The privacy, the space, it isn't bad. He has grown accustomed to his steward, but he never forgets he's there— he hopes he never does. To allow servants to become unpersons, utterly absent from awareness, is a mental state he finds abhorrent. He told Ross about it once, his dear Jamie even now on Erebus, and the man admitted he'd never thought about it before, but would from that day forward. Crozier thinks of it now and again (they'd been so young then, hadn't they? fifteen years ago? twenty?), whenever he sees the man smile at a valet, or maid.

But because Jopson is a real person, his absence is a thing. A shape left behind, around which Crozier navigates in this small space. Gives him things to consider, by and by, from bedding down, to the night, to the morning.

The tea is good, like it always is now that they've sorted how he likes it. His steward has a knack. He drinks, one sip then another, and watches him fuss with the button. Diligent, productive fussing, as ever.

It is a little presumptuous.

Clink, the teacup finds the saucer. Crozier reaches out with one hand, and with his knuckles (not so bold, so inappropriate, as to use the soft pads of his fingers, like he might with a lady in private), tips Jopson's head up so that he's forced to look him in the eyes. Well. That's the idea, anyhow, he supposes his steward could just squeezes them shut, but he doesn't think him so avoidant.

Just looking. Is he afraid? Is he manic? Is he choking back resentment already?

"After dinner."