An odd thing, to have someone so earnestly beseech anything of him. Jopson is a civilian. He wonders what it costs him, to beg an unseemly elevated Irishman for anything; maybe nothing. The steward, for all his grace and precision, slips into an accent plenty often enough that speaks of truly vile poverty, the kind England can't help itself from producing as it overstuffs all the highest ranks.

Crozier can't guess. Maybe he just really doesn't want to be lashed, even as he says he can weather it—

Which, what a bloody claim. His eyebrows hike. Disbelieving, at least for that part. But he's not in a hurry to have his personal aide-de-camp (hah) crippled for weeks on end, anyway. Without turning it into deliberate humiliation, that kind of injury so close to the spine is dangerous.

A fact which won't stop him from assigning it to others. There's no sense in a lax hand. Especially in this situation, which is already spiraling into shipwide gossip, a favorite of sailors. Worse than ladies in a parlor, a hundredfold. He only barely trusts there aren't ears pressed to the other side of the door on account of Cotter's unyielding temperament, but if he falters or blinks, there'll be oiled in eavesdroppers. Always are, on a ship.

"Pain is pain, Mr Jopson. Don't go after it with your hands outstretched."

It goes around in his head. Like touching the rim of a glass. What does it cost him? Nothing? Nearly a tremor in his voice, this young man whose hands are so steady while holding a razor to his throat, even after getting absolute hell over it at the start.

"Go on about your duties. You'll be called tomorrow with the rest."