goingtobeunwell

It is well worth it, Rama’s dreamy smile and long eyelashes melting him right into the chair. His own hand caresses down Ram’s neck and then over his chest as it slowly drops away from him.

“It does,” he murmurs, “very thorough.”

He idly touches his own bare face, laughing quietly to himself in amusement. He feels like a new man - a clean-shaven Francis Crozier, what a novel thing.

There's a hot trail over his skin where Francis' hand had moved over and away from him. He watches that hand touching his newly smooth cheek and makes a soft, amused noise, both at his own reactions and at Francis, clearly not quite used to his own face either. His smile deepens, fond, around his eyes.

"I have my aftershave, too," he notes. He'd half-intended to mention that earlier but, well. Other things had come up. "I hadn't used it for some time before I got here, either, so there's enough left to last you a while if you like the smell." He leans to pull it out from his grooming kit. Sandalwood, cedar, a hint of some sharp spice — he hasn't smelled it in a while and realises, unscrewing its top and tipping it toward Francis, that he wouldn't mind it, Francis smelling like what a part of Raju's mind still says smells like him.

Crozier's mind immediately zeros in on the same thought - he'd smell like Rama if he wore his aftershave. He'd be on his skin, wrapped up in his scent like a coat that clings to him for days. He leans forward and inhales the warm, woody scent; it says Rama through and through, heat and earth, familiar and exotic.

"I like it very much," he murmurs, excited at the idea of sharing something like this with him. It's Ram's from home, something personal and special to him, and he wants Crozier to wear it. It's a piece of civilization, a little bit of luxury, smelling like something other than just being clean.

Raju tips the bottle over his own palm, looking pleased, sets the bottle down, and rubs his hands over one another in two long swipes. There's something about the way Francis had agreed, the quiet tone over the excited words. All this means as much to Francis as it does to Raju. Well, of course it does — but hearing it. Hearing it is wonderful. It's because he sounds happy.

Raju leans forward to smooth his hands over Francis' cheeks, fingertips first, into fingers, into his palms. His fingertips trace the hills and valleys around Francis' mouth and he smooths his hands over the whole landscape once more, taking the time to rub it in. Then he moves his hands across Francis' jaw, under his chin, over his neck, from the middle outward. It feels odd to have his hands spread over Francis' neck like this; the movements of his hands are very gentle.

"There," he murmurs, gaze moving up to Francis' face. "How do you feel?"

This whole time he’s been subject to Ram’s meticulous care and rapt attention. It’s not unlike a steward caring for his captain; he knows full-well what this sort of attention is like, having received it on just about every expedition, but none of the touches or thoughtful details mean the same. This isn’t just another duty by a hired servant, this is a choice, all of these little moments are choices Ram has made, gifts he’s willing to give to him. It’s like every inch is being adored, and Crozier feels so wrung-out and overwhelmed by the tenderness that he can barely keep the silly grin off his face.

The aftershave tingles on his skin, the scent enveloping him and giving him the sense of being transported elsewhere. Somewhere hot and sunny, where people like him burn and sweat instead of brown and glow like the locals.

He sits up a little straighter in his chair. “I feel like a man reborn,” he tells him without exaggeration. “Less of a mess of a person brought out of the wilderness against his own will. Thank you.”

A man reborn means the shaving is probably going to be at least semi-regular, from now on. That isn't the only thing it means. One of Raju's hands falls to his side and rubs its fingers against themselves, feeling the traces of the alcohol there, while the other reaches up and runs its thumb over the curve of Francis' chin. "Against your will? I don't know about that. You asked me to shave you, didn't you? Instead of trim?"

Raju smiles down at Francis' jaw, his mouth, watching the movement of his thumb and the landscape it's moving over. Then he looks into his eyes. "And you asked me to stay in the first place. I didn't sling you over my back and walk you out on my own."

Ram seems fascinated by his chin; he didn’t realize he’d been hiding it from him all this time.

“I knew when to hold onto a good thing,” he laughs. Of course he’s not some put-upon hermit, as much as he’d tried to mold himself into one in the beginning of things. “Not the beard.”

"It wasn't so—" Raju stops himself before he can lie, ducking his head over a grin and reaching to wipe his hands on a rag. "It wouldn't have been so bad with a trim."

He reaches out for the sheet around Francis' shoulders, gathering up the ends so all the hair doesn't spill out when he lifts it off him. It's odd smelling that familiar scent here, of all places, stronger when he bends forward with his arms briefly around Francis' shoulders; sandalwood and alcohol and the chill in the air, and snow somewhere outside the windows. He turns his head toward Francis' neck and smiles a little. He likes it, he thinks. Maybe he likes the way those two disparate parts of his life fit against one another better because it's Francis who's wearing the scent. Raju straightens, bringing all the corners of the sheet together and looking over. He finds his gaze drawn to Francis' chest and stomach, and it lingers there for a moment before moving up to to smile, teasing, at that oddly bare face. "You'll realise what you've been neglecting the next time we eat. How long has it been since you've had a meal without hair in your mouth?"

“I think you underestimate my ability to keep myself tidy,” he grumps teasingly. He knows he was a mess, especially by Rama’s very exacting standards.

That drawn out glance at his bare chest doesn’t escape him, but it’s not unexpected. Not with the way they’d been kissing just moments prior. He ducks his head a little and reaches for his jumper, pulling it back over his chest with a little smirk. Now the aftershave will linger on his clothes, almost as though Ram himself had been wrapped up in his things.

He moves smoothly through the act of getting dressed and then rising from the chair again. He’s nearly there, almost fully recovered from his stint as a human-sized paperweight, with a new look and the beginnings of something he hadn’t imagined for himself. He glances towards Rama warmly, still so much want in his stare, and shakes his head with a playful little ‘tsk’.

“If I wanted to shave myself next time would you take objection to that? Because I’m fully capable, I’ll have you know.”

"Not at all," he says, moving to shake the sheet out over the bin. "My things are yours. Just take care of it all or I'll have to hide it from you."

He grins at Francis, walking over to put the cap back onto the aftershave, put the shaving soap away, shake the brush through the water and peer at it to make sure he's gotten all remnants of the lather off. "The way I used to do back at the barracks. I'll be happy to do it for you again, though. Whenever you want me."

Raju's peering at the bristles on the brush again but his grin sharpens, knowing Francis is, like him, worked up enough to hear want and think all kinds of things. "Did you like it, shaving yourself? More than having someone else doing it for you?"

He huffs a laugh through his nose. So much for subtlety.

“I don’t abuse what doesn’t belong to me, you can trust in that.” Ram having to hide it whilst living in the barracks tells him all that he needs about the lengths he’s had to go through to preserve his possessions. He thinks about his days still sleeping with the crew in the converted mess - he would sleep with his things secreted underneath his pillow.

“I do,” he tells him, grabbing the ratty broom they’d scrounged from another abandoned cabin. He sweeps with the handle carefully anchored against his wrist, a slow but well-practiced process. “I enjoy doing things for myself. Always have. But things are just expected of you when you grow in the ranks.”

"Hm." Raju sets the brush down to dry, leaning shoulder and hip against the wall, arms crossed, and taking a moment just to watch him. Watch his body. Watch how hard he's worked to manoeuvrer so easily with the one hand. Watch the bare face, which is probably going to be strange — wonderful, but strange — for a while yet. "I never thought about that before. But then the officers back home always seemed to enjoy it, sending others scurrying around to do their work for them. It would have been too strange, wouldn't it? If you'd asked to shave yourself, or... dress yourself, or whatever else."

When Francis had talked about the way he used to be, he'd said he'd been... jealous, hadn't it been? Resentful? That means ambition too, so: "Especially if you wanted a higher rank some day," he guesses. "It wouldn't do to remind anyone where you came from."

“I must admit there is a certain amount of pleasure to be had when someone follows your command, especially when you’re used to being the one following said orders. But having someone shave and dress you…that’s a different level of command, isn’t it? Less officer and more member of the leisure class.”

But it would have been odd to turn away the services of a steward. It was a must for officers. “I suppose one can get used to anything, and having as good a steward as Jopson, who was more a spy who also served tea than anything else.”

Raju huffs an amused noise, grinning. "Odd to think about you that way," he says, pushing off the wall and moving to put the rest of the things away, most everything back inside the grooming kit and that set aside, the water and the pine-needle water both back in their places. "Using subterfuge like anyone else. That was my uncle's work at home. He kept you up on the mood of your men? What they were thinking?"

“I used to tell him he could be a newspaperman. He always knew the goings-on of both ship - Antarctica and that last expedition.” He was a valuable asset, and not just because he was the only one Crozier felt like he could actually trust for a while there.

Thinking about Jopson always tugs at the center of his brain responsible for guilt. “A captain of his ship is traditionally responsible for choosing his crew. The Admiralty gave this duty solely to Sir John; he picked my entire crew, from cook to officers. But I was allowed to choose my steward, and naturally I brought the young man who had accompanied me to Antarctica.”

And doomed him.

Raju nods as he picks up the bench, moving it out of the way. His thoughts, even after so long in this impossible place, move more easily into explicable patterns: Francis' steward was there, alive, and is here, alive, and what had happened — what Francis insists had happened, what William says happened to him, what Raju has no option but to trust — between the two points is easy for his mind to skirt the edges of like walking around a puddle, without quite stepping in the middle unless something else should draw his foot there.

"Instead of one of the others you'd sailed with before?" he asks, moving over to the chair Francis had been sitting in to move that as well. "He must have made an impression that first time."

That Thomas Jopson certainly did. He was terrified during the fire on Terror, then when they'd crashed into Erebus on that horrible night, but he stayed standing and alert and always by his side. He was a good man, brave and kind, and Crozier knew he only wanted him as his steward from then on out.

"He did. He was on the Racer chasing slavers in the Caribbean before he went to Antarctica. I've never met a kinder soul."

Impossible here, at least, not to see the context: the contrast between Francis' regard for this man and the distance he's said he's put between himself and all his men. The ones still living, here. But saying anything about it for no purpose wouldn't be kind, at least not directly. In lieu of that he moves closer, smiling at Francis and running a fond hand over his hair. "He sounds like a good officer. A good man. How has he been doing here? This place is quite a change of pace from hunting slave ships."

He huffs softly at the little hair ruffle. “It’s quite a change from the rocks of King William Island,” he says, going back to his sweeping. The dust and hair need to finish their journey of getting swept out the front door.

“I don’t know how he’s been. He didn’t look well at the town hall.”

It’s a hard thing to admit. Jopson had been glued to his side, and then one day decided he needed to not see Crozier for a while. It has hurt, but he understood. Jopson doesn’t need to be mired in the past if he can help it.

And that town hall was a while ago — long enough for Francis to be up and sweeping across the room, to be doing it without the slow, pained effort any of those movements would have needed from him before. Raju watches him for a moment, unsure. At home, he'd always expected that he would be involved in the lives of the people at home again, someday, as soon as he was done. But Francis doesn't have that.

"If we start going into town more often, one of us might see him," he offers. It isn't something he's inclined to do for its own sake; it's odd to not be committed to one approach or the other, when every decision in his life up to this place was a calculation, how close this took him to his goal and how far that would move him away. But he's committed to Francis, at least, and he's no stranger to spending time around people he doesn't care for. If doing it might help Francis worry less, then Raju wouldn't mind. "I can keep an eye out for you."

It’s a testament to Ram’s affection for him that he would even offer. He finishes his task and sets the broom aside, crossing the room to set his arm on Rama’s shoulder and then the back of his neck.

“Thank you, but he’s in Lakeside now. If he comes back to Milton…”

He shakes his head softly. “Ah, I don’t know, Rama. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to at least look out.”

Since Francis is so close Raju puts an arm around his back, feeling the sweater under his hand, touch gentle against the chest underneath it. "Then we will," he says, confident, encouraging. He keeps looking at him a moment, then kisses Francis' cheek, because it's right there and he wants to know how it feels now under his lips. Smooth, of course, and warm. He feels the pull to kiss Francis again on those shapely lips this time and resists it, gaze darting over his face, smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

The easy affection is novel, but not unwanted. If he’s lucky enough to continue being on the receiving side he just may get used to it, and wouldn’t that be a lovely little life? He smiles and caresses the curve of his neck, happy to just share in this moment with him without wanting for more.

The healing continues as Crozier refuses to jeopardize his health again, even if not touching Rama is so frustrating it’s almost insidious. He can stare all he wants, flirt all he wants, moon and long and admire, but he cannot touch and it’s driving him to distraction. But the happy day comes when Svetlana visits and gives him that final check - his breathing will never be the same, but he’s as fully healed as he’ll ever be. No long fragile or frail, able to walk and work and forage and all the things he’s been itching to do since the fight with Hickey.

He and Ram eat their dinner together and talk about the day, as they usually do, Crozier keeping that one vital detail to himself as they enjoy the fish pie Svetlana delivered earlier that day. They clean up and build the fire and lay the furs for their bed, Crozier doing a little light reading before he dims the lanterns and secures the doors and windows. He crawls into the furs and lays on the side he’s typically occupied, still holding onto his news.

Raju slips into the side opposite, not thinking of anything in particular. There's the usual awareness of Francis, awareness of the distance. There's the usual brief comparison of before, when he'd slept roughly this far away from him without ever considering sleeping closer, to now, when considering it is the only thing that he can do. He thinks of the first night they'd slept next to one another, as close as Raju wants to be, when he hadn't been able to consider anything then but the desperate animal comfort of it.

He doesn't mind not being able to touch the way he wants, not exactly. Or, he doesn't mind minding it. Usually. But the nights are harder. In Delhi there'd been plenty of work to do, and if he only tried hard enough to find it, and did it for long enough, he hadn't needed help falling asleep. Raju sighs, turning onto his side, arm draped over his chest. It's usually at least a little easier if he can look at him. Francis loves him, and wants to be with him— and he's just there, so really, Raju is lucky.

He likes to look at Ram as he’s falling asleep as well, his soft expression and comforting presence enough to usually soothe away the worries of the days. He indulges in this for a moment, looking at Rama in the glow from the fireplace and watching the shadows dance over his skin, before he begins to inch closer.

“Svetlana gave me more than the pie,” he tells him cryptically.

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