#*counts

When he looked in the mirror he saw several things and none of them he liked, but truly when had that ever been the case? He saw the visage of a dying man, a man whose whole life was spent running from secrets and flaws, running towards adoration and acceptance. A tired man with knotted hair and a bleeding scalp, a once lively and vivacious man now wan and hollow.

He felt imperfect; a funny thing to feel when one walked the edge of death. The man that looked back at him in the mirror was an utter stranger but also the most he felt human in years.

He sat in one of the breezy tents, topless but without feeling the cold. He felt as though he was more oozing wound than man, but the pain was ignored to a degree. He kept his jaw tight despite the ache it caused his gums and stared ahead at nothing. He had to keep up appearances, even now during an examination. Reflect the outward appearance of a wounded man still standing against all odds.

It coated his focus and allowed him to ignore the stinging pokes and prods of Goodsir’s fingers. He knew the doctor was being careful as he could be. It was reminiscent of the nights Goodsir’s fingers would draw lines up and down his commander’s bare back. And then his mind drifted further: what does he think of me? In this state? He’s watched me fall to pieces and now this. What does he think?

Goodsir was oblivious to Fitzjames’ wandering attention. He spoke softly of laudanum and cotton dressings, caressing the flesh beneath him as tenderly as ever. He did not have the energy to separate doctor and man, and in this private moment he was both or whatever Fitzjames needed him to be.

“Handsome...” It was the word that broke through Fitzjames’ thoughts. A compliment of all things. Softly spoken, almost dreamily. “You’re so handsome...”

“Lies.” Fitzjames bit back vitriol for the doctor’s sake, surely Goodsir of all men would not mock him. “You would say that while looking upon me in such a state?”

Their eyes met, both dark but where Fitzjames’ had become dulled from stress and ill health, Goodsir’s managed to retain a sparkle or two. Fitzjames could feel his veneer cracking from the mere act of eye contact.

“I am hardly the man I pride myself to be. You do not have to coddle me, Harry.”

“You hold on too tightly to pride. Though I cannot say I blame you; you need something to hold on to.” Goodsir broke the gaze by returning to his duty. He knew it was only a temporary measure that he could employ, but it was better than nothing. “We all do.”

He started the task of gently cleaning Fitzjames’ wounds, allowing the commander to brace himself with hands on the doctor’s shoulders. He could feel every grimace through his layers as the procedure went on, Fitzjames’ weak but deepening digs into the fabric of his jacket.

“You have no idea how much effort I put into appearing a certain way for you. For Crozier. For everyone.”

“I don’t think it matters much now, James.” Goodsir did not look up from his task. “Why expend the energy anymore?”

“Because it matters to me. And how those men see me - they need leadership.”

“And we have it. Crozier. And you.” Goodsir’s voice lowered, “I trust you more than anyone.”

“You put your trust in a dead man. A stupid, weak, sick man who has spent too much time worrying over what other people think.”

“I put my trust in a man I love.”

“Harry, I…” Fitzjames stopped himself. It was almost too much. The idea and the pain of being loved simply for being.

He rested his weight more on Goodsir, feeling as though he might give way. He pressed the side of his face into the doctor’s curls.

“I love you no matter how the outside looks, James. I trust you, I know you’ll get us through this.”

The brave façade that Fitzjames worked so hard to uphold, even at a detriment to himself, crumbled almost instantly when faced with the never ending kindness of the doctor. He clung tighter to Goodsir, casting aside his worry of being perceived as anything but well put together. The energy to cling to it left him in tears.