Crozier's prick nestles in his hand like a sparrow -- it is fat and flushed and undeniably not standing at attention. Fitzjames can feel the anguished heat of Crozier's face against his shoulder, buried against his throat beneath the torn-open collar of his shirt -- hard to believe that anything in the world should make Francis Crozier blush except a glass of strong drink. The helplessness of it all makes James' own cock twitch, though that fact is one he will take to his grave for the sake of the captain's pride. The pair of them are flushed and panting here, Crozier backed up against a shelf's worth of books with Fitzjames' hand thrust down the back of his trousers to palm sweet flesh -- his flies unbuttoned to the cold air and his folly exposed in the sight of God and James Fitzjames alike.

"Christ, damn it all, Fitzjames."

"Happens to the best of us, Francis."

This must still strike too near to mockery for Crozier's comfort. Three years of animosity will do that to a man. Crozier breaks from their embrace, cursing and frigging at himself with the mounting alarm of one who finds himself with a pistol that will not fire, or a damp Congreve, the fuse of which refuses to light. The spirit is willing, and that alone is flattering enough, but the recalcitrance of the flesh might set a stumbling-block before their plans for the evening. Such as they are, anyway -- to do or be done with, Fitzjames scarcely has a preference, only that it must happen soon before an interruption can overtake them. Compared to that, a failure of the principal organ is nothing, only a temporary setback.

"Bleeding Jesus, you have a way of cutting into a man--"

Fitzjames draws a kiss from Crozier's mouth and clasps Crozier's groping hand in his own.

"You're a beauty, Francis," Fitzjames says, raking apart the buttons of his waistcoat with stiff and slightly damp fingers, "It's a pleasure to serve with you, as ever." He sinks to his knees like he hasn't done in years.

It may not do the trick, but it's a diversion, at any rate. Fitzjames mouths at both soft prick and stubborn fingers alike -- Crozier grips himself tightly, as he's likely accustomed to doing in the privacy of his own quarters, and Fitzjames' teeth fasten lightly in his thumb. Teeth are a seasoning best used sparingly.

He takes Crozier in his mouth like a seaside doxy, up against a wall, though Crozier's prick scarcely stiffens at first -- it remains soft on his tongue but exquisitely willing. With some coaxing Crozier relinquishes his grip on himself to take Fitzjames' hair in his fist -- a little clumsily but with enough gusto to prompt Fitzjames into a more involved performance, making choked sounds of appreciation. Crozier has never seen him like this, not in his wildest imaginings -- utterly debauched with tongue and teeth. There will be other chances to bugger Fitzjames senseless. They'll both make sure of that.