At any other time, Dr. Stanley’s regard would be withering — the only occasion upon which he can be said to display human kindness is when he is mending a mortal wound, and at any other time he exudes brisk unhappiness and a tight scornful displeasure that makes Fitzjames’ pulse quicken and his trousers grow distinctly tight. Perhaps it is having known Dr. Stanley’s diligence that his more menacing functions as the avatar of the surgical arts produce such an effect in him — there is some obscure thrill in knowing such careful scrubbed hands can both kill and cure.

Dr. Stanley holds his instrument to Fitzjames’ chest, inclining his ear to the sounds of his breathing — the cool air licks at his chest through the unbuttoned slit at the bosom, and the smooth ebonized wood of Stanley’s stethoscope is cold enough to make his nipples stiffen.

“What are you doing?”

“You should know quite well that I am listening to your heartbeat,” Stanley says, tartly. “Rapid, but not strong. You are experiencing excitement. Does my scrutiny excite you, commander?

Fitzjames must bite back his eagerness, swallowing; he holds his head high, summoning up a haughty air.

“I couldn’t possibly say.”

Seated on the examination table and stripped to his shirtsleeves, it is as if he is a boy again, a midshipman called before the ship’s doctor for examination on some trifling matter. Such encounters used to terrify him once, filling him with the proverbial fear of God and the more tangible fear of detection — that somehow his fraud might be written on his body, and that the irregular circumstances of his birth might be noticed by one with the eyes to see them in the span of his ribcage and the quickness of his pulse. Such a fear of scrutiny and detection, combined with a morbid terror of the accompaniments of medicine — cupping-glasses and capital-knives, and all the bitter tonics of the trade, all fit to make a man tremble…

Stanley frowns at him. “Unbutton your trousers, please. You have wasted enough of my time already.”

He speaks with the brusque irritation he might reasonably reserve for a boatswain’s mate complaining of a catarrh. Fitzjames undoes the buttons of his fly, freeing his erection.

Stanley is the model of a fine physician and he spares him nothing. His cool fingers manipulate his prick thoroughly — drawing back the foreskin to expose the tender and glistening flesh beneath, whose ruddy pink flush elicits from Stanley a frown. He slides the tip of his thumb beneath the delicate folds of Fitzjames’ foreskin, tracing the perimeter — the sterile touch raises an exquisite thrill.

“Are you much in the habit of self-abuse?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You understand perfectly well, by the look of it.” The blade of his thumb traces a shining bead of come as it swells from the head of Fitzjames’ prick. “You’re a man far too eager to be handled.”

“What sort of impertinent question is that?”

“You are evading my question, James, and I insist that you give a complete answer. I will not accept half-truths from my patients. Do you stimulate yourself? Do you take yourself in hand?”

Fitzjames does not know whether to answer honestly or to say what seems most likely to garner some relief. Stanley’s cool and indifferent grip circles his prick, tightening perceptibly as it fills and stiffens — if he were to crush it beneath the heel of his shoe he could not seem more unimpressed with the member he handles, or more contemptuous of its lascivious character.

Fitzjames makes a sound of hesitation, and all at once, Stanley’s hand begins to move.

“Your complexion betrays you, sir. Such sallow coloring is unmistakable. The act of masturbation produces a great deal of nervous energy—“ His strokes are firm and without hesitation, drawing back the foreskin with solicitous tugs. Stanley presses a knee between his legs, forcing Fitzjames’ thighs apart the better to survey his subject. “—with no proper outlet. Really, Commander, for a man of your age this is ridiculous.”

When their eyes meet Stanley’s clinical gaze is alive with wicked amusement.

“The only reasonable course of treatment is for me to take matters in hand. You have been a patient of mine in good standing for many years, and I would never let a man of such distinction suffer under such a shameful condition without relief.”

Stanley cups his balls in one hand, tugging gently — rolling each testicle in its tender pouch and circling with the pad of his thumb as if searching for defects. Fitzjames stifles his groan, and endeavors not to shoot early.

At such close range, Stanley’s voice is a patient and glacial caress; he is taking the measure of him in all his frailty.

“Testes appear normal, no sign of edema. The circulation is good — you haven’t damaged yourself so badly as I feared.” Those words make something quiver in him desperately. Stanley presses into him with his fingertips, just at the seam of his body. “The prostate is located within the pelvis, just below the bladder; you may feel it here, through the skin.”

“Go on, doctor, only tell me — what is it for?” Fitzjames can only shut his eyes, bracing against the table’s edge to steady the trembling of his hands. The lacquered wood of the sickbay has no doubt seen many evils, and soon enough it seems likely he will discharge his load there as well if Stanley has no intention of producing a handkerchief.

“Your filthy habits do not impress me, commander. The prostate is not for any sole purpose, but it plays a part in the generation of semen and the passing of urine. By direct stimulation of the prostate, I have found, an interesting result may be achieved.”

Such a result can be accomplished at any mollyhouse from Chinkiang to Greenwich, but seldom with such relish. Fitzjames stifles a groan at such steady probing, as those stern fingers knead into his most sensitive regions, and Stanley braces him with his arm until they are chest to chest. The surgeon of Erebus is a long and wiry man; his waistcoat carries a camphorated smell, and Fitzjames breathes it with great relish, snuffling pitifully as every cruel pulse of pleasure makes his breath hitch.

As he nears his crisis he can only rock against him, feeling his balls draw up and his low belly go tight — his hand clamping over Stanley’s, grinding desperately against his steely arm. He cannot help crying out as it comes over him, unspooling through him as if all of him from hip to foot were one ardent member, as though his whole body was one aching organ of generation on the brink of overflowing.

“Come now,” Stanley says, voice stern and clipped from where his hollow cheek is pressed flush against Fitzjames’ temple, and James comes like a gunshot.