Jopson fusses with his jacket, doing up buttons and picking a loose thread. It startles him when the captain lays hands upon his shoulders, wide eyes blinking up at him beneath lashes at first until he straightens at the seriousness etched into the man’s face. Always a serious man, Crozier, carrying himself with a confidence fit only for a commander and captain such as he is. But he knows the looks - the minute details in the crease of his brow or the turn of his mouth. Knows what line he stands behind based solely on the set of his shoulders when he speaks.
He blushes, a faint thing that mimics the evening before. He could answer now - could spill everything he’s bitten back for months and months now, but tamps it down. Listens, even if the giddy thing knocking about behind his ribs wants otherwise.
“I will give you my answer in a few days’ time,” he repeats, letting the man touch his jaw, his chin. “But forgive me, sir. I must admit it’s impossible for me to hate you for a punishment I earned honest.”
A slip of something less formal, more the man from a poor little apartment in London.
“The pain is merely temporary, after all, but it will not sour a thing. I am above all else honored all the same that I am your steward, sir.”
Honest, open warmth in his face, an adoration making the grey of his eyes shine. He reaches briefly to curl fingers around the man’s wrist, squeezing, intimate in the way his thumb swipes over his pulse point.
But it’s covered, this sweet gesture, as he tugs Crozier’s hand down, adjusts his cuff with a soft huff.
“The whole of the ship will know I did not dress you,” a soft but affectionate complaint. A smoothing of hands ofer the man’s lapel, then fussing with his collar. “But you made a valiant effort, sir. I’ll away to the doctor and return with your breakfast. Or tea at the very least.”
A few days, but he hopes the work of his hands may give a hint of his leanings.
Jopson is lovely, and handsome at once; masculine lines decorated with soft, painterly features. Crozier appreciates how put together he keeps himself, how closely shaved, how meticulously groomed, but he would like to see him shaken loose, too. Only a little like the tightly leashed exertion while being strapped— what would he looks like, flushed and shaking, without a need to contain himself?
Perhaps he'll find out. Jopson seems so certain, but he hasn't woken up in his own berth after accidentally rolling onto his back yet. (Speaking of his own berth, Crozier has left it with the sheets done up properly, inspection-tight good enough for any captain he's served under, but will it pass Jopson's? Hm.) He hasn't navigated his place in the crew after that display. He deserves time to think about it. Sit with it.
He palms over his steward's chest, as though checking his buttons. But the weight of it, and the expression on his face, hopefully silently communicates his appreciation. Not sure if he's ever made anyone feel honored.
"Your diligence is above and beyond," Crozier tells him, fond. "You could put a shine on the roughest stone."
A few days. Crozier removes his hands and steps aside, giving him implied permission to leave. At least his steward coming in and out of the captain's quarters is nothing remarkable; a regular occurrence, and perhaps Jopson looks unkempt today because he was beaten the night before. The world continues to turn, the ship continues to sail. They each have plenty to do.
They have plenty to do, indeed, but Jopson spends much of the day remembering the thumb at the edge of his jaw or the weight of a hand on his chest, his neck, in his hair. Ignores it to get his back looked at, the salve sticky, the smell strong, but it helps. He continues about his day, checking off the long, invisible list he keeps in his mind - supplies, laundry, cleaning, lunch, dinner, and so on. When it's time to retire for the night, he pauses when looking at his own bed. The sheets neatly tucked in, the pillow smoothed out, the quilt folded at the foot of the little bed. Not his work, but close. Militantly orderly in the way the sheets are turned down, waiting for him.
The sheets smell of Crozier, the pillow case of sweat and musk and spice. He slept in his bunk and gave him the Captain's room instead? He buries his face in against it, breathes deep, hears Crozier's words in his head: I must be careful. When he lets his own hand wander in spite of his fatigue, he imagines it to be the Captain's hand.
A couple of days pass without incident. A few of the men look at him differently, clap him on the arm and encourage him to sit with them. Some brotherhood and camaraderie built where it hadn't been before. Of course Crozier would be right. Even young Mr Chambers seems bolstered by some of the older seamen who have faced punishment for unruly nights.
The afternoon brings a nice ray of sun into the window of Crozier's cabin and he crosses to open the curtains, welcoming it, using the light to better assist hemming one of Crozier's newer shirtsleeves, the tail too long and ill-fitting. The light helps, but it's also warm despite it all, and he feels much like a coy housecat finding a comfortable place to relax.
"I did not appreciate your misplacement of the ink wells, sir," he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other as he starts up another set of stitches. "The bottom of the bookshelf isn't where they're meant to be and I'll be polite and not inquire how they made it there in the first place."
Little things out of place here and there, perhaps from the time lost but a day or so ago though he's beginning to suspect foul play.
"Captain Ross must have though I was mad for my running around when he requested use of one and I had to scour the room like a lost dog on the streets."
Not actually offended - far more teasing than anything. He's quite content where he is, actually.
Jamie visiting Terror is a delight, and they talk for hours; he thinks their lieutenants must be exhausted of listening to them yammer, half of it aborted sentences and cryptic exchanges as they know each other's minds so well. A dozen maps, of the shoreline being uncovered, of the stars, of magnetic patterns. Energized by the perpetual pastel day of the pole, they are in the great cabin, then on deck, then in the cabin, and on deck, and in the cabin for ages.
He is sure — has been sure for weeks now — that his steward noticed. That it's part of why he's felt able to tease him the way he does, and in turn, respond to the way Francis teases him. It's cheeky, very on the line of his professed I must be careful, to set Jopson up to have to grope for something on hands and knees in front of him and Ross, but he finds himself empty of guilt. A bit thrilling, actually. Particularly when Jamie asks him when they're alone, How's your boy getting you on, sorry, how are you both getting on, and Francis has to threaten to put a gag in his mouth, though of course that just makes him laugh, bright and brilliant like a bell.
Some humor, too, when he finds out discipline has been just as lively on Erebus. It's going to be a maddening push the whole time over these long years, he thinks, but he likes it. Doldrums kill men. Better to be alight, aflame, kinetic.
"He thought you were as sharp-eyed as any crow in the nest," Crozier says. Working on the log book, for now, Ross and his seconds packed away back on the other ship. Comfortable with just the two of them left, and the door closed. "Finding it as you did. Probably one of the mates tucked a stray one there when the boards were being mopped."
Sure.
"You were listening close about some of the figures, I noticed. Would you care to join us tomorrow when the light's lowest? It may be dull, fiddling with all the weights and lines in the water, but the demonstration makes sense of it, I believe."
Speaking of the light, Jopson looks beautiful there, haloed by it. An enjoyable thing to observe, simple in its pleasure.
The little pot of ink made its way there with some purpose, though the idea that one of the mates tucked it away is nonsense. Particularly when Jopson minds the cleaning of this place like a hawk, and with clear instruction to boot. He raises brows at Crozier, a hint of I know you're up to something in all of it, but it's light. It's been a lovely day tending to Captain Ross and Crozier both - the air in the room warmer and lighter whenever the man comes round. He's seen and heard plenty in his time working with the men, and knew enough even in the beginning to buffet the door against any intruders.
Crozier laughs, bright and open, and there's nothing left to think or discuss. His captain is happy - brilliantly so - when Ross is around, and so in turn he's happy as well. He could sit here in the sun sewing and tending to the tidiness of the room for the rest of his days, talking like this, like the sea isn't roaring outside, like they're on solid ground, far, far from the troubles of England.
"Mm?" A blink, he looks up. "I apologize, sir, I don't mean to eavesdrop when you have guests. I rarely understand what you and the others discuss as it is, but - ah. Yes, I'd like to see it."
The things the men in this room dream up and discover will always seem utterly magical. The way some of the men draw the world around them, the way they twist numbers to make the skies make sense, and now this - weights and lines and other tools to uncover even more. He feels a bit silly, mending shirtsleeves when they unveil truths about their seas and their lands.
"Do you have any books on the subject?"
Magnetism. The sea. The sky. The heavens. Whatever it is they're digging into. He will never be an officer, a commander, a captain, a scientist, a skygazer - nor should he be, he was never meant to be. But to understand something that fills Crozier's eyes with wonder and excitement, to watch all of the men at the table chatter excitedly - it might be nice to understand a sliver of it.
A snort, for the storyteller accusation. They both know Crozier detests telling stories, especially his own; they seem alike in this way. Happy to be private, live now, without ghosts manifesting while they're still here.
"You aren't eavesdropping." Crozier makes to stand, putting away his pen nib. "Even if you were on the other side of the door, you wouldn't be."
Because it's his job to listen, but really, he's in the room, and the notion of stewards (or any servant) having to go deaf and blind while their employers (never their betters) go about their business is lunacy. He supposes he'd understand going elsewhere mentally, daydreaming, during a miserable job, but he can't imagine it out of Thomas Jopson.
A small, real smile, for the accepted invitation. Happy about it. And happy to pick out a book for him, too. Erebus has a more impressive library, in terms of numbers of variety of subjects, between the naturalist's collection and the options for pleasure-reading for the crew. But they have a fine one on Terror, too, and the bookshelf in the great cabin holds a number of miserably dry educational tomes. He considers, but quickly— a notion already, and so he finds it quick enough. Star navigation, because it offers a solid introduction to the concepts that build magnetic theory. The way the Earth moves, and the way the Moon and the Sun pull the tides, and the mapping of it all.
"I started hereabouts," he says of the book, moving to join his steward on the bench along the windows. "Granted it's not riveting prose."
"I do my best to stay out of matters that don't involve me, to middling success, sir."
A small smile, but he watches the man move about the cabin, along the shelves of books. Something about Crozier demands attention - perhaps the line of his shoulders, his posture, the air of him. He's impossible to ignore and even now he forgets his sewing work, watching him travel the lines of books. Forgets it further when the man joins him on the bench in the sun - this close the blond looks like strings of burnished gold.
He sets the shirtsleeves aside, careful to tuck the needle into a pin cushion, and reaches for the book. Flipping through its pages, testing the feel of them. In far, far better shape than his worn and tired Dickens.
"It caught your interest didn't it? It can't be terribly dull, then." Another little tease, pleased and bolstered by the Captain's attention. "The only book I have is a Dickens - Pickwick Papers. I'll say anything would be a refreshing read. You likely saw it when you were in my berth. It looks like nothing more than worn sheafs of paper. This is luxurious in comparison."
A glance down to the book, the fine hardbacked cover, the delicate ink on the pages. A very neat, orderly little thing - nothing at all like the little ha'penny serials he would buy when he was younger when his father would shoo him off to have a little bit of fun. Simpler times, certainly.
When you were in my berth. Caught, and that too is pleasing, to be so aware of each other, and find no objection.
"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
Edited (minor wording change to sound more sailory ) 2025-10-31 04:21 (UTC)
"I don't often find myself with a surplus of time to read, but I do on occasion before I sleep. This will be a welcome change."
A small gesture to the book, where he runs a hand over the cover again, smooth and carefully crafted. Jopson wondered about the world when he was younger, when he was starry-eyed and youthful and not yet hindered by the sharp edges of the world. He might have enjoyed this then as much as he enjoyed learning his father's craft. A sponge, waiting to soak up any knowledge someone might offer him.
"And I am empty next to you, sir," he smiles a little, turning to look at him a little better, knocking his knee into the older man's. "Will this book aid in making sense of the madness we face? I think about it sometimes - that we all woke up and chose to sail face first into the blistering cold. For great discovery, of course, to put a man's name on a piece of land, but it's right mad when you think about it."
There's noise up on the deck - men hooting and hollering, a bell ringing somewhere, signaling the men to break. He rather enjoys the sounds of a merry, busy ship.
"So we follow an empty, mad Captain into the sea over and over again. It makes for a very grand story. One I would very much like to read when I am between tasks - well, assuming you stop putting holes in every piece of cloth you own - it's right impressive."
Knee bump for knee bump. Empty-headed, and so good company.
Crozier laughs a little, just a barely-there chuckle. Jopson's right, it is mad. Has always been, and he had known it to be so when he first set foot on Hamadryad, a lifetime ago. It had thrilled him as a boy. It still thrills him, even though he's also found great solace in the brutal order of navy life. Sailing is madness, and a sailor must be a stone in the face of it.
And ordered madness goes on, above them. Around them. Perhaps in here, too, fraternizing far too familiarly. Keenly aware of each other.
"Madness follows its like," he teases. "You're darning socks while floating."
Jopson is literate, skilled, diligent. He doesn't have to work on a ship. They're all loons, out here.
"We learn about humanity while we learn about our world. Technicians, we are, while some men see it as the search for God, and others see it as the search to disprove God. No business of mine, all that. And yours— I'm sure I've got at least some trousers that are unholed."
"You certainly don't want me pulling ropes," he murmurs, laughing at little. He enjoys the work, even if some men frown upon his position here. Laundry, sewing, cleaning, dressing, so on, so forth. "And I think darning socks is more useful in this weather. I refuse to be responsible for the loss of your big toe, sir. Only because I don't think I'd hear the end of it."
Pleasant, all of this. It makes it easier to ignore the pain in his back, the way twisting to look at the man hurts in a new way today as the welts begin to ease and heal. Perhaps if he had a job elsewhere, he'd not have scars or welts but would instead be cold and miserable somewhere else. He'll take the lashes. For this? The ship, his captain? He'd do it again, no questions asked.
"And the only trousers that have survived the times and trials of Captain Francis Crozier would be the ones you're wearing now, sir." A reach, cheeky thing, at the fabric over his thigh where he pinches it, pulls it a little. "I've put patches in all the others so it will be a little more difficult for you to ruin them so quickly."
He smiles, hand drifts away, and he rises, moving to tidy up the table, setting the book in perfect alignment with the corner so he can free his hands up, place a few things back in their places.
"I think next we're landed I will spend my own shillings and pounds to restock your wardrobe for our next leg." Things he may or may not have done before. Who's to say.
Crozier's hand touches his as it withdraws, an incidental, maybe-accidental tease. Oh, hm, dashing away, out of reach. He considers following him, but for now, he stays where he is and watches as Jopson tidies up. So still, when he waits to be called for, but always ready to be in motion. Swift and graceful.
"I'm a sailor."
As if this is enough to explain the state of his clothes— and it is. He may not have the laborious shifts of an able seaman or caulker, but he works. He takes to the rigging when he needs to, he goes to shore on the ice, he hunts, he digs up curious rocks, he walks the deck, every day, every night. But, he demures,
"I have not previously had such attention to my wardrobe. You started with a backlog. And I can only thank you for your care."
Perfectly content to wear his uniform if it's clean and not mind anything past that. He's paid fairly, even generously, and he could wrap himself in luxury if he chose. But he finds no joy in it, and finds better uses for his pay. More practical things, and the excess sent back home. No use for fine shirts, or multiple coats. He gets on. But lately he's been getting on a bit better, because he's had someone who looks after him.
Now, he does stand, and goes to closer observe Jopson's work.
"If you do, I will expense it. It would shame me otherwise."
“Goodness, sir, I hadn’t the slightest that you’re a sailor. What a remarkable accomplishment.”
Cheeky little shit he is. Jopson smirks, knowing and a little playful as he carefully organizes the papers on the desk, then the books, then the writing utensils. Everything has its proper place, one he carefully replaces them to even with Crozier up and drawing closer.
With him, Jopson has never thought twice about nearness, accepting the easy presence of Crozier floating lazily in the sea of his periphery. Some of the books go back to their shelves, others with active notes go to Crozier’s desk, where he leans over the edge to place the documents. It helps that it turns his body into long lines and all strong limbs.
“Let me finish tidying and I’ll ring for some tea for you. Perhaps something a little sweeter today to indulge in the stars.”
He wins himself a very light pinch to his elbow. A bolder man might have tried for his rear (and he is often plenty bold), but they're still being friendly. Jopson has yet to award him with his decision, and Crozier means to keep to his word. The younger man has the say in it.
His steward really is very attractive. He could have his pick of men inclined to it, on the ship, and even among those who usually aren't. Crozier's ego is warmed to know he's in the ranking, even though he knows full well how to pull other men. Easier than women, though he's cautious about who he'll gamble the ruin of his reputation on. Men above his station are safe, mutually assured destruction; molly boys eager to be taken sternly in hand, the other end of that spectrum, safely anonymous.
Jopson is something else.
He likes him.
"As you say."
A lilt of teasing in his voice. Crozier has come to learn there's little arguing with him, but honestly, he likes this. Tea and stars. If Jopson doesn't think to get himself a cup, too, he can share in his commander's.
"Finally you show some sense," he muses, rubbing at the pinched elbow with an easy sort of smile. "I do know what's best for you. Well, so long as it's your tea and nothing else."
He fusses about the room a little more, righting chairs at the great table, wiping the table down with a cloth, even turning everything on the captain's desk to neat, straight piles. Only when he seems satisfied with the state of the room and his sewing is folded and tidied to the end of the bench he sighs. His turn for an elbow, but he squeezes it instead, fingers lingering there until his walk past him draws him away altogether and out the door.
He makes polite conversation as he travels down to fetch a hot kettle. Returns with all the trappings for Crozier's tea. He makes the usual cup, meticulous and with nearly scientific precision, but at the very end he stirs in a dollop of honey. A treat for a colder day, but a good bolster for being out just past dark to keep his good health.
It's incredibly satisfying, caring for someone else. No less someone that occupies his mind majority of the day as it is.
"Here you are, sir," he slides the saucer across to him. "In good preparation for this evening."
He doesn't linger overlong, instead shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a coat hook. he rolls his sleeves up, but it's obvious in the way he moves that his back still stings, a little stiff as he begins to dust the shelves and the mantle. It's performative more than anything, his cleaning - the place is remarkably tidy from days of attention. Instead, it's more that the captain has something to look at and agonize over while he has his sweetened tea.
His choice, the man said. He made his choice what feels like eons ago, but he'd been punished with distance before the lashings. Now he means to gently punish his captain with nearness.
Crozier doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, but a little is just right, and it's bracing for the cold. A nod of thanks and he accepts the cup, holding it a bit just to enjoy the warmth as it comes to consumable temperature. Whilst doing so, he leans a bit against the heavy desk table, still solidly in place. The sea has been cooperative this week, with no need to hook in the ropes.
Jopson cuts an attractive figure, and since he's only pretending to clean, he must not mind an audience. Crozier observes him, accepting the performance and appreciating it— not that the act of cleaning holds any sway. But his stewards his handsome, and well proportioned, and deserving of an admiring stare while they have enough privacy for him to get away with fixing him with one.
To work to be worth it is hardly an agony.
"Come and taste if this is to your liking," he says, and it's more of a coax than an order. Holding the teacup out. He's taken a drink already. "You squirrel away your own preferences too often, while you note mine as sharp as any of the scientists we're to weigh down."
And then he may go back to showing off how nice he looks in his vest.
It isn't all performative - he takes time to arrange the books on the shelves by order of surname, but it's an unnecessary and fruitless task. Someone will come to borrow a work and throw it all out of order once again. But it's a nice, mindless thing, pleasantly existing under the captain's scrutiny, listening to the sounds of him shift his weight, sip the tea, breathe.
Looking over his shoulder, he raises his brows.
"If it is to your liking, then it is to mine, Captain," he muses, a little cheeky as that is what a steward should say. He considers him, the teacup extended, and sighs. One day he'll find a way to say no to this man, but it is not that day at all. He crosses to the table, leans a hip into the edge, takes the cup from him. It's warm, that alone draws a small, pleased little smile.
He looks at Crozier over the cup as he sips from it, not blinking until he swallows, then his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the warmth and the sweetness. "It's a good cup of tea. Is it not to your liking, sir? I can make it less sweet, if you prefer. The honey that Captain Ross brought is far more rich than I am used to."
He steals another sip from the cup before he offers it back to him.
"I'll keep that one and make you another, half the honey this time, if you prefer."
It's Jopson with the sweet tooth - hardly exposed to such things back in London, it's a welcome luxury when he's allowed any sort of sweet or decadent thing. One day he'll even try drinking chocolate - but he'll have to buy chocolate first and that is a coin purse he leaves to last when saving his shillings.
Pretty. It is his mannerisms that make him so, because he is otherwise perfectly masculine; but he wonders if anyone else gets to see him like this. Surely some do. How often? Jopson is good at his job and keeps himself to the peripherals, out from underfoot, and purposefully unremarkable, no matter that he draws the attention of his charge so easily. Crozier wants to touch his chin again, follow that smile, the obvious delight. Perhaps another time.
"Hmm."
As though he needs to test it once more, he takes a sip. Not much in these decorative cups, but that's fine. Keeps it from going cold in this weather if you drink it quick enough.
"I like it for today." Maybe that's a part of the ongoing struggle of his life. Diverse tastes. There's how he usually likes it, but he doesn't hate deviations now and again. (Hah, deviant.) "But why don't you make one up to your own tastes, so that I know? And we'll split that one, too. I can read to you a little about the dreary art of measuring stars, if you like."
They are just messing about, now, doing that thing he should hate and wasting time. But they are living beings here on the ship, as well as professionals. A bit of time can survive the abuse.
"The honey is good for the cold, if we're to stand outside later this evening."
Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
Thoughtful, as ever. Like he is made for it, mapping out his interiority onto his work, onto whomever he is assigned to serve. He thinks of Jopson saying that his captain on Racer was a difficult man— and wonders what that cost him. The exchange must have been worth it for him to continue, and find himself here, exploring as well as serving.
One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
"That would be a waste of good pudding," he muses, thoughtful. "I rather like my pudding solid. Cakes and things. This would be the perfect thing to put me to it the morning."
He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
A subtle shift of weight, which includes flexing his leg to better let Jopson hook his foot around it. Forward of them both, if this were polite society, and not two men only playing at politeness on a ship in uncharted waters at the end of the Earth. No need for this except for the want of it, and Crozier finds he likes that.
Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
There are dozens of things that should have never transpired here in the captain's cabins - the many conversations, the late night talks over tea, the cold strips on his back, the strong hands on his neck, in his hair, this. A delicate dance, and one that Jopson knows the rules to - hooking his foot where there's space made.
Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
Jopson moves to get up, and Crozier brushes a light touch on his forearm as he goes. Looks at him, his expression gentle and fond. Yes, he's welcome to say something. Another time, any time. They will have it, because they have a wealth of moments alone together. More than most can say on a voyage like this.
But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
The dim of evening begins to fall overhead and Jopson makes the appropriate preparations for their little stint out in the gig. The hunk of rock they stop on is no palatial by any means, but enough that they can all have their own ground to stand or sit upon, look across in varying directions. He's packed some food and drink for them to get by on through the evening while the ship drifts some distance away from them, bobbing sleepily in the waters.
He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
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He blushes, a faint thing that mimics the evening before. He could answer now - could spill everything he’s bitten back for months and months now, but tamps it down. Listens, even if the giddy thing knocking about behind his ribs wants otherwise.
“I will give you my answer in a few days’ time,” he repeats, letting the man touch his jaw, his chin. “But forgive me, sir. I must admit it’s impossible for me to hate you for a punishment I earned honest.”
A slip of something less formal, more the man from a poor little apartment in London.
“The pain is merely temporary, after all, but it will not sour a thing. I am above all else honored all the same that I am your steward, sir.”
Honest, open warmth in his face, an adoration making the grey of his eyes shine. He reaches briefly to curl fingers around the man’s wrist, squeezing, intimate in the way his thumb swipes over his pulse point.
But it’s covered, this sweet gesture, as he tugs Crozier’s hand down, adjusts his cuff with a soft huff.
“The whole of the ship will know I did not dress you,” a soft but affectionate complaint. A smoothing of hands ofer the man’s lapel, then fussing with his collar. “But you made a valiant effort, sir. I’ll away to the doctor and return with your breakfast. Or tea at the very least.”
A few days, but he hopes the work of his hands may give a hint of his leanings.
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Perhaps he'll find out. Jopson seems so certain, but he hasn't woken up in his own berth after accidentally rolling onto his back yet. (Speaking of his own berth, Crozier has left it with the sheets done up properly, inspection-tight good enough for any captain he's served under, but will it pass Jopson's? Hm.) He hasn't navigated his place in the crew after that display. He deserves time to think about it. Sit with it.
He palms over his steward's chest, as though checking his buttons. But the weight of it, and the expression on his face, hopefully silently communicates his appreciation. Not sure if he's ever made anyone feel honored.
"Your diligence is above and beyond," Crozier tells him, fond. "You could put a shine on the roughest stone."
A few days. Crozier removes his hands and steps aside, giving him implied permission to leave. At least his steward coming in and out of the captain's quarters is nothing remarkable; a regular occurrence, and perhaps Jopson looks unkempt today because he was beaten the night before. The world continues to turn, the ship continues to sail. They each have plenty to do.
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The sheets smell of Crozier, the pillow case of sweat and musk and spice. He slept in his bunk and gave him the Captain's room instead? He buries his face in against it, breathes deep, hears Crozier's words in his head: I must be careful. When he lets his own hand wander in spite of his fatigue, he imagines it to be the Captain's hand.
A couple of days pass without incident. A few of the men look at him differently, clap him on the arm and encourage him to sit with them. Some brotherhood and camaraderie built where it hadn't been before. Of course Crozier would be right. Even young Mr Chambers seems bolstered by some of the older seamen who have faced punishment for unruly nights.
The afternoon brings a nice ray of sun into the window of Crozier's cabin and he crosses to open the curtains, welcoming it, using the light to better assist hemming one of Crozier's newer shirtsleeves, the tail too long and ill-fitting. The light helps, but it's also warm despite it all, and he feels much like a coy housecat finding a comfortable place to relax.
"I did not appreciate your misplacement of the ink wells, sir," he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other as he starts up another set of stitches. "The bottom of the bookshelf isn't where they're meant to be and I'll be polite and not inquire how they made it there in the first place."
Little things out of place here and there, perhaps from the time lost but a day or so ago though he's beginning to suspect foul play.
"Captain Ross must have though I was mad for my running around when he requested use of one and I had to scour the room like a lost dog on the streets."
Not actually offended - far more teasing than anything. He's quite content where he is, actually.
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He is sure — has been sure for weeks now — that his steward noticed. That it's part of why he's felt able to tease him the way he does, and in turn, respond to the way Francis teases him. It's cheeky, very on the line of his professed I must be careful, to set Jopson up to have to grope for something on hands and knees in front of him and Ross, but he finds himself empty of guilt. A bit thrilling, actually. Particularly when Jamie asks him when they're alone, How's your boy getting you on, sorry, how are you both getting on, and Francis has to threaten to put a gag in his mouth, though of course that just makes him laugh, bright and brilliant like a bell.
Some humor, too, when he finds out discipline has been just as lively on Erebus. It's going to be a maddening push the whole time over these long years, he thinks, but he likes it. Doldrums kill men. Better to be alight, aflame, kinetic.
"He thought you were as sharp-eyed as any crow in the nest," Crozier says. Working on the log book, for now, Ross and his seconds packed away back on the other ship. Comfortable with just the two of them left, and the door closed. "Finding it as you did. Probably one of the mates tucked a stray one there when the boards were being mopped."
Sure.
"You were listening close about some of the figures, I noticed. Would you care to join us tomorrow when the light's lowest? It may be dull, fiddling with all the weights and lines in the water, but the demonstration makes sense of it, I believe."
Speaking of the light, Jopson looks beautiful there, haloed by it. An enjoyable thing to observe, simple in its pleasure.
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The little pot of ink made its way there with some purpose, though the idea that one of the mates tucked it away is nonsense. Particularly when Jopson minds the cleaning of this place like a hawk, and with clear instruction to boot. He raises brows at Crozier, a hint of I know you're up to something in all of it, but it's light. It's been a lovely day tending to Captain Ross and Crozier both - the air in the room warmer and lighter whenever the man comes round. He's seen and heard plenty in his time working with the men, and knew enough even in the beginning to buffet the door against any intruders.
Crozier laughs, bright and open, and there's nothing left to think or discuss. His captain is happy - brilliantly so - when Ross is around, and so in turn he's happy as well. He could sit here in the sun sewing and tending to the tidiness of the room for the rest of his days, talking like this, like the sea isn't roaring outside, like they're on solid ground, far, far from the troubles of England.
"Mm?" A blink, he looks up. "I apologize, sir, I don't mean to eavesdrop when you have guests. I rarely understand what you and the others discuss as it is, but - ah. Yes, I'd like to see it."
The things the men in this room dream up and discover will always seem utterly magical. The way some of the men draw the world around them, the way they twist numbers to make the skies make sense, and now this - weights and lines and other tools to uncover even more. He feels a bit silly, mending shirtsleeves when they unveil truths about their seas and their lands.
"Do you have any books on the subject?"
Magnetism. The sea. The sky. The heavens. Whatever it is they're digging into. He will never be an officer, a commander, a captain, a scientist, a skygazer - nor should he be, he was never meant to be. But to understand something that fills Crozier's eyes with wonder and excitement, to watch all of the men at the table chatter excitedly - it might be nice to understand a sliver of it.
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"You aren't eavesdropping." Crozier makes to stand, putting away his pen nib. "Even if you were on the other side of the door, you wouldn't be."
Because it's his job to listen, but really, he's in the room, and the notion of stewards (or any servant) having to go deaf and blind while their employers (never their betters) go about their business is lunacy. He supposes he'd understand going elsewhere mentally, daydreaming, during a miserable job, but he can't imagine it out of Thomas Jopson.
A small, real smile, for the accepted invitation. Happy about it. And happy to pick out a book for him, too. Erebus has a more impressive library, in terms of numbers of variety of subjects, between the naturalist's collection and the options for pleasure-reading for the crew. But they have a fine one on Terror, too, and the bookshelf in the great cabin holds a number of miserably dry educational tomes. He considers, but quickly— a notion already, and so he finds it quick enough. Star navigation, because it offers a solid introduction to the concepts that build magnetic theory. The way the Earth moves, and the way the Moon and the Sun pull the tides, and the mapping of it all.
"I started hereabouts," he says of the book, moving to join his steward on the bench along the windows. "Granted it's not riveting prose."
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A small smile, but he watches the man move about the cabin, along the shelves of books. Something about Crozier demands attention - perhaps the line of his shoulders, his posture, the air of him. He's impossible to ignore and even now he forgets his sewing work, watching him travel the lines of books. Forgets it further when the man joins him on the bench in the sun - this close the blond looks like strings of burnished gold.
He sets the shirtsleeves aside, careful to tuck the needle into a pin cushion, and reaches for the book. Flipping through its pages, testing the feel of them. In far, far better shape than his worn and tired Dickens.
"It caught your interest didn't it? It can't be terribly dull, then." Another little tease, pleased and bolstered by the Captain's attention. "The only book I have is a Dickens - Pickwick Papers. I'll say anything would be a refreshing read. You likely saw it when you were in my berth. It looks like nothing more than worn sheafs of paper. This is luxurious in comparison."
A glance down to the book, the fine hardbacked cover, the delicate ink on the pages. A very neat, orderly little thing - nothing at all like the little ha'penny serials he would buy when he was younger when his father would shoo him off to have a little bit of fun. Simpler times, certainly.
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"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
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A small gesture to the book, where he runs a hand over the cover again, smooth and carefully crafted. Jopson wondered about the world when he was younger, when he was starry-eyed and youthful and not yet hindered by the sharp edges of the world. He might have enjoyed this then as much as he enjoyed learning his father's craft. A sponge, waiting to soak up any knowledge someone might offer him.
"And I am empty next to you, sir," he smiles a little, turning to look at him a little better, knocking his knee into the older man's. "Will this book aid in making sense of the madness we face? I think about it sometimes - that we all woke up and chose to sail face first into the blistering cold. For great discovery, of course, to put a man's name on a piece of land, but it's right mad when you think about it."
There's noise up on the deck - men hooting and hollering, a bell ringing somewhere, signaling the men to break. He rather enjoys the sounds of a merry, busy ship.
"So we follow an empty, mad Captain into the sea over and over again. It makes for a very grand story. One I would very much like to read when I am between tasks - well, assuming you stop putting holes in every piece of cloth you own - it's right impressive."
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Crozier laughs a little, just a barely-there chuckle. Jopson's right, it is mad. Has always been, and he had known it to be so when he first set foot on Hamadryad, a lifetime ago. It had thrilled him as a boy. It still thrills him, even though he's also found great solace in the brutal order of navy life. Sailing is madness, and a sailor must be a stone in the face of it.
And ordered madness goes on, above them. Around them. Perhaps in here, too, fraternizing far too familiarly. Keenly aware of each other.
"Madness follows its like," he teases. "You're darning socks while floating."
Jopson is literate, skilled, diligent. He doesn't have to work on a ship. They're all loons, out here.
"We learn about humanity while we learn about our world. Technicians, we are, while some men see it as the search for God, and others see it as the search to disprove God. No business of mine, all that. And yours— I'm sure I've got at least some trousers that are unholed."
How very dare you.
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Pleasant, all of this. It makes it easier to ignore the pain in his back, the way twisting to look at the man hurts in a new way today as the welts begin to ease and heal. Perhaps if he had a job elsewhere, he'd not have scars or welts but would instead be cold and miserable somewhere else. He'll take the lashes. For this? The ship, his captain? He'd do it again, no questions asked.
"And the only trousers that have survived the times and trials of Captain Francis Crozier would be the ones you're wearing now, sir." A reach, cheeky thing, at the fabric over his thigh where he pinches it, pulls it a little. "I've put patches in all the others so it will be a little more difficult for you to ruin them so quickly."
He smiles, hand drifts away, and he rises, moving to tidy up the table, setting the book in perfect alignment with the corner so he can free his hands up, place a few things back in their places.
"I think next we're landed I will spend my own shillings and pounds to restock your wardrobe for our next leg." Things he may or may not have done before. Who's to say.
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"I'm a sailor."
As if this is enough to explain the state of his clothes— and it is. He may not have the laborious shifts of an able seaman or caulker, but he works. He takes to the rigging when he needs to, he goes to shore on the ice, he hunts, he digs up curious rocks, he walks the deck, every day, every night. But, he demures,
"I have not previously had such attention to my wardrobe. You started with a backlog. And I can only thank you for your care."
Perfectly content to wear his uniform if it's clean and not mind anything past that. He's paid fairly, even generously, and he could wrap himself in luxury if he chose. But he finds no joy in it, and finds better uses for his pay. More practical things, and the excess sent back home. No use for fine shirts, or multiple coats. He gets on. But lately he's been getting on a bit better, because he's had someone who looks after him.
Now, he does stand, and goes to closer observe Jopson's work.
"If you do, I will expense it. It would shame me otherwise."
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Cheeky little shit he is. Jopson smirks, knowing and a little playful as he carefully organizes the papers on the desk, then the books, then the writing utensils. Everything has its proper place, one he carefully replaces them to even with Crozier up and drawing closer.
With him, Jopson has never thought twice about nearness, accepting the easy presence of Crozier floating lazily in the sea of his periphery. Some of the books go back to their shelves,
others with active notes go to Crozier’s desk, where he leans over the edge to place the documents. It helps that it turns his body into long lines and all strong limbs.
“Let me finish tidying and I’ll ring for some tea for you. Perhaps something a little sweeter today to indulge in the stars.”
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His steward really is very attractive. He could have his pick of men inclined to it, on the ship, and even among those who usually aren't. Crozier's ego is warmed to know he's in the ranking, even though he knows full well how to pull other men. Easier than women, though he's cautious about who he'll gamble the ruin of his reputation on. Men above his station are safe, mutually assured destruction; molly boys eager to be taken sternly in hand, the other end of that spectrum, safely anonymous.
Jopson is something else.
He likes him.
"As you say."
A lilt of teasing in his voice. Crozier has come to learn there's little arguing with him, but honestly, he likes this. Tea and stars. If Jopson doesn't think to get himself a cup, too, he can share in his commander's.
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He fusses about the room a little more, righting chairs at the great table, wiping the table down with a cloth, even turning everything on the captain's desk to neat, straight piles. Only when he seems satisfied with the state of the room and his sewing is folded and tidied to the end of the bench he sighs. His turn for an elbow, but he squeezes it instead, fingers lingering there until his walk past him draws him away altogether and out the door.
He makes polite conversation as he travels down to fetch a hot kettle. Returns with all the trappings for Crozier's tea. He makes the usual cup, meticulous and with nearly scientific precision, but at the very end he stirs in a dollop of honey. A treat for a colder day, but a good bolster for being out just past dark to keep his good health.
It's incredibly satisfying, caring for someone else. No less someone that occupies his mind majority of the day as it is.
"Here you are, sir," he slides the saucer across to him. "In good preparation for this evening."
He doesn't linger overlong, instead shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a coat hook. he rolls his sleeves up, but it's obvious in the way he moves that his back still stings, a little stiff as he begins to dust the shelves and the mantle. It's performative more than anything, his cleaning - the place is remarkably tidy from days of attention. Instead, it's more that the captain has something to look at and agonize over while he has his sweetened tea.
His choice, the man said. He made his choice what feels like eons ago, but he'd been punished with distance before the lashings. Now he means to gently punish his captain with nearness.
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Jopson cuts an attractive figure, and since he's only pretending to clean, he must not mind an audience. Crozier observes him, accepting the performance and appreciating it— not that the act of cleaning holds any sway. But his stewards his handsome, and well proportioned, and deserving of an admiring stare while they have enough privacy for him to get away with fixing him with one.
To work to be worth it is hardly an agony.
"Come and taste if this is to your liking," he says, and it's more of a coax than an order. Holding the teacup out. He's taken a drink already. "You squirrel away your own preferences too often, while you note mine as sharp as any of the scientists we're to weigh down."
And then he may go back to showing off how nice he looks in his vest.
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Looking over his shoulder, he raises his brows.
"If it is to your liking, then it is to mine, Captain," he muses, a little cheeky as that is what a steward should say. He considers him, the teacup extended, and sighs. One day he'll find a way to say no to this man, but it is not that day at all. He crosses to the table, leans a hip into the edge, takes the cup from him. It's warm, that alone draws a small, pleased little smile.
He looks at Crozier over the cup as he sips from it, not blinking until he swallows, then his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the warmth and the sweetness. "It's a good cup of tea. Is it not to your liking, sir? I can make it less sweet, if you prefer. The honey that Captain Ross brought is far more rich than I am used to."
He steals another sip from the cup before he offers it back to him.
"I'll keep that one and make you another, half the honey this time, if you prefer."
It's Jopson with the sweet tooth - hardly exposed to such things back in London, it's a welcome luxury when he's allowed any sort of sweet or decadent thing. One day he'll even try drinking chocolate - but he'll have to buy chocolate first and that is a coin purse he leaves to last when saving his shillings.
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"Hmm."
As though he needs to test it once more, he takes a sip. Not much in these decorative cups, but that's fine. Keeps it from going cold in this weather if you drink it quick enough.
"I like it for today." Maybe that's a part of the ongoing struggle of his life. Diverse tastes. There's how he usually likes it, but he doesn't hate deviations now and again. (Hah, deviant.) "But why don't you make one up to your own tastes, so that I know? And we'll split that one, too. I can read to you a little about the dreary art of measuring stars, if you like."
They are just messing about, now, doing that thing he should hate and wasting time. But they are living beings here on the ship, as well as professionals. A bit of time can survive the abuse.
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Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
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One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
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He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
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Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
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Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
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But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
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He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
See? He's paying attention.
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i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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