Thomas pets Crozier's cheek, thumbing over his mouth and that lopsided smile. It's a handsome thing, his smile, and he feels quite proud to have earned it here in the quiet of the man's berth. He snorts, however, a little sheepish after.
"You did not neglect me, sir," he counters, insistent, reaching to smooth a lock of hair away from his brow, tidying his own appearance by habit alone. "It was a boyish idea, perhaps, but it took hold of me."
He smooths his hand over Crozier's neck, shoulder, to the crook of his elbow, squeezing softly, still a little subconsciously needy for contact, connection. His free hand loops around Crozier's neck, keeping them close in the small quarter. They have things to do, jobs to attend, but he's still radiating with the pleasant, peaceful energy this man has left him with.
"Are you well?"
He hasn't asked it, not directly, and until now, couldn't. There's light cutting through the fog, clearing it away from the edges of his thoughts and bringing him back into himself. "I wish to help you as you have helped me, sir, if you need it."
He'll hold his hand through it, pet his hair, let him rest, anything to bring him the same peace.
His smile widens as Jopson investigates it, and he's sure it makes him look foolish. Difficult to restrain, though. It's simply the right mood for it. He smooths his hands over Jopson's back, wordlessly reassuring him that he's alright here, that his clinging is welcome. Because Crozier's certain he needs it, or he wouldn't be reaching for him this way— he's ordinarily tightly laced to his schedule, his duty. It feels good, to let him inhabit something else for a while.
"You've allowed me to shepherd you through whatever you've been feeling," he tells him, "and it's pleased me greatly. Your idea wasn't very boyish at all. A good one, rather. As ever, your timing is impeccable."
A needle to be threaded, finding an aperture for anything at sea.
"And knowing I've helped you makes it even sweeter." Here, he brings one hand forward so that he can cradle Jopson's face. "Let me continue. Let me mind you 'til you bed down."
The very thought of leaving the great cabin, leaving Crozier to do other work feels utterly impossible. He will have to, of course - they cannot simply live in this gentle sphere they've made in the last few hours. They have duties and tasks to attend to in time, and neglecting them only promises more work later.
But - later, all the same. Later still when his Captain touches him so sweetly. He tilts his head into the touch, a slow blink following. Duty be damned, he could rest here for the remainder of their night if given the chance. All of this - pleased me greatly, timing is impeccable, knowing i've helped you - he'll remember, and plaster onto the walls in the back of his mind, clinging to the warm lilt of his voice or the broad and crooked smile.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, reaching a hand to press over Crozier's against his cheek. "Of course. Let me make your tea at the very least. I'd like to, very much."
Serving him tea, preparing it and seeing him indulge will be reward enough, wanting to somehow share the sleepy, relaxed, warm energy with him in any way he can.
Perhaps if they were somewhere stable on leave, whiling away the hours in complete privacy, he might guide him to bed and ask to take him. Slow and gentle, telling him how good he's been the whole time. But it's not to be, and the mood doesn't sink its fingers into him with those thoughts— not even when he kisses him, warm and affectionate. Crozier's content with this.
"Very well, Jopson."
Soft and intimate. Another kiss. Maybe a few more, though eventually, he does help his steward to his feet. Keen to make sure he doesn't stumble over pillow or blanket in his dazed state, he hoists them up, ever keeping one hand on the young man. As though he might fall over, though really, it's that he's unwilling to let him go too far. Not the hard physical lead of hours before, just attention. But he does loose him for tea, and busies himself resettling his work. A knock at the door comes — speaking of impeccable timing — and for a few minutes, Crozier speaks with McMurdo about some work being done on the rigging.
After, alone again, he returns to Jopson's side, hand at the small of his back.
Making tea for the man is no grand affair, nor has it ever been, but walking through the berth and great cabin with the Captain so close - it's difficult to focus. Not distracted by carnal things or any other great feeling, but his presence just now utterly disarms him, lets his shoulders round, lets his mind wander, allowing even the most mundane task feel as though it's suspended in honey, thick and sweet and ambered.
Answering the door for McMurdo is a function of muscle memory while the water boils, and seeing him out (and latching the door) another function in a line of many. Things he's done countless hours and days at sea and have given little thought to. His body keeps the score - squared shoulder, passive face, a polite greeting, standing still near the door.
Much the same he returns to his task, and just as he reaches for the kettle, he pauses. The hand at his back, the warmth of the man's body close to his scrubs away the steward all over again like it'd been some heavy armor to don every time a bell rings or a door knocks. The water needs time to cool to a drinkable state, anyway, and so he turns into the man, nuzzling his face in against his neck, leaning into him.
"Would you like honey in your tea today, sir?"
A question he'd never bother asking otherwise, but one that gives him a few seconds more to soak up his warmth, to feel the rumble of his voice against his cheek.
A soft exhale, like a pleased laugh, when Jopson turns into him so immediately. Crozier winds his arms around him. So unlike Jamie, who will push and tease and demand, drive Francis mad— it's neither good nor bad, just different; the binding thread is this near-painful affection.
"Good for my health, isn't it?" No sweet tooth, he has, but he'll make an exception because he knows Jopson likes it, and especially likes it when he gets to finish the cup, with the lion's share of the sugar settled to the bottom. "Today, I will."
Purely for the purpose of handing it off to him when he's halfway through. Until then: he holds him, sways a little when he opts to fetch a different ledger full of notes traded between them and Erebus, and stays to hover close when Jopson moves to prepare the tea.
A sway, arms around him, the pleased sigh - Jopson could sail in these fragments for days and days. It's warm, comfortable, safe. A safety that outside of this room with its locked door could get them killed - ironic, all of it. But those thoughts go away easily as he prepares tea for Crozier, pleased to add a little honey to the concoction.
There are a dozen things he should be doing, like inventories, mending, some cleaning, and yet he feels no urgency at all. Like the driving machine somewhere inside of him has slowed to a pleasant and easy lull. Losing steam, but not to his detriment.
"I don't want be a distraction from your work, sir. I know there is plenty to be done."
If he wanted to settle back down at his feet, nuzzle into his side and thigh and close his eyes - would Crozier let him?
"Let me bring you the tea first and once you're comfortable, I'll join you."
"Our hours of easy sailing are to be savored however we like," he tells him. As far as distractions go, he is happy about this one, and would rather have it while they can. Soon, something will pull them away from it. He can make up any missed time, and would have even if the time was missed over something else.
He gives Jopson is freedom to manage the laborious task of tea, and then goes to straighten out his desk again. Makes sure the blanket is folded and out of the way; he leaves it and the pillow out. Neither encouraging nor discouraging— preferring to let Jopson choose which path he's most comfortable with. Crozier has encountered this response before, or at least, he thinks so. It's not exactly like some of the things he's seen (induced, in some cases, observed in others), the way Jopson takes to it is like warm butter, easy as anything. Some pleasant meeting between exhaustion and a trance. Best just to look after him.
Tea steeping, he goes about tidying, though it’s a slow and languid process compared to his usual line of work. But there’s tea to fetch and an urge to close his eyes and settle a while longer that draws him back to Crozier’s side, setting the cup and its saucer down for him.
“Here you are, sir. I was mindful of the honey, I know you’re not one for it to be too sweet.”
Even if he does enjoy the dregs of Crozier’s tea most times it’s offered, the sugar concentrated and sticky in the bottom of the cup. Small favors.
“Did you pen the boring report, sir? Or was it from Erebus? Some of them are quite serious, sir.”
There’s a little fussing about the berth - tidying and smoothing the bed covers, making certain the drawers are shut and latched, even straightening the captains secondary boots. Orderly. Pleasing.
Then and only then he returns to to the Captain’s side, gathers the pillow and settles back to the floor, leaning his cheek in against his thigh.
“I’ll complete my tasks, sir, just a few minutes more. I’ll hear the report, if you’d like? Or shall I read it to you, sir?”
For the tea, and for all else. He hums his approval, and feels a further swell of it when Jopson settles himself back on the floor. Crozier would never ask him to do it, but it makes him happy that it makes him happy, and it allows him such easy access to stroke his hair and feel his presence against him.
"I can read it," he assures him. "And don't worry, it's not from over-serious Erebus. Though you might be kinder to them, they have far better books. If I produce any novels for you to read, I'll have poached them from their library, not ours. Did you finish Frankenstein?"
"I am always kind to them, sir. They are our flagship, after all, and will have no reason to suspect anything. Unless you tell them, sir."
There's the faintest pinch to the back of his calf, a little teasing jab simply because he can here in their private little world. He enjoys the nearness even if he knows that from the outside it must look strange, two grown men sitting this way. The idea he could set his head in Crozier's lap and enjoy his company in quiet is a welcome, comforting one.
His eyes drift shut and he hums, thoughtful.
"I did and it was excellent, sir. Some of it a little above my understanding, but I look forward to seeing if Miss Shelley has written anything new when we return to England, sir."
Not that he could even begin to think about purchasing a new release from someone so talented, but it's a pleasant goal to have.
"I'm quite happy reading about your stars and magnetism in the meantime, Captain."
"You must let me know if there's any sailing bits in it you need explained."
As that's all he'd be good for. Utterly lost about the gothic romanticism of it all, genres which have thoroughly missed him; no time for any of it, and little ability to judge quality. Crozier knows himself well enough, knows he'd accept tripe and find it indistinguishable from high art, and so has decided that whole world of literature is simply none of his business.
Fingers card through Jopson's hair. You really are made of luck, he tells himself. Still alive, and right here.
Hard to imagine, sometimes, that proposals and promotions matter at all. They do, of course. But they don't have to for right now. He does ultimately read some of the report out, in between making notations; mostly he thinks out loud about a particular mystery of a reading, using Jopson as a sounding board, even if his steward is still half-dozing.
Unforgotten: the tea, and making sure Jopson gets some.
Jopson drifts in and out of the moment, nuzzling into Crozier's thigh and listening to him read. Occasionally he'll comment - you're certain this isn't from Erebus, sir? - to tease in a quiet, lazy way. The sounds of Crozier reading and working will always be pleasant and familiar, comforting as it encompasses much of his time here on the ship. Difficult to imagine a life outside of this moment, the nearness and softness, the ease they've developed that's slowly morphed into warm safety.
What would a life with Francis Crozier look like if it was an option to begin with?
But the bell rings, the ship's commotion slowly bleeds into the edges of their little bubble, gently stirring Thomas back into reality. There are things to do - meals, cleaning, inventory, preparing for the evening. He takes his time with the tea, instead, enjoying the sweet hit of honey at the end, a simply indulgence he's grateful the man allows him.
Jopson can hear the approaching officers' boots not far outside the great cabin and he leaves their moment with a soft, languid kiss. The door is locked, they have a few moments to spare and so he lingers until the knock sounds. Indeed, a few lieutenants for a meeting about the Falklands and the ball, about Erebus... and Jopson quietly excuses himself once the men have their meals and drinks sorted. Back to his berth, he sits on the edge of his bunk, rifles through some lists and paperwork, but ultimately comes back to reading a book on stars he found in the great cabin some days ago.
Relaxed, boots off, he makes a mental not to return and check on the officers and Captain in due time. What he doesn't count on is the way his eyes drift shut, relaxed and worn, far less present than he'd been in the great cabin - he doesn't even hear the end of the meal, the shift change, book falling loose into his lap.
It's no trouble at all to call on another steward; Crozier keeps tabs on Jopson, even when he doesn't appear to be doing so. In conversation as dinner is put away, he asks Cotter if anyone's seemed under the weather lately. Fully aware that this will cover any curiosity about Jopson's absence, with enough of the men present quick enough to catch the implication that he's given his steward the night off because he looked peaky. The worst Jopson will suffer is Phillips checking in on him tomorrow, but fortunately, it will have been a false alarm.
No harm in an evening's early rest. Every man in need is afforded the luxury if the state of the ship makes it possible, and they are operating plenty well. Crozier declines any help getting off to bed, though, and Dr Robertson teases him mildly about it, remembering his opposition to having a personal steward in the first place. Will every steward have to be put to the nautical Labours of Heracles as young Mr Jopson did, before they're qualified to serve him? Crozier tells him yes, and Robertson chuckles.
There are scheduled times for shipwide inspections, now is not one of them; still, the sight of Crozier moving about Terror to take stock and crew moral temperature is not too unusual. Conducting it as primary shifts wind down lends some privacy to the whole affair, with seamen taking the over'night' shifts getting the opportunity to interact with their commander, and for him to acknowledge them. A change of pace, for how he spends most of his time with officers.
And so he finds himself at the lead steward's cabin, with its folding door. A light knock as he pushes at it, polite, and he pauses there when he sees him as he is, asleep. Good, good. He'll just move in far enough to twist the lantern out, and be on his way.
Growing up with younger siblings means he's a light sleeper, and it proved useful when he was younger, chasing after his sisters or brother when they made it free from their cradle or bed. Always an early riser, though - his mother always teased that she'd go to find him come morning and he'd be bright-eyed and awake. It's a pleasant dream that catches him as he dozes, his mother with one of his sisters on her hip and his father helping him get ready for the day.
The knock at the door doesn't faze him at first, almost like someone knocking on the rickety door of his home, but something about the tilt of the room, the creak of floorboards, and -
"Sorry, I-"
A sleepy muttering as he sits up a little straighter, blinks awake but with heavy eyes, the book falling from his lap and to the floor.
"Captain - my apologies. I-"
But even his panic is subdued, different from the man that lost himself in a book at dinner. "I wasn't meant to be gone so long."
Bit of a start, but not too much. Crozier bends to rescue the book (notes it, feels a squeeze in his chest), which is then tucked into the small cupboard. Probably the wrong place for it, Jopson is so orderly and particular, but maybe it's near enough to get on with.
"Nothing burned down without you, this time." He steps a little further in. Can't risk closing the door behind him, it would look awfully strange, but they're secluded enough. Behind the mast is quiet, and far less trafficked. "All is well?"
Near him, he reaches out, skims a touch over one forearm.
A strange sight, the Captain in his berth. Though he's fortunate to have a cabin of any kind, really, and he finds he's even more fortunate now. Thankfully it's quiet, and it usually is with the men knowing the Captain's steward is sleeping just round the bend.
The book replaced (not at all where he'd usually keep it but decides now that it will be), he blinks up at the man, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"All is well, sir," he murmurs, a little nod. He turns in his bunk, but this only allows him to turn his hand upward so that he may press gently against the man's wrist when it passes. The close and intimate world of the great cabin a far cry from this with the door open behind Crozier and the possibility of men moving about nearby.
"I hope your dinner was satisfactory, sir?" He turns in his berth now, swinging his legs over properly to face the man and to close some of the distance between them in a way that doesn't look untoward from the outside. "I need just a moment to gather myself and I will see you prepared for your rest, sir."
They're just talking in here, nothing suspicious at all. Done plenty aboard; as long as they aren't whispering, no one will hear. (Whispering is far more tempting to eavesdroppers, on a ship, on land, anywhere.)
A nod, about dinner. Thomas saw the first half of it anyway, and nothing dire occurred without him. Perhaps the other stewards might start to slack beneath his high standards given a length of time unsupervised, but a quarter of a shift is not long enough to stray.
"Ah, but you have the evening off on account of being the faintest bit peaky," he 'reminds' him. "I'd be a tyrant to put you back to work. So you see, I'm the one preparing you for sleep, this evening."
Crozier raises a hand to rest on his shoulder, and thumbs over the seam of his shirt. He can't exactly undress him, that would be absurdly beyond the pale if anyone were to pass by— but he does want to see him. Feel him. Make sure he's well, and ground himself with the contact. He hasn't achieved the same trancelike state Jopson found himself in, but there's still a sense that if he doesn't assure himself that his lover is content, he might go very off-kilter. Rousing him to put him back to work, then letting him walk away after he's in his own bed, no. Doesn't sit right.
"Ah, yes. I suppose it's made me go forgetful, feeling peaky, sir. We are saved from the tyrant after all."
Jopson smiles, but the grounding hand on his shoulder does something to ease him, rounding his shoulders, warming his expression. He wants to touch him, wants to lean into him as he had but a couple of hours ago but it isn't safe here. Ridiculous that it isn't safe to find a hearth in another man, but it's an absurdity he knows they'll live with the rest of their lives.
"Which steward was looking after you, Captain? They've allowed you to leave with your coat out of sorts, sir, you'll catch cold."
An excuse, but the sternness in his voice is something others have heard - and certainly the officers' stewards. He reaches to smooth his fingers over the Captain's hand, up beneath his sleeve, skin to skin. Anyone passing by might see a fussy steward setting his captain's sleeve to rights. Something else he's certainly done just out of eyeshot before.
"I'll speak with them in the morning, sir - if they are careless with you then they may be neglecting their own charge." A soft squeeze at his fingers then he does properly tug at his sleeve, straightening it.
Crozier returns his smile, pleased with the conspiratorial banter. Quick on the uptake, even if he's still sleepy. A kind of sleepy that makes him want to pull Jopson into his arms and hold him, keep him there until further notice. But it isn't to be— bittersweet, because while he could complain and rail about the injustice of it all, it is this line of work that's let them meet each other. And even men courting young ladies still have to go to bloody work.
Instead, he lets the hand on Jopson's shoulder stray higher, so that he can rub his jaw with his knuckles while the steward fusses over his uniform.
"They do their best," he says. "You know how particular I am. I can surely keep without being dressed until the morning."
An obvious translation: no other steward was looking after him. Only Jopson will do.
Smoothing out the thick fabric of the captain's coat, he tilts his head as though investigating a loose thread or button, but instead simply allows himself a discreet lean into the man's touch.
"Of course, sir, but I'll speak with them about their attentiveness all the same."
Dropping his hands he reaches for the front of the Captain's coat, smoothing hands over the front.
"Apologies, sir - there's a button loose. Give me a moment?"
An easy distraction to gather needle and thread, neither of which is needed when he simply wants to rest a hand against the man's chest, keep his fingers curled into the warm fabric. "It won't take but a minute, sir."
He spreads a palm just beneath the man's sternum, warm and pleasant. Nearness like this is playing with fire, but their station allows these small comforts, the reprieve from what would be judgement otherwise. Of course a steward like Jopson will fuss and insist upon fixing a button the moment he finds the flaw. He's sure even Ross would believe it at first sight.
Just a moment more, he hopes his touch says. "I'm already on the mend, sir, so I'll check your other warm garments come morning."
I'm well, I'm okay - everything else he wishes he could say.
Out of view of any passersby, Crozier rests his other hand on Jopson's knee as he waits out this inspection. Happy for it. The touch settles him, and he hopes it settles Jopson, too. He should lower his hand from his face, but it's easy enough to say it looks like he's merely holding a sleeve up. If they're even visible, which they may not be. A dim corner, this berth, cozy as it is. Crozier didn't mind his night in it, like he hadn't minded any of his nights in a lieutenant's berth. Still. He will continue to ensure his steward works where there's better light, and spare his eyes.
"The lack of day and night cycle catches up to all men," he muses. "You'll sleep a while yet and feel right as rain, I reckon."
Jopson did need something, he supposes. Rest in a fashion. Crozier has never seen him so relaxed— even now, in the gentle dregs of it, so serene.
Thomas wants desperately to cling to whatever this soft, warm thing is between them just now. The wealth of their evening spent in it, enjoying one another in a way they haven't yet. A new adventure, one that he knows now will leave a brand somewhere deep in his chest. Yes, a little sleep and he'll feel better come morning. Thomas smooths his hand up and down the center of the older man's chest until it comes to rest over his heart. A good feeling, the steady beat of strong muscle beneath.
"You're the Captain of this vessel, sir, you have no muster to pass. You set the standard by title alone."
Okay, now he's being a little cheeky, but he drops his hand away and it's shielded by the width of the man's chest thankfully, when he tips his head and brushes his lips over the man's knuckles.
"But I suppose it is safe to say this passes for the evening, yes. I'll right it all in the morning, sir."
The lightest pinch for his knee. Pushing it, Mr Jopson. But he's got his uneven smile, the honest one.
That small almost-kiss turns his stomach, in a good way. A knot, ribbons tied tight, over the feelings he has for him. No thoughts come to chastise him for it, no internal mediation; tonight is just for them. He can permit himself the indulgence, and hold this feeling while it lasts. Jopson has the euphoric trance and this afterglow, and he has this peaceful, protective fantasy.
"Get some rest," he tells him. "My hems will keep."
A small sigh, knowing he must leave momentarily. Still. A beat, reluctance, and after brief consideration— Crozier leans in, just so, and brushes a kiss across his forehead. Hyper-aware of no sounds around them except for the owner of the berth beside changing bed linens. Good, because it means he's not in the hall.
Crozier straightens up, and brings both hands to Jopson's shoulders for a would-be-brotherly squeeze. There we are. All sorted.
Lines crossed on the battlefield, where anyone could stumble or see, and Jopson knows he won't forget the feeling of that light kiss. That this moment will always be precious and perfect for the risks they've both taken. He smiles up at Crozier after, sweet and open and honest.
"I wish you a good night's sleep, sir."
Difficult to watch him go, but as the ship sways on the sea, there is always a beginning and an end to a journey.
Morning brings new light and energy to his limbs and he's up sooner than usual, cleaning himself up (and taking a moment to admire the bruise on his leg that aches dully when pressed) and preparing for the day. He does his inventory in the early hours, noted by McMurdo who seems a little dumbfounded the lead steward is up and about so early.
It means he can collect breakfast just as soon as it's hot and ready to take to the Captain's quarters. A few greetings, a few reassurances that he's feeling better it must have been a chill yes Roberston looked him over and whatnot. He slips into the great cabin quietly, unsure if the Captain himself has woken yet, but setting the meal down he latches the door and approaches Crozier's berth. He almost feels a pinch of guilt for waking him when he gives a soft nod.
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"You did not neglect me, sir," he counters, insistent, reaching to smooth a lock of hair away from his brow, tidying his own appearance by habit alone. "It was a boyish idea, perhaps, but it took hold of me."
He smooths his hand over Crozier's neck, shoulder, to the crook of his elbow, squeezing softly, still a little subconsciously needy for contact, connection. His free hand loops around Crozier's neck, keeping them close in the small quarter. They have things to do, jobs to attend, but he's still radiating with the pleasant, peaceful energy this man has left him with.
"Are you well?"
He hasn't asked it, not directly, and until now, couldn't. There's light cutting through the fog, clearing it away from the edges of his thoughts and bringing him back into himself. "I wish to help you as you have helped me, sir, if you need it."
He'll hold his hand through it, pet his hair, let him rest, anything to bring him the same peace.
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"You've allowed me to shepherd you through whatever you've been feeling," he tells him, "and it's pleased me greatly. Your idea wasn't very boyish at all. A good one, rather. As ever, your timing is impeccable."
A needle to be threaded, finding an aperture for anything at sea.
"And knowing I've helped you makes it even sweeter." Here, he brings one hand forward so that he can cradle Jopson's face. "Let me continue. Let me mind you 'til you bed down."
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But - later, all the same. Later still when his Captain touches him so sweetly. He tilts his head into the touch, a slow blink following. Duty be damned, he could rest here for the remainder of their night if given the chance. All of this - pleased me greatly, timing is impeccable, knowing i've helped you - he'll remember, and plaster onto the walls in the back of his mind, clinging to the warm lilt of his voice or the broad and crooked smile.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, reaching a hand to press over Crozier's against his cheek. "Of course. Let me make your tea at the very least. I'd like to, very much."
Serving him tea, preparing it and seeing him indulge will be reward enough, wanting to somehow share the sleepy, relaxed, warm energy with him in any way he can.
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"Very well, Jopson."
Soft and intimate. Another kiss. Maybe a few more, though eventually, he does help his steward to his feet. Keen to make sure he doesn't stumble over pillow or blanket in his dazed state, he hoists them up, ever keeping one hand on the young man. As though he might fall over, though really, it's that he's unwilling to let him go too far. Not the hard physical lead of hours before, just attention. But he does loose him for tea, and busies himself resettling his work. A knock at the door comes — speaking of impeccable timing — and for a few minutes, Crozier speaks with McMurdo about some work being done on the rigging.
After, alone again, he returns to Jopson's side, hand at the small of his back.
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Answering the door for McMurdo is a function of muscle memory while the water boils, and seeing him out (and latching the door) another function in a line of many. Things he's done countless hours and days at sea and have given little thought to. His body keeps the score - squared shoulder, passive face, a polite greeting, standing still near the door.
Much the same he returns to his task, and just as he reaches for the kettle, he pauses. The hand at his back, the warmth of the man's body close to his scrubs away the steward all over again like it'd been some heavy armor to don every time a bell rings or a door knocks. The water needs time to cool to a drinkable state, anyway, and so he turns into the man, nuzzling his face in against his neck, leaning into him.
"Would you like honey in your tea today, sir?"
A question he'd never bother asking otherwise, but one that gives him a few seconds more to soak up his warmth, to feel the rumble of his voice against his cheek.
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"Good for my health, isn't it?" No sweet tooth, he has, but he'll make an exception because he knows Jopson likes it, and especially likes it when he gets to finish the cup, with the lion's share of the sugar settled to the bottom. "Today, I will."
Purely for the purpose of handing it off to him when he's halfway through. Until then: he holds him, sways a little when he opts to fetch a different ledger full of notes traded between them and Erebus, and stays to hover close when Jopson moves to prepare the tea.
"Would you like to pull a chair in for yourself?"
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A sway, arms around him, the pleased sigh - Jopson could sail in these fragments for days and days. It's warm, comfortable, safe. A safety that outside of this room with its locked door could get them killed - ironic, all of it. But those thoughts go away easily as he prepares tea for Crozier, pleased to add a little honey to the concoction.
There are a dozen things he should be doing, like inventories, mending, some cleaning, and yet he feels no urgency at all. Like the driving machine somewhere inside of him has slowed to a pleasant and easy lull. Losing steam, but not to his detriment.
"I don't want be a distraction from your work, sir. I know there is plenty to be done."
If he wanted to settle back down at his feet, nuzzle into his side and thigh and close his eyes - would Crozier let him?
"Let me bring you the tea first and once you're comfortable, I'll join you."
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He gives Jopson is freedom to manage the laborious task of tea, and then goes to straighten out his desk again. Makes sure the blanket is folded and out of the way; he leaves it and the pillow out. Neither encouraging nor discouraging— preferring to let Jopson choose which path he's most comfortable with. Crozier has encountered this response before, or at least, he thinks so. It's not exactly like some of the things he's seen (induced, in some cases, observed in others), the way Jopson takes to it is like warm butter, easy as anything. Some pleasant meeting between exhaustion and a trance. Best just to look after him.
"Shall I read you this very boring report?"
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“Here you are, sir. I was mindful of the honey, I know you’re not one for it to be too sweet.”
Even if he does enjoy the dregs of Crozier’s tea most times it’s offered, the sugar concentrated and sticky in the bottom of the cup. Small favors.
“Did you pen the boring report, sir? Or was it from Erebus? Some of them are quite serious, sir.”
There’s a little fussing about the berth - tidying and smoothing the bed covers, making certain the drawers are shut and latched, even straightening the captains secondary boots. Orderly. Pleasing.
Then and only then he returns to to the Captain’s side, gathers the pillow and settles back to the floor, leaning his cheek in against his thigh.
“I’ll complete my tasks, sir, just a few minutes more. I’ll hear the report, if you’d like? Or shall I read it to you, sir?”
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For the tea, and for all else. He hums his approval, and feels a further swell of it when Jopson settles himself back on the floor. Crozier would never ask him to do it, but it makes him happy that it makes him happy, and it allows him such easy access to stroke his hair and feel his presence against him.
"I can read it," he assures him. "And don't worry, it's not from over-serious Erebus. Though you might be kinder to them, they have far better books. If I produce any novels for you to read, I'll have poached them from their library, not ours. Did you finish Frankenstein?"
He'll get around to the report in a minute.
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There's the faintest pinch to the back of his calf, a little teasing jab simply because he can here in their private little world. He enjoys the nearness even if he knows that from the outside it must look strange, two grown men sitting this way. The idea he could set his head in Crozier's lap and enjoy his company in quiet is a welcome, comforting one.
His eyes drift shut and he hums, thoughtful.
"I did and it was excellent, sir. Some of it a little above my understanding, but I look forward to seeing if Miss Shelley has written anything new when we return to England, sir."
Not that he could even begin to think about purchasing a new release from someone so talented, but it's a pleasant goal to have.
"I'm quite happy reading about your stars and magnetism in the meantime, Captain."
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As that's all he'd be good for. Utterly lost about the gothic romanticism of it all, genres which have thoroughly missed him; no time for any of it, and little ability to judge quality. Crozier knows himself well enough, knows he'd accept tripe and find it indistinguishable from high art, and so has decided that whole world of literature is simply none of his business.
Fingers card through Jopson's hair. You really are made of luck, he tells himself. Still alive, and right here.
Hard to imagine, sometimes, that proposals and promotions matter at all. They do, of course. But they don't have to for right now. He does ultimately read some of the report out, in between making notations; mostly he thinks out loud about a particular mystery of a reading, using Jopson as a sounding board, even if his steward is still half-dozing.
Unforgotten: the tea, and making sure Jopson gets some.
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What would a life with Francis Crozier look like if it was an option to begin with?
But the bell rings, the ship's commotion slowly bleeds into the edges of their little bubble, gently stirring Thomas back into reality. There are things to do - meals, cleaning, inventory, preparing for the evening. He takes his time with the tea, instead, enjoying the sweet hit of honey at the end, a simply indulgence he's grateful the man allows him.
Jopson can hear the approaching officers' boots not far outside the great cabin and he leaves their moment with a soft, languid kiss. The door is locked, they have a few moments to spare and so he lingers until the knock sounds. Indeed, a few lieutenants for a meeting about the Falklands and the ball, about Erebus... and Jopson quietly excuses himself once the men have their meals and drinks sorted. Back to his berth, he sits on the edge of his bunk, rifles through some lists and paperwork, but ultimately comes back to reading a book on stars he found in the great cabin some days ago.
Relaxed, boots off, he makes a mental not to return and check on the officers and Captain in due time. What he doesn't count on is the way his eyes drift shut, relaxed and worn, far less present than he'd been in the great cabin - he doesn't even hear the end of the meal, the shift change, book falling loose into his lap.
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No harm in an evening's early rest. Every man in need is afforded the luxury if the state of the ship makes it possible, and they are operating plenty well. Crozier declines any help getting off to bed, though, and Dr Robertson teases him mildly about it, remembering his opposition to having a personal steward in the first place. Will every steward have to be put to the nautical Labours of Heracles as young Mr Jopson did, before they're qualified to serve him? Crozier tells him yes, and Robertson chuckles.
There are scheduled times for shipwide inspections, now is not one of them; still, the sight of Crozier moving about Terror to take stock and crew moral temperature is not too unusual. Conducting it as primary shifts wind down lends some privacy to the whole affair, with seamen taking the over'night' shifts getting the opportunity to interact with their commander, and for him to acknowledge them. A change of pace, for how he spends most of his time with officers.
And so he finds himself at the lead steward's cabin, with its folding door. A light knock as he pushes at it, polite, and he pauses there when he sees him as he is, asleep. Good, good. He'll just move in far enough to twist the lantern out, and be on his way.
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The knock at the door doesn't faze him at first, almost like someone knocking on the rickety door of his home, but something about the tilt of the room, the creak of floorboards, and -
"Sorry, I-"
A sleepy muttering as he sits up a little straighter, blinks awake but with heavy eyes, the book falling from his lap and to the floor.
"Captain - my apologies. I-"
But even his panic is subdued, different from the man that lost himself in a book at dinner. "I wasn't meant to be gone so long."
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Bit of a start, but not too much. Crozier bends to rescue the book (notes it, feels a squeeze in his chest), which is then tucked into the small cupboard. Probably the wrong place for it, Jopson is so orderly and particular, but maybe it's near enough to get on with.
"Nothing burned down without you, this time." He steps a little further in. Can't risk closing the door behind him, it would look awfully strange, but they're secluded enough. Behind the mast is quiet, and far less trafficked. "All is well?"
Near him, he reaches out, skims a touch over one forearm.
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The book replaced (not at all where he'd usually keep it but decides now that it will be), he blinks up at the man, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"All is well, sir," he murmurs, a little nod. He turns in his bunk, but this only allows him to turn his hand upward so that he may press gently against the man's wrist when it passes. The close and intimate world of the great cabin a far cry from this with the door open behind Crozier and the possibility of men moving about nearby.
"I hope your dinner was satisfactory, sir?" He turns in his berth now, swinging his legs over properly to face the man and to close some of the distance between them in a way that doesn't look untoward from the outside. "I need just a moment to gather myself and I will see you prepared for your rest, sir."
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A nod, about dinner. Thomas saw the first half of it anyway, and nothing dire occurred without him. Perhaps the other stewards might start to slack beneath his high standards given a length of time unsupervised, but a quarter of a shift is not long enough to stray.
"Ah, but you have the evening off on account of being the faintest bit peaky," he 'reminds' him. "I'd be a tyrant to put you back to work. So you see, I'm the one preparing you for sleep, this evening."
Crozier raises a hand to rest on his shoulder, and thumbs over the seam of his shirt. He can't exactly undress him, that would be absurdly beyond the pale if anyone were to pass by— but he does want to see him. Feel him. Make sure he's well, and ground himself with the contact. He hasn't achieved the same trancelike state Jopson found himself in, but there's still a sense that if he doesn't assure himself that his lover is content, he might go very off-kilter. Rousing him to put him back to work, then letting him walk away after he's in his own bed, no. Doesn't sit right.
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Jopson smiles, but the grounding hand on his shoulder does something to ease him, rounding his shoulders, warming his expression. He wants to touch him, wants to lean into him as he had but a couple of hours ago but it isn't safe here. Ridiculous that it isn't safe to find a hearth in another man, but it's an absurdity he knows they'll live with the rest of their lives.
"Which steward was looking after you, Captain? They've allowed you to leave with your coat out of sorts, sir, you'll catch cold."
An excuse, but the sternness in his voice is something others have heard - and certainly the officers' stewards. He reaches to smooth his fingers over the Captain's hand, up beneath his sleeve, skin to skin. Anyone passing by might see a fussy steward setting his captain's sleeve to rights. Something else he's certainly done just out of eyeshot before.
"I'll speak with them in the morning, sir - if they are careless with you then they may be neglecting their own charge." A soft squeeze at his fingers then he does properly tug at his sleeve, straightening it.
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Instead, he lets the hand on Jopson's shoulder stray higher, so that he can rub his jaw with his knuckles while the steward fusses over his uniform.
"They do their best," he says. "You know how particular I am. I can surely keep without being dressed until the morning."
An obvious translation: no other steward was looking after him. Only Jopson will do.
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"Of course, sir, but I'll speak with them about their attentiveness all the same."
Dropping his hands he reaches for the front of the Captain's coat, smoothing hands over the front.
"Apologies, sir - there's a button loose. Give me a moment?"
An easy distraction to gather needle and thread, neither of which is needed when he simply wants to rest a hand against the man's chest, keep his fingers curled into the warm fabric. "It won't take but a minute, sir."
He spreads a palm just beneath the man's sternum, warm and pleasant. Nearness like this is playing with fire, but their station allows these small comforts, the reprieve from what would be judgement otherwise. Of course a steward like Jopson will fuss and insist upon fixing a button the moment he finds the flaw. He's sure even Ross would believe it at first sight.
Just a moment more, he hopes his touch says. "I'm already on the mend, sir, so I'll check your other warm garments come morning."
I'm well, I'm okay - everything else he wishes he could say.
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"The lack of day and night cycle catches up to all men," he muses. "You'll sleep a while yet and feel right as rain, I reckon."
Jopson did need something, he supposes. Rest in a fashion. Crozier has never seen him so relaxed— even now, in the gentle dregs of it, so serene.
"Do I pass muster?"
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"You're the Captain of this vessel, sir, you have no muster to pass. You set the standard by title alone."
Okay, now he's being a little cheeky, but he drops his hand away and it's shielded by the width of the man's chest thankfully, when he tips his head and brushes his lips over the man's knuckles.
"But I suppose it is safe to say this passes for the evening, yes. I'll right it all in the morning, sir."
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That small almost-kiss turns his stomach, in a good way. A knot, ribbons tied tight, over the feelings he has for him. No thoughts come to chastise him for it, no internal mediation; tonight is just for them. He can permit himself the indulgence, and hold this feeling while it lasts. Jopson has the euphoric trance and this afterglow, and he has this peaceful, protective fantasy.
"Get some rest," he tells him. "My hems will keep."
A small sigh, knowing he must leave momentarily. Still. A beat, reluctance, and after brief consideration— Crozier leans in, just so, and brushes a kiss across his forehead. Hyper-aware of no sounds around them except for the owner of the berth beside changing bed linens. Good, because it means he's not in the hall.
Crozier straightens up, and brings both hands to Jopson's shoulders for a would-be-brotherly squeeze. There we are. All sorted.
"Goodnight, Jopson."
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"I wish you a good night's sleep, sir."
Difficult to watch him go, but as the ship sways on the sea, there is always a beginning and an end to a journey.
Morning brings new light and energy to his limbs and he's up sooner than usual, cleaning himself up (and taking a moment to admire the bruise on his leg that aches dully when pressed) and preparing for the day. He does his inventory in the early hours, noted by McMurdo who seems a little dumbfounded the lead steward is up and about so early.
It means he can collect breakfast just as soon as it's hot and ready to take to the Captain's quarters. A few greetings, a few reassurances that he's feeling better it must have been a chill yes Roberston looked him over and whatnot. He slips into the great cabin quietly, unsure if the Captain himself has woken yet, but setting the meal down he latches the door and approaches Crozier's berth. He almost feels a pinch of guilt for waking him when he gives a soft nod.
"Captain?"
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