band of fools through chest-high water

Francis spends a lot of time staring out of windows, searching some distant, imaginary horizon. James allows it for propriety's sake, but it does drive him a bit loony. He's on London for a few months, that's all, and he's taken another commission, and he wants them to enjoy what time they have.

You're always halfway across the world, and you're calling me distant?

James comes up behind him.

I'm the one globetrotting, yet it seems that I'm always the one chasing you.

Francis stiffens. He's exhausted. But when he turns, and his tired eyes meet James, it still has the same effect. He still feels want. Need. Francis's gaze warms him on even the coldest nights. He wants to return the favor while he's here, no matter how reticent the old man gets.

He takes Francis's hand in his, holding eye contact. He brings Francis's fingertips to his lips, just barely brushes skin against skin.

"You press on these bruises on purpose," Francis accuses, voice gravely, low. He's not moving away, despite his frown. He does tug against Jame's grip.

"Don't you like my fingers?" James asks, holding tight. He kisses knuckles gently.

"You know I do. I know what you're doing, James."

James smiles.

He reaches for Crozier's other wrist. The one where there is no hand. And it is a testament to what they've been through, that Francis allows it. James dusts a kiss over where the wrist ends, uneven where joint was cut and healed on the shale. He is gentle. He is loving.

"I love all parts of you," James mutters against the skin.

Francis rolls his eyes. But… he blushes a bit, too. It is hard to hide, with his complexion.

He looks like he is about to complain, so James holds his own hand up. Like a princess- like a queen.

Francis doesn't talk about these things— he doesn't want conversations. He is impatient, cranky, and often rude. But he is still a man of work, service, respect. So he does his duty. Takes James's hand, holds those long, strong fingers, and brings them to his lips.

"That's more like it, love."

"You cannot give me a single easy night, can you James?"

"Francis, I'd give you anything you asked. I'd let you fuck me with this-"

"James." Francis shies away from such lewd talk, but his blush deepens.

He raises his eyebrows pointedly. But the bait was successfully taken. Francis doesn't sigh, or turn away. He holds James's gaze.

James rewards him by bringing his hand to Francis's face, running his fingers allong his cheek, before pressing his thumb between the lips. Deeper, into the warm, wet space that opens readily for him.