singillatim | Being born again into the sweet morning fog

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.

Crozier quietly reprimands himself for staring as his friend so openly as he secures the door in an impressive display of casual strength. He looks down at the floorboards and then over at the windows, narrowing his eyes in a false show of deep thought, perhaps considering how to secure the windows. At least he hopes that’s what Raju will think.

But he has books to consider, and he’s grateful for a choice that’s frivolous for a change. It helps take away some of that urgent feel to the evening, almost as though they were actually just having an enjoyable night in away from the cold.

He thinks over the titles presented to him, some of the choices more obvious than others. He knows Mary Shelley and Jane Austen’s works - they’d been published when he was still a boy, and he remembers them as being quite popular. Austen’s oeuvre was a bit too saccharine for his taste, too wrapped up in social climbing and society. Yes, yes, much of it is meant to be parody and satire, but even still. And Shelley - well. Life was horrifying enough without having to read about a walking corpse, though he’d enjoy that book a hell of a lot more than hearing about Mr Darcy embarrassing himself in front of Ms Bennet.

“I’m not in the mood for Austen or Shelley, so the romances will have to do,” he says, as dry as dry can be. He doesn’t even crack a smile; he’s perfectly serious and not at all teasing his friend. “What’re the names of the others?”

"Ah—" Raju glances over at him. He seems serious; Raju looks closer at the other ones with more attention. "'Mistress Below Deck', A... laird?" He pauses, squinting. Not a word he knows, but that's what it says. "'A Laird in London', and 'Winning the Captain's Heart'."

He turns the last one over. "'Love isn't in Captain Wyatt Darling's logbook'," he reads, frowning. He can't help the frown. He's trying to take it seriously for Francis' sake, even if he'd never give anything like this the time it took to realise what it was, back home. "I think this is what they're about, on the back here. Do you want me to, um..."

He waves the book, with the ship painted on its cover, vaguely in Francis' direction, grimacing a little. "Read you the summaries of all of them now, or...?"

Perfect, he thinks he's being serious. Crozier adjusts the blanket around his shoulder and knits his brow, giving some serious consideration to the options that were just presented to him.

"You'll have to, I haven't heard of any of these books."

Because he's a man of discerning taste, of course, and he wants to make the right choice here.

"Tell me more about the last one, about the captain who keeps a perfectly typical logbook."

Raju opens his mouth, instinctively about to argue, even though Raju himself was the one to offer in the first place. But Francis seems so fragile still, had seemed fragile sitting still with that subdued smile, and if this will help, then there's no question, is there? And books do help, don't they, even the very stupid ones. So he frowns down at the back cover again and begins to read it over. He says all of it slowly, thoughtfully, as if he's trying to find whatever deeper meaning must be lurking somewhere underneath all the flowery nonsense.

"Love isn't in Captain Wyatt Darling's logbook. After a violent robbery, Wyatt is left bereft, broken and looking for answers. Solace comes in the form of beautiful Mercy Hastings, who insists he must recuperate at her family's home. Mercy doesn't anticipate her pure act of charity will endanger both their lives. Wyatt's always been married to his first love: the sea. Resigned to forever being alone, his resolve is severely tested by his captivating rescuer. As Wyatt works with Mercy to identify his attackers, will he—"

Raju pauses. His frown deepens. His eyes flicker up and over to Francis and then back at the book again. After a second he goes on sounding even more precise than before, and a little like the words taste bad coming out. "Will he find a way to make her his first mate forever?"

Raju grimaces down at it, a little disturbed at the idea of reading the rest of this, as he might well do since Francis is showing interest. Well. Disturbed isn't the right word. He'll do it, of course. But he has to look up at Francis again, and look long enough this time to gauge his expression. He'll ask Raju to move on to reading him something else in a moment, surely.

He should spare him from further distress, he really should. His friend is two steps away from abject misery, and he's continuing to just sit there listening with an almost serene expression on his face.

Does it make him a horrible person that he wants to push just a little bit further? Surely Raju will figure it out sooner rather than later; he's a clever man, after all, and he must know that his friend isn't actually wanting him to sit there and read a lady's lurid fantasy novel.

He considers, cocking his head as he looks back at Raju and the faded book in his hand, and decides -- no, Raju can handle a little more teasing. "And the other? The Laird in London?"

Again Raju opens his mouth, and again he pauses. This time he sighs as he lets his breath out. But he puts this awful book back where he'd gotten it and pulls out the one Francis wants to hear about. If his friend does have some secret love of these ridiculous... well, it's a small price to pay, isn't it? Still, Raju doesn't stop grimacing as he turns this one over, and his voice is a little more openly judgemental about the contents than it was before.

"A Scottish Highlander causes a stir in Regency London. There’s a new laird in town. Will he leave with a wife." There's grammar there that Raju doesn't have patience for, exclamation points and question marks waiting excitedly for Raju on the page that are very deliberately abandoned by his doubtful tone. Still, he continues:

"Angus MacDonald has just arrived in London to reclaim his land when he rescues Lady Isabella Wood from a cattle stampede." He pauses, condemning another exclamation point down into the pit with its fellows. He's pausing for derision, not to mourn it; he moves on. "Their instant attraction is undeniable, but Isabella must wed this Season and Angus isn’t looking for a bride. His wild Hebridean home is a world away from London Society, so Isabella is completely out-of-bounds. Even if their connection is unlike anything he’s felt before. From Harlequin Historical: Your romantic escape to the past.

"I think this one is part of a series," Raju goes on in more of his own voice, sounding a little baffled by the idea. "'Book number two.' I suppose you won't be missing much by starting here. Ah—"

He looks at Francis again, looking concerned and holding the book in the air. "Do you want me to... ah, this one? Or the other?" If he pretends he's forgotten about the others, maybe Francis will choose and he can start getting through it. It won't be quite so bad once he's reading properly, and Francis is closer. At least there'll be Francis himself then to focus on.

Christ, that sounds worse than the first book. An absolute garbage heap of a premise, nonsensical and indulgent and clearly written for a certain kind of person, which he is not.

But Raju now thinks he is.

Poor Raju, pained by the ordeal now of having to read the synopsis to a friend who he probably believed had better taste than this. But what a friend he is, still humoring him, even if his soul is actively beginning to leave his body with each harebrained plot point. There’s no doubt in his mind that he would read the book from cover-to-cover if Crozier asked him to, even as he slowly died inside from every predicable twist and cringeworthy dialogue.

He meets Raju’s gaze with the same pinched brows, pondering his options quite seriously. “Well,” he says, “they both sound good, don’t they? How could I ever choose?”

It’s mean, and just a touch too much even for Crozier. He breaks character with a smirk and ducks his head to cough softly into his fist.

They both sound good.

A moment later Francis smirks. From there it's easier to tell that the cough that follows it is very close to laughter, and the dismay on Raju's face dissolves into a wide grin. "You ass," he says cheerfully, tossing the book in his hand at Francis in retaliation. "'How could I ever choose,' I was getting myself ready to read this entire story to you! I thought you really liked these ridiculous..."

Raju huffs, brushing his fingers in a dismissive gesture against the spines of the ones in front of him on the shelf. "You don't, do you? That really was a joke, all of it?" Important to make sure. Very sure. He wants to be certain whether any more of that is in his future someplace.

Crozier dodges the book, outright laughing now with that higher-pitched wheeze of his, the kind where his breath catches and he coughs until he starts back up again. He has tears in his eyes by the time the laughter actually subsides.

“If I wanted to read it I’d do it in my own time,” he tells him, leaving it purposely vague. Maybe one day he’d crave something saccharine, who knows! He gropes behind him for the book/makeshift weapon, fingertips hitting on the corner and dragging it back to him to inspect a little closer. “You would have read the whole thing to me if I’d asked, wouldn’t you?”

That isn't a, yes, it really was completely a joke and I'm definitely not going to want to read any of these, so Raju can't use any of the awful things for tinder, and might need to deal with their contents again one day. But Francis laughing that way after the way the man has been feels a little like holding him had felt before, the same bright feeling pressing against the inside of Raju's chest, but where the need to hold him together had been solid and hard-edged this one is less urgent, viscous and slow-moving, spreading its warmth all through the other parts of Raju while he listens to Francis laugh.

That kind of laughter crinkles up the skin of Francis' face as much as it does the sound of his voice. It looks well on him. Very well. Francis' answer itself was anything but reassuring, and it's impossible to mind.

"Of course," Raju answers, grabbing at the Alice in Wonderland as his smile curls fondly over his face, even while his tone sounds very vaguely insulted that it's even in question. He takes the book — not his favourite, still, but at least the annoyance there is half nostalgia, and it seems like the best option now — with him over to Francis and the fireplace.

"Why do you think I'm trying to find out whether you actually like it?" he adds, taking a moment just to smile at Francis before leaning over to inspect the tea. He'd be surprised if it wasn't hot enough by now. "I'm trying to figure out how high the danger levels are. Worrying that you don't want to tell me."

“It is worrying, isn’t it? Shame, that.” He can’t completely put Raju at ease, after all. Where would the fun be in that!

Once Raju is close he pulls the corner of the blanket back and slides half around his broad shoulders, a silent gesture to ask for his forgiveness for such a cruel (albeit still very funny) joke. He’s still smiling, bright and unbothered, whatever weight pressing on him from before at least momentarily forgotten. Raju would read the damn things to him if he asked - it’s so kind and selfless, very much Raju to a fault.

“The contents may one day prove useful, you never know.” How and why remains a mystery.

He peers over at the chosen book in Raju’s hands, the faded, colorful illustration on the shiny dust jacket looking like something from Swift. “You picked the one book I’m unfamiliar with,” he admits quietly. “Have you read it before?”

"Mhm." Raju's indulgent look — he'd been trying for derision, useful as sitting on a nail, but hadn't quite been able to get his expression there — fades into focus as Raju sets the book close to Francis for him to examine, while Raju pours a cup of the tea. Well, 'tea', the closest thing to it that they have. It's warm, though, and it could taste worse, and the moment Francis' hand is free Raju is going to press the cup into it, hands wrapped around Francis' and lingering enough to squeeze. Then he'll settle himself underneath the blanket close along Francis' side, Francis' gesture with the blanket feeling natural, and along the same course Raju had seen the evening going anyway.

"Once, as a young man," he goes on, one arm slipping easily around Francis' side. "I don't remember whether I finished it. I'd be very surprised if I did. I hated this thing, refused to waste my time on anything else that Carroll ever wrote, afterward. Of course, I hadn't tried any of those then."

He nods toward the one he'd thrown at Francis, voice as pleased and warm as if he was relating a story about some fond childhood memory. He supposes anything might feel that way right now. "It isn't cerebral or grim like the Shelley, and makes a great deal less sense than the Austen. Maybe you'll like it."

Crozier takes a careful sip of the boiled root - because it’s certainly more of a soup than a tea, but it is warm, that’s all that matters - and secures the cup between crossed legs.

“So you’re saying I’m inclined to like something you so loathed you swore never to try to read it again,” he deadpans. “Interesting.”

He waits a beat and then tips his head onto Raju’s shoulder. “No time for something frivolous in your life, was there?”

Being born again into the sweet morning fog

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