Work to do, still. In between becoming a sailor and becoming a captain he became a scientist, and still is; work on magnetism and heavenly objects remains a priority. Easy to get lost in, even if the distraction of Jopson's silent determination still sits at the edge of his mind like he's got a home there. Their naturalist sketches endlessly, and asks him a dozen questions about the rotation of the earth, watching as he draws out long equations to explain the spinning of the compass.
Nearly forgets dinner. Does forget to have any spirits, but that's fine. Lightheaded enough, he tells himself it's from the frustration of discipline, and not anything else.
(And it isn't, not anything. Something in particular.)
"Thank you, Jopson."
Everything is fine. He doesn't require a nightcap, just room to set down the box in his hands, a dozen rolled up papers and a jangle of magnetic odds and ends. Calibrating a dozen things through Fox's experiments.
"If you could clear up the table, and come back for the box—"
Not a lie, he does want him to put the box away. Eventually. It's just that, also in the box is a bowl, and while Jopson is clearing up the table, Crozier is setting something up in his cabin. Narrow, cramped, smaller than a servant's closet on land, it's nevertheless the roomiest berth on Terror, and he's become accustomed to moving about in it as if it were the queen's bedchamber. Now, when the steward returns, Crozier puts a hand on the door behind him to close it.
"A moment."
Maybe it will just be a moment. He's not being held captive in here. Crozier looks at him.
"Take your shirt off and sit," he indicates the chair from his desk, now in the middle of the slim clear space of the berth, "facing the wall." Straddling it, he means. "If you feel I'm overstepping, I'm putting my trust in you to find your voice, this time."
no subject
Nearly forgets dinner. Does forget to have any spirits, but that's fine. Lightheaded enough, he tells himself it's from the frustration of discipline, and not anything else.
(And it isn't, not anything. Something in particular.)
"Thank you, Jopson."
Everything is fine. He doesn't require a nightcap, just room to set down the box in his hands, a dozen rolled up papers and a jangle of magnetic odds and ends. Calibrating a dozen things through Fox's experiments.
"If you could clear up the table, and come back for the box—"
Not a lie, he does want him to put the box away. Eventually. It's just that, also in the box is a bowl, and while Jopson is clearing up the table, Crozier is setting something up in his cabin. Narrow, cramped, smaller than a servant's closet on land, it's nevertheless the roomiest berth on Terror, and he's become accustomed to moving about in it as if it were the queen's bedchamber. Now, when the steward returns, Crozier puts a hand on the door behind him to close it.
"A moment."
Maybe it will just be a moment. He's not being held captive in here. Crozier looks at him.
"Take your shirt off and sit," he indicates the chair from his desk, now in the middle of the slim clear space of the berth, "facing the wall." Straddling it, he means. "If you feel I'm overstepping, I'm putting my trust in you to find your voice, this time."