The first inkling that James Fitzjames gained awareness of the situation, was when Francis marched through the front door of their shared lodgings and he became immersed into the eye of the storm in the proverbial teacup.

"Absolutely absurd," he caught- this was the politest of many mutterings- as Francis toes off his boots (ah, he noticed only now it had begun raining) and stalked, not straight down the hallway to greet him in the sitting room, but rather diverting into his study and then the kitchen, unhappy litany as ceaseless as the tide. "To think in a civilised society... Goddamn... horrid new age..."

Amused, he allowed himself to sit and listen to the curses interrupting the clatter of teacups, sketchbook forgotten in his lap and Molly the tabby purring in lieu of a bad-tempered sigh on the back of the settee. She cracked open one grey eye to observe the arrival of the storm stomp stocking-footed into the room and sink into the opposite chair with a huff. For a brief second silence fell, then it was broken just as quickly as he watched Francis take a sip of his tea and curse it for being still too hot to drink. The wince brought his head up and he made eye contact with his fondly-exasperated observer. "What?"

James inclined his head, powerless to stop his smile as he felt it widen, "You think there is something?"

A glare fixed itself on his face, coming closer and then further away as he adjusted himself in his seat and abandoned his cup and saucer on the little table at his feet. Fitzjames was not ignorant to the way his stormy expression softened, however slightly, as Molly pounced onto his lap and demanded to be fussed over as a way of saying 'hello again'. "With you," he resumed conversation with no regard for the pause at all, "There is always something."

"Forgive me, Francis, but you made quite an entrance. I merely wondered if 'tis the end of the world outside."

"Hmph!" With a second snort for emphasis he unfolded the day's newspaper and ducked into hiding, leaving James with a blurred view of the broadsheet and the de trop reminder of the damage the Arctic had done to his eyesight.

Pushing the memories aside with an ease that grew more practised with each day, James forwent his usual cajoling and merely leant forward and used the wrong end of his pencil to tilt the top edge of the newspaper down and resume their exchange of glances. Francis shifted in his seat- if not for that he were a decorated captain in Her Majesty's Navy, one might have described him as fidgeting. "What is it?"

He tossed the paper onto the table top, nearly making calamity with his full teacup. "If you will judge me-"

"I won't." Raised eyebrows. "I swear it!"

"Hmph. If you must know... I am struggling to purchase more trousers."

His explanation was said in a rush, words falling over each other, so James had to take the time to reflect upon what had just been told to him. "...Trousers?"

"Trousers," confirmed Francis, folding his arms and mustering his best stout glare, as if daring him to smile at his misfortune.

James would have liked to have been able to say that this resolved his confusion immediately and completely; he did strive to let it, yet in the end he snatched up Francis' forgotten cup of tea and allowed himself the luxury of slumping back on the sofa with a polite look of bewilderment- and some strain in his voice- when he repeated, "Trousers?"

The hand not buried in Molly's fur tightened into a fist. "There's no need to tease me, James. I already know I am being ridiculous."

"I'm not teasing, Francis- I swore I would not and I'm not." Internally, he bemoaned his fellow lodger's prickliness, but only internally. "'Tis merely a failure of understanding, not manners, that makes me ask... Truthfully I am confused why buying some new trousers would cause you all this consternation."

Francis glowered akin to the coals and hearth besides them, softening in a way imperceptible to anyone bar a very few, "I suppose you cannot understand."

"Explain it to me, then, why don't you? Are you... are you unhappy because your old ones no longer fit? (This earnt him a derisive noise, which he nobly took no notice of) That concern is no one's but yours if it is the case; I for one'd be glad if you've finally put some weight back on after- after everything. Or-" he let Francis knock his knee with his knee in a sense of well-known comfort, searching his still-spotty memory. "-Or is it the act of being measured by a person unknown? A friend of my brother had the same problem and he got round it by taking his own measurements."

By the time his spiel had ended, the fire in the grate and the prolonged contact of their knees had melted the glacier of Crozier's face. "It seems that the tailors of London... they-" here he searched for his tea, realised it had been pinched, and glared across the space at him. James glared back and bade him continue with one arched eyebrow and a sip with his pinkie finger stuck out at right angles. "...They no longer make trousers."

By Crozier's response to it, James knew the expression on his face was one of agog, because Crozier's was one of boiling over frustration, even if not directed at him. "Just- look!" he snapped beseechingly, standing abruptly and making the table rattle with his knee.

He's going to kiss me James thought, hopeful and full of tenderness. He frowned, why did I think that? however was given no time to ponder the question, as Francis stalked out down the hallway and then soon back again, a lump of fabric clutched in his grip that, once under the sitting room's gas lamps, he identified as one of his pairs of trousers they had laundered yesterday.

"See?" he shook them out and held them up for inspection, batting away Molly in the process. "No, you bloody moggy, you'll cover them in fur. See?" He turned back to James and gestured at the buttons.

Hesitantly, he rose in his seat, levering himself up with the arm of the sofa and tried to seem intelligent as he peered at the offending garment. "They… no longer make trousers with… buttons?"

"No! What I mean to say is, they all make trousers… like yours."

Comprehension inched forward as a ship trapped in thick pack ice. Mine? But what on Earth-

"Ah, fly-fronted trousers as mine are all the rage, then?"

"Exactly!" the satisfaction seeped away as quickly as it had appeared and he sat back down with another huff and his brow furrowed, not even bothering to stop the ginger tabby making a bed of his clothes and swiftly covering them with her ginger fur. "And I shall never wear those such… monstrosities!"

Despite perhaps any sensibilities, James could not hold back his whimsical feelings of warmth towards his fellow captain and friend. "How has it occurred that only now, three and a half years into being acquainted with you, do I learn you resent my style of trousers?"

"With the way you insist to talk about every inane detail: it's a mystery," Francis deadpanned, scowl deepening.

James smiled wider at the lack of heat in his grouching, "Well, how dire are your sartorial affairs, hmm? Shall I prepare myself for you to be going about sans pantalons in the foreseeable future?"

"This isn't funny," however humour twitched at the corners of his mouth. With one hand he removed Molly from her nest and the other rescued his tea cup from its pilferer, taking a sip only to find it now empty. With a sigh that turned heavy and bitter, he folded his arms and for the second time during conversation swept an assessing look over at him and then muttered, "I know I am being ridiculous, James. You've no need to pretend otherwise."

Sensing danger, with no rocket launcher to fight off an intangible enemy, James tread very, very lightly. "Would it be such hardship to wear another style?" If the answer were to be 'yes', he had already resigned himself to scouring the southern counties tomorrow morning for a tailor who'd rescue this whole thing.

"I suppose not." The reply was rather more downcast than the situation really wrought; long experience had taught him this was the voice of a man acquiescing against his private will for the ease of another party and it made him cold, to think Francis would still do that to him of all people, after everything.

"Come now," he said softly. "What is it?"

Francis looked away first, a muscle twitching in his jaw and shame plain to see in his eyes. "This just feels like one more thing on a list of things since coming back that I am having trouble reconciling with."

James winced, not in embarrassment but empathy. Their return to London was nothing short of luck and miracle, even if they were short some fingers and toes than when they left and not to mention the loss of Sir John, fifty men and two ships. Francis, James would tout with no boasting or jealousy, had borne the weight admirably, even after boarding Ross' rescue on Enterprise when he could have passed the burden onto less enervated shoulders.

Now, he fussed over his trousers.

James had reckoned with their experiences on the boat back to England, forced into doing so by his perilous grasp on mortality and long confinement to bedrest. Even with prior bolstering, there were still aspects to London Society he could no longer pretend to find palatable in the slightest. Francis, he could imagine, being a creature who found comfort in his habits, was no doubt adrift in a frightening way, with no ill, moribund or squawking men to attend to.

"Francis," when there was no answer, he leaned forward and put his hand on his knee. "Francis. There's no shame in… trying to readjust. Not with me." Truthfully, he had been worrying in the corners of his mind about an impending crisis concerning whisky or liquor of some description; now here they were, five months after returning, having a crisis over trousers, and it didn't surprise him to realise the fact Francis was upset still hurt him the same way. That was something he had had to confront whilst on his sickbed too.

For several moments he watched as he tried to muster up an acceptable response, until eventually just after the clock rang twelve did he finally nod slightly. "Thank you for that."

He leant back in his chair, the twinge of his back telling him how long he had sat there, hand on knee. "There is no need to thank me. Although I have considered- do you perhaps want to try on a pair of mine own trousers, if only to get you acclimatized to the idea?" He was saying this whilst Francis has stood up and begun searching the shelves for his little felt roll of gardening tools, muttering about how they had not go wasted in late autumn. In the midst of this, James' words caused him to freeze and turn slightly, a haunted expression on his face. "Don't be absurd."

"You think I'm being absurd?"

"I- you know I will not fit your trousers, you've a waist like a bloody-"

James looked, just looked at him for a moment more, until he spotted a smouldering look to his eye that emboldened him, "Is the issue really that you wouldn't fit into my garments, Francis, or something else?"

Wordlessly, he left his search and walked slowly away, around the back of the sofa, only to stop directly behind his left shoulder. "James," he looked round in turn, able to just see the crescent of his face like the moon. "You know my… proclivities. And I yours. Ne'er have we held anything against one another and ne'er I would hold it against you, but please do not…" he trailed off and James couldn't think of anything to say as one hand came up to rest on the sofa back, clutching the material until it creaked. His voice turned low- pleading- and his breath caught in his throat. "Do not- tease me, James, please. If I am not merely… fanatical, hallucinating, seeing what I wish to see and hearing what I wish to hear- you would know it better than I. And I beg you: please don't."

He turned his head further, so his check brushed for a brief second over Francis' fingers and a lock of hair landed over his knuckles. "Is this… a way of saying you do not desire at all?"

"James." His voice cracked and James closed his eyes, the better to breathe with such emotion weighing down his chest. He started again, "This is me saying to you that it is better to have never known a thing, than to have had it in your grasp and let it slip away."

He opened his eyes. To see Francis beside him was like the sun coming out. "You've no certainty that your happiness would depart."

He laughed, a sound without bitterness. "Only fifty years of experience, no?"

"No." James stood up and they looked at each other, in their entireties. "This time, you would not be the only one who was clinging on." To prove his point, he let their hands touch, then closed his grasp round Francis' cold fingers and squeezed gently, once.

"James," he took a step closer, both heedless of the sofa between them. There was a look upon his face of being lost and being found all at once. "Life is very good and you are very beautiful, how can I ever…" he trailed off and shrugged helplessly. "How could I ask you to...?"

James took a step close, also. "You're not the one asking, I am. Do you want me, Francis?"

"Yes."

"Then…" he brought his free hand up to cup his cheek and did not need to finish and say 'kiss me', for Francis had already leant forward and pressed his lips to his, warm and gently; far too chaste for all that they were to each other, so James deepened it, until they were tangled together and hands in each other's hair, locked into an embrace that made his bones tremble.

"Dear God," gasped Francis when the kiss finally broke in a reverent whisper, "You know I'd marry you if I could."

James smiled, delighted to see how Francis smiled in response. "I know," he said, even though it wasn't necessary.

He smiled wider, then with gentle worship brought James' hands to his lips and kissed every knuckle.

The doorbell rang and broke the spell with a groan to match the clock announcing half past. James groaned in duet- the visiting Rosses and Blankys had become the least important thing on his mind.

"We could ignore them?"

"Do that and they will break the door down and find us in a very compromising position."

He chuckled, another sound James swore to himself he would never tire of, pressing a kiss to his fingers one more time and gazing up at him through his lashes, "Later then, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

"I know," this he said over his shoulder as he walked down the hall. James watched him go, a calm settling within him the likes he had never felt before, and in the time spare before the door opened to admit the rest of the world he pressed his fingers to his lips, still able to feel the warmth of Francis' kisses.