Thirteen. So much about the man before him makes sense, thinking about it - nearly the youngest, but surrounded by people, perhaps a noisy home. No wonder he feels at home on a ship made up of close quarters and camaraderie and duty. A home that size had to be much the same, he thinks.

He sputters, surprised, at Crozier's filthy joke, face going warm and he laughs at himself once he manages to swallow the last mouthful of his tea.

"If you wish to see me bent over, sir, I can find many creative ways to achieve that."

Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. A spill on the table, something that requires him stretching out over it to clean it. Innocent enough, but a display for Crozier to enjoy. (He has to banish the thought, clear his throat - no sense in getting so heated when they're only going to dance).

"But very well, Captain. Boots off."

And in a mirror of before he drops from his seat, this time to both knees. He sits back on his feet and begins to take his time removing the man's boots for him, drawing it out in a playful way - two can play at that game. One off, then another before he rises to his feet and moves to place the boots over by the man's desk. Perfect spot, then, for him to bend at the waist to begin undoing the clasps on his own, but also provide the man an open view of his backside.

"What part am I to dance first?"