Work Text:
Harry doesn’t know how he’ll sleep tonight. He’s used to the cold and even the discomfort of the pebbly ice beneath the tent. His pain lies in his blistered feet, his overused muscles, and the bruises dotted along his collarbone where the sledge’s harness dug into his pale skin. He’s pulled the collar of his shirt off his shoulder to better inspect the marks, and he winces as he prods the welts.
Someone chirps a friendly hullo at the tent’s entrance. Harry barely fixes his shirt and jumper before Lieutenant Gore ducks inside.
“We’ve heated some food if you want to join us for dinner,” he offers, his smile kind as always. Harry feels his face erupt with heat at what Gore must think of him, catching him half-undressed, but there’s only a slight inclination of the head as he asks, “Are you unwell, doctor?”
“Yes,” Harry hurriedly says, “I mean, no. I’m quite all right. A tad sore from hauling, I imagine.”
The sympathy is immediate on Gore’s face and apology heavy in his words; “Of course. You aren’t used to the sledges. I should have known and not let you haul as long as you did.”
Harry’s face is pinker than a bowl of strawberries as he pulls on his slops and stands. “Think nothing of it, Lieutenant Gore,” he says, masking a wince, “I’ll be right as rain after some sleep.”
Gore looks unconvinced, but he says no more. He steps aside, letting Harry exit the tent first. The other men all but ignore Harry while they crowd around the fire and dole out rations onto tin plates they can only hold with their mittens on.
After hours of trekking on the ice, the sauce-smothered mystery meat is delicious, and Harry gobbles the contents of his plate in minutes. He notices Gore watching him, and Harry gives him a small, if chagrined, smile. He’s relieved when Gore smiles back.
For now, the men divvy themselves up for the watch, and a few elect to stay by the warmth of the fire before retiring to bed. Harry, however, decides he would like the privacy, and he slips into the tent he shares with Hartnell, Peglar, and Best.
He removes his outer clothes, stuffing his socked feet under the blankets to keep his toes from going numb. He pulls out his journal and begins recounting the day: from the bright sun reflecting off the ice and snow (nearly blinding, he regrets having not acquisitioned a pair of snow goggles for himself) to his own soreness and to the others’ hard work dragging the boat. Today’s entry is short; he punctuates it with well wishes for tomorrow and hope that they will find Sir James Ross’ cairn with ease.
Someone clears their throat outside the tent, followed shortly by Lieutenant Gore’s customary hullo. Harry sets aside the journal, issuing a soft come when Gore remains outside.
Harry is better prepared to keep his composure. He’s dressed, he’s eaten, he’s rested—and with the brief conversation he had with Gore earlier very present in his mind—Harry knows now how to navigate any interactions he might have with the lieutenant.
That is, until Gore enters and sits cross-legged right beside him on the bedroll. He’s close enough that Harry feels the heat from his well-muscled thighs. He’s smell something faint from his hair, the remnants of a cologne perhaps. Unaware of Harry’s distress, Gore holds up a tiny jar.
Harry blinks. “What is this?”
Gore opens it, revealing a colorless salve.
“I use this for my hands and windburn mostly,” he explains, “and I thought it might help your bruising.”
“Oh! I couldn’t…thank you, but…did Dr. Stanley provide you with such a remedy?”
“No, it’s my own invention. Learnt it after years of expeditions such as this. The cold is our worst enemy here, but she’s manageable.”
“I don’t want to deplete your supply.”
Gore chuckles. “You won’t. Besides, I’m offering it to you.” With one hand holding the jar, he picks up Harry’s hand with the other. He places the jar in the center of his palm. “Here,” he says while removing his mittens, “let me help you.”
Harry doesn’t fully undress. He assumes the same position before with the shirt of his collar tugged down low enough to reveal the bruises. But he feels naked and worries that Gore will think the flush traveling from his face to his chest is from more than cold.
(even though it is.)
“It doesn’t look too bad. How sore are they?” Gore’s touch is featherlight as he applies a layer of the salve. It’s cool on Harry’s skin, at odds with the searing heat from Gore’s fingers.
Harry fears that, in his silence, Gore will hear how fast his heart beats, and so he talks. He rambles.
“It’s unusual having someone else ask me how I’m faring. I’m more used to asking questions after one’s health. Though I suppose that is a surgeon’s conceit, letting himself suffer in place of the crew’s comfort and security.”
Gore smiles, applying a second layer over the reddened skin. “Then consider this thanks for all you do, doctor. If our surgeons neglect themselves, someone must care for them, wouldn’t you say?”
Harry starts to answer, but his mouth runs dry when he realizes how close Gore is; his face is mere inches from his own. Harry thanks him. Neither move. Gore searches his face, his eyes settling more than once on his mouth, but before he can move any closer, Mr. Des Voeux calls Gore’s name from outside.
Gore shuts his eyes. He sighs, smiles. “Right. I’m on first watch with Fred. I should go.”
Harry fixes his shirt as Gore stands. To Harry’s surprise, Gore gives him the jar. He closes Harry’s hand around it, patting his knuckles with his still warm, slightly sticky fingers.
“Keep this for now. You need it more than I.”
“Thank you. If there’s any way I can repay you…”
Gore waves his hand while he pulls his mittens back on. “Don’t worry yourself, Doctor Goodsir. You’ll just owe me a favor.”
He winks, and Harry’s fingers slip, missing one of the buttonholes on his shirt. And with that, Gore is gone with nothing of him remaining in the tent but the warmth of his hands lingering on the jar and the ghostly imprint of his fingers tingling on Harry’s skin.