An impossible luxury. Crozier began this life in a hammock in the lowest position; it was jarring to get a lieutenant's cabin, and in one of those closets he made his life for over a decade, far longer than most. (He knows that Jamie had recommended his promotion, doesn't know how many times, or how passionately.) This little space here on Terror could be a palace.
Especially with such company. Lazy, soft, sleepy. The kind of cuddling ascribed to young lovers, not sailors having illicit affairs. And yet it all feels sugar-spun, gossamer.
"A while," he agrees, and he kisses his cheekbone, near his closed eye, and long eyelashes. "I'll tell you when it's time to move on."
Ah, well, eventually. He tries to make himself feel even a little bit of shame about it, but finds none. He's already decided he'll let Jopson sleep here, though he knows he can't risk the swap from last time. But, again: this is a luxury. There is space enough to make due, one way or another. So he just holds him, cradles him, and waits until he's certain he's drifted off. Tempting to follow, but he'll need to clean them up at least. Natural as anything for a man to fall asleep after, but he's got his standards, and pleasant exhaustion is no excuse to be inconsiderate.
Still. He dozes for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness. How warm Thomas is in sleep, how his breath feels against his skin. When he was a ship's boy, sailors told salacious stories about French ships and their oversized officer beds made for devilry. But of course, half the ships in the Royal Navy were captured from the French, and they're just as slender. No devilry to be found. Almost a shame.
Used to the rocking of the ship and the noise of the men at night, Jopson sleeps through most of Crozier's moving about. Only toward the end, when the hammock is put up and the man moving around for the last few moments, he rolls over to one side, tangling the blanket round his feet, but pleasantly warm and resting easily. He's far less put together like this, hair loose and flopping across his brow, a flush to his cheeks, all the tension in his shoulders gone, cocooned in the scent of fresh laundry and musk and Francis.
He sleeps soundly otherwise, occasionally mumbling in his sleep or sighing, finding a new comfortable position. When the edge of morning arrives he wakes naturally, his internal clock simply not allowing him to be late for his duties.
Jopson knows the moment he opens his eyes that he's not in his own berth, and almost absolutely in his Captain's. What surprises him, however, is the hammock, the man in it, and how close it is to the tiny bunk in the berth. Not quite sharing a bed, certainly not a cot, but there's something magical in it.
He'll blame it on the sleepy state of mind, but it moves something in his chest, to wake up to the crop of fair hair and a brow he's kissed now more times than not. Getting up and preparing for the day should be the next step, but with the captain here, he's blocked into the small space that has become quite warm with their shared body heat.
From his place in the bunk he reaches to touch the man's arm, his hand, and gently laces their fingers.
"M'sorry, Captain, but you'll have to wake if you want me to prepare your breakfast, sir."
Thomas knows he sounds ridiculous - voice thick with sleep, accent a little heavier, the guise of the dutiful, business-like servant not yet in place.
Contingencies, he might claim. Gave it a rehearsal go to himself, as he puttered around swaddling Jopson in blankets and climbing into his own pajamas. If someone managed to get past the locked great cabin door, and his locked berth door, and then surprise him, he can claim he's in the hammock for back pain related reasons. The bed's almost obscured. Could work, perhaps.
But the best reason to be slung so close is sharing space. Good enough, his specialty. Crozier sleeps well in the hammock, dropping off in minutes, content beside the younger man, and selfishly looking forward to the way his sheets will smell like him the next time he actually ends up beneath them. Spare blankets sort him out just fine for the night, and he's still bundled in them when Jopson gently wakes him in the morning.
Muzzy eyes blink open at that first touch, and soft address. As usual, Crozier wakes easily — can startle awake even from a dead drunk state (foreshadowing) — and he finds his place in the world quickly despite the sleep in his eyes. Mm, it seems his course of action was the right one. Jopson looks well-rested, and content. Beautifully ruffled in the morning. It makes something in him ache with a desire to see him wake in the morning light of some countryside bedroom, beneath a window with a sheer curtain.
"Will I?" a little muffled. He raises his head to fully escape the blanket. Mph. He squeezes Jopson's hand. "Oh, I've got you held hostage, don't I."
Always a boy with a vivid imagination, it's easy to picture them both somewhere warmer, somewhere private, shared only between them and the lazy rays of the sun. (What does Crozier's skin feel like, warmed under summer heat? Could he taste the golden rays on his lips? His brow? Tinged with the salt of his sweat, so different now from the cold and the ice?)
"Mm. It seems you do," he mumbles, a lazy smile pulling slowly over his face. He turns his cheek against his extended arm, resting his head there, watching Crozier peek out from his blanket.
Yes, one day they will be like this in the sunlight together, even if it's a small and cramped room somewhere far, far away. Just once, he'd like that. (The hopes and dreams will be shattered because foreshadowing).
"And what is my ransom, good pirate? There is a gallant sea Captain who may pay a fine penny to have me returned."
Squeezing his fingers around Crozier's, wishing they were close enough he could tangle their legs, that he could kiss him, entice him to stretch out with him a few minutes longer like they have the time for it. (They don't. They never will.) He has to sound half drunk for how sleepy and content he is.
Not much hope for side sleeping in a hammock, but Francis turns as much as he's able, keen to see Thomas so open and relaxed, and to play this little game for another minute. They both have very strict internal timepieces, and soon enough the day will begin.
"I suspect he'd pay just about anything."
Hm, perhaps a foot wrong. Should have made a joke about Who's the gallant one? Captain Ross, of course? —he's the one with all the pennies, anyway. But Crozier would. For any man under his command. And for Jopson, well.
Hopeless, as it turns out. A pirate could ask for his fingers and he'd calmly remove them on the spot.
"We can.. sail for Atlantis."
Jesus and Mary he is awful at it, though, and a brief face he pulls, near laughing, betrays his self-awareness over that fact. Giving it a go at any rate. What fantastical things are pirates said to do? Help.
I suspect he'd pay just about anything has an honesty to it that stings, blooms warmth after it - he'll remember it. Crozier's voice is lovely in the morning, a little deeper, graveled, complimentary to the tilt of his Irish accent. It suits him.
But he snorts as well, laughing softly as he watches the man's composure break. They're both bad at it, but Crozier is charming this way and makes it easier to forget that they should be doing other things, that they are not alone in this hazy, warm little bubble for much longer.
"Mm, we will have to do far more than sailing, pirate," he murmurs, tugging the man's hand across the way so he may kiss his fingers, eyes staying focused on his face. Would that he could wake up like this every day. Slowly he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bunk, but stays tangled in the blankets to escape the cool air a little while longer.
Another kiss to Crozier's knuckles and he rests their joined hands on the captain's chest.
"But if there is anyone on the sea who might find Atlantis, I think you would, sir."
Crozier lifts Jopson's hand, presses a kiss to his palm. Holds their hands there for a moment while he huffs about the notion of finding Atlantis, even though he's the one who brought it up.
"God forbid. Imagine the bloody fuss naming every inlet about the place."
It is time to get to work. Not lost on him, the fact that he's slept better than he has in ages — sex and company and the hammock conspiring to make him feel like he's gotten double the hours. Just one more thing that this affair is offering him, winding deeper into places he shouldn't let it touch. All of these things are transactional, in the end. He knows better than to hope for more.
"Let's see if I can still get out of one of these without making a fool of myself—"
He can. And they can get dressed and return to ship life without anyone noticing, for how unremarkable a steward being in his captain's presence is. (Phillips might miss him after supper, but like anyone else, the assumption is that Jopson was simply busy at off-schedule times; beholden neither to that of a regular sailor or regular steward. An island, not unlike the captain himself.)
It would be so easy to continue this affair just as they are - tucking in together each night and waking side by side come morning. A steward is meant to be at the Captain's side whenever he beckons, and everyone on this ship knows well how devoted he is to this man above all others, taking his job to heart.
"We would quickly run out of all the names available to us in England."
A smile, and once Crozier is up, so does Jopson follow, tugging up his soiled underthings, and moving to lower the hammock. They are to get dressed and go about normal life, it's true. The berth has gone chilled without his care but he doesn't care - and instead of turning immediately to his clothes left folded or to draw out some of Crozier's, he gains the tiniest bit of confidence.
Enough to crowd the man, getting up into his space and smoothing hands down his chest until they rest at his sides, and he kisses him, not something hungry but claiming all the same, lingering, deep. No doubt they both taste of morning and a night's rest, but he doesn't care. All of it tastes like Crozier, and starting the day with that on his tongue sends life back into his sleepy limbs.
"Good morning," he murmurs against his mouth, bold and smiling, before he flutters away to get his clothes. He'll dress his Captain first, of course. Can't have him catching cold.
Crozier holds still as he's cornered, and no doubt Jopson will see the engaged curiosity in his eyes as he proceeds. He likes it, likes the way Jopson feels confident, and likes being on the receiving end. Likes the kiss, too. Stale from sleep but there's something binding in it. A night spent together in such an intimate way, without a third party, without necessity. Still here in the morning without making excuses.
"Good morning," he returns, and he clasps Jopson on his shoulders for a moment, affectionate and bracing. Nothing more, because otherwise he risks wanting to draw him into an embrace. Good, as Jopson moves on, judging the need to get back to reality and the ever-turning world appropriately.
Which means getting dressed his brisk business, though he makes light of it in attitude and speed, helping along more like he did at their Camp Aether (or before he was fully comfortable with having a personal steward), saving them both time. Who knows what challenges await during the day; at least there's no one beating down the door, no alarm bells being rung. But something does occur to him as he's preparing to summon the lieutenant watching the overnight shift. Makes a note of it in his mind to discuss with Jopson, and soon.
Not today. Let this feeling go on, for as long as it has the wings to.
A little wash up of his face and smoothing of his hair once he's given the Captain his morning ablutions and he's on with his task. It's easy to tidy up and make it seem like he's only just arrived. Easier still to fall back into the lines of his job as though he doesn't taste the captain on the back of his tongue.
"I'll send the lieutenant in and return with breakfast for you, sir," he gives a nod, pouring out some hot tea for Crozier in the meantime. "I'll do the laundry later this afternoon. I'll be sure not to disturb your meetings."
The laundry he buried himself into last night, wrapped up in a warmth that's left his skin smelling of Crozier. A heady thing, if he thinks about it too long - and so he puts it out of mind, sets the tea on the table alongside some of the documents and maps he knows the man will want to pore over again, and sighs something quick and satisfied.
"I'll bring something for the lieutenant as well, but after should you require me, it will be best to use the bell. It is the day for inventory and I'll be below much of the morning."
A little nod, he meets the man's eyes with a gentle sort of warmth, and slips away, dishes from the night before in hand, as though nothing has changed.
before he sets off, sneaking in an order. It has the tone of one, or near enough; on degree off, into something both playful, and not a request.
"Fetch one of my shirts until the roughest patches on your back have cleared up."
The same steward who threatened to use his own money to find him clothes, wearing the most canvas-feeling shirts. Good grief. Crozier will be being him shirts when they end up back in civilization, at this rate.
"I don't want to see any more splitting. And I'll be checking."
He sets the dishes down slowly, the tone of the man's voice drawing him back with a start. Playful, an order, something toeing the line and he can't quite place. Intriguing.
"Oh. I see. Of course, sir."
Crozier's shirts, soft and expensive, smelling of him and worn thin in places for the utility of it. There is a practicality to his captain that he will always respect and admire - so very unlike other officers in Her Majesty's fleet. Francis Crozier seems grounded with the world, even at sea, and it's a pleasant change from his past positions.
Things forgotten on the table, he fetches one of the man's shirts, taking his time and smiling at the feeling of the fabric beneath his fingers.
"Yours are much finer than mine, it's true," he nods and brings one, presenting it. "Is this one suitable? I'd rather not take from your better shirts, sir."
And there will be no time at all to do much changing than what he can do here and now, with the door locked. So he shrugs off his coat, his vest. "I'll see to it that it's washed and returned to you."
Bit of a detour, he should have mentioned it before they got dressed. But he was distracted— distraction tempts him again now, as Jopson changes, but Crozier maintains professionalism. (In his shirt, after what was going on the last time he was in one of his shirts, and shirtless again for a moment—) Even steps over to hold his other layers while he swaps the shirt out. He nods about the choice of shirt. It'll do.
"You know best," he says, because it's true. About shirts and laundry, and when Crozier should have things returned. When he's sorted, he smooths his shoulders down in his coat, then moves away. "Now, on to ship's business."
So it is.
Busy days. Surveys to conduct, and a narrow channel between massive icebergs to navigate. It seems for a while as if they're nearing true night again, with cathedrals of ice looming above them. Crozier spends long hours on deck guiding and troubleshooting, and everyone gets to congratulate themselves on a fine bit of sailing when they finally do make it past the challenge and into, not open water, but freer expanses of the icy coast. The Barrier — Jamie has no other name for it as of yet, and Francis suspects he won't give it one, too mysterious of a thing, too many questions still — continues to loom.
When they're able, Crozier permits Jopson to use the great cabin to work, and they manage to snatch moments to continue to read, now and then. It's at the tail end of one of these meetings that he decides to bring something up, at last.
"I've neglected something important," he opens with. "And it's done us both a disservice. Only because I've been so pleasantly occupied, but one follows the other, if I'm to be at all responsible about it."
Life on a ship has no short supply of hurdles, both dangerous and mundane. Navigating the sea will always be so far above and beyond him, and watching all the men work on deck as they try to navigate treacherous, icy waters is a thing of beauty. Never in his life would he have placed a bet on working here on the deck of a ship, but as they all breathe a little easier and sail into more open waters, he wouldn't wish to be anywhere else.
At his captain's side, supporting the officers how they need, and seeing that the stewards all tend to their good care.
The passing moments in the great cabin where he uses the better light to do some of his mending have become a pleasant and steady reprieve. Easier to do his work here without the noise of the mess nearby, with better light and more room. He doesn't overtake the space, though occasionally he spreads fabric out to check for holes or make markings before he takes to sewing. A table is a blessing in matters like this.
Jopson is deep in his work when the captain speaks and it almost startles him out of his focus, head tipping up so their eyes meet. Typically these interruptions are for witty comments or questions, little remarks here and there as they work alongside one another, so the timbre of this such statement gives him pause, his hands going still in his lap.
"Oh, of course, sir."
He sets his work aside, turns his attention back to the man.
"I've done my best to keep atop of my duties and your tasks as well, is there something I've missed?"
"Your work ethic and attentiveness are impeccable," Crozier assures him. Almost to the point where I might order you more time with which to do nothing, he doesn't add. It would be sheer coddling, and an insult.
He leans in his chair, at ease, but taking this shift of topic seriously. No interruptions are expected anytime soon, but there's still enough of the day left that, should Jopson decide he feels uncomfortable with the conversation, he has fodder to occupy himself with, and indeed, excuse himself over. Crozier hasn't plotted this carefully, exactly, but he does try not to cage people in— a fine line to walk, on a ship. They're all caged in. But they are alone here, with no lurking figures just behind the door.
So. He looks at him, plain.
"If there is ever a time where someone questions you about our association, and they cannot be satisfied or shut up within reason, you are to tell them I've obligated you. It is important to me that you understand that's how it must be."
It might feel like praise if there wasn't something hanging heavy at the end of it in wait. A seriousness falls over the usual easy warmth they share in these quiet moments, and Jopson makes sure to catch the man's eye, measuring him from across the small cabin. Francis Crozier always means what he says, a true and loyal captain, but this -
His stomach sinks. Lead, perhaps, cold and heavy and acrid. Should they be discovered, he is asked to ruin the man across from him? To watch him fall from grace when what they've done is a crime shared equally between them? A crime he would so very easily take upon himself.
"Sir," harsh, quiet. "I cannot. It would be far simpler for the tale to be told the other way - I do not have a reputation like yours, a livelihood such as yours. The London streets will know no better of me."
Likely not totally true, as rumors travel everywhere, but he'd have some time, at least.
"I... why, sir? I don't understand. I have nothing to lose - nothing such as you do."
Crozier wishes he could take on a cold mien in response to Jopson's immediate, impassioned denial. But it touches him. Obvious that it does, by his sad, lopsided smile. Bittersweet.
"You have your life, Thomas." A pause, and he leans forward, extending his hands to the younger man. Asking silently for contact, to reassure him. Of course this distresses him, of course he sees himself as inconsequential. It is noble, that Jopson would want to fall on the sword over it— but it is concerning, too.
"I'm an officer, and there'd be an inquiry. It wouldn't be a fair one, but I'd have an inch to fight with. You would not be afforded that luxury, and that's not a thought I can endure. I can't abide it at all."
Thomas reaches for the man's hands, curling fingers around his, feeling the warmth of their palms together. He knows these hands well now, knows them in a way that's brought them here to the table with this conversation. A dangerous thing, even holding hands, when it feels so absurd that it should be so lethal.
He looks away from the older man and down to their hands, the way they fit together. No one can find this out about them and he will do everything in his power that it remains so. Whatever this is, whatever tenderness they've forged out here on the ice, is so very sacred. As much as the man is to him, too.
"I..."
There are no good places for his eyes to roam but their hands, noting the differences between them. Crozier's marked by hard work, labor on ships and sea, despite the fine cut of his shirtsleeves. Jopson's marked much the same, but the calluses more delicate, made from scrubbing clothes in lye and working with fabric or from the occasional butt of a gun.
"I understand, sir."
Though he doesn't like it. Knows that should the unspeakable ever happen, he may not be able to hold to his word. Anything that would put Francis Crozier's life in danger... anything at all, he would take for him, no matter the consequences.
"I will make certain that absolutely no one has even a hair to doubt with. I will not allow it."
Relief. Crozier squeezes his hands, firm. It's a hard accord to come to, but one they must see. He should have laid out terms before they ever tangled with each other— too taken, too smitten, then too happy with it. They've had so little time, in those times, ignoring reality has been a theme. But they live in it, day and night and each stolen moment.
"Thank you," he says, quiet and serious. "I don't live in fear of being discovered. It is unlikely with even halfway competent precautions, and rampant enough in secret that most are motivated by mutually assured destruction to be willfully blind. What's more, I trust you."
His judgment, his discretion. His care for his own person. Trust is a knife, but Jopson already holds a blade to his throat every morning.
"But while neither of us should waste time being fearful, we mustn't be fools. And I mustn't be careless with you."
"We are fortunate many turn a blind eye to even more obvious displays," he says quietly, a little grim. The reality of who they bed down with or who they care for doesn't matter when faced with the law - it doesn't see love or affection or pleasure. Only undeniable sin and filth.
He squeezes Crozier's hands in return, pulling back just enough to lace their fingers together. A habit, he realizes, but he likes the feeling, the look, both of them knitted together however temporarily. Maybe it's womanly of him to enjoy these things, but for now behind this locked door, he doesn't care.
"I musn't be careless with you either, Captain. I wouldn't forgive myself."
He offers a small smile then looks back to their laced fingers.
"I trust you with everything I'm made of, sir. I will weather any storm at your side and I will be sure that this journey sees you home safe and healthy. I will have nothing less."
Pulling his hands away, he traces little patterns into the man's palms, skirting his fingers over the skin there just to where his cuff stops him from roaming and back down to the tip of each finger pad.
Crozier lets Jopson have his way with his hands; he leaves them there, palms up, to accept the mapping touches. It is so profoundly like sincere courtship, what they're doing. It could take his breath away if it let it. He thinks he'll have to talk to Jamie about it— though his dear friend probably already knows, and saw it before Crozier did. How could he not, having been the one to instigate so much of their intimacy at camp, without so much as having to inquire?
"You have worked tirelessly towards my trust," he says quietly. "I struggle sometimes to invest it fully in others."
A strange bit of bare honesty, perhaps. Crozier wants the best for everyone, sees the best in everyone, but expects little. He isn't entitled to anyone's best. He just has to believe it's there, even if it won't be given to him. His trust, like stories about himself, is something he keeps closer in. Nothing to be gained but potential disappointment, usually. Wouldn't be fair to anyone.
"You have disarmed me, in a way. It's a surprisingly comfortable thing, and I suspect it's a power completely unique to Thomas Jopson."
He folds one thumb over, captures the tip of a tracing finger.
Thomas looks down at their hands, the thumb pressed over his. Raising one of his hands he presses Crozier's between his palms, pleased with the simplicity of it. For all the entanglements they've shared, this will never grow tiring. Hands linked together in such a way he can feel the man's pulse beneath his skin.
"I've not intended to do anything like that, sir," he murmurs, looking up from his admiration to meet Crozier's gaze. "I have only wanted to see you cared for, first and foremost. Whether that meant you'd like to send me paddling or not."
So very much like courtship, this - sitting across a table, linked hands and soft touches, easy conversation. Is this what the women of society feel like when pursued by someone she admires? Perhaps.
He's overly glad he doesn't have to worry about petticoats, though, in more ways than one.
"But, ah - it is an honor to hold your trust. You have mine, and it will never waver. I don't often feel compelled to do so, but you make it easy to feel safe, sir. Even here at sea, where some say it is the most dangerous place to be."
If asked, he wouldn't have guessed that making someone feel safe would be such a pleasing feeling. But Jopson says it, and it curls warm inside of him. Proud and content. Curious, and unusual; it hasn't quite been his aim, for Jopson is not a princess in need of saving, nor defending— but if they can't be careless with each other, then perhaps there's a bit of that. Safety is a foreign thing in his life, be it on sea or land. Knowing he can give some phantasmal measure of it to Jopson is surprisingly satisfying.
"It is dangerous," he muses, as he flexes his fingers, gently teasing Jopson's affectionate hold. "But I can't see myself anywhere else. It never mattered, I suppose. Even the danger here," and he curls his fingers back, connecting them, "doesn't frighten me. Where might I be? In a solicitor's office in Ireland?"
He shrugs.
"Better to have this voyage, and you, and all else."
Perhaps safety isn't the word - maybe it's consistency, company, reliability. There's little guessing where Francis Crozier is involved and that brings him an immeasurable sense of comfort. The routine of it pleasing and calming, different from his life at home which changed daily and brought with it different stressors. Here, the problems are predictable or expected. Most of the time.
"Jamie believes you were born in the sea for how you like it so well," he snorts softly, remembering the quiet evening they spent curled up together.
He pets Crozier's hand then pulls away, rising from his place at the table. His fingers skirt over his shoulder as he passes and he moves to start making tea for the man. It's afternoon and they have a little while longer before dinner, so something to tide him over. Also creates a little distance so he can deal with the fluttering thing in his chest - better to have this voyage, and you. He wants to ask what will become of them when they reach harbor, when England is their horizon, but he doesn't.
Instead he makes the man's perfect cuppa and returns, delivering it to him. But something to express even a part of what he's feeling:
"I look forward to dancing with you on the Islands, sir."
"Jamie wants to catch a selkie," Crozier snorts, and he thinks of Ann. A bright young girl, who he fancies he's been wooing. It's the other way around, and though a part of him dreads it, he knows full well that Miss Coulman will deftly capture herself a captain's seal-skin and take him home as her husband, and Jamie will be a happy prize.
Tea, then. He smiles up at Thomas, reserved but sincere.
"Soon enough we'll see the ball, and we'll have an awful headache about it. But there will be that, too. I look forward to it as well, Jopson."
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Especially with such company. Lazy, soft, sleepy. The kind of cuddling ascribed to young lovers, not sailors having illicit affairs. And yet it all feels sugar-spun, gossamer.
"A while," he agrees, and he kisses his cheekbone, near his closed eye, and long eyelashes. "I'll tell you when it's time to move on."
Ah, well, eventually. He tries to make himself feel even a little bit of shame about it, but finds none. He's already decided he'll let Jopson sleep here, though he knows he can't risk the swap from last time. But, again: this is a luxury. There is space enough to make due, one way or another. So he just holds him, cradles him, and waits until he's certain he's drifted off. Tempting to follow, but he'll need to clean them up at least. Natural as anything for a man to fall asleep after, but he's got his standards, and pleasant exhaustion is no excuse to be inconsiderate.
Still. He dozes for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness. How warm Thomas is in sleep, how his breath feels against his skin. When he was a ship's boy, sailors told salacious stories about French ships and their oversized officer beds made for devilry. But of course, half the ships in the Royal Navy were captured from the French, and they're just as slender. No devilry to be found. Almost a shame.
Eventually, he gets to it. So very careful.
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He sleeps soundly otherwise, occasionally mumbling in his sleep or sighing, finding a new comfortable position. When the edge of morning arrives he wakes naturally, his internal clock simply not allowing him to be late for his duties.
Jopson knows the moment he opens his eyes that he's not in his own berth, and almost absolutely in his Captain's. What surprises him, however, is the hammock, the man in it, and how close it is to the tiny bunk in the berth. Not quite sharing a bed, certainly not a cot, but there's something magical in it.
He'll blame it on the sleepy state of mind, but it moves something in his chest, to wake up to the crop of fair hair and a brow he's kissed now more times than not. Getting up and preparing for the day should be the next step, but with the captain here, he's blocked into the small space that has become quite warm with their shared body heat.
From his place in the bunk he reaches to touch the man's arm, his hand, and gently laces their fingers.
"M'sorry, Captain, but you'll have to wake if you want me to prepare your breakfast, sir."
Thomas knows he sounds ridiculous - voice thick with sleep, accent a little heavier, the guise of the dutiful, business-like servant not yet in place.
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But the best reason to be slung so close is sharing space. Good enough, his specialty. Crozier sleeps well in the hammock, dropping off in minutes, content beside the younger man, and selfishly looking forward to the way his sheets will smell like him the next time he actually ends up beneath them. Spare blankets sort him out just fine for the night, and he's still bundled in them when Jopson gently wakes him in the morning.
Muzzy eyes blink open at that first touch, and soft address. As usual, Crozier wakes easily — can startle awake even from a dead drunk state (foreshadowing) — and he finds his place in the world quickly despite the sleep in his eyes. Mm, it seems his course of action was the right one. Jopson looks well-rested, and content. Beautifully ruffled in the morning. It makes something in him ache with a desire to see him wake in the morning light of some countryside bedroom, beneath a window with a sheer curtain.
"Will I?" a little muffled. He raises his head to fully escape the blanket. Mph. He squeezes Jopson's hand. "Oh, I've got you held hostage, don't I."
Having fun, even half-asleep.
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"Mm. It seems you do," he mumbles, a lazy smile pulling slowly over his face. He turns his cheek against his extended arm, resting his head there, watching Crozier peek out from his blanket.
Yes, one day they will be like this in the sunlight together, even if it's a small and cramped room somewhere far, far away. Just once, he'd like that. (The hopes and dreams will be shattered because foreshadowing).
"And what is my ransom, good pirate? There is a gallant sea Captain who may pay a fine penny to have me returned."
Squeezing his fingers around Crozier's, wishing they were close enough he could tangle their legs, that he could kiss him, entice him to stretch out with him a few minutes longer like they have the time for it. (They don't. They never will.) He has to sound half drunk for how sleepy and content he is.
"But I could be convinced."
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"I suspect he'd pay just about anything."
Hm, perhaps a foot wrong. Should have made a joke about Who's the gallant one? Captain Ross, of course? —he's the one with all the pennies, anyway. But Crozier would. For any man under his command. And for Jopson, well.
Hopeless, as it turns out. A pirate could ask for his fingers and he'd calmly remove them on the spot.
"We can.. sail for Atlantis."
Jesus and Mary he is awful at it, though, and a brief face he pulls, near laughing, betrays his self-awareness over that fact. Giving it a go at any rate. What fantastical things are pirates said to do? Help.
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But he snorts as well, laughing softly as he watches the man's composure break. They're both bad at it, but Crozier is charming this way and makes it easier to forget that they should be doing other things, that they are not alone in this hazy, warm little bubble for much longer.
"Mm, we will have to do far more than sailing, pirate," he murmurs, tugging the man's hand across the way so he may kiss his fingers, eyes staying focused on his face. Would that he could wake up like this every day. Slowly he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bunk, but stays tangled in the blankets to escape the cool air a little while longer.
Another kiss to Crozier's knuckles and he rests their joined hands on the captain's chest.
"But if there is anyone on the sea who might find Atlantis, I think you would, sir."
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Alright, none of that.
Crozier lifts Jopson's hand, presses a kiss to his palm. Holds their hands there for a moment while he huffs about the notion of finding Atlantis, even though he's the one who brought it up.
"God forbid. Imagine the bloody fuss naming every inlet about the place."
It is time to get to work. Not lost on him, the fact that he's slept better than he has in ages — sex and company and the hammock conspiring to make him feel like he's gotten double the hours. Just one more thing that this affair is offering him, winding deeper into places he shouldn't let it touch. All of these things are transactional, in the end. He knows better than to hope for more.
"Let's see if I can still get out of one of these without making a fool of myself—"
He can. And they can get dressed and return to ship life without anyone noticing, for how unremarkable a steward being in his captain's presence is. (Phillips might miss him after supper, but like anyone else, the assumption is that Jopson was simply busy at off-schedule times; beholden neither to that of a regular sailor or regular steward. An island, not unlike the captain himself.)
You could feel less, Crozier tells himself.
He doesn't.
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"We would quickly run out of all the names available to us in England."
A smile, and once Crozier is up, so does Jopson follow, tugging up his soiled underthings, and moving to lower the hammock. They are to get dressed and go about normal life, it's true. The berth has gone chilled without his care but he doesn't care - and instead of turning immediately to his clothes left folded or to draw out some of Crozier's, he gains the tiniest bit of confidence.
Enough to crowd the man, getting up into his space and smoothing hands down his chest until they rest at his sides, and he kisses him, not something hungry but claiming all the same, lingering, deep. No doubt they both taste of morning and a night's rest, but he doesn't care. All of it tastes like Crozier, and starting the day with that on his tongue sends life back into his sleepy limbs.
"Good morning," he murmurs against his mouth, bold and smiling, before he flutters away to get his clothes. He'll dress his Captain first, of course. Can't have him catching cold.
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"Good morning," he returns, and he clasps Jopson on his shoulders for a moment, affectionate and bracing. Nothing more, because otherwise he risks wanting to draw him into an embrace. Good, as Jopson moves on, judging the need to get back to reality and the ever-turning world appropriately.
Which means getting dressed his brisk business, though he makes light of it in attitude and speed, helping along more like he did at their Camp Aether (or before he was fully comfortable with having a personal steward), saving them both time. Who knows what challenges await during the day; at least there's no one beating down the door, no alarm bells being rung. But something does occur to him as he's preparing to summon the lieutenant watching the overnight shift. Makes a note of it in his mind to discuss with Jopson, and soon.
Not today. Let this feeling go on, for as long as it has the wings to.
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"I'll send the lieutenant in and return with breakfast for you, sir," he gives a nod, pouring out some hot tea for Crozier in the meantime. "I'll do the laundry later this afternoon. I'll be sure not to disturb your meetings."
The laundry he buried himself into last night, wrapped up in a warmth that's left his skin smelling of Crozier. A heady thing, if he thinks about it too long - and so he puts it out of mind, sets the tea on the table alongside some of the documents and maps he knows the man will want to pore over again, and sighs something quick and satisfied.
"I'll bring something for the lieutenant as well, but after should you require me, it will be best to use the bell. It is the day for inventory and I'll be below much of the morning."
A little nod, he meets the man's eyes with a gentle sort of warmth, and slips away, dishes from the night before in hand, as though nothing has changed.
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before he sets off, sneaking in an order. It has the tone of one, or near enough; on degree off, into something both playful, and not a request.
"Fetch one of my shirts until the roughest patches on your back have cleared up."
The same steward who threatened to use his own money to find him clothes, wearing the most canvas-feeling shirts. Good grief. Crozier will be being him shirts when they end up back in civilization, at this rate.
"I don't want to see any more splitting. And I'll be checking."
Best to take care of himself.
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"Oh. I see. Of course, sir."
Crozier's shirts, soft and expensive, smelling of him and worn thin in places for the utility of it. There is a practicality to his captain that he will always respect and admire - so very unlike other officers in Her Majesty's fleet. Francis Crozier seems grounded with the world, even at sea, and it's a pleasant change from his past positions.
Things forgotten on the table, he fetches one of the man's shirts, taking his time and smiling at the feeling of the fabric beneath his fingers.
"Yours are much finer than mine, it's true," he nods and brings one, presenting it. "Is this one suitable? I'd rather not take from your better shirts, sir."
And there will be no time at all to do much changing than what he can do here and now, with the door locked. So he shrugs off his coat, his vest. "I'll see to it that it's washed and returned to you."
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"You know best," he says, because it's true. About shirts and laundry, and when Crozier should have things returned. When he's sorted, he smooths his shoulders down in his coat, then moves away. "Now, on to ship's business."
So it is.
Busy days. Surveys to conduct, and a narrow channel between massive icebergs to navigate. It seems for a while as if they're nearing true night again, with cathedrals of ice looming above them. Crozier spends long hours on deck guiding and troubleshooting, and everyone gets to congratulate themselves on a fine bit of sailing when they finally do make it past the challenge and into, not open water, but freer expanses of the icy coast. The Barrier — Jamie has no other name for it as of yet, and Francis suspects he won't give it one, too mysterious of a thing, too many questions still — continues to loom.
When they're able, Crozier permits Jopson to use the great cabin to work, and they manage to snatch moments to continue to read, now and then. It's at the tail end of one of these meetings that he decides to bring something up, at last.
"I've neglected something important," he opens with. "And it's done us both a disservice. Only because I've been so pleasantly occupied, but one follows the other, if I'm to be at all responsible about it."
And he does hope to be.
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At his captain's side, supporting the officers how they need, and seeing that the stewards all tend to their good care.
The passing moments in the great cabin where he uses the better light to do some of his mending have become a pleasant and steady reprieve. Easier to do his work here without the noise of the mess nearby, with better light and more room. He doesn't overtake the space, though occasionally he spreads fabric out to check for holes or make markings before he takes to sewing. A table is a blessing in matters like this.
Jopson is deep in his work when the captain speaks and it almost startles him out of his focus, head tipping up so their eyes meet. Typically these interruptions are for witty comments or questions, little remarks here and there as they work alongside one another, so the timbre of this such statement gives him pause, his hands going still in his lap.
"Oh, of course, sir."
He sets his work aside, turns his attention back to the man.
"I've done my best to keep atop of my duties and your tasks as well, is there something I've missed?"
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He leans in his chair, at ease, but taking this shift of topic seriously. No interruptions are expected anytime soon, but there's still enough of the day left that, should Jopson decide he feels uncomfortable with the conversation, he has fodder to occupy himself with, and indeed, excuse himself over. Crozier hasn't plotted this carefully, exactly, but he does try not to cage people in— a fine line to walk, on a ship. They're all caged in. But they are alone here, with no lurking figures just behind the door.
So. He looks at him, plain.
"If there is ever a time where someone questions you about our association, and they cannot be satisfied or shut up within reason, you are to tell them I've obligated you. It is important to me that you understand that's how it must be."
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It might feel like praise if there wasn't something hanging heavy at the end of it in wait. A seriousness falls over the usual easy warmth they share in these quiet moments, and Jopson makes sure to catch the man's eye, measuring him from across the small cabin. Francis Crozier always means what he says, a true and loyal captain, but this -
His stomach sinks. Lead, perhaps, cold and heavy and acrid. Should they be discovered, he is asked to ruin the man across from him? To watch him fall from grace when what they've done is a crime shared equally between them? A crime he would so very easily take upon himself.
"Sir," harsh, quiet. "I cannot. It would be far simpler for the tale to be told the other way - I do not have a reputation like yours, a livelihood such as yours. The London streets will know no better of me."
Likely not totally true, as rumors travel everywhere, but he'd have some time, at least.
"I... why, sir? I don't understand. I have nothing to lose - nothing such as you do."
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"You have your life, Thomas." A pause, and he leans forward, extending his hands to the younger man. Asking silently for contact, to reassure him. Of course this distresses him, of course he sees himself as inconsequential. It is noble, that Jopson would want to fall on the sword over it— but it is concerning, too.
"I'm an officer, and there'd be an inquiry. It wouldn't be a fair one, but I'd have an inch to fight with. You would not be afforded that luxury, and that's not a thought I can endure. I can't abide it at all."
Surely Jopson can understand that.
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He looks away from the older man and down to their hands, the way they fit together. No one can find this out about them and he will do everything in his power that it remains so. Whatever this is, whatever tenderness they've forged out here on the ice, is so very sacred. As much as the man is to him, too.
"I..."
There are no good places for his eyes to roam but their hands, noting the differences between them. Crozier's marked by hard work, labor on ships and sea, despite the fine cut of his shirtsleeves. Jopson's marked much the same, but the calluses more delicate, made from scrubbing clothes in lye and working with fabric or from the occasional butt of a gun.
"I understand, sir."
Though he doesn't like it. Knows that should the unspeakable ever happen, he may not be able to hold to his word. Anything that would put Francis Crozier's life in danger... anything at all, he would take for him, no matter the consequences.
"I will make certain that absolutely no one has even a hair to doubt with. I will not allow it."
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"Thank you," he says, quiet and serious. "I don't live in fear of being discovered. It is unlikely with even halfway competent precautions, and rampant enough in secret that most are motivated by mutually assured destruction to be willfully blind. What's more, I trust you."
His judgment, his discretion. His care for his own person. Trust is a knife, but Jopson already holds a blade to his throat every morning.
"But while neither of us should waste time being fearful, we mustn't be fools. And I mustn't be careless with you."
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He squeezes Crozier's hands in return, pulling back just enough to lace their fingers together. A habit, he realizes, but he likes the feeling, the look, both of them knitted together however temporarily. Maybe it's womanly of him to enjoy these things, but for now behind this locked door, he doesn't care.
"I musn't be careless with you either, Captain. I wouldn't forgive myself."
He offers a small smile then looks back to their laced fingers.
"I trust you with everything I'm made of, sir. I will weather any storm at your side and I will be sure that this journey sees you home safe and healthy. I will have nothing less."
Pulling his hands away, he traces little patterns into the man's palms, skirting his fingers over the skin there just to where his cuff stops him from roaming and back down to the tip of each finger pad.
"I am very grateful for your trust in this."
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"You have worked tirelessly towards my trust," he says quietly. "I struggle sometimes to invest it fully in others."
A strange bit of bare honesty, perhaps. Crozier wants the best for everyone, sees the best in everyone, but expects little. He isn't entitled to anyone's best. He just has to believe it's there, even if it won't be given to him. His trust, like stories about himself, is something he keeps closer in. Nothing to be gained but potential disappointment, usually. Wouldn't be fair to anyone.
"You have disarmed me, in a way. It's a surprisingly comfortable thing, and I suspect it's a power completely unique to Thomas Jopson."
He folds one thumb over, captures the tip of a tracing finger.
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"I've not intended to do anything like that, sir," he murmurs, looking up from his admiration to meet Crozier's gaze. "I have only wanted to see you cared for, first and foremost. Whether that meant you'd like to send me paddling or not."
So very much like courtship, this - sitting across a table, linked hands and soft touches, easy conversation. Is this what the women of society feel like when pursued by someone she admires? Perhaps.
He's overly glad he doesn't have to worry about petticoats, though, in more ways than one.
"But, ah - it is an honor to hold your trust. You have mine, and it will never waver. I don't often feel compelled to do so, but you make it easy to feel safe, sir. Even here at sea, where some say it is the most dangerous place to be."
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"It is dangerous," he muses, as he flexes his fingers, gently teasing Jopson's affectionate hold. "But I can't see myself anywhere else. It never mattered, I suppose. Even the danger here," and he curls his fingers back, connecting them, "doesn't frighten me. Where might I be? In a solicitor's office in Ireland?"
He shrugs.
"Better to have this voyage, and you, and all else."
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"Jamie believes you were born in the sea for how you like it so well," he snorts softly, remembering the quiet evening they spent curled up together.
He pets Crozier's hand then pulls away, rising from his place at the table. His fingers skirt over his shoulder as he passes and he moves to start making tea for the man. It's afternoon and they have a little while longer before dinner, so something to tide him over. Also creates a little distance so he can deal with the fluttering thing in his chest - better to have this voyage, and you. He wants to ask what will become of them when they reach harbor, when England is their horizon, but he doesn't.
Instead he makes the man's perfect cuppa and returns, delivering it to him. But something to express even a part of what he's feeling:
"I look forward to dancing with you on the Islands, sir."
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Tea, then. He smiles up at Thomas, reserved but sincere.
"Soon enough we'll see the ball, and we'll have an awful headache about it. But there will be that, too. I look forward to it as well, Jopson."