#fitizier

James didn't wait. Not having to second guess was a rare luxury. He slipped a hand beneath the blankets and felt for the place where cloth ended and skin began.

"James," Francis sighed, shifting.

"Best cure for sleeplessness I know," James murmured. "Better than any tincture."

A moment hung in suspension. Soon, Francis' hips lifted minutely — the only permission required. James nudged the garment down and put hand to skin. From here they would flow together without words, like water.

Only this: an index finger, wet with spit and sweat, slipped in whole on a single motion. Like an oar inside Francis’ body, cutting a steady, curving course. Like a flint stone, striking again and again at the same spot until there was light.

Minutes passed. It would take time, if it came at all. Perhaps they would both drift off before release. No matter. It was enough to lie close and breathe in blissful lungfuls of warmth and their mingled stink; enough to hear, after a time, Francis' own breath fill out to a gasp as James' finger crooked and stroked slowly without pause.

He had done it more times than he could recall, to himself and to others. To himself, as an easy way to wring out tension and — with more fingers — as fodder for fantasies and recollections of pricks he'd taken. To others, as another talent to boast of and a way to win favour. Never, it dawned on James, had he done it solely to show care and to confess, through the act, what he was.

He was too sick and weary from the walk to rise, but the realisation engulfed him in an ecstasy of a different kind. Shudders rippled out through Francis’ body and when they reverberated through his own, James, too, shuddered and gasped. He felt that together they were carrying out a rite in which he, unworthy though he was, had been entrusted with the ringing of a sacred bell that would cleanse him of sin.

"James, God, I don't know if I can—"

"Then don’t," James whispered. "Only tell me when you’ve had enough."

"A little— just a little faster."

James thrilled to be asked. He quickened the pulse of his finger pad, grinding his brow into Francis' shoulder. "Like this? More?"

Francis huffed. His body drove itself onto James' touch and clenched in reply, so plush, so slick and soft and hot that James wished he could sink into it whole and disappear from the world.

He was certain he would be welcome. Francis would usher him home.

---

“I cannot swim.”

Briefly, James wondered if he was already dreaming. Had he failed in his task? Was Francis still awake?

“Francis?”

“I said: I cannot swim." There was a sleepy slur to the words. "I never learned."

“What?” James breathed a disbelieving laugh. “You, who have crossed every ocean?“

Francis grunted discontentedly and shrugged in James' arms.

“Why tell me?”

A thumb was stroking idly over the hand James had dropped across Francis' chest. After a spell of quiet, Francis spoke again:

“I was lying here thinking of all the times you told that one blasted story at dinner. God only knows why.”

“About the man who fell in the Mersey?"

“The very one."

James felt a swell of embarrassment. For all the world he couldn't picture himself bragging about that now.

"Every time you told it I thought: had it been me in that river, he would have gone in after me—"

"—And the thought of being rescued by James Fitzjames mortified you to the very core."

Now Francis, too, was laughing, muffled by the pillow but hard enough to tremble the rickety camp bed beneath them. “More than I can say.”

"Humiliation of the highest order."

"I'd be forced to jump straight back in again."

Grinning, James drew them closer. The faint scent of cooling spend stirred in the dark warmth of their cocoon. "Very well. I have a proposal for you, Captain."

"Oh? Do tell."

"When all this is behind us, I will teach you to swim. That way you will never again have to fret."

It was palpable, the sudden melancholy that crept under the canvas like a cold gust. To hope now was a form of grief. Still, when he closed his eyes and felt the tight grip of Francis' hand over his own, James couldn't help but hope that behind their lids they both saw the same:

So here he stands, boots and a bolo tie his only concession to the theme as his coworkers and subordinates stroll by in various levels of fancy dress. 

Franklin passes him on his rounds, introducing him to some of their investors. The men nod and shake his hand, but turn their attention away as soon as they’re able, Franklin almost shepherding them past like he’s afraid Crozier will ruin them all with one word. 

Why did he stop drinking again?

He glances at the bar, wets his lip with his tongue. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, “Everything alright, sir?”

Thomas Jopson must be part cat. How else does he move so quietly?

“Yes, just lost my bearings a moment. Hard to navigate in these confounded fancy lights.”

His secretary nods, “Mr. Goodsir got here a little while ago and was asking after you. I believe he’s over at the hors d'oeuvres table.”

The table just happens to be facing away from the bar. 

“Thank you, Thomas.” Crozier fixes him with a grateful smile, “now go enjoy yourself, for goodness sake. You’re my secretary, not my nursemaid.”

“And this is a work function.” Jopson retorts politely, head dipping a little when Crozier pats his shoulder. He retreats back to a corner where Edward Little and George Hodgson are animatedly explaining something to John Irving. Little notices him looking and waves a little hesitantly. He’s one of Crozier’s finest employees, yet he always looks a bit like he expects Crozier to bite his head off. 

Harry Goodsir is indeed at the table, and is in fact excited to see him and update him on his plans to arrive a week earlier to the planned trip to southern Alaska to take in the sights. 

Noticeably absent is Silna, their “local relations liaison.” Or, as she once noted, the only person they could send into any communities that might be, reasonably, suspicious of white men. She and Goodsir are seldom seen apart, but she’s never attended one of these functions. Crozier doesn’t blame her. And that’s before even mentioning the incident three years ago where Hickey convinced several of his coworkers to come dressed as dime novel Indians. 

He mentions this, and Goodsir shakes his head with a frown, “Were it not important to keeping up my relationships in the company, I wouldn’t come either. I almost begged off tonight anyway, but Silna reminded me that this caterer is beyond compare.”

Goodsir winks at him, and Crozier notices that Henry Collins, dressed as a cowboy to Goodsir’s frontier doctor, is usually his bulk to hide the fact he’s sneaking various snacks into a tupperware.

“For the road.” Henry shoots him a conspiratorial smile, then drapes Goodsirs shucked coat over the container in his arms. 

Crozier gives an approving smirk back just as a raucous cluster of voices crowds through the door. James Fitzjames and company have arrived. 

Predictably, the whole clutch of men is costumed from head to toe, complete with silly, silver toy pistols on their hips. Le Vesconte, looking like an extra from a John Wayne film, steps aside enough to reveal Fitzjames. 

In a dress. 

His handsome, spotlight guzzling, dashing, obnoxious co-C.O.O is in a red frock down to his ankles, a matching hat on his head and black boots catching the light as he twirls for laughing onlookers. 

“Didn’t see that one coming.” Goodsir murmurs. 

“He looks very nice.” Collins says, earnestly. 

“Mm.” Crozier nods but adds nothing else. It figures Fitzjames would find some way to make sure everyone left for home talking about him. And a silly dress is exactly the way to do that. 

Except. 

As the night drags on and they’re trapped at the executives table together, Crozier has ample time to study the outfit. If the whole point of the stunt was a joke, surely Fitzjames would have chosen something like a saloon girl to mimic, inaccurate lace and pearls and ill-fitting on his tall frame. 

Instead, he’s dressed as if he was really in some dusty, western town. The red dress, the white shirt beneath it with ruffles in what Crozier suspects are the correct places for the period. From close up, it even looks as if Fitzjames has tried to put a curl in his dark hair. 

Too much thought for a joke. Which means it’s something else. 

Fitzjames catches him looking, mouth going to a thin line as he quickly drinks his wine. He’s done that every time he’s caught Crozier’s eye. Which, given they’re across from each other, has been about every five minutes. In Crozier’s defense, half the time he’s not even staring; he’ll simply turn his head and find Fitzjames looking at him. 

Between their final course and dessert, Franklin takes to the small podium to make a speech, as he always does. He talks about how glad he is to spend his birthday surrounded by the company he made and the men he works with. Then he goes on to talk about his excitement at their next venture; Erebus is trying to expand its reach into Alaska, linking together small communities and making itself the largest logistics and shipping firm in both the contiguous and noncontiguous western United States. 

“And it is my esteemed pleasure to announce that heading the operation will be none other than the pride of Erebus, James Fitzjames.”

Cheers from around, Crozier clapping while internally wondering why Franklin didn’t bother telling him Fitzjames would be the man working the project with Crozier.

One glance across the table tells him it’s news to Fitzjames as well.

The evening limps along, and after dessert everyone stands to continue drinking and mingling, and Crozier realizes he cannot stand another moment surrounded by alcohol and unable to free himself from his stress with it. 

He scurries up the stairs to his office. It’ll be dark and quiet, and as he slips in through the heavy door he sighs. Peace at last. 

The door closes, and there’s a gasp of surprise. 

“Holy god!” Crozier nearly jumps clear of his skin, “Fitzjames, you have two goddamned seconds to tell me why in the name of fucking christ you’re in my office, in the dark!”

“I” Fitzjames, noticeably tipsy, sits up from the couch, “I, I’m not sure. I came up here to…to…” He looks away quickly as Crozier turns on his small desk lamp. 

One red sleeve is damp, and Fitzjames sniffles, trying to clear his throat to cover it. 

“Your own office seems a better place for a breakdown.” He turns the guest chair to face the small couch.

“I don’t find it comforting.”

Crozier pauses, hand halfway to the box of tissues on his desk. 

“Memories of arguments are that fond to you?”

Fitzjames finally meets his eyes, “I know where I stand with you, Francis. Even though it is seldom where I’d like to be, at least I know it. John spent the last two weeks rejecting half my ideas. Then he goes and assigns me the Alaska project without warning, in spite of the fact you’ll already be there and be better at leading it. It’s like he’s trying to send me where I cannot bother him.” He wipes his eyes, “I’d asked to go as your second, and he told me that would not do. So I assumed he would not send me at all.”

“You asked to work under me?” 

Fitzjames nods, “Shocking, I know. I also know any time we successfully installed Erebus into an area, it was because you led the way. Your team trusts you, you see situations clearly, adjust accordingly.”

“James.” He moves from the chair to kneel in front of the other man, “you’re the golden boy. Everyone here knows how accomplished you are-”

“-and you and I both know how quickly one can fall from favor.” James pushes a hand through his hair, eyes on his knees, “every move I make I am trying to tell if it will reveal the wrong thing. Even this.” He flips part of the skirt for emphasis.

“I doubt anyone will think you less capable in a dress than without one. Especially when you make such a fine cowgirl.”

“Don’t mock me.” James sighs. 

“I’m not.”

James looks up, surprised. Which makes sense, as Crozier is rather shocked himself. 

“I can appreciate a well-turned calf with the best of them.” He tries to joke, but instead of batting at the dress like he intends to, his hand comes to rest gently on James' knee. How long has he mistaken the heat under his skin when he sees James for irritation instead of something else.

“I…I was secretly hoping you would like it. That would be something of me you did not find lacking.”

“I find very little of you lacking.” Crozier sits back on his heels, both hands now playing with the red cotton, “you’re as talkative as a parrot and wilt without attention, and there are times where you have not respected me as I wished you would. But I am not as sure, now, that I was deserving of respect at the time.” He winces, remembering the days when he was low-level drunk every hour he was at work. 

“You’ve an odd way of cheering me up.” James teases softly.

“Whist and let me finish.” He takes Jame’s hands, “what I mean is that while you have driven me mad in the past, I’m not so big a fool as to not see how clever and determined you can be. I know you’ve spoken in favor of my ideas to Franklin. And when I think on it, I don’t dread traveling with you and tackling this project together.”

“I don’t either.” James murmurs. 

“We can think of it as starting over. The two of us and our crew, traversing the wild north with a better understanding of each other.”

“I’d like that.” James sniffs, blinking away the last of his tears, and reaches for his hat, “we should go back down, if we’re gone too long he might send someone to lasso us.”

“Blanky did once threaten to tie us together until we cooperated.”

A laugh, “I forgot about that.”

“Come along, cowgirl, up you get.” Crozier stands, helping James do the same. 

It’s over in an instant, even as time slows. James leans down and kisses him and Crozier decides he can indeed make it the rest of his life without a drink, as long as he can taste wine on James tongue. In fact, he’s certain he could get drunk on his kisses alone, even if neither of them ever drank a drop again. 

“Thank you for cheering me up, Francis.”

Crozier keeps hold of his hand, wraps his other arm around his waist, “James…”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow. Somewhere far away from work. And we can talk about this. Er, if you want there to even be a a this-”

Crozier tugs him down for another kiss. God above, they ought to have done this sooner, done this the day they met, and never have stopped. 

“Aye. Now, run along ahead. Best if we aren’t seen coming back in together.” He allows himself a pat of James' ass when the other man turns, earning him a swat on the wrist and a laugh.