Not The Hand Holding My Heart

not the hand holding my heart 😭

THE TERROR ▸ 1.09 the c, the c, the open c

I am once again watching the Werner Herzog 'deranged penguin' documentary.

THE TERROR ▸ 1.09 the c, the c, the open c

For @scala26's fitizer first kiss prompt - one of them kissing the other to stop them from saying something

Somehow this became a modern University professors AU, sorry not sorry.

The Rest is Still Unwritten

“Well I think that Franc–mmf!”

James tastes of champagne, is Francis’ first, muzzy thought.

Francis hasn’t had a drink in–well. A long while. He feels half drunk on the taste of it now, fancies he can still feel the bubbles popping on James’ tongue. 

James makes a gratifying little squeak and opens his mouth wider, which he should absolutely not do, Francis thinks. 

Francis shoves his tongue further down James’ throat regardless, because that’s the kind of man he is. Hungry, desperate, grasping for every spare and crumbling straw within his reach. Jealous and demanding. Always overlooked. 

He sucks on James’ tongue, hands tightening on James’ waist, and James whimpers and presses closer. 

Overlooked, overshadowed, passed over for every opportunity–Francis’ life has been a series of over, over, over. Never the start, always the finish. 

He is accustomed to it. Besides, second fiddle is not always the worst position in the orchestra. 

Then there is the simple fact that he does not want to be chair. 

Franklin does. Most desperately. 

That should be all there is to it. 

Of course James–idealistic, beautiful, perfect James–would step in to fight for Francis in a battle he does not even wish to win. 

They had not got on, at first. 

Francis is used to new blood in the department. Bright-eyed and energetic and naive, only to be ground down into dirt by the institution, the bureaucracy, the apathy of their students. 

He had stopped, long ago, trying to take them under his wing. The brightest flames burned out no matter how hard he attempted to shield them. 

Fitzjames would be the same. There was no point in getting attached. 

And then there was James’ forceful belief, his trust, his faith that the university would not fail them. That their funding would not be cut to the point of no return, that more assistant professors would be hired to replace the swath of retirements, that students would suddenly care enough about history and all their courses would miraculously make the enrollment cap. 

Francis had hated James for it, this…optimism. 

Simpler by far to believe that they were doomed and retreat into drink. 

And then the loss of Ross–

Still, nearly a year on, Francis can hardly bear to think of it. 

He would resent James Clark Ross if he could, would resent Ann if it was possible, but he loves them both too dearly. And, on some level, he does not blame Ann for demanding that her husband-to-be leave academia for a reliable–and lucrative–office job. 

Unfortunately, now that he and Fitzjames are stuck together on this sinking ship of a department, he has started to…like the man. 

It is the sort of liking that prickles uncomfortably. The kind of liking that Francis resents, that makes him cruel and snappish, pushing James away because having him close is unbearable. 

James looks at him like a kicked puppy, every time, and then comes crawling back, all wide eyes and nervously wagging tail, begging for attention and praise. 

Francis will never, ever let James know that he secretly agrees with him. 

That he also believes John Franklin will be a disaster as Ross’ replacement. It will be the final nail in the coffin for their program.

Francis is ready to accept that fate. 

James is not. 

A fact he had just nearly made plain, before Francis kissed him and shut him up.  

Department Christmas parties are always a little fraught. Too much alcohol, making tongues too loose. Too much informality, hosted as it is at one of the faculty’s houses. With their current tensions, it is a recipe for disaster–a.k.a. James attempting to garner support for his ridiculous idea that Francis should be their next chair. 

Francis has no doubt that is what James was about to do. His cutoff sentence would have finished with the suggestion that Francis’ name be tossed in the hat. 

Absolutely not, Francis had thought. And, somewhere beneath that, his lips look so soft. 

It was perhaps not his wisest decision to plant one on his colleague in front of all his other colleagues. At the annual Christmas party. While wearing a truly hideous Christmas-themed jumper of all things. 

It was not wise, certainly, to hold a lighter to the kindling of their attraction. 

Francis has been dutifully avoiding it, ignoring James’ pleading, confused little looks, as if he cannot understand why Francis is denying him when the tension between them fairly sparks at even the faintest glance. 

Francis has ensured that there is no opportunity for it to ignite. He sits far from James at faculty meetings, keeps his office door closed and ignores James’ knocking, makes sure they are never alone in a deserted hallway. 

And now he has thrown it all to shit because he does not want to be the fucking department chair. 

Still, he thinks dazedly, he cannot really bring himself to regret it. 

Not when James tilts his head to get a better angle, sucking Francis’ lower lip between his teeth as if he would have him inside as fully as possible. One of his hands has come up to cup Francis’ face, gentle and sweet in perfect contrast to the frankly wanton way he kisses. As if he is asking to be filled up. 

Francis is hit with the sudden, sinking certainty that he’s going to run for fucking department chair. 

Not because he wants to, god, never. 

But because James wants him to. 

He could deny the gorgeous creature in his arms nothing, nothing at all. Would give anything to keep James happy and pliant and looking up at Francis with the sort of awe and devotion on his face right now, right this moment, as James finally pulls back to search his face. 

Francis’ hand has migrated to the small of James’ back. On impulse, he uses it to press James closer, making him arch his back and press his chest forward against Francis’ own. James breathing stutters.

Belatedly, Francis glances around. 

Everyone has moved on–the catered food has arrived. They are paying attention to Francis and James not one whit, distracted by the mouthwatering scent of chicken shawarma.

James continues to look at Francis with stars in his eyes. 

“Take me home?,” he finally says, and it is so small, so soft, that Francis’ heart nearly cracks in half. He had not realized he was hurting James so very deeply (a lie if he ever heard one, but also one for which he will most dutifully repent).

He rubs his thumb over James’ arm, soothing. 

“Alright. Let’s get our coats.”

THE TERROR ▸ 1.09 the c, the c, the open c

THE TERROR | 1.06 "A mercy"