singillatim | Being born again into the sweet morning fog

Raju doesn't know what to do with the hand around his. Not when Francis is saying yes, I'm going to go on now and well, if he comes after me I'm just going to die earlier as if the two are the same. Raju can't do anything with it. He'd have to decide how he felt first. If he's going to keep control over himself now, there isn't room for that kind of uncertainty.

Then Francis explains. The embers flare brightly again, and Raju feels his heart beating. The grip of his hands tightening slips the thumb of that one hand around Francis' palm, as if Raju was trying to grip him back, and Raju allows it. A part of him does want to, and it's happening, and there's no room for uncertainty here, and so he accepts it.

It isn't who Francis is. He's a peaceful man. Raju knows that. Raju already knows that. That isn't the reason to be angry at him. There are better ones.

"There's room between violence and giving up. Strategies, preparation, plans. You know that. You're too smart not to know that. I know it feels..." He trails off, realising where the part of him that wants to speak, with the parts that usually would guide the rest so focused elsewhere, is about to take him to. But it needs to be said. Doesn't it?

Raju doesn't have it in him to second guess it. He forces his breath slower once, then again, bows his head, finds his gaze catching on Francis' hand and has to look away from it, eyes intent on anything else. His voice comes out matter of fact, the way that it has to right now. "I know it's... a relief. To give up. I know it—"

The crackling of flames grows abruptly louder than it should be. Raju moves his gaze. It'd be an odd sight, if any part of him could afford right now to marvel at anything: flames grow underneath the smoke and abruptly shrink again and disappear, appear and shrink again as he forces back the awareness of anything behind his words. The smoke is thicker, but it's in the fireplace still, and going up the chimney, not a worry right now.

It's still important. Force it out.

"I know it feels..." Finding the right word is hard. Maybe it doesn't exist. Anything would be hard, a shame that would be easy to bury if he could just move away from it, keep doing what he should have kept doing as if he'd never faltered at all.

The right word isn't there. A true one is. Say it anyway. "...better. Better afterward. But I— But you can't give in yet. You can't. Not when people are counting on you. They need you to try."

...does he know it? Crozier looks stunned, mind unable to wrap around the concept of this man somehow feeling this way for as long as it takes Raju to struggle through the rest of his thought.

Raju knows how it feels. That's unacceptable.

Of course he's a hypocrite, perfectly content to be outraged by someone else's lack of value in themselves and seeing nothing worthwhile about himself. He knows this. He's perfectly well-aware that his mind's never produced a linear thought between his achievements as a man and his own deep sense of self-loathing. It's unacceptable that Raju should feel the same, or indeed that anyone he cherishes should feel that way about themselves.

His hand pulls away from Raju's, untangling the odd knot they'd managed to weave, but slides it back up to Raju's shoulder to hold him.

He thinks he understands why it's so easy for him to just give in. "When I was alone...it was easier. My mind...sometimes it still thinks that way. I still see myself as being alone. I fight it, you know, any little bit of happiness. I always have."

Pressing everything away to the corners of his mind makes it hard; Francis understood, knew what it meant to have to go on anyway and he was doing it, even after the kind of failure Raju can't bear to imagine. He understood. And then he didn't. Planning to let himself die, to give up. This... it takes Raju's strained mind a moment to figure out where to place this new thing alongside the rest.

The edge of the brick biting into his hands is reassuring, reminds him that he's in control while he's trying to figure out whether what Raju knows, what he'd managed to share of that shameful thing he'd never expected to speak, had gotten through to Francis in any real way. He watches the fire, chest still rising and falling in sudden, abrupt movements with his breath, reminding himself that he hadn't gotten to fail after all, that he's alive to keep going. He'd promised his father, that night on his knees in the snow, that he would.

He waits, but the thought doesn't ease the pressure as much as he expects it to, the flames still needing his will to press them back down. No point in trying to calm himself that way, then. No point in worrying about why.

He looks over at Francis instead. Any little bit of happiness, he thinks.

"You don't always." These words come out in a low, rough contrast to his halting, pressed-flat ones of a moment before. He feels Francis' hand on his shoulder, and the way he'd tried to wrap it around Raju's even though Raju had been gripping the brick tight like he'd wanted to crush it. Francis had done those things and wanted to leave him, wanted to give up on all of it, at the same time. "You don't fight it all the time. You asked me to stay."

As though this hasn’t been enough of a thorough beating, Raju shoots an arrow right through his chest. He feels it hit his mark with a ‘thud’, physically jolting as though he’d actually been struck and it all hadn’t been some kind of metaphor.

He doesn’t always, and having Raju here now is the proof.

Crozier holds a little tighter to his shoulder, fingers finding purchase in his shirt.

He’s allowed himself this indulgence, the pretense of only looking after his friend’s health now stripped away and revealing…what? What is it that Raju sees now?

“You caught me,” he says quietly. “I wanted your company. I don’t always turn from it.” But he feels like he should, he’s just too weak sometimes to do it. “I’m sorry, Raju. Forgive me, I-

“I don’t know what it is that I want, or if wanting is even allowed.” It’s not, he’s fairly sure. His brow furrows as he watches Raju’s knuckles turn white. “I give sensible advice but don’t know how to apply it to myself.”

“It’s not about want, is it? Wanting to go, or stay. Or give up. It isn’t about what we want.” Confidence is Raju’s normal state, even at a time like this there’s some of it in the way he speaks, but he sounds less like he’s stating a fact and more like he’s thinking through it. Francis’ brow isn’t the only one that’s furrowed now.

The idea of happiness effects Francis in a way that Raju doesn’t quite understand. The way that he’d jolted when Raju had pointed it out, that he’d chased after his own happiness at least once, that was significant in a way Raju isn’t sure if he grasps. If only he didn’t have to spare so much for holding everything inside him back, if only he could think.

Francis’ allowing himself to give up that way was a betrayal, a lantern in thick fog doused very suddenly in front of Raju, when he’d been counting on the light. But Francis is explaining now, listening to Raju, and that must mean there’s some room for negotiation there. That helps. And… Well, seeing the complete way that Francis’ will has failed him here, the complete way that the man himself has failed to pull enough of that will together afterward to try at all to keep himself safe, something about it is making the lingering burn of Raju’s own shame ease back a little.

If Francis needed Raju to light that lantern and hold it out instead, he thinks that could be alright.

Raju thinks these thoughts, and the sudden growing and shrinking of the flames slows. They ease into a smaller shape, and their movement almost looks natural.

His hands are still tight over the brick, but it’s a little easier to think. He tries to. Happiness, that’s what Francis seems to be hanging his will to go on onto. Wanting to. It isn’t a very stable way to hang anything, not half so much as need and duty, but the landscape after losing everything, the people counting on you long beyond the place where any goal or any amount of determination could save them, must look very different. For all Francis has said he wants to overcome his fear so he can help these people, most of them aren’t his people, and he’s determined that the ones who were don’t need him any more. Maybe whether or not Francis wants to keep going is all he has left.

“What about what I want? Would you take advice from me, do you think?”

It isn’t about what they want, it’s what others want of them. That’s always how it’s been. His life had never been his own, but that’s a choice he’d made when he’d become an officer.

He pulls his hand back completely, separating them and letting Raju have this moment on his own.

“Of course I’d listen.”

And he would try, but he’s old and the melancholy is in the marrow. Lord knows he’s always wanted to be wanted, wanted to be cared for, but wanting is a whole different beast than getting.

He looks down at his scarred wrist, thinking about the advice he couldn’t take from Silna.

“Of course.”

Raju looks away from the fire, studying Francis’ face, making sure that he remembers what to say.

“Staying with you has helped me,” he says, voice as sharp and intent as his stare is, looking at Francis’ face as if he could move his own belief into Francis’ head by force of will. “And I think it’s helped you, too. I know it has.”

He pulls one hand away from the brick — oddly difficult to do, and it aches when he lets go, and he’ll bother to notice that properly later — and grasps the hand that Francis pulled back, and holds Francis’ palm against his cheek. While he isn’t looking at it, while he’s looking at Francis’ face and feeling these things, the smoke curling up the fireplace thins and its fire burns steady and bright.

“I wish you’d stay,” he says, and then he holds Francis hand that way, and waits. In the moments after there’s something uncertain, now, underneath Raju’s intent gaze. His jaw is set, and his chest moves with small, quick breaths. His eyes dart over Francis’ face.

He doesn’t think —

No, there’s nothing more to it, he doesn’t think, he can’t possibly think, how does Raju expect him to think? That isn’t advice, that’s just - it’s a want.

It’s a want, he wants him to stay, if only for his sake. Crozier doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s been asked to leave by the people he loves and trusts, sent off to all ends of the earth, but never asked to stay before. Never. He feels his breath also start to catch in his throat, caught between tears and god knows what else. Something best not named, even though he feels it pooling in his chest.

When he is able to react it’s slow, thumb brushing over Raju’s cheek, fingers feeling the edge of his neatly-trimmed beard. It should be grounding, but of course it does the opposite. He finds himself tipping forward slowly, ever-so-slowly, leaning in until he can feel the warmth of Raju’s stuttering breaths on his nose.

And then he turns slightly, nose brushing against Raju’s cheek softly. A kunik, but of course not done to any sort of fidelity or with any kind of reverence for tradition. A Netsilik mother might look at him like he’s lost his ever-loving mind, and maybe he has, but it feels like the right thing to do.

He hears him, and where words fail he hopes the kunik will help make Raju understand. He’s helped in unimaginable ways; he doesn’t want to leave him or this place quite yet. Hickey and all those memories drain him, but Raju makes him feel.

He feels Francis' thumb move over his cheek, his beard, and it's a relief. This means something to him then, something personal. Maybe something that will convince him to stay, to fight that treacherous relief inside of him, when he needs to do it, to stay. But the parts of himself that Francis lost when his purpose and his men all died have left him fragile in a way that, unsettlingly, Raju isn't certain how to deal with. Francis doesn't know how to try, he'd said.

Raju will have to keep watching him. He watches him now. He feels the thumb moving; he sees Francis moving forward slowly, agonisingly slow, until they're close to breathe each other's breath. Unregarded, the formerly steady fire flickers and twists around itself. Raju's eyes hold on Francis' until Francis turns his head, brushes his nose against Raju's cheek.

Raju feels his breath moving between his parted lips. He feels his heart beating. He feels the usual happy, relieved warmth lighting up through him at someone he regards this way being so close, and the fear he hadn't known to feel before for Francis' safety, not from strange, dangerous men but from inside of himself, and relief that this means something to Francis and worry that he doesn't understand enough of what it means to make it effective enough, and—

—and some number of other unnamed things. But the named ones are enough to be getting on with, and he should be focusing on Francis now. And on the fire, the fireplace, the one hand clenching the brick keeping it there. He wants to lift it, wrap it around Francis' back as if that would hold the too-fragile parts of his friend together. It feels gentle and steady, the urge to protect, and he knows in some strange, deep down way that the fire isn't a danger now in the way that it was And so he risks it, ignores the ache of moving his hand out of its long, tense grip and wraps his arm over Francis' back. He turns his face some minute amount further toward Francis' and knows without seeing that the fire is moving into a loose circle of small, steady flames around them.

He waits a beat, then another, heart stuttering while his breath sticks in his lungs. If this were a real kunik he’d inhale and try to press Raju’d scent into his skin, smoke and whatever soap he’d found to keep himself tidy in this godforsaken place, and leave a little of himself behind, pine and fur and god knows whatever else. But it isn’t a real kunik, just a facsimile, and he waits for Raju to respond the light touch hoping he hadn’t just gone one step too far.

He isn’t rejected but instead embraced, and despite feeling the overwhelming need to sob he somehow gets both arms around Raju to hold him back. His head dips - their mouths are close, it’s too tempting and he knows he’s nowhere strong enough - and he drops it onto Raju’s shoulder.

He’s vaguely aware of the heat of the fire, but his eyes are closed now, squeezed shut tight despite the very genuine, very open expression that had been on Raju’s face.

Francis dropping his head onto Raju’s shoulder confirms that fragile feeling, that the part of Francis that he’s been let to see is fragile, and as Francis moves his hand away from Raju’s cheek to hold onto him, Raju moves the hand that’d been holding there around Francis’ back, too. He leans his face against Francis’ hair, turns his head to feel it move against his skin, and feels the whole of the taller, stouter man leaning against him, trusting Raju to hold him up, and holding all of him up feels easy. He thinks he could fight off any number of dangers for this man, if only that would help.

But bizarre, unscrupulous men or wild animals or even the monsters this place can sometimes produce, fighting those is easy. Simple, anyway, in their way. Fighting what’s inside of himself long enough to do what needs to be done is… doable. He can do it. But he can’t reach inside of Francis and do it for him.

Maybe holding him like this feels like Raju’s holding him together to Francis, too. He hasn’t ever held a man this way. A boy, when he was a boy, but that was in another life. Then Seetha, what feels like a very long time ago. Maybe it would feel strange to do this for anyone else but for Francis, who needs it, it doesn’t feel strange at all. It feels like keeping him safe. The fire that lights inside his chest is strong enough to fuel the one around them for a while, but Raju isn’t worried about it. The floor it’s burning on top of is strong, and Raju’s will is, too; he’s prepared to stay this way as long as Francis needs him to.

There isn’t anything more personal than this, not for a man who had put up as many walls and barriers to affection as he had over the years. They’d been mostly knocked down during the walk out, chipped at slowly with each painful death and tearful goodbye, but he’d worked to quiet that need for companionship after the last man fell. It’d been a dramatic little turn at self-isolation, but then again, living in the middle of nowhere only semi-fluent in the native language leant itself naturally to the hermit lifestyle.

He’d missed touch. He’d missed being held, though he can’t remember when it’d been like this, just a touch of comfort instead of something more harrowing. He can’t remember when he’d ever felt more…

Well, loved.

He holds on for what feels like a long time, though his sense of time is a tad skewed, and then slowly relaxes his grip. He doesn’t trust himself to completely let go yet, not entirely sure that he’ll be composed again when he comes back up from Raju’s shoulder. His eyes are wet and his face his pained, and he knows he’s too soft like this, too vulnerable, too wanting and needing and he’s frightened he’s asking for far, far too much.

That protective feeling doesn’t go away but it quiets, doesn’t shout so loudly, and over time the flames shrink, and shrink and fade, leaving a dark ring behind around them that might or might not fade with a little scrubbing. The fire fades and leaves Raju’s eyelids, his head, his limbs, a little heavier than they were before. He’s tired. He’s spent plenty of busy nights tired before, though, enough to know its gradations; this will barely slow him down. Or, instead: it won’t be hard to resist it, he wouldn’t let it slow him down even if this drained feeling was worse. It’s an honor to be here, the one person Francis needs right now to do exactly this. Raju pushed these fragile pieces out into the surface of the man and Francis is letting them show, and trusting Raju to hold him together afterward; this is the only place that Raju wants to be.

Francis’ grip is loosening, but it isn’t loose — Raju doesn’t come close to letting go, but he does check. He shifts his cheek against Francis’ hair, leaning his head’s weight a little less heavily in case Francis wants to draw back. One hand, prompted by Francis’ shifting, shifts away from its long held position to start running a slow, narrow oval over the length of Francis’ back.

“Mm?” Raju says, a question asked only with tone. Francis hasn’t said a word this entire time, and might not be ready for any of them yet. Raju’s ready for Francis to draw back or straighten up if he decides to, and in the meantime, his hand over Francis’ back keeps moving.

He doesn’t answer in words. Again, he barely trusts himself to just be, let alone attempt any form of real communication. It’s always been difficult to think selfishly once he was jolted out of his melancholy - there was no time for selfishness, no place for individuality. Those men didn’t need Crozier, they needed their captain.

It’s hard to shake that, even now. Is this a display? Is this even allowed? He can’t be a person, he doesn’t deserve a

He inhales to stop the spiral, though it lingers in some deep-seat bundle of nerves in his brain, and finally picks his head up. He nods, the light from the quiet fire reflecting in over-bright eyes, answering the implied question in the murmur with something equally as vague.

He’s all-right. He will be. There’ll be at least another day for them both.

Raju studies him, the hand not wrapped around Francis sliding up to his shoulder and squeezing gently. He smiles. Then he looks around, wanting something else to comfort Francis with, but he'd have to get up to get it, and doesn't really feel like Francis is feeling well enough for that yet. The only thing he sees in arm's reach is the bucket of meltwater, if he stretches for it — only useful if he gets up to get something to put in it for tea — and that ring stained onto the wood around them, which will only be remarkable once Francis is of a mind to make fun of him for it.

"You're warm?" he murmurs, hand on Francis' side moving it's thumb back and forth absently, and goes on without expecting Francis to answer. "In a few minutes I can make tea. You'll feel better with something hot."

Crozier nods somewhat vaguely, not sure he can speak to what his body ‘needs’ or ‘wants’, not even certain he can trust himself. He feels like he’s been torn asunder, broken apart by Raju’s wrath and disappointment and then carefully pushed back together in his arms.

He’s too vulnerable now, and Raju is close - closer than anyone’s ever been before - and he feels the strangest ache growing in him. Desire might be too strong a word for such a weak frame of mind, but Raju is the sort of warmth he actually wants.

“I’m warm,” he answers, then finally notices the ring of soot on the floor. He brushes his fingers over it, smearing some of the charcoal out of place.

Raju ducks his head away and huffs quietly, looking amused and a little embarrassed as he looks back up at Francis. His hand on Francis’ shoulder drifts over his bicep, making its slow way toward his elbow. “I’ll clean that later. Some time before we sleep. I don’t know if I meant to, but… you weren’t in any danger.”

Not then, he thinks, remembering his anger, the pressure inside him as he’d fought to push it aside. Would that have hurt Francis, if Raju had let the thing inside him rage however it wanted? He doesn’t know. It unsettles him, not knowing, but he doesn’t let the thought linger, because it would show over his face and that isn’t what Francis needs from him.

It’s like being with Seetha, a little, the way of looking out for someone who looks to him for protection, who needs his strength, not any of his uncertainty. So he focuses on Francis instead, smile warm and easy and designed to reassure, rubbing his hand briefly up and down Francis’ arm.

He hadn't felt like he'd been in danger at the time, but as he surveys the circle around them he wonders if he should have been. Raju hadn't been cross with him still, had he? He'd been holding him at the time; there'd been nothing but concern there, he'd been sure of it.

He attempts a smile, but succeeds only in making his expression softer. "I didn't think so."

Crozier brushes the soot onto the leg of his trousers and sits back, outside of the ring and a reasonable distance from his friend - just barely out of reach of those reassuring touches. They've done their job well, but he doesn't want Raju to see him as so frail he can't hold himself up.

"I have to believe that Hickey will find the location of this cabin," he finally says, a note of firmness creeping back into his tone. "There's a pistol in the back room. I haven't touched it, but we should keep it loaded."

Raju leans forward as Francis moves back, and then realises that he's doing it. His lifted hand moves toward the floor as if it hadn't been going after him, lifts itself up again one more time, then lowers itself to press flat against the floor. His gaze, a little worried, darts over Francis; Francis moves the subject back to business very abruptly for someone who's just spent something like half an hour utterly silent curled over into Raju's arms with his face hidden, desperate not to look at anything at all, and Raju's brows draw together.

Then the words themselves register, and Raju's eyes widen. The meaning behind the meaning registers after that: Francis is willing to fight. The doubt on Raju's face dissolves into a smile, relieved and proud. He leans forward unthinkingly, the burst of feeling having to express itself in a tight, happy grip over Francis' knee, and Raju smiles into Francis' face for a warm, proud moment. Then his eyes dart over Francis, assessing. If he can sound a little firm and speak on those things then it's alright to get up at least for a couple minutes, and Raju pushes himself to his feet with another smile for Francis and moves over to the kitchen, finding the mug, looking around for something to flavour the water with. Francis likes the dandelion root, doesn't he? That must be... somewhere.

"You should try not to go anywhere outside the centre of town without someone with you too, if you can," he offers, over his shoulder. "The way the more violent animals act here would be a wonderful excuse to kill anyone without drawing too many questions. Even a witness will make it harder for him to act until he's really committed to ruining that good name. Your men should be travelling that way, too. Make revenge inconvenient enough, and maybe you'll never need that pistol at all."

Briefly, Raju smiles at him again. It's an offering. Raju had said there were other preparations that could be made, and he'd meant it. Violence is difficult for Francis, but he's saying that he's willing to use it to defend himself now, and that willingness is enough. Then he turns back to his search. "We have dandelion root, don't we? Where do you keep whatever you put in the tea?"

Fearing for his men is basic instinct by now, one of his core moods that lands somewhere between anger and sadness, so the extra step to include them in his plan is appreciated. It’s a thought that’s already occurred to him, but he doesn’t doubt they’ve already implemented those very precautions when traveling. He’s the only fool who insisted on being alone all this time.

“The jars in the cupboard,” he answers, pulling his legs out from underneath them and crossing them. He doesn’t want to well on that triumphant little knee grab that Raju went for, and even pauses to rub lightly over the space where his hand had briefly rested. “Dandelion’s next to the chicory.”

He can feel that familiar little pull of being too tired to address all the various problems he now has to think through, but - Raju is here. Raju is helping. Raju wants to come up with a plan and is sweating all the small details. It’s…a bit of a relief.

“Jopson’s going to Lakeside, and Goodsir’s already been gone that way. So long as Hickey’s on this side of the mountain I’ve less to worry about.”

He doesn't know what chicory is. He does know what dandelion root looks like, though, and soon he's making a small, triumphant noise and pulling a little out of a jar to chop it up. He looks behind him after he starts doing it, trying to gauge whether Francis thinks Hickey really will stay on this side of the mountain; he doesn't think he should say they shouldn't count on it, not when Francis doesn't seem quite recovered.

Then he looks at his hands again, closely inspecting their work, then moves the root to a teapot and brings it to hang over the fireplace, setting the cup aside until the tea is ready. He's more focused on doing that than on putting the jar away, and it stays on the counter once he's done with it, cupboard door still open.

"They should keep a witness nearby even there. Just in case." It's a middleground, saying Hickey might be there without actually saying it. As he says it he pours the meltwater into the teapot, inspecting that for a moment before he settles back. It's already warm from sitting near the fire, and shouldn't take too long to heat. Then he settles as close as he can get to Francis while still facing him crosslegged, just on the other side of the line of soot over the floor, hands over his knees. "Will you be able to tell them so? Just to be certain they're prepared? We might be able to get a letter out to Lakeside, I'm sure there's someone we can trust to take it."

He doesn’t think Hickey is settled by any means. He would move if it would improve his prospects, opportunist that he is, but that’s just the thing - he needs opportunity. Right now all the power and influence is still in Milton-proper.

Raju’s right, of course. The more precautions they take the better where Hickey is concerned. He let his guard down once and the little rat had managed to gut both Farr and Irving and then trick another lieutenant into massacring an innocent family. Nothing should be done by halves.

“Levi, that young boy who goes out on patrols, is a fast sprinter,” he starts, running his finger through the soot as he lays out a plan in his mind. “I’d trust him to take a letter out to everyone on the other side of the mine. Warn them without declaring open war.”

Yes, he’s decided to fight, but he refuses to draw lines in the sand just yet. Hickey can’t be a mutineer here if there’s no establishment to mutiny against.

Crozier traces a little swirly pattern in the soot on the floor, glancing up at the still-open cabinet and almost smiling. It’s such a homey little thing to do, to forget to close a cabinet door.

Raju nods, watching Francis drawing absent patterns in the soot. He should offer to find Levi later, once Francis has written the letter, he should ask about that pistol and look at it, make sure it's in good shape and that there's enough ammunition and that Raju knows how to use it. The guns here are probably as strange as everything else, and he'll need to make sure he can use it properly. He should prepare.

But that pull toward Francis is still there inside his chest and he's leaning forward with it, conscious of his hands on his knees in the way he always is when he tries to keep them still. At home this kind of urge had been so entwined with the work that he needed to do that it'd started feeling like the same thing, eventually. But that kind of work is impossible here, and what he needs to protect Francis from is on the inside of him. But Francis had drawn back for a reason, the reason probably being that he isn't Seetha. A man has his pride, doesn't he?

One of Raju's hands starts tapping its fingers against his leg.

He stands up again, going to get one of the blankets and draping it around Francis' shoulders, squeezing one and then going to get one of the less wearable shirts, more suitable as a rag, and dampens it a little, moving to start wiping at the soot on his side of the floor. "We can take care of it tomorrow. Are you tired at all? Or would you rather stay awake for a while?"

Francis isn't Seetha — but Raju only has so much experience here, and what there is says that after breaking down that way, even afterward, there are dreams to be wary of. It isn't something he's ever needed to explain straightforwardly, and it doesn't occur to him to try it now.

Crozier pulls the blanket closer, wishing in a small part of his selfish heart that Raju would crawl under with him. He can’t banish the thought, but he can distract himself with answering the question asked of him.

At least he think he can. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, feeling that typical deep exhaustion but not the ache that usually accompanies his bouts of melancholy. He shakes his head. “I’m not ready to sleep,” he murmurs. “I found some books in one of the cupboards.”

It’s not a very subtle hint that reading would probably be better than attempting to sleep. He also fears the incoming nightmares, being alone with his thoughts, letting himself slip into the same harmful thoughts he’s always trying to fight off lest they finally kill him outright. He’s tired, and weak. Too weak and he’ll give into those humiliating urges to ask for things like company and closeness.

“There might be one worth reading, something not about hunting for sport.” He smiles softly, but it’s too subdued to be anything overly reassuring. “Tomorrow I’ll draft the letters.”

He inhales and looks back at Raju, those eyes flecked with gold. God help him, if Hickey doesn’t kill him then Raju most certainly will. “We need to secure the door.”

Francis mentions books and Raju looks up from the soot under his hand with sudden interest, and then Francis smiles in that small, subdued way and the interest on Raju's face softens into something gentle and warm. He wonders if Francis would want Raju to read to him, though — another difference — Francis will be perfectly capable of reading the language the books are written in.

But his one hand, by then, will surely be taken up by holding onto his tea, so he'll need Raju there anyway. Perfect.

Raju nods, leaving the makeshift rag where it is to stand and look for both — the books, and something to block the door with. If Francis has just found the books they won't be anywhere either of them usually spends their time, so... Aha. This back room, less used, is cold, goosebumps rise on Raju's arms as he looks through it, and here there's something that looks like a radio cabinet with one of its doors hanging half open, with a few books visible in it. Raju grabs onto the bottom of the thing and hauls it out of the storage room and into the main one, ignoring the noise it makes as it drags against the floor, shoving at it until anyone opening the door would have to shove the cabinet over before they could come inside. It's heavy enough that pushing it over would take some doing, and tall enough to make a racket if it falls. That will do. He rubs the dust off of his hands, catching his breath, and takes a look at the books.

"I'll look for some kind of lock in town tomorrow. I'm sure there's one left somewhere. Now let's see here... No hunting." He looks over at Francis with a small, encouraging smile. Francis surely knows most anything, anyway, that one of the more factual books could teach about this place. Of the few books here though, luckily half are fiction, and only half of those are ones that Raju doesn't recognize. Which is a good start. Better to pick something Raju already knows, something he can be sure will be gentle enough to soothe that subdued smile. Or as close to soothing as he can get.

"Frankenstein... Ah, maybe not. Then..." Next to it is Moby Dick. Raju makes a face and doesn't volunteer this one, at least, out loud.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Raju's grimace deepens, briefly. Little as he personally likes it, it does make a better candidate for his friend's state of mind than the other two. "Pride and Prejudice. And I don't recognize these others.

"'A Viscount For The Egyptian Princess'," Raju reads, tugging it out enough to get a look at the cover. The picture printed on it looks much like the cover of the other unknown next to it; a man, a woman, finely dressed and gazing at one another in something that's probably supposed to be lust. Strange, but at least it gives him an idea of what the thing's going to be about. "Some kind of romances, I think, for the last two. What do you like?"

Francis won't recognize even all of those that Raju knows, will he? It's hard to say. Raju hasn't asked him enough questions about where — when — he comes from. Pride and Prejudice will be early enough, certainly. At least, if Francis knows it. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing a navy captain would have much to do with, so maybe any of them will be new. That one seems the best either way, if Francis isn't feeling well enough to choose, though it's been a long time since Raju's read any of these at all. Hopefully they'll be alright.

cw suicide ideation-ish?

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