Chapter Text
- Have you ever heard of Arctic hysteria, Captain? - Wilson asked the question out of the blue during one of their increasingly frequent evening conversations.
- Yes... Yes, of course, - Con stirred his hot chocolate with the absent-mindedness he only allowed himself in front of the doctor. Today was Sunday - which meant that the rations were a little more decent than usual - and do you think this could affect our crew?
Wilson thought hard. Of course, no one would like to get an axe to the head. But a midst a great series of problems, the phantom possibility of a split head did not seem the most frightening event.
Scott didn't know the answer to this question — before going to sea, he had tried to study as much as possible of the literature available to him on polar exploration — and Antarctica in particular — but the search for finances and other things had eaten up an incredible amount of his time and energy. The medical questions he had cowardly skipped, hoping for the competence of a future ship's doctor, and in the case of Koettlitz and Wilson, he was not mistaken.
- Belgica... The one where a sailor almost killed their navigator with an axe... I read about that, Bill, - the captain seemed to read his mind, - do you think that could happen aboard the Discovery?
- May God save us, - the doctor shook his head, - but even if it does, we have a first-class doctor, Dr. Koettlitz. I think with his polar experience we'll be fine.
Scott wouldn't say it to Wilson, but his inner gut was stubbornly unwilling to recognize Koettlitz, much less trust him. Con would hardly have admitted it to himself, but the understated optimism and gentle leadership that Wilson exuded put his troubled mind at ease. He seemed to make that impression on everyone - but Scott was adamant that he needed it the most.
He finished his chocolate and thanked the doctor for the interesting conversation - deciding to invite him back next Sunday.
- Wilson, do you have anything for a headache? I can't get rid of these damn migraines, damn them. We're going on a field trip.
- In the night, Con?
- Yes. But it's not so far away and it won't last long. Anyway, I wish I didn't have a headache through it.
- Okay, I have some drops, - Wilson nodded in agreement, - I think it should help.
- Thank you, Bill, - the captain smiled warmly at him and ventured his next suggestion, - I'll be glad to see you back here at the same time.
- I accept your invitation with pleasure, Captain.
Wilson left the captain's hut in the best of spirits.
...He knocked on the door at the appointed time in exactly the same high spirits — Bill enjoyed his time with Scott too much to let the failures of the last few days dampen the doctor's mood. The door was ajar and it was strange, because the Captain tried as much as possible to distance himself from the others, but still maintained good relations with the crew.
There was a strange sound outside the door, as if someone's body had fallen flat from a height. Wilson knocked briefly out of politeness, but his gut told him something was wrong. He looked up out of the corner of his eye and saw what... he didn't want to see at all.
The captain stood with his body bent backward, making strange passes with his hands in the air, muttering something to himself. Wilson involuntarily recalled their last conversation, that Sunday. Headaches... Polar night...
- Captain, - Wilson entered impetuously and closed the door behind him, - Captain?
He answered nothing, swaying as self-consciously to the accompaniment of his own muttering.
- Captain Scott? Con?
The last thing he needed now was for everyone to know that the captain had succumbed to “the call of the Polaris". What did it matter if it couldn't even be seen? Sailors are superstitious people, and for fear of the madness in their imagination, their captain will be damned.
Con's bright blue eyes darkened, turning almost dark purple. He was breathing heavily, his hands already resting on the table, and he didn't react to Wilson's words as if he weren't even here.
- Con? - Wilson asked cautiously again, turning the patient toward him and taking him by the shoulders. He turned completely listless, as if he were a rag doll rather than a real person.
He shook suddenly - but it was not the convulsions Wilson had read about. It was silent sobbing that made the poor man choke on his own tears. Scott collapsed to the floor and crouched in a fetal position, his arms wrapped around his legs.
- No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, - poor Con repeated the same thing as if spellbound, huddled on the floor.
Wilson sat down beside him and pressed two fingers on his wrist, measuring his pulse. 70... 80... The longer he held his hand, the harder the captain's heart pounded. 120... He had to fetch his suitcase right away – he thought there were heart drops in there, but it was impossible to leave Scott in this condition.
Once, when Dr. Koettlitz was in high spirits, he had brought up the subject of "Arctic hysteria"- and called it a disease "prone to women and delicate natures." Somehow Wilson was achingly reluctant to have his already vulnerable captain, whose tears and pain he had seen more than once, considered a mumbler and a lowlife. He saw the incredible triumph of Scott’s strength of spirit and discipline over the weakness of his own nervous system, so he would not, on pain of death, betray any of his weakness or hesitation. To men like Shackles it was part of their nature, inherent in their broad build, booming voice, and sweeping movements.
All Scott, stubborn, hot-tempered, gentle (how strange this thought is) and fair, was so in spite of, and not thanks to.
And Wilson saw kind of asceticism in this.
- I won't tell anyone, Con… No one, - he knew the captain couldn't hear him, but in his heart he hoped otherwise, - no one.
He decided to examine his feet for frostbite — the captain had just returned to his hut, and God knows if he was already aware of the pain and numbness. Bill quickly pulled off his tightly laced Norwegian boots and pulled his feet out of his socks —everything seemed to be fine.
He remembered Scott had a tincture of opium here, but Bill, in spite of all the books he had read, did not know whether it would add fuel to the delirium or calm the patient. The mumbling, interspersed with shrieks, as if Scott were in great pain, did not stop, and Wilson thought with horror of the procedure for appointing a deputy commander and the further disgrace, the stigma of insanity, and the end of his friend's career.
He had to come up with something, but what?
He quickly turned the sick man over to his other side, in case he had real convulsions, put a blanket under him, and covered him with the same. Bill rose to his feet and bolted the door to the captain's hut — at least he had time until morning.
Scott continued to shake periodically and whisper "no, no, no, no, no, no, no," staring blankly ahead of him. Wilson, meanwhile, was fumbling around all the lockers and shelves where all the things were neatly arranged. He was embarrassed at first, but when Con twisted like he had opisthotonus and let out a long wail or howl, he sped up his search, and all of Scott's efforts to organize the space fell to the floor.
God forbid it should be heard over the howl of the blizzard. But no one came, so Wilson became even more determined and searched all the cupboards under the table. And there was the opium; it couldn't be here - Scott had been complaining to him about terrible headaches for the last week. And next to it was a full bottle of the drops Wilson had given him a week ago - they hadn't even been opened.
The doctor sighed and continued his search.
There was a spoon with the RFS engraved on it, next to a bottle of opium he'd started. It wouldn't hurt to give him half a teaspoon.
A prolonged groan spread throughout the cabin.
- Bill, - Scott's lifeless eyes widened even more, - Bill.
- Con, did you recognize me? - He received only a muffled groan in reply. With a vigor that had never been characteristic of the gentleman, he began to tear away the clothes that constricted him - and when Wilson tried to intercept his hands, squeezed the doctor's palm with such force that it cracked.
- Damn!... All right, all right, Con, do what you want, - he crawled away from the man, who continued to get rid of his warm clothes. Wilson still had the opium tincture bottle and spoon in his other hand, ready to give him the medicine any time Scott calmed down.
The books said it didn't last very long — and God forbid those whaler guys were wrong. About five more minutes passed, and Scott, finally freeing himself from the restraints, fell strangely silent, stretched out on the floor like a taut bowstring. Wilson quickly got close to him and squeezed his fingers, trying to relax his clenched jaw —the captain instinctively opened his mouth and Bill, forgetting about the spoon, quickly poured half the vial into it. Scott twitched, but the doctor deftly grabbed the back of his head and massaged his neck, urging him to swallow.
- Good… Good, - he stroked his head involuntarily as he still managed to keep the tincture in his mouth, - good.
Wilson scrutinized the captain's naked body - it looked so strange. He was covered with bruises from endless physical labor, Scott's face was flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat, and he seemed to be in a state of extreme sexual excitement. One of the authors, whose name Wilson could not recall, had written shamefully about it, but he had mentioned only the whalers' revelries with local women who had experienced it. There was no mention of men.
Apparently, they didn't want to defame their comrade's honor either.
He couldn't take his eyes off his friend's erect cock. When fantasies about Scott had been on his mind, no matter how hard he'd tried to keep them at bay, he'd sometimes given in to them — but he'd never pictured him in such detail. Now he could see every detail — and Wilson, with his explorer's gaze, memorized the picture, to replay it in his mind as clearly and explicitly as he saw it now.
Wilson had taken the Hippocratic oath — he could not take advantage of the man he was supposed to be helping. It was his duty, and God would turn away from him if he so meanly took advantage of his friend. But hadn't God already turned away when he pictured Con naked? When he touched himself, picturing that pale body, picturing him as close as not even Oriana was to him?
At least he would take this secret with him to his grave and nothing would put a dark stain on his beloved friend's reputation.
He shifted so he could touch Scott more comfortably — after the opium, his vocalizations had subsided, but the restless shuddering movements and mutterings were still there. The doctor tentatively touched the Captain's cock with his hand, and he groaned — but it wasn't a moan of pain, it was a moan… Bill himself didn't want to tell himself when people moaned like that. It wasn't how he'd imagined Con moaning — at least not under these circumstances. Wilson cast his eyes downward and noted to himself with satisfaction that the broken leg was all right, but he was more concerned about something else now.
He spat into his hand and began to move his arm up and down, looking at the captain, who had almost stopped convulsing, only sighing deeply and rocking his hips toward the doctor's hand. The color was gone from the poor man's face, sweat trickled down his pale face, and the looped voice that had been muttering "no, no, no, no," changed to a quiet "Bill."
Wilson jerked his hand away fearfully, scrutinizing Scott's face. No, he was still just as unconscious, and calling for his help - and he'd taken such a sneaky advantage of the situation, decided to get so dirty...
- Bill, - it was a groan again, again it was a plea, - Bill…
The Doctor, not understanding anything, returned his hand to Con’s cock and continued to move. Scott kept muttering his name - increasingly distinct, louder and clearer, as if realizing what was happening.
Wilson was unable to help himself and took off his pants with his free hand, pulling out his erect cock — he wanted it too, and the helpless naked captain seemed to him at that moment to be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Con’s eyes rolled involuntarily with every movement of the doctor's hand, his chest heaving, and Wilson immediately cum in his hand when he heard another moan. He'd never imagined hearing his name from Con like that, and it brought him to the finish almost immediately.
It was more difficult with Scott — the opium was doing its evil work — but the doctor felt a strange sense of guilt and admiration at the same time as he began to touch Con’s stomach and chest with his freed hand. He wished it wouldn't end — that such a Con wasn't something that happened once and by accident, but that he could paint his nakedness someday.
He quickened the motion of his hand — and the friend collapsed with a hushed "Bill!", immediately falling into a deep sleep.
Wilson carefully wiped his hand on a scrap of clothing and sighed, looking at the mayhem around them. What was this? Had... had he really not called him for medical help?
Wilson sat for another ten minutes in the sudden silence, stroking his friend's hair and face, memorizing it in minute detail.
In any case, the captain still had to be watched - he covered him with all the blankets he could find in the cabin, and went to the captain's chair himself.
Bill felt overwhelmed, exhausted and elated at the same time - as if a second Gioconda had emerged from under his hand.
Sleep overtook him quickly after such events - and despite fighting himself, Wilson lost this fight for the second time today and his eyes closed.
... Scott found himself wrapped in blankets on the floor, tattered clothes lying around, his belongings thrown off the shelves. The last time he'd felt like this was after the midshipman's harbor parties, where people had said goodbye to their last money, conscience, and humanity — his mouth was dry and his head was buzzing. But it didn't seem to be the pain that had plagued him all the previous week.
Behind the captain's desk, head folded in his arms, the young doctor was asleep - Scott decided not to touch him, but to figure out for himself what had happened.
It didn't work - there was nothing in his memory after returning to the base. He remembered nothing, but deep down he knew something was wrong.
- I'm sorry, Bill, - he whispered to the sleeping doctor, - I'm so sorry.
Bill answered nothing and only smiled in his sleep with the corner of his mouth.