The idea that he might go back in time and stop himself from protecting the young Chambers is fruitless - he made his decision with the boy's wellbeing in mind. That it's negatively impacted his own and his occupation is another thing. He's a fool, Tom, for thinking this is only about the job, and not about the man in the chair, holding a perfectly made cup of tea. It has nothing to do with the cold dismissal, the lilt in his Irish accent, the disappointment.
He feels a miserable fool going about his tasks now, in the quiet of the Captain's quarters where they'd usually speak with some relative ease or comfort. He trusts Crozier implicitly on all things regarding the sea, but trusts him more beyond that. A fool again.
"It is my duty to serve you, your ship, and our country. It is an honor, first and foremost."
Sewing mess tidied, coat hung up, clothes cleanly pressed and laid out for him, boots shined and carefully placed, the bed made up and surfaces tidied. The Captain's quarters are spotless in all ways, as though he'd never been there to begin with.
"I'll send the boy to you at once," a nod, and he turns to leave, fetch one of the ship's boys, send him up with everything he should need for Crozier's bath from the waters to the choice of soap and the texture of sponge and cloth sent along. Details, details, details.
He goes about his day quietly, keeping to himself save for the times he's called upon or required to bring the Captain his meals, all the way through dinner where it would be impossible to tell he knew what was coming after the meal. He doesn't eat much when the crew is served, but doesn't waste - just has less on his plate to move around until they're called to attention and steps forward as he's told to, the creep of shame working its way back into his skin as the whole of the crew stares at the line up of men.
More shame, even, when he's called first - when he begins to undo the buttons on his jacket, then his shirt. There's some mutterings the moment his shirt falls away, an odd sort of staring that makes red flush up his neck, that keeps his eyes angled straight ahead, ignoring his instinct to hide away.
no subject
He feels a miserable fool going about his tasks now, in the quiet of the Captain's quarters where they'd usually speak with some relative ease or comfort. He trusts Crozier implicitly on all things regarding the sea, but trusts him more beyond that. A fool again.
"It is my duty to serve you, your ship, and our country. It is an honor, first and foremost."
Sewing mess tidied, coat hung up, clothes cleanly pressed and laid out for him, boots shined and carefully placed, the bed made up and surfaces tidied. The Captain's quarters are spotless in all ways, as though he'd never been there to begin with.
"I'll send the boy to you at once," a nod, and he turns to leave, fetch one of the ship's boys, send him up with everything he should need for Crozier's bath from the waters to the choice of soap and the texture of sponge and cloth sent along. Details, details, details.
He goes about his day quietly, keeping to himself save for the times he's called upon or required to bring the Captain his meals, all the way through dinner where it would be impossible to tell he knew what was coming after the meal. He doesn't eat much when the crew is served, but doesn't waste - just has less on his plate to move around until they're called to attention and steps forward as he's told to, the creep of shame working its way back into his skin as the whole of the crew stares at the line up of men.
More shame, even, when he's called first - when he begins to undo the buttons on his jacket, then his shirt. There's some mutterings the moment his shirt falls away, an odd sort of staring that makes red flush up his neck, that keeps his eyes angled straight ahead, ignoring his instinct to hide away.