singillatim | bad luck, old sport

Hickey, again. The detail is almost lost in the litany of horrors. Raju realises his breath is coming faster and harder, and so is his heartbeat. Both his hands are on Francis' shoulders, the other one having moved itself when Raju's mind had been taken up with grotesque tragedy.

I held their bodies, I ate --

This is what Francis had been trying to tell him. The centre of the guilt that Raju had seen there, dug up like Raju had been aiming to. As usual, this kind of success is...

But there's nothing usual about this, is there? This is a man he... he might be able to call a friend, a friend he's only just made, now a captain whose vice and inattention — if Francis is right — sent men who counted on him to lead into something worse than hell, and who's paying for it like a figure from some old story, like a man cursed with immortality only so he can remember. Something Raju could read easily, if with distaste, but which is right here beneath him, alive because this man is alive, looking up at him with human eyes, a man who started travelling the world young and painstakingly sewed mittens to keep Raju warm and who's done horrible things, crossed a line Raju hadn't even remembered was there.

The other hand on Francis' other shoulder moves down, still far enough up to keep away from his ribs, trying to press flat over his heart. Raju isn't sure why. Still human in there, even after everything. Or maybe just to hold him down, as if the horrors inside him are still about to leap out. As if they haven't already.

And this isn't usual, either, in what happens afterward. The confession and then his part is done, the consequences left to other hands than his, and to the deeper parts of Raju's mind. But there was no one else to hear, and this confession isn't being held up against law to decide on some punishment after. Raju's hit with a rush of gratitude, over everything else, gratitude that the cabin is lonely and dark, that there's no sun peering in the windows to shed light on any of this, that the only container for this particular confession is Raju, and no one else. No consequences but the act, no punishment except the one inside Francis' mind and heart.

Raju opens his mouth, draws a breath to say...

He lets the breath out again, shoulders slumping. His lips press together, and he swallows. Raju's hand is tight on Francis' shoulder, and his eyes are still too wide. The flames flicker in unnatural, jerking fits and starts, the way they had on the night Raju had realised this fire inside him in the first place. I ate Harry Goodsir, Raju. A confession dug out, the centre of what the man had been trying to say. Raju doesn't know what comes after that. He doesn't know what to do with judgement.

Crozier craves outside consequences, punishment beyond this inner torment and the crippling weight of guilt on his shoulders. The Netsilik were gentle and patient, welcoming in spite of the horrors his men had brought to their land. If he was hated, oh, it would be horrible, but then at least it would match the loathing in his own heart. But no, Crozier would never find absolution with them.

He watches Raju, waits for the hand over his heart to become violent. If he did punch through his chest and rip out his heart he'd find nothing there, just an empty man who grieves with every breath.

He waits another beat and his gaze falls away to the flickering fire. It seems alive.

"Doctor Goodsir will tell you it was part of his plan. He poisoned himself and then took his life, spoiling his corpse without the mutineers knowing. They carved him up, and to keep the ruse I had to eat from him." He blinks slowly.

Willingly or not, ruse or not, he still partook. That changes a man. This story changes a man, hearing it alone, learning of such cruelty and horror.

If this were one of those old stories there would be something after, something Francis could have done to erase or offset the weight of it on his soul, the horrible work he took to carry out the doctor's brave and clever plan. But it isn't. For all the impossibilities Raju has seen, for all of them Francis says took place around the horror of the rest of it, the two of them are only men who live in the world, the real world, where the consequences of what's needed are inside of them to stay.

Raju's next breath out is long and shaking. The fingers over Francis' heart curl a little, trying to grip onto something. The grip on Francis' shoulder loosens and that hand reaches out toward Francis' face, or his neck, drops before it gets there and curls its fingers into itself. He doesn't know where to put it. He wants to do something. But what they have is the real world, and what Francis has is something Raju knows:

"And then you were alone." Raju's voice is a rasp, the sound of something heavy dragging over rough and empty ground, and he swallows again. The mutineers poisoned, the doctor after his plan... gone, and the camps Francis had said he'd found after, and what it is he'd found there. Swallowing, if anything, only made the sound of Raju's voice rougher, but he goes on anyway. He has to. "In a field of corpses."

“And then I was alone. One-handed, wearing the clothes of my dead men, stumbling over their corpses to try to find someone left alive.”

Little with the chains in his face, the metal pulling on frozen yet still-delicate skin, dying in his arms. The leg in the pot. The men huddled in the tent. The sick left at Rescue Camp, Thomas Jopson’s corpse on the ground clawing desperately towards the path in front of him. Magnus Manson, devoured, John Diggle, mauled, Solomon Tozer, devoured, George Hodgson, devoured, Cornelius Hickey, torn apart after cutting out his own tongue. Harry Goodsir butchered and eaten, Thomas Hartnell shot, Thomas Blanky —-

The most macabre of muster rolls, the fate of each man.

“Thomas Jopson, William Gibson, and Harry Goodsir are aware that they’ll die,” he adds gruffly. His eyes are bright again, but he blinks the tears back because whatever he has left in him to cry is done when alone. “Edward Little and Cornelius Hickey don’t. I…don’t have any right to ask you favors, but please…”

He trails off, fighting with himself over what he wants to ask.

“Please don’t tell any of the others. How they lived and how they died are their stories to tell.”

"You have the right," Raju insists roughly and his hand finally decides where to be, settling decisively next to Francis' head. Its curled fingers rest their backs against the side of Francis' face, barely touching. "I promise, they won't find any of it out from me."

Francis' eyes are bright again, the way that Raju knew they would be after he kept pushing. Exposing a wound to open air might not do anything to make it heal. There are times that the wound is like this one. But he doesn't regret doing it. There's nothing good about seeing what Raju recognizes here, his throat is tight, it hurts, and Francis' eyes aren't the only ones that aren't dry. But he sees what Francis has exposed now and there's a kind of need in Raju that's eager, relieved to see it. He couldn't explain what he's thinking to Francis if he tried to. He hadn't spoken about it after it happened anyway, except to Seetha, once. Not any time after. It wouldn't be the right time for it now, anyway.

"You were strong," he rasps. "At the end. And before. I tried to sound like it didn't matter. That was just to get you talking."

It's important that Francis knows that. Raju doesn't explain these things. What needs doing is what is done, and that's all. But there's a need here, that Francis should know.

Crozier’s head tips to one side, coming to rest against Raju’s fingers. He’s warm, it feels pleasant up against the ache and the frost. A little light of recognition sparks in his mind.

“You’ve saved me twice now, both times from myself,” he mumbles. “I should shoulder this burden alone, Raju. What right did I have to lay this at your feet?”

There’s nothing to forgive, no reason for explanation. He let too much slip and had to fill in the gaps for the sake of this heroic-hearted man, who obviously saw the agony wasn’t just in his damned ribs.

“Thank you.”

"I wanted you to." His voice is still coming out painful and thick. He clears his throat. "I wanted to hear it." It's the closest he can come to explaining the way it feels to hear that a man strong enough to try, to fight, had to be strong enough, too, to weigh himself down with an unforgivable thing. Had to destroy something precious that isn't coming back and to, as the dust was settling, find himself alone. If Raju tried to explain he might sound like he was glad about it. He can't be. He isn't sure what it is he's feeling. Protective, but there'd been the roof collapsed, and the wolves, and Francis' ribs, now, so of course he would be.

"Besides, I had to fight you for it." He doesn't have the right voice yet to lighten the mood, and maybe that isn't what he's doing; a moment ago Francis moved his face closer to Raju's fingers, and in return now Raju presses them a little closer against his cold cheek. "It hardly counts as laying if you tried not to give it to me."

He waits a beat or two, wondering still why on earth anyone would care, and how someone can still feign to sit with him and offer comfort knowing the truth. Raju just might be a different sort of person.

No. Not might. He is a different sort of person.

“Do you often have accusations of stubbornness or hard-headedness thrown at you?”

He attempts the smallest of smiles. The exhaustion’s beginning to win out, beginning to drag him into something between sleeping and losing consciousness.

Raju lets out a soft breath, surprised amusement. Odd, to feel his eyes stinging and his throat hurting and his lips still moving into a smile and to feel what's behind all of it genuinely, and all at once. "I've heard it once or twice."

Not from Seetha, unless she was in a mood to throw the same words at Raju that he could throw right back. She always could be just as stubborn as Raju, in her way. But for Uncle, and for Akhtar, and even for some of his commanding officers, and for various people at various times in his life, there have been plenty of opportunities. Raju's heard it many times. Some smilingly, and some with rage. Some with hurt. Various kinds of accusations. And Francis is nearly smiling now, and he had thanked Raju. But still, Raju had pushed, and still, it had hurt Francis, unearthing it.

"Do you mind it?" Raju finds himself asking, sounding a little more honest than he would have expected to, if he'd been expecting to hear it at all. It isn't a useful question to ask. Actions are actions, and a good portion of the time the answer doesn't matter anyway. Raju keeps looking down at the pale and tired face, and doesn't take the question back.

Hurting Francis Crozier for his own good happens to be the best way to get through to Francis Crozier, unfortunately. He recognizes that now, and he's laugh if it wasn't so damned hard to take a breath.

"No," he answers, looking back up like it's the silliest question he's ever been asked. "Not at all. Every man I've ever called a friend has been as stubborn as a bloody mule."

Being with the likes of James Clark Ross and James Fitzjames is a tiring affairs! But he's also been a stubborn, inflexible mess at times, and it hasn't always been to his complete detriment.

"No," he says again, shaking his head oh-so-gently, whiskers inadvertently brushing across Raju's hand. "Ah. I hope you're in control of that fire, old boy, because I'm losing the fight to stay awake."

The smile that had spread over Raju's face at the first part of Francis' answer, relieved and deeper, more pleased, than Raju really has an explanation for, only fades a little at the second. He looks over at the fire as Francis mentions it, uncertain, remembering the blade of his knife, and the small black marks on the Community Hall's floor. But Francis needs it.

"I can be." At one point Raju had been too concerned to let Francis sleep. But now he's warm and next to a fire, and the confusion after his collapse has changed into as much coherence as it's possible to get in this place, and he's as safe as he's going to be. Everything else that needs to be done — wrapping those ribs up with something, inspecting the rest of this cabin, maybe finding something inside of it to eat — is something that Francis can do later, or that Raju can handle first.

"And we'll see about the rest in the morning." Raju looks away from the fire and at the man beneath him again, the hand over Francis' heart smoothing the fabric there. "I'll take care of it. Rest, Francis."

It’s far easier to rest by a fire and in good company than by oneself in an ice hut, but more than that, the kindness and physical touch to a man that’s starved in more ways than one fulfills a need Crozier hadn’t realized he’s been missing. He nods gently and positions himself with back against the floor, the warmth of the fire serving as a blanket.

There’s a beat, Crozier’s eyes closed and his breath beginning to even out - though with some struggling at the exhales - before he grunts, “I need to find a new bloody house.”

Almost said with a smile. Almost, except he falls asleep promptly after.

Raju blows out a soft, amused breath. It speaks to how exhausted Francis must be, even after a story like that and all that it took to speak it out loud, that he can fall asleep this way, between his ribs and the lack of blankets and the cold floor. Raju can hear the injury in his breathing. But here he is, sleeping already anyway.

It's as close to alone as Raju wants to be, and as close as he's going to get tonight. He finally lets the stinging at the corners of his eyes turn into a blur. His next breath in is slow, and it shakes. He clenches his teeth. The fingers next to Francis' face uncurl carefully and he rubs his thumb back against the doomed, damned man's hair, side of his hand pressing carefully against Francis' cheekbone and his jaw. He remembers the feeling of a hand against the side of his face, a thumb moving over his hair. Raju had been young then and Francis now is old, older than Raju can imagine living to. Too much older to comfort this way while he's awake. It won't take the nightmares away anyway. But when Francis wakes from them he'll find whatever blankets or clothes or towels Raju manages to scavenge thrown over the lower parts of him that Raju's blanket-turned-coat don't cover, and he'll find the fire larger and warmer, and maybe Raju will have found something old but well-preserved enough to eat. Maybe the cabin's rooms will be neater than they probably are right now. There are things for Raju to do, things that he can do. But maybe he'll sit here for a while first, trying to think of nothing but the crackling of the fire and the sound of sleeping breaths that struggle at the exhales.

He settles his shoulder more firmly against the side of the fireplace, settling against it for a long and quiet night, dark in front of him and warmth under his hands. Guard duty, for a while. That's something, too, that he can do.

bad luck, old sport

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cw: suicide

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