When he leaves he does not meet Crozier's eye, instead keeps his chin up but his eyes focused elsewhere. He spends the rest of the evening doing laundry, making some minor repairs to the man's shirts, polishing a second pair of boots, bringing him his meals throughout the remainder of the evening, keeping up after the crew to clean the mess and their lodgings. Pouring him a glass of something strong, seeing himself out when Blanky and he begin chatting together. Not a word spoken unless he requires anything of the Captain, or vice versa. A steward is best quiet and diligent, or so he's told himself.
Retiring earlier than usual (there is no need to hover at Crozier's side when he feels unworthy of any of the banter and late evening dialogue that sometimes occupies the ends of his shifts), he sits with a book in his lap, worn and dog-eared, practically falling apart. An old Dickens piece, something he'd been gifted by one of his father's old customers. The only book to his name, and one he's sure he can recite front to back - The Pickwick Papers aren't anything extraordinary, but it's something to do with his spare time: What was over couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured.
He wakes early, of course, fatigued from a poor night's sleep, but he reports to Crozier's quarters per usual, setting out his clothes for the day, pressing any wrinkles from the collar with a hot iron, fetches a plate of food for him, pours him something to help with the edge of last night's alcohol.
"May I ask when we are to be called, Captain?" Quiet, not meeting his eyes still, instead he's adding a few extra threads to a loose, wayward button on the man's great coat. "I should like to begin your laundry for the morning, but I don't want it to sit and go sour. If - apologies, if it's presumptuous of me to ask."
Not worried at all about his own wellbeing, no - but the laundry.
no subject
When he leaves he does not meet Crozier's eye, instead keeps his chin up but his eyes focused elsewhere. He spends the rest of the evening doing laundry, making some minor repairs to the man's shirts, polishing a second pair of boots, bringing him his meals throughout the remainder of the evening, keeping up after the crew to clean the mess and their lodgings. Pouring him a glass of something strong, seeing himself out when Blanky and he begin chatting together. Not a word spoken unless he requires anything of the Captain, or vice versa. A steward is best quiet and diligent, or so he's told himself.
Retiring earlier than usual (there is no need to hover at Crozier's side when he feels unworthy of any of the banter and late evening dialogue that sometimes occupies the ends of his shifts), he sits with a book in his lap, worn and dog-eared, practically falling apart. An old Dickens piece, something he'd been gifted by one of his father's old customers. The only book to his name, and one he's sure he can recite front to back - The Pickwick Papers aren't anything extraordinary, but it's something to do with his spare time: What was over couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured.
He wakes early, of course, fatigued from a poor night's sleep, but he reports to Crozier's quarters per usual, setting out his clothes for the day, pressing any wrinkles from the collar with a hot iron, fetches a plate of food for him, pours him something to help with the edge of last night's alcohol.
"May I ask when we are to be called, Captain?" Quiet, not meeting his eyes still, instead he's adding a few extra threads to a loose, wayward button on the man's great coat. "I should like to begin your laundry for the morning, but I don't want it to sit and go sour. If - apologies, if it's presumptuous of me to ask."
Not worried at all about his own wellbeing, no - but the laundry.