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Hodgson is sitting up when Hickey strolls in. He looks pale but there’s a flush on his cheeks that Hickey knows all too well by now.
“Drinking alone, sir?”
He does not bother to disguise the scorn in his voice, nor to put any respect in the word “sir.” They are far beyond such pretences, except in public and they are not in public now. In theory, it is Hodgson’s room, this one. Hickey is supposed to sleep in the little chamber at the side, to come when his master calls, like a dog.
Sometimes, he has made Hodgson sleep in there. Just to see if he would.
Hodgson has jerked at his words. The scorn makes him shrink, as it nearly always does. He knows that Hickey thinks men who indulge in drink are small and pathetic but he struggles to give up the vice. Once, during a fight, Hickey asked him sweetly if George liked emulating the Captain he betrayed. Hodgson had wept for hours at that. It had been satisfying, in its way but then it had soured as things like that did.
“I, I ... I wasn’t,” Hodgson says, though what he is denying is unclear as it is quite clear he has been drinking. “I just ... I was waiting ... ”
Of course he was. Hodgson always waits for Hickey. It is as though he cannot manage anything else. When they are with others, he wears his mask, behaves almost as the old, jovial man whom Hickey first met as an officer on the Terror. When they are alone, the mask falls and Hodgson shows his true face. His true, pathetic face.
“Well, now I am here,” Hickey says and bows mockingly. Hodgson cringes, looks at the floor. He is scared. He does not know what mood Hickey is in. A grovelling dog, trying to do the right thing and never knowing what it is.
Sometimes, Hickey finds it amusing. Other times, he finds it sickening.
He is not sure which he feels tonight.
“You, you didn’t say you were going out,” Hodgson mumbles, not meeting his eyes. “I, I wondered ... where you were.”
“I was out,” Hickey says.
Hodgson flinches. Swallows. He does not want to say his fears, does not want to be judged for them but he is drunk and even now, words spill out of him like water.
“I just wish you’d say when you go out, that’s all, I don’t mind, I don’t, of course I don’t, you, you’re a free man and you can go anywhere you wish but you could just tell me, I would not worry so if you just told me ... ”
Hickey allows his face to show his boredom. Hodgson has said all of these things before. It is not particularly interesting. It wasn’t particularly interesting the first time. Hodgson is a needy creature, a fact that was true even before their experiences in the Arctic. He wants to be petted, cosseted, loved. He wants to know that he is special to Hickey, he wants to matter even though all the evidence of his life has doubtless shown that he does not.
“Please,” Hodgson mumbles. “Please, I ... I just ... it ... ”
His shoulders slump a little and Hickey allows himself to feel a touch of pity. Hodgson is a pitiable creature that often annoys him but he is also useful to Hickey. Besides, he has had a good night. Coins chink in his pocket and he has eaten well – still something that causes him pleasure. He can afford to be kind.
“Shhhh,” he says and takes a step forward, reaching out and putting his hand on Hodgson’s cheek. “I’m home now. You don’t need to worry, you know that. Would I leave you, him?”
Hodgson looks at him, his gaze uncertain. Hickey smiles quite gently, strokes his thumb across Hodgson’s cheek. Hodgson relaxes immediately. He can see Hickey is content and Hickey always plays fair in this regard. When he is content, he only teases, not torments.
“Shall I undress you, sir?” he murmurs, letting his voice go sweet. “Get you to bed?”
He has undressed Hodgson often in several ways. To the world, he is Hodgson’s manservant, the Jopson to his Crozier and Hickey plays the part well, when it suits him to. Oh, he knows how to smile and simper when he must. Sometimes, it suits him to do so when they are alone, although he knows that it isn’t what Hodgson needs. The man likes to be handled. There's no illusions between them.
Now, he begins to gently peel Hodgson's dishevelled clothes from him, letting them drop to the floor. A real servant would put them away but Hickey isn't very interested in that. Hodgson can put them away himself if he cares and right now, he doesn't. He's staring at Hickey with a bleary, bewildered look, his lips slightly parted. Hickey smiles at him.
“Trousers now, sir.”
He brushes his hand provocatively down and Hodgson gives a little moan.
“Why do you do this?” he whispers. “Why do we do this?”
Hickey decides not to answer that one. Why does Hodgson need an answer anyway? They do it because they survived. Because they alone out of all those men pulled themselves through that Arctic hell. Because Hodgson didn't know how to let him go – and if Hickey is truthful, he did not quite want to be released. The world has been strange to him since he returned. He had never thought he would be used to shale and cold and grey water but a man adapts to anything and now, the streets he once knew seem cluttered and dark, the temperatures he once thought chilly now seem baking and the clamouring voices of humanity are more alienating than ever. Hodgson can be infuriating but he is something that Hickey understands.
Besides, he is rich and Hickey likes that. Hodgson's money and reputation is a protection for them both. They live comfortably and Hickey sees no reason to trade that in for small things.
He leans up and kisses Hodgson's parted lips, smiles again when Hodgson sinks against him. Hodgson is comfortable and pleasing to touch these days. He has regained the weight he lost in their walk, regained and added too. Hickey likes that. It makes Hodgson feel healthy, solid. He has never tried to stop Hodgson's indulgences with food, only with drink. He doesn't like a drunk man. Never has. Never will.
“My pretty George,” he murmurs and Hodgson gives a soft sigh. He is not truly pretty but certainly not repulsive. Hickey had not considered him as a lover when he had first chosen the lieutenant but time and loneliness had led to huddling together for warmth, then comfort, then a strange, almost irresistible need to keep each other close.
“Are you still mine, love?” he asks and Hodgson nods his head, cradles Hickey's face for a moment. Sometimes, he whispers sweet things to Hickey, sweet things that Hickey occasionally thinks he even means. Sometimes, when they have had a bad day when it is all savage words and tearing at each other, he tells him how much he hates him, even as he clings and ruts. Tonight, he is silent. He just holds tight to Hickey, grips his shoulders, then his waist. He presses his mouth to Hickey’s throat, sucks at it, then licks there. He moans when Hickey strokes him, a sound that Hickey has learned to like.
“Will you fuck me, then?” he asks and Hodgson nods his head. He is good at fucking, Hickey has found. Good at finding sensitive spots with those clavier-playing fingers of his. Hickey’s quite happy to lie back and let Hodgson play his body like an instrument. Hodgson can play his body and Hickey will play his mind.
Hodgson rolls over after so that Hickey can nestle against his back. Hickey does not like to be held, it makes him feel trapped but he is quite content to be the one holding and Hodgson likes to be held, sleeps better when embraced and wakes happier when Hickey is still with him in the morning. He is not alone in this – Hickey finds it oddly hard to rest if Hodgson is not in the bed with him. Too long when Hodgson was the only source of warmth, the only companion, the only feeling of safety. Despite knowing it is no longer true, the feeling lingers. It irks him but Hodgson does not know, which is the important part.
In an ideal world, he would not need Hodgson. In an ideal world, he would shrug off the weakness from the Arctic. He would go on his way, money in pocket, riches belonging to him and him alone. But the world has never been ideal and Hickey has known this since he was a babe in arms.
You adapt. You reinvent. You survive.
“Will you play me something on your clavier tomorrow?” he asks and Hodgson’s hand tightens on his briefly.
“If you like,” he says, voice soft and sleepy. “I cannot remember, did I play you Bach last time? Did you like Bach? Perhaps Beethoven. Marvellous man. He was going deaf, you know ... ”
Hickey closes his eyes. Hodgson will ramble them both to sleep now. In the morning, they’ll breakfast together and Hodgson will play something that might actually be rather pretty. Hickey will praise him and Hodgson would glow pleasure and perhaps they will be a little playful together, putting aside anger and pain for a while. Hickey will wear decent clothes and sit on a decent chair in a warm room and he will not be alone.
There are worse worlds in which to live.