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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no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."