the nightshirt and all the blankets he had wedged between his legs. It was so undignified that he could not bear to look. It had to be blood. The alternative was impossible in all respects.

But the second indignity was worse. What type of dying man developed a cockstand that wouldn’t abate? No matter how many times he tugged at himself, thrust himself into Sir John’s berth, the damned thing would not follow through to denouement. He was no fool; he knew perfectly well what diagnosis these two symptoms presented.

As the late Dr Stanley might say, a differential diagnosis may be the preferable option.

He buried his head into the pillow and breathed deeply. Sir John was long gone, but some remnant of his scent was here. Sir John smelt like a long summer afternoon on the Thames. Like cut grass. Like a newly lit candle. Clean, good, and honest scent, the very thing a prestigious Beta leader should smell like.

Overnight, whilst his body was sent into pandemonium, the sense of scent had exploded, and every little smell had been made prominent in his perception. He had quarantined himself in Sir John’s cabin at the first incidence of the fever. That was what he had told Goodsir, when he could still talk, before the…bleeding. He did not admit to the scent of smoke that still lingered. He did not admit to the maddening urge to find the most comforting scent to assuage his distress.

James knew that this was highly abnormal in a Beta such as himself. It was a scientific fact that Alpha and Omega sexes perceived the world via their advanced sense of scent. A Beta individual could hardly discern the complex web of aromas that were so pungent to the Second Sex.

Not that there were any such individuals on Erebus. Sir John had kept a tidy ship and did not care to have any designation save Beta on board. He thought the entire thing a messy affair. There were a handful of Alphas on Terror, the Captain Francis Crozier chief amongst them. And certainly no Omegas on the entire expedition. The Navy was no place for an Omega.

And a Male Omega had no place in polite society.

The fear made his guts clench, and the thought of Francis made James’ thighs clench together. He could not bear for Francis to see him like this, not now that Francis had made it through his withdrawal, not now, now they were expected to walk.

Two days ago, when the fever first started, Goodsir had looked him over and pronounced a diagnosis of “Pyrexia,” with a solemn dread. An illness now, as he prepared to walk out, was both a moral and physical failure. An ignominious death. He had known his days numbered when he had spotted the blood beading at his hairline. He did not think it would come quite this fast.

There was a knock at the door, the sharp rapp of Bridgen’s knuckles.

“Away!” James shouted, his throat hoarse.

“Captain, I must insist–” came the calm voice of Bridgens.

“Fever!” he shouted out, his voice thin and reedy, “Malaria!”

Each word was a struggle.

Despite his protests, Bridgens opened the door.

James would not be permitted to rot alone, no matter how much he wished it. He rolled to his front in an attempt to protect his dignity.

In his hands, Bridgens was carrying a tray. He could spy a bowl of ice-melt and a flannel. The well-intentioned steward intended to give him a whore’s bath during this period of acute infirmity. James would have blessed him if the circumstances were different.

It would be fine. James would not permit the bathing of his body. But the thought of the cool flannel was too tantalising to dismiss the steward. One is allowed some delights on their deathbed.

Bridgens pulled out a stool and set to the task of soaking the flannel and wringing the excess out. James bit back the unbecoming moan that threatened to escape his lips. It would be bliss if the flannel could cleanse the scent of burning from his body.

“Where would you like the cloth first, Sir? Your forehead?”

“Rash. Neck.” replied James. Each word was a struggle.

He angled his neck with a well-angled flop, and Bridgens, with a steward's practiced hand, tugged gently at the collar of James’ nightshirt. The steward gasped, and the bowl tumbled to the floor with a crash. James knew that he must be absolutely grotesque to view.

Bridgens moved, the pad of this thumb making light contact with the pulsing spot under James’ ear.

In an instant, James raised his head and bit at the air where Bridgens' hand was hovering but a moment before.

His jaws snapped with a violence quite unbecoming of a gentleman. Bridgens looked horrified, and if James were well, he would have been apologising. He would say, “I’m terribly sorry, my good man. Don’t possibly know what’s come over me,” but he was not well, and the wheeze that came out of his mouth sounded like a growl.

Bridgens stood back, abandoning the broken bowl and spilt contents. “I’m going to get help, Sir. Hold on.”

The steward left, and in his wake was a dull scent. The man smelled like old books. Boring. Plain. Beta.

He anticipated Goodsir to reappear imminently, but Goodsir did not reappear, and Bridgens was gone for what felt like an eternity.

James slipped in and out of sleep, sweat pooling on his body, the tumescence of his prick needling at him for more than just his hand.

Eventually, there came the sound of muffled noises in the Great Cabin. A few men, arguing with shushed voices.

James strained to listen and heard Francis Crozier exclaim, “James doesn’t even like me!” with an incredulous voice.

James would recognise that voice anywhere. His body pounded, a rolling wave that left him nearly incapacitated. It was not entirely unpleasant.

A new scent came to his attention, like the ocean settling after a storm, like thunder. He had smelt it before, in the wake of fire, and now he was alert to it, aware. It settled in the cavern of his mouth, made it water.

A few heavy footsteps came to the boundary of the door. “I’ll be out in a moment,” Francis promised his companions.

The door opened, and Francis stepped in. Francis’ scent flooded the cabin in rolling waves. James gulped like a fish out of water, each breath a balm. Francis smelt exquisite, smelt so much more exciting than Bridgens.

Best of all, he could not smell whiskey, and the absence of the liquor was almost as enticing as the scent present.

Francis’s eyes were blazing, his mouth slightly open. His nostrils flared. “Jesus,” Francis said. “Jesus.”

There were liberties taken with that accent, from the substitution of the e for an a to the elongation of the “sus” sound. That accent made him move, made him rearrange himself. Before, he had been curled up, but now, he was stretching himself out, elongating himself as much as possible, lying on his back, shoulder blades carving against the mattress, his back arching, his head hard against the pillow. His cock jutted up with enthusiasm, a blatant and obscene tent forming out of the bedsheet.

Look how long I am, he thought. I am a long man, and most find that very pleasing. He blinked, and for a moment, he was lucid. Really, what a stupid thought. Why am I thinking about stupid things like that when I am dying? Why am I acting like this when I am dying?

His attention was caught by the visible tremor in Francis’ hands as he turned around and slammed the door to the cabin shut.

As the door closed, he spotted men peering into the scene. Goodsir was looking deeply concerned. Dundy was amongst them too, wearing an expression of explicit disgust. Irving looked horrified, and most concerningly, Thomas Blanky was giving him a broad smile and a thumbs-up.

Just how many men had been party to that display? Then it was just him and Francis, and he could not conjure the effort to be concerned about anyone else.

Francis, still turned away, placed his forehead to the door and gave a great staggered exhale. James attempted to think of anything to say. If he were well, he would say something like “We are preparing for the march as best we can on the Erebus, Sir, considering the present circumstances,” or “I am so, so sorry for organising that awful benjo. I will regret it till the day I die.” or “Something awful is happening to me and I am scared.”

But the most intrusive, disturbing thought in his head was “Come into my bed and lie your body next to mine so that we are pressed together top-to-toe. Come into my berth and lie your head upon my chest, so that you may note the very moment my heart stops with a precise and scientific measurement.”

But none of those sentiments could come out, and what was uttered instead was a prolonged pining sound, a sound no respectable man should possess in his vernacular, and certainly not a Captain of the Royal Navy.

Francis turned at the sound, and upon his face he had schooled his expression into kindness.

“Just how many days have you been like this, James?”Francis said with an unusual lilting softness. Francis was being kind to him, at least, on his deathbed.

Words returned to him once more, faintly. “Blood, bleeding. Bleeding out,” he managed, not answering the question.

Francis’ gaze was flicking between Jame’s face and the obscene lump in the bedsheets.

A crease flickered over Francis’ face. “Right…Right. Will you let me see?” James gathered his sheets around himself, tighter, mortified. He shook his head weakly, though the strange instinct to throw off all the sheets so that Francis could see him wholly nearly overrode his decision.

“Alright. Alright. Bridgens told me that you've got a pretty inflamed scent mark right there,” said Francis, tapping his own neck. I’m going to take a little peek. Don’t bite my hand off.”

I’m a beta, I don’t have a scent mark thought James. I don’t want to have a scent mark. I don’t want any of this.

James cocked his head to the side and imagined himself coquettish in doing so. Through his eyelashes, he looked at the Alpha Captain. Francis looked back, and then his attention was drawn to that awful spot on his neck.

Whatever concern Francis had seemed to worsen, and his frown deepened.

Dread gripped James’ heart. He could not bear to be a disappointment. He had not wanted Francis to see him like this. He had never wanted any of this terrible voyage.

“You are presenting, James. Just like Bridgens said,” murmured Francis, his nose dipping closer to James’ neck until James could feel the huff of Francis’ breath on that most sensitive spot. “Thought he was being hysterical, until I stepped on board,” said Francis, more to himself than James.

James breathed out. He was presenting, just as Francis Crozier had said. A late presentation, admittedly, but not unheard of. But all need not be lost. He wasn’t dying, and he couldn’t possibly be an Omega.… so the only viable course of action was that he was going into his first rut!

“I’m…an Alpha?”

Francis drew back his head, his expression frozen, then winced.

A few moments earlier.

“This is a fucking disaster,” Dundy said, head in his hands. “Poor James.”

Crozier was standing outside Franklin’s old berth, fixated on the door and what was behind it, the very picture of a slick-struck Alpha. He had hardly been able to focus since setting foot on the ship and catching the scent of an Omega in heat. Dundy, being of the respectable Beta designation, couldn't smell anything. 

Dundy half expected him to start pawing at the door at any moment.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and be able to sell him to an Eskie Alpha for a side of caribou,” japed Hodgeson.

“What an awful thing to say!” hissed Dundy, throwing his hands in the air. Crozier was capable of less sentiment and strode to Hodgeson as if his intent was to thump him.

“Get out. Out! Off you fuck!” he snarled at the second lieutenant before his attention was fully consumed again by the door to Sir John’s Cabin, and what lay behind it. 

Hodgeson swiftly moved to leave, and Thomas Blanky interrupted his transit. “Make up some excuse for all Erebites to stay over on the Terror overnight,” said Thomas Blanky. “Won’t do to have the entire ship knowing.”

Hodgeson left quickly.

“You should go in, Captain,” said Goodsir softly. “He’ll be in need of you.”

“Me?” exclaimed Crozier, apparently surprised by the suggestion. “James doesn’t even like me!”

“I think the problem at hand doesn’t need him to like you for you to offer him some relief,” said Goodsir, ever practical.

Behind him, John Irving was pressing his lips tightly together, as if he wished to speak, but would not in the presence of the captain.

Crozier needed no further encouragement and marched to the door like a man possessed, then paused. He turned to the group of men, and said “I’ll be out in a moment.”

He opened the door, and James was finally visible through the doorway. He raised his head from his sickbed. In a moment, his entire demeanor altered, his nostrils flared, his pupils grew large, and he shifted in an instant from lying in the foetal position to positioning himself as if he were a concubine presenting herself to her Sultan. Excepting, of course, that typically concubines don’t have a stonking great pego pointing like Cupid’s Arrow at the object of their desire. And apparently, that was Crozier.

“Jesus,” muttered Crozier. “Jesus.” Crozier turned and slammed the door shut. Dundy could not bear it anymore. He put his head in his hands. Poor James! To be forced by horrid biology to fornicate with a frog like Crozier. How awful would he feel in the morning!

“My God,” said Irving, obviously harboring similar doubts. “We cannot condone this. Surely, there must be another way, other than this… vulgarity.”

“Sir, we don’t have the drugs on hand to suppress an Omega’s heat. If left untreated, our commander could succumb to shock secondary to heat. It would be a waste of a good man.”

Blanky clapped Irving on the back. “They’re God’s Creatures, lad, acting in accordance with his design. Nothing vulgar about it.”

“Well, you’re mated to your wife. That’s properly God’s design. They’re both men. They’re not married. They can’t be! And… and it’s an abomination for a man to be an Omega!”

“It’s statistically unlikely, not abominable,” said Goodsir. “Captain Fitzjames can hardly help it, and we do not stock Omega suppressants. We must proceed in the traditional manner or let him die. I am decided on what is the lesser sin.”

Blanky added, “Anyhow, they’ll work it out. Our Captain’s an unmated alpha, theirs…” he gestured broadly at Goodsir and Dundy, “Is an unmated Omega. They’re going to have a grand old time. He’ll have a heat, t’other’ll have a rut, perfect thing to clear their minds before the big walk.”

At the conclusion of Blankey’s declaration, a furious screech escaped from the cabin. The sound ripped through a man like the Arctic wind. Blanky’s face turned pale.

“What on earth was that?” stuttered Dundy, shocked by the wail.

Blanky pulled a face. “Frank’s said summat stupid. He’s gone and fucked it.”

“Do we have another Alpha?” said Goodsir.

“I’ll do it,” said Dundy. “By God, I’ll find a way.”

“You’re a beta Sir. You don’t have…” Goodsir gestured with his hands. “It’s more than...sodomy. There are hormones… the knotting….” Goodsir trailed off, the topic too distasteful a subject for the Great Cabin. Blanky pulled a face.

“Our Lieutenant Irving is the next ranking Alpha. When Frank gets booted out, it’ll have to be him trying to get his leg over next," said Blanky with authority. 

John Irving's expression soured like milk into horror.

Across the Great Cabin, Dundy put his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

James howled, and the screech of it echoed around the cabin and out, into the bowels of Erebus, driving down deep into the ice. All energy ran out of him, a general collapse from the great shock of the suggestion. He should slug Crozier for even daring to speak the libel.

He couldn’t be an Omega! He couldn’t be! Every ambition dashed, all those years of gruelling work, of relentless travel, of endless politicking. All that industry was made useless by this one cruel calamity. Everyone knew that a Male Omega was a born sodomite. One could not survive the first heat without the necessary sin, just as a flower would perish without dirt.

Anyone who knew he was an Omega would know. Any Alpha would smell it on him. He was supposed to be second-in-command of the expedition. How could the men respect him now? They had had Hickey flogged for a litany, but dirtiness was one of the reasons! A male Omega had no place in the Navy. There would be no place in society for him. Yet another humiliation to add to his own personal litany. It would be preferable if the malaria were to return and make a swift exit for him. It would be better if he were to perish and become some kind of martyr.

There had been a score of Omega lads who had done that, chosen to succumb to a heat death, lest they commit the sin. One of the men in his club in London had once made a bawdy joke about it too, stating that falling on their swords was preferable, lest they fall on another's. Damn him, and Damn James; he had thought it funny and laughed. It was not funny now.

The shame of his birth had drawn a circle around him that he could not negotiate or escape. And he had not allowed others to enter that boundary. This was yet another weight to add to the lodestone around his neck. Maybe this would be the additional ounce to break it.

A soft touch to his cheek brought him back to reality. Francis was leaning over him, cradling his face. His blunt thumb made a gentle movement and wiped away an errant tear. James had not realised that he was weeping. He was surprised that the tear didn’t evaporate.

“James… James. You know perfectly well that, should I have had the opportunity to choose my own circumstances…” Francis paused to inhale, sucking air through his nose and breathing out through his mouth.

He’s tasting me on the air thought James. Francis twitched, as if he were forcing himself back to focusing on James’ discomfort.

James realised then, Francis’s purpose in entering the room. Francis had no intention of letting him die. Francis had every intention of ensuring his survival, meaning that Francis was intent on buggery. Committing buggery with him. And James would permit it. His body wanted it. 

My God.

“James, I would have not chosen to be an Alpha, or Irish, or born to middling parents. None of the facts of my own birth have ever been of benefit to me.”

James had not quite thought before that Francis’ and his motivations were not so dissimilar, though his own heritage was the worse. Not that Francis was party to that information. Francis was much less skilled in the veiling of that background, and often to his own disadvantage. Francis’ other hand had come to rest on his wrist, and was tightening, although James was certain that Francis was not fully aware of his own body.

The balm of Francis’ scent was wearing off, and the heat within him was building once more, a blistering, burning sensation. James fancied that the crew could throw him off the deck, and he would sink, sizzling through the ice. He felt as if he could set the very sea to boiling.

Francis had found the ability to concentrate once more. “I will not pretend that this change will not be difficult, but when we lead our men out of this mess, you will be proving to society that not only are Omega men competent leaders, but that they can also be brave and respectful. If anyone can convince society of these facts, it would be you. And I will bolster those claims at every opportunity. I will reinforce your command.”His hand on his wrist was as tight as a manacle, and as hot as a brand. His tone impressed him… here was the leader that the men needed, that he needed.

Francis’ nostrils twitched, and James realised that Francis could perceive his innermost feelings in the minute alterations of his scent. An eerie ability. Although James was nearly struck mute, in a way, they were having some form of conversation. Francis could smell James’ approval of his speech, and he must be able to smell his body’s growing anticipation.

“You are brave, you are… you are… you have a knack for motivating the men… I count myself amongst them. So please, don’t despair. Don’t deprive us of your courage when we need it the most. I will need you by my side.”

James’ blood was singing in his veins. Francis was looking at him in a manner he had not before. The gaze was amorous, yes. Hazed over with lust and darkened with desire. But there was more there than just a desire to indulge in venery. There was a respect that the whiskey had never permitted to blossom. Francis did not look at him with pity. He was looking at James like he was Aphrodite herself. 

And James, too, was looking back at Francis in a manner he had not before, mapping his features. In Francis there could be found a particular refinement of his person, his eyes, his lips, his nose, not poorly made. He possessed a teasing gap in his front teeth and a coarse complexion owing to his duties at sea. His eyes were sensitive, like an actor's, in a way he couldn’t be, before he quit the drink.

The pressure was rising; his body knew that the panacea to his ailment was here and knew what he must do next.

James gave in to what his nature bid of him, raised his head and sought out Francis’ lips. The meeting was gentle at first, almost chaste, building into a greater conflagration. Francis groaned against him, a low and rumbling sound, licked against his lips, bidding them to part. James did as he wished, and Francis’ tongue pushed into his mouth. James opened his eyes halfway into the kiss. Francis had his eyes firmly shut, his very fine blond eyelashes almost transparent against his skin.

This Francis was a stranger to him, but it had been him… his scent at Carnevale, no longer concealed by the odour of whiskey. That had been what pulled the trigger inside of him. Francis’ scent was seared deep into the inside of James’ brain. James kissed back, snaked his tongue against Francis’s.

Francis pulled back, the silver of a trail of saliva glinting between them. Francis waved it down and rested his forehead against James’. Francis was panting, his face flushed, his forehead slightly moist.

James had been kissed before. But his approach to love was mostly academic. He was never one for a dockside knee-trembler, thinking it rather beneath the gentleman he thought himself. There had been some of the typical conquests, though he knew all too well that he enjoyed playing the phantomime of courtly love more than the physical culmination of an affair.

And there had been some encounters with the same sex. The use of another man's hand. A mouth. Sordid affairs, all.

Love was not made for him, or he was not made to be loved, but the way Francis was gazing at him made him think it could otherwise.

After all this, after the scandal was weathered, maybe Francis and he could retire to some sunny corner of England. Ireland maybe, should the scandal of their pairing prove too difficult. James could dose himself on suppressants, make himself undetectable. Then there could be trips to the tailors, picnics, games of cricket with close friends, and promenading arm-in-arm down the seafront. They would attend operas and art galleries, and in bed, Francis would reach out to him for comfort. It could feel like one long sunny afternoon, if they were sly, if he could make Francis want him. 

He thought of Francis, reclined in a bathtub, his belly rising out of the suds to form an island, his floating flaccid cock making an archipelago.

He thought of the devotions they might make to one another; James would play wife to Francis. That would be expected of him, considering his designation. But he could even play husband, should Francis wish it. The thought made him flush, and another paroxysm made his body clench, made him wetter. He could smell it.

Francis’ attention was drawn southwards. James could smell the smoky smell of it and knew Francis could sense it too. The slick.

“I’m going to look, James.” he said with firmness. “Get you sorted out,” he muttered, more to himself than to James.

James closed his eyes. He could bear this indignity. For the men.

The sheets he had bundled around and beneath him were gently removed, then the duvet and finally the sodden nightshirt was the only barrier preserving his dignity. Francis went to lift the nightshirt, and James, who was not a complete invalid, snatched the linen away and lifted the shirt over his head. 

Just the action of raising his arms over his head to remove the nightshirt nearly made him giddy. But the air was shockingly cool against James’ jutting cock and his dripping thighs, and the shock of that made him shiver instead. The smell of smoke was thick in the air. When the nightshirt was lifted, Francis was kneeling at the end of Sir John’s bed. Francis was palming his cock through his breeches, wild-eyed. There was a wet spot on Francis’ breeches, flush to the inseam.

James had set the man’s prick to drooling in the few minutes they had been in the room together.

“Jesus wept. Can you smell that?”

“Smoke,” James murmured softly.

“Gunpowder,” Francis said horsely. “Leather…ginger…Jesus. Jesus. I would lick it out of you if you would let me.”

James felt his cock pulse, and Francis watched the subsequent tremble with a soft inhalation. A small pearl of jism glistened at the tip. The idea did not disgust him; rather, it made him blush, even though he knew the act was abhorrent.

He suddenly felt very embarrassed by his condition. He was squirming against the bed, his thighs pressed together, his nipples taut and painful, his prick bobbing with each moment, intent on seeking out relief. He must look awful, he thought, panting and red-faced and sweaty, his hair greasy with it.

“You have no use for shame here,” stated Francis with earnestness. “Cast it off.”

“You’ll take it off,” James ordered, even though the retort was childish.

He sounded strange to his own ears, hoarsely declaring commands, as imperious as a prince. And Francis obeyed him with an eagerness, casting off his clothes. That was not such a new pleasure. James had always relished command, and a quick obedience had always been a joy.

He had further opportunity to map Francis’ lesser-known features. Francis possessed a robustness that held with his countryside upbringing. His chest was broad, the hair silvery, leading a sinful trail to his groin. Francis kicked off his boots and breeches in haste and was made naked.

The trail of hair that led from his chest made into surprising ginger curls. So that's where they find the thread for epaulettes, he thought.

And there, Francis Crozier’s cock stood, almost drunkenly, weighed down by its own swollen mass. He hadn't seen an alpha's cock before, though he had seen medical illustrations and crude graffiti. That piece of anatomy was thought obscene, grotesque when compared the humbler Beta-specimen.  And they were right. Alpha-Cock was obscene. Francis’ cock was a looming threat, ruddy pink at the shaft’s base, puce-purple at the head, and thick.

A battering ram.

It couldn’t possibly fit. It couldn’t possibly go inside. And it was supposed to swell further? Where was the knot? Somewhere towards the base?

“It’ll be fine,” Crozier had returned to the same gentle, lilting tone that he had adopted when he had entered the room, having perceived James' panic. “You’re built for this. This… this is nothing compared to that bloody Chinese bullet.”

James huffed. The bullet was considerably smaller, but Francis had returned to the bearth. James stiffened when he thought Francis might part his legs there and force his way in, but instead Francis returned to kissing him, nearly purring with pleasure. James’ own body reciprocated the affection, arching against him, his hands pawing at Francis’ chest, his neck, his face. Francis pressed his body against James', pressed his cock against James’, though the sizes differed, Francis’s Goliath against James’ David. Francis moved his hips so that his prick moved with agonising slowness against James’ own. James was moaning.

Francis’s hand was snaking down, down to grasp at James’ cock, to hold it firm against his.

“It’s not what you need, but it’ll– it’ll help.”

Francis scent was building, heady and musky, the scent of the ocean. There it was, under his nose, the source of the scent, a puffy pink spot on Francis neck. James nosed closer, inhaling harder, finding the scent, a remarkable combination with Francis grinding against him. He stuck out his tongue and swiped against it. Francis groaned brokenly, bucked hard against him, the meat of his prodigious prick trapping James' cock between it and Francis's hand. That was where the break was, when finally, finally, the waves of a climax were starting to build. The point of no return. Ecstasy bubbling in his groin, lancing up his spine, his cock quivering, and there it was, a long-anticipated release. Bliss. Relief.  

I don't need to go through with it. We've discovered a loophole!

The ejaculation stuttered to a pause, ceased, but his cock remained rigid.

There is no loophole. I am to commit Buggery with Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, or I will surely die. But maybe I can give him something no-one else can. Maybe I can make him want me, maybe I can make him stay. Maybe I can make him need me too.

James’ jism was sticky between them. Just what we need. More fluids for Bridgens to clean up.

Francis’ hand dropped lower, caressed James’ ballocks with a greater tenderness than the situation required, then gently pressed at the seam of James’ legs.

He’s waiting.

The Francis of a month ago would have addressed this with less kindness. James would have been left to die, or unceremoniously fucked with his face in the pillow. Maybe by Francis, maybe by someone else. Maybe that would have been kinder. Less personal. Francis didn’t know that he was making love to a counterfeit.

James closed his eyes, screwed them shut. No point in contemplating the Rubicon.

He opened his legs.

A few moments before

In the Great Cabin, Crozier’s Irish lilt could be heard, a gentle, unintelligible murmur. Irving’s protestations concealed any conversion held within Sir John’s private cabin.

“Well I can’t do it!”

“You might as well go in there and smother him with a pillow instead!” hissed Goodsir, looking increasingly incredulous.

“No. No! I mean I can’t. I can't! I’m still suppressed.”

“It’s been three years since we’ve made contact with any Omega! You surely don’t mean to say that Dr Peddie continued to supply suppressant tonic beyond Bafffin Bay? To what end?!”

“Well, I brought my own stock. Other officers brought their liquor; I brought my own tonic. My own preference is to continue the course of treatment.”

“You can’t even smell him, can you?” Blanky looked concerned. “That’ll scramble yer insides, lad. One of the advantages of being a sailor is the break from the tonic.”

“Well,” Irving drew in a breath. “Being suppressed improved my communion with God. Whilst suppressed, man’s worst urges can he satisfied through Christian pleasures and graces; singing with friends, watercolours, climbing exercises. Unsuppressed, the mind narrows into torrid thoughts… scents. I can barely smell Captain Fitzjames, and it is for the better. Should I not have been conscientious, I would have likely succumbed to the same anamalistic urges as Captain Crozier. We might have even fought for him. Can you imagine.” Irving smiled at the assembled men, his expression solemn, yet benign, beautified by his radiant faith.

Goodsir was less moved by Irving’s sermon. “Have you given any thought to how you’ll manage on the walk?” His tone was not too dissimilar from the late Doctor Stanley.

“I’ll carry my own stock. I’ll find the strength in prayer,” said Irving with confidence.

“You know perfectly well that’s not sensible, your health may be adver–” a long, drawn-out moan radiated from the cabin.

Irving nearly crumpled with a blush.

“He hasn’t chucked out Crozier,” said Dundy, dully stating the obvious.

“Frank’s gone and done it!” exclaimed Blanky with somewhat more excitement. 

“I think this might be the worst thing that’s happened on this expedition,” said Dundy faintly.

“...Did you miss the big bloody bear?” Blanky asked, sceptically.

“I’ll take my leave,” announced Irving, suddenly hunching over to suspiciously tent his coat.

“One moment, Lieutenant Irving," interrupted Goodsir. "I will need you to cease suppressant treatment immediately. We cannot have you expending much-needed energy on lugging tonic. Anyhow, your enhanced senses as an alpha may very well be needed whilst travelling. If you do not take my advice as a medic, I will ensure Captain Crozier makes my suggestion an immediate command. Once relieved of his immediate duties.”

Irving was as stiff as a board, his face flushed, his lips pursed. Eventually, he spoke. “I suppose one must make one's sacrifices when it is demanded of them.”

“They do say that suffering brings one closer to God, Sir.” Goodsir’s bedside manner had returned to him, now that his patient had been corralled to the correct manner of thought.

“Very well, Mr Goodsir, I will take your advice. Through God, all things are…tolerable.” Irving winced.

“I think I shall return to Erebus to see how Edward and George are managing. I can compose a list of the Alphas on board Terror, should it be needed.”

“Frank’s still in there. I think they’ll make it,” said Blanky with confidence.

“I’ll take my leave,” announced Irving. He turned to leave, closing the door behind him, Irving’s footsteps sounded further and further away.

Blanky’s eyebrows rose as his gaze flickered between his two companions. “Well. He was ‘bout as much use as a marzipan dildo.”

Dundy guffawed before he could act the sober lieutenant. The men could relax now, Captain Crozier not being likely to emerge from Sir John’s cabin any time soon.

Another moan emerged from the cabin, clearly being that of Captain Fitzjames.

“Well, he’s feeling a lot better,” declared Blanky with good cheer. ”Let’s evacuate? Nobody tell nowt to Lieutenant Irving.”

Dundy took the initiative. "The wardroom, I think, Gentlemen. Time for a hot drink and a biscuit.”

Dundy felt a clash of two great emotions. There was relief that James would live, yes, but a despair at the hand that James had been dealt. 

“A good biscuit will make you feel a lot better,” promised Goodsir with some cheer.

Dundy turned sternly towards Goodsir. “Mr Goodsir, I think you will find that there are limitations to the medicinal properties of a biscuit.”

Chapter Text

Francis’ fingers wander closer.

Just what is the correct manner in which to act when your senior officer’s hand is making for your hole? Ladies’ etiquette guides probably make some subtle inference that a young Omega should be passive and inert. That the Alpha would take care of the whole affair. Maybe some Whiggish mothers advised something slightly more practical to their daughters, something along the line of “Lie back, and think of the Empire”. No such advice for the male of the species, and less so for a man in a position of power, who should never submit so.

James could refuse. James could choose death instead. But he lacked the appetite for a senseless death here when the cure was so close and tantalising, consequences be damned.

Was there an optimal condition for a Naval Captain to act when he is penetrated? With stoicism, maybe? James was far past stoicism, his spill tacky on his belly, his thighs slippery with slick. His composure has been less than ideal in this encounter, and it felt foolish to attempt now. But Francis had not shown an iota of disgust at James' self-control. Quite the opposite, James had cast them both into the gutter, Francis intoxicated on James’ wicked miasma.

It is the same miasma that would have infected the small host of Alphas on the Terror, had it not been contained. Would more men have died in that Butcher’s Ball? Would Francis brawl to the death for him? Would more men have died than in the Carnevale?

Francis was averting all that messiness in this decisive action. His fingers glided to their target, to the aching, tender flesh. For a man with a penchant for hitting tables to punctuate a point, Francis was capable of a surprising gentleness.

There was a pressure, and a slight push, and James’ flesh parted with an unbecoming eagerness. Francis’ fingers followed into the space within, a new and strange sensation. There was a distinct movement within him, not wholly unnatural. Francis moved, a feeling close to being almost tidal in nature, a stretch filling him at the zenith, an ebb at the nadir to make him long for the fullness again.

Francis huffed, his breath hot on his shoulder. “Wet as October. Perfect.”

The praise only served to spur on more wetness. James knew that an Omega’s psychology included the pathological need to please. He had displayed that attribute all his life. Were there any other psychological deviencies that he exhibited?

There was the dress. James had put on a dress for a play in Malta a long time ago. That was a deviancy that James had never allowed another indulgence in. He had enjoyed it far too much.

Psychology aside, there was no immediate physiological difference. An Omega’s external genitalia were comparable to those of the Beta specimen. It was their internal genitalia that were capable of immense and frankly grotesque feats.

Alas, he lacked a cunt, but his body will make do with the orifice bequeathed by the Almighty.

Another shifting movement inside his own body. Francis added another finger to those breaching him.

“F-fingers-” he murmured, “How Many?”

“Three,” Francis grunts in response.

James bites back an incredulous screech. Three! Not one, not two, but three fingers in quick succession. This is the famed Omega’s physiology in action. Francis Crozier has stuffed James’s virginal arsehole with three of his brutish fingers, and James’s hole was so eager that it had enveloped the intrusion without any protest. It was beyond belief. Worse, Francis is the recipient of a warm and willing welcome. When Francis acts to pull his fingers out, James hole grasps tight.

James huffed with an adolescent type of embarrassment.

“Three, yes. You’ll take more than that tonight,” states Francis without any due concern. Then Francis touched upon a new spot and James seizes.

“There it is,” growled Francis in his ear, his fingers twisting to find that spot once more.

James mewled, shifting to bear down on Francis's hand again. There was a new and strange spot inside of him that made his body quake. Francis had a rare upturn playing on his lips, looking inordinately pleased with his efforts. It was strange to think of Crozier as a lusty sort of fellow, but he played the part with ease, enthusiasm, and earnestness.

James pushed his back into the mattress, gasping for breath. Francis continued his dutiful ministrations, his fingers eliciting new and strange sensations. James' pulse beat a tattoo in his neck. He wonders if Francis can see it jumping against his skin. It must beat straight out of him when Francis’ knuckles bear against his rim. Yet another frontier teased.

But then Francis removed his person entirely, and James whined, suddenly bereft of sensation. His neglected cock ached, and he moved to take himself in hand.

Francis moved to arrest the movement. “Not yet,” he says, not ungently. “Patience.”

Francis moves, and James propped himself on his arms to peer down his body. Francis was knelt between his legs like a pilgrim at prayer. For a few moments, he was focused purely on the logistics of the situation. He lifted him, pushed bedding to both cushion and prop up James’ arse, and then, that forboding cock was notched against James’ arsehole, an insistent and real pressure.

Francis made a slight movement in his hips, and the tip of his cock pushed in, at first gentle, then stretching him wider than before. There was a slight respite, and James realised that the entirety of the bellend was within him. Francis’ mouth pursed into a neat little circle.

Francis eased in further with gentle thrusts, James breathing coltishly through the invasion. Every Captain must learn how to master themselves, in body and mind, lest they lose the respect of the crew. This occasion was no different from any other crisis; a swell in a storm or the sinking of the largest cock he’s ever seen into him. He had lost control, yes. James must muster himself again.

Finally, Francis was flush with him, pressed together as James had so desired upon seeing him. He could go no further; he was sheathed entirely in James’s willing body.

Francis was looking at him, his weight as reassuring as a blanket, his eyes questioning. “Are you comfortable James? Can I continue?”

Tonight, James was viewing Francis as if he were being observed through a prism that revealed secrets. Francis, the kind and considerate lover. Francis, an avid enjoyer of bedsports. Francis, a much more sensual creature than first appearances had made him appear.

“Yes,” James urged, “Yes.”

Francis shifted again.

Again, the thought that Francis, too, must be no stranger to the gap between how to act and how he wants to act, who he wants to be. Was he nervous, too? He smelt like the sea, but only the sea, wonderful as it was.

James pushed himself up and kissed him briefly. He reclined once more, smiled at Francis' stupification, stretched out his hand, and caressed Francis' cheek.

The act of reaching out to him seemed more momentous than any other so far. Francis leant into his touch reverently. Had Francis been lonely this entire cruise? James guided him down to his lips, so that they were lying top to toe, truly. Francis moved his hips again, keened, kissed against his lips. James lifted his legs, placed them higher, wrapped them around Francis's body, and crossed his ankles neatly one over the other. It served to give Francis unfettered access.

“You are perfect. You are just…” Francis gasps, rocking himself over and over into James. Francis was hitting that spot inside of him with zealous consistency, and a coil of tension grew inside of James, drawing more and more taut. Beneath him, James responded to his thrusts, entreated him to drive as deeply as he could, drew him in by tightening the yoke of his legs, by holding him, stroking his feathery hair. 

Francis’s wandering hand moved between their bodies and seized James’ cock. He tugged with a certain ease. James had thought that Francis would be more used to adjusting the fox than attending to this particular instrument, but he possessed an unexpected deftness with the male anatomy.

The air was nearly punched out of him in shock. This was not the first time Francis had engaged with another man.

Francis trembled inside him and groaned into his mouth. “First knot. That’s it. That’s it. You’re so good.”

The heft within him suddenly pressed hard in all directions. Francis gasped as if he was drowning, suddenly shuddering into James. His cock twitched again, the pressure increased, and the coil that had been drawing tighter and tighter inside of James broke. James was ascending, up the ecstasy of Jacob’s ladder, higher, higher, into the knowledge of a forbidden elysium. All his breath was gathered out of him, his body weightless, his legs numb, his vision plagued by white spots.

For a long moment, all was quiet, save for heavy, laboured breathing.

“That’s better, eh?” Francis chuckled, still breathless.

James’ thoughts were as viscous as custard, but “better” was hard to quantify. Cessation of the physical symptoms, broadly, yes. He could feel the cold once more, his skin goosepimpling. He clung tighter to Francis, his movement reminding him of Francis’s anatomy wedged deep and wide inside him.

But despite the physical satisfaction, there was a current of deep sadness, a grief that it was over. Gone was the pleasure; now all that remained was anxiety and death and the cold and the poison and the long, long walk.

Francis gripped him tighter, kissed as softly as a tap from a butterfly's wing. The comfort of a kiss did not change reality, but it was a kindness. James’ thoughts grew even more hazy, his body languid. When James fell asleep, his dreams were as thick and rich as velvet.

When sleep departed him, it was as if he had been awoken from a queer dream.

He woke in a bed that was not his own, with a man who was not quite his lover. They are on a stuck ship that cannot sail, in a land that cannot bear to allow them to live. His body felt strange. Hot. No longer under his control.

And his Alpha’s scent was as omnipresent as God.

He mewled for Francis’ touch, weak as a kitten, stiff as a board.

In the respite of sleep, Francis had slipped out of him. James was empty, a void within him.

Before they had lain together, James had made himself believe that his lust was separate to himself. Something other. But in truth, he was one aching whole, and in need of only one thing.

“Francis… Please. Please. Francis.”

Francis was awake, and James was moving to his front. Moving into the most shameful position, the easiest one to be taken in. Presenting his arse with a desperation unbecoming to his station.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Francis mumbled, his voice thickened with sleep. Francis took his position behind him. A shudder lanced up his spine as Francis’ probing thick finger pushed inside of him.

He whined, knowing now that a finger was not enough, not now that he had known more. He arched his back and spread his thighs apart. “Please. Please,”

“Gorgeous,” there is a smile in the last syllable. James preens, juts his arse up just a little higher.

The mattress dipped to signal Francis’ movement, and then Francis’ teeth nipped his left buttock, and James laughed into the pillow. Somehow, he had eeked out a form of cheekiness from Francis Crozier.

And then James felt the hot puff of breath between his spread cheeks, in a locale that no mouth should ever be.

The shock was too much. James crumpled to the side, snapping his legs together and peering at Francis’ face, appalled.

Francis had implied that lewd act the night before. James thought it a compliment of sorts at worst, hyperbole at best. He did not think that Francis would carry through with the threat should an opportunity arise.

That act was far too much. Far too familiar. Far too dirty.

And Francis looked like a scolded schoolboy for being refused. Francis would have relished the act, James realised. Strange to think of Francis being the uninhibited one, and James repressed, but in bed this was their standing. And James had refused him something that he had wanted to do badly.

That could be a miscalculation. James had taken the knot, the worst of the heat was surely over. Maybe Francis wouldn’t want him now that he had said no to an act. Maybe it would be better that James should take position once more, to let Francis continue as he wished.

But it was too much.

James opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Finds his voice once more and issues a Captain’s command. “Fingers. Your cock.”

Francis nodded, the terms of the agreement sufficient. “As you were then. I won’t attempt again.”

James nearly paused to return to such a vulnerable position, but even in the depths of his inebriated stupor, Francis had been honest in his word. It had been his word, after all, that had sent him to this place. A word to a woman. The woman who sent him without a promise of engagement or her affection or even a portrait.

James’ competition.

Or at least, the most recent competitor. Just who had taught Francis to make love to other men?

Thoughts heavy with more questions than answers, he turns once more, resumes the most vulnerable position. Francis fingers return for but a moment, a quick testing only. Then Francis is once more pushing himself deep inside James, spearing him open with a grunt. 

James shifted from his forearms, pushing himself up on one hand to lower his head down, so he could see down, under his body. He could see his cock, bouncing in time with the thrusts, a wet string of jolting dribble leaking from him.

James rose with a moan, looking back at Francis. “Kiss me,” a command and a plea both.

And Francis acquiesced like a gentleman, moving to cover James with his body as if he were a cloak or a shroud, pressed even deeper into him, forcing a collapse, so that James was lying on his front, his cock abandoned to the mattress. His body pressed into James’ heavy enough to make his breath short, James sending his legs out wide, curling one long calf around Francis’.

James was as physically close as he could be to Francis. It was his neck that Francis kissed first, the side that doesn’t have the damned spot, though it ached for Francis’ tongue to lathe over it. James turned his head, twisted himself to meet Francis’ mouth, neck twinging at the angle. They kissed messily, their teeth clashing, Francis thrusting into him all the while.

He returned to rest his face against the pillow, jawing at it. Sir John’s scent was still detectable, but it was Francis’ scent that dominated all.

It was wonderful, the entirety of it, the scent and Francis and the attention and the sensation, absolutely glorious. James sighed into his pillow.

And Francis ruined it.

“When you’re returned to London, you’ll be the toast of society. You’ll not need for companionship. You won’t be lonely, you're too lovely.” he promises.

The scales are dashed from his eyes. Nothing Francis could have said could have devastated him more.

Francis was only acting as the captain, doing what he must to preserve the life of a crewmember. Francis has performed the practical arithmetic of an expedition leader before entering this room. He had decided that James Fitzjames is worth the food he will consume because he can he can pull. There is an additional variable to that equation. James is a member of the senior leadership who has done the most to raise the morale of the men; he is valuable as the one who can encourage the men to haul.

It is a cold-minded calculation suitable for a man responsible for the lives of so many men.

Francis will walk away after they return to London. There may be rumours about tonight, but Francis will be mostly unscathed. It will be James who will live with this new original sin for the rest of his life.

On their return, James will have to procure suppressants and stuff himself up with them. He’ll make himself sexless, make a eunich of himself. And when the desire to be touched becomes overwhelming, he’ll find a nameless lover in much the same way he always has. A few days of sickness, cured by living sluttishly.

Men have had to live with far worse, but it still makes him want to weep.

James has daydreamed like a silly girl. All of tonight is a consequence of the hormones, the scent, his scent, infecting Francis. Nothing more. When Francis spills in him for the final time, all affection will cease.

All that sentiment belongs to the illustrious Sophia Cracroft after all. Not that she had valued such a thing as Francis’ hand. Was she a beta? Sir John would surely have mentioned if she were an Omega. If so, what on earth was Francis planning to do to the poor woman? What was she planning on doing to him? Keeping him on a leash, like some kind of exotic pet?

And Francis had too much confidence in his dealings with the male anatomy. Had he sought out the same encounters with other men? Did he have a lover back home that yearned for him?

“We will make it home,” Francis stated with confidence, stroking James’ flank as if he were a spooked filly. Even Francis’s ability to perceive emotions via scent appeared to possess limitations, just as dependent on the interpretation of the observer as any other sense.

James can no longer trust his senses. This place made him doubt himself. Francis smelt tantalising and Sir John smelt safe. But it was Sir John who got them into this horror show. Even this heightened sense can be as deceptive and as misleading as any other sense.

And James had been impressed when Francis had declared his intent to dry out. What was the likelihood that Francis would self-destruct upon their return? What if he can’t hold the course? James was foolish to trust him; one should never trust a lushington. James had seen enough of Francis’s choleric temper to know better.

Anyhow. A man’s temper was like to change when his dick is wetted.

Francis stills. “James?”

It must be the miasma that makes him kind. Two Navy men are not supposed to be like this with one another.

James could no longer bear to be the passive party.

James moved, Francis slipping out of him, rolling to his back, and rose to grapple with Francis, to manhandle him, to push him against the mattress instead, to take position, to seize control, and sink down on him instead.

Below him, Francis’ eyes were dark and alluring. The thoughts of a few minutes ago began to waver in the strength of the kindness in Francis’s eyes.

James had to resist these soft feelings. They’d gnaw through him like rust.

Francis raised his hands, one went to James’ bony hip, the other traced the impact wound of the Chinese bullet. They are rough to the touch, Francis’s hands, but their actions are gentle.

It is Francis who smiles first, in the manner of a sweetheart, almost shy. Despite the thoughts of a few minutes ago, it is James who laughs back, giddy as a boy. He could not remember the last time he had laughed like that. He smiled broadly, Francis mirroring him, beaming back, delight transforming his face, making him look younger, less careworn.

It felt marvelous like this, the feeling of being filled up, of the stretch, of being absolutely stuffed full of cock. This, he could get used to. This was elation, this was the thrill of ascending up the ratlines to make it all the way up the mainmast, this was being alive. Years of being frozen in the ice, only to find a rapture now. He rolled his hips like he was cresting the swell of the sea, a heady rolling pitch exaggerated by Francis own pitching thrusts.

There was unclaimed territory here, in Francis. Others had not seen it. Miss Cracroft had refused a claim twice. But James could see it. There was a heart, beating with the hope that someone would desire it. The way Francis looked at him, James just had to place his claimant’s flag, and the territory would be seized, a conquest, his plunder.

James fucked himself on Francis harder, the coil inside him growing more and more taut with each heaving motion. All the fantasies drew in again. Francis in society. Francis in bed. Francis in the tub. Francis made loving and kind and soft and gentle by James’ care. Reciprocal adoration.

Francis and he could make a covenant out of this, make something sacred in an act others thought blasphemous. It was a privilege to know what this felt like, to have a man within him, trusting him entirely.

There was a vulnerable feeling forming in James’ heart. It was terrifying to possess. A tentative hope grows.

James could bite him. That’s what the second sexes did to bind one to another. No need for a ring, priest, or altar, though respectable couples ensure the correct rites occur quickly after a mating. None of that matrimony for them of course… but the bite was more binding than vows. They would be blinded to all but one another.

James takes a good, long whiff. The room smells of gunpowder and the ocean and sex. “We smell like a battle at sea, don’t we?” he comments winningly.

Francis beamed back at him, fucked up into him with an increasingly frantic pace, his hands gripping tighter.

There was a slight movement within him. Francis’s cock had a telltale quiver when he was close. Its origins are somewhere deep in the base, presumably part of the mechanism that makes the knot inflate.

That tide is coming down on James too. Together, they are two men on the precipice, both on the edge of bliss and on the edge of annihilation. It will not take much for them both to topple into the abyss, to drag all their men with them. Why shouldn’t they know what it is to be bound, whilst they still breathe?

They’ll have to be sly to be accepted into society. They’ll have to frame it as a necessary sacrifice. Frame it as Francis saving his men from the contamination of an undetected Omega. They’ll have to exaggerate that, emphasise the potential disorder that an unmated Omega could infer. And they’ll have to frame the act as brotherly, that they couldn’t possibly derive pleasure from the act. Whilst engaging in the necessary penetration, they averted their eyes and recited the articles of war. That it was a brotherly sort of fuck. Lie. Lie. Lie.

I am not a stranger to a white lie after all.

He leant down to Francis, licked the sweat off of his scent mark, ran his teeth over it as if to catch the very rind of Francis’ ocean smell in his mouth.

“Oh James! Oh!”Francis’s trembling hands were in his hair.

James draws back. It would be cheating to bind Francis like this. If he was to have Francis, it would be a fair battle or he would not feel like he was the true victor. Winner to take all.

He placed his mouth to Francis’s, pushed his tongue into his willing mouth. The crisis came upon them both, his own paroxysms starting before the grand swell of Francis’ prick swept him into a blistering white rapture. It felt like nothing else, the sensation inside him billowing into full sail. This was the peak of being; this was the pleasure that all men sought, sucking the breath out of him, making him spill over Francis’s chest with a great shudder.

Francis ran his finger through the liquid, making eye contact as he placed the finger into his mouth. Francis had managed to taste a part of him, at least. 

After, they had rearranged themselves to lie beside one another, sweating and languid, the knot lodged deep in James, a pleasant stretch.

“You know, it is considered poor form to worry at a scent mark without the intention of mating, James.” The reprimand was gentle, more like a tutor correcting a student than a dejected lover.

“And what if that is my intention?” James is pleased with how well he sounds. Strong. Velvety. Better than the weakness that had plagued him for the last few days. “I should think we should discuss the matter before.”

Francis gaped, shocked to silence.

“Why shouldn’t I want for a man I admire?” James continues, casting his eyes downwards, down to where their bodies are joined.

“I hit you,” Francis says after a silence.

James looked up. “I goaded you.”

“The drink–”

“The fire. The carnevale,”

“Any guilt over the Carnevale should lie with Dr Stanley and his actions that night. You sought to bolster the spirits of the men James. Men I neglected.”

“And yet, no matter what you say, I’ll carry the guilt with me forever… I should not have contested your experience. With the ice. I should have trusted you earlier.”

Francis paused. “Are you seeking to mate with me to punish yourself?” he asked slowly.

“No!” James was shocked. “I know my own mind.”

“I’m sure.” Francis expression was unreadable.

“Then you’re refusing me?” Francis had been rejected by Miss Cracroft, and James by his own parents. It didn’t make the feeling hurt any less, but James thought that with enough time, this could at least become a bittersweet memory. His thoughts were less hazy, more logical, now that he was out of the heat. 

“I’m not,” Francis was looking at him oddly. “I’m making my own resolution. I’ll need motivation to walk. Every trudging step. Towards home. Towards you, if you’ll still have me, at the end of it.”

That tentative feeling was catching light in James’ breast. Francis reached out his hand, as if he were making a gentleman’s agreement. But it was not a typical gentleman’s request. James took his hand and held it to his lips.

Later

Dundy was sat alone, when at a late hour, Captain James Fitzjames plodded tenderly out of the Great Cabin. His hair was a dark halo around his head, he was barefoot, and he was garbed in a great linen nightshirt, Sir John's presumably. His demeanor reminded Dundy of the great Christian martyrs, fit to be sculpted and placed in a Cathedral for posterity.

“Biscuits!” James exclaimed with an excitement unbecoming of a saint, “I’m starving!”

“Jas! My God, how are you?” Dundy exclaimed.

James looked well. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling. He was smiling, despite his ordeal.

“I’m absolutely famished Dundy. I could kill for a beef tea. In fact. More. I could eat a horse, Dundy, I swear. I could absolutely eat a horse. When we get home, I will. I fear it will take me hardly any time at all…. And you know what? I’m ready for a ruddy great walk, that’s what.” James stretched out his arms. “I feel better than I’ve felt in years. Absolutely grand.”

James took a chair next to Dundy, swung his feet up to rest them on Dundy's lap, and grabbed a biscuit from Dundy’s plate and stuffed it into his mouth.

Dundy cleared his throat. “I want you to know that this… this changes nothing between us. You remain one of the finest men I have met. All respect remains. And I’ll clobber anyone who says different.”

James halted in his chewing and, through a mouthful of biscuit, responded. “Dundy… I shall hold that sentiment close to my heart. Till the day I die, thank you.”

Dundy picked up a biscuit of his own and let the moment settle like dust. It was uncomfortable talking about emotion with James. Not the done thing. 

“What of Crozier…?”

“Oh, he’s sleeping it off. The old boy put in a real shift. Really got me out of a tight spot. Can’t fault him at all.” James had a strangely satisfied smile on his face.

Dundy wrinkled his nose, but thought better of saying anything. “What’s next?”

“We walk. We’ll have to be honest with the men. No. I’ll be the one to announce my designation. Make them aware that yes, Francis had to attend to me. No rumours. Fact. That he performed his duty to a fellow man, otherwise I would have died. I’ll figure out some feat of oratory before Sunday Service. Prayers immediately after, I should think. We’ll need them.”

“Do you need prayers, James? Did he...?”

“Did he what?”

“Did he mate you?”

“No. No. Nothing quite so drastic as all that.”

Dundy released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Thank the Lord. I was worried that you would have been stuck with him. That would have been awful.”

His career may have been sunk, but James did have some prospects. One did hear stories. James was young. Handsome. A man as capable as James could surely find himself a situation of sorts.

“I’m not so sure, actually.”

Dundy’s jaw dropped. “Pardon?”

James shrugged. “Well. I don’t think that’ll be too bad, you know. I think I would be quite content.”

“You’re serious.”

“Hm. I think I might go and wake up Francis. We have a number of preparations for the walk to make... and Dundy, despite your duties, do not neglect your own duty to yourself. When you haul, you must find yourself a motivation. Something you’re walking home to. Your fiancée. Your Father. Find where you’ll mine your courage, that fixed point on the horizon that you’ll move towards at any cost. You’ll have to cradle that ambition to keep you going through the bad days ahead.”

“Just what are you talking about, Jas?”

There was a fae smile playing on James's lips, like he knew a secret. He shrugged, looking into the darkness of the Great Cabin. “I know what I’ll be walking for. That’s all,”