"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.
In truth, Crozier was up before this— ablutions and asking the night watch a question as shift changed, and then laying back down. Just to rest his eyes, some odd feeling in the air that suggests the sea changing soon. Getting it while he can. Still, he wakes from his doze when Jopson arrives, already pushing up with socked feet on the deck when he steps inside.
"Good morning, Jopson."
Seeing him stirs his heart, though not as intensely as the night before. Not to say he feels less for him, but he feels more ordinary. Which is, in itself, something to be cherished. He looks at him, clearly assessing what he sees, how his steward is carrying himself, the clarity of his gaze, if he seems shaken or not. It's one thing to do what they did, another to wake up the day after and reckon with it. He hopes the younger man isn't uncomfortable in the aftermath.
And he hopes leaving him hadn't been the wrong move, necessary as it was.
The sound of Crozier's voice puts something deep in him at ease, so when he steps in his expression goes warm, fond. There's a brightness and clarity to him today that the Captain likely saw very little of yesterday, a healthy glow to his cheeks and a renewed energy in his movements.
He brings him a steaming cup of tea as he enters, offering it out to him.
"I slept very well, thank you, sir. Did you rest comfortably last night, sir?"
Once he's relieved of the teacup he kneels at the man's feel, bending to get the man's feet tucked into woolen slippers (yes, he made this some months ago) until it's time to get him dressed properly in his uniform. He's careful with each foot, pressing his thumb into the sole, then along the Achilles tendon, a pressure around the ankle, then onto the next. All made to seem as though any steward should do this for their assigned officer.
"I apologize if the pan warmers had gone cold by the time you returned to your quarters, Captain."
You'll get used to it, old man, Jamie had told him about having a steward. But he doesn't think even Jamie's own longtime seaman valet does things like this. Doesn't sit at his feet, or craft slippers for him. (Maybe getting boots on and off with a horn, but not this.) Jopson has such a want for it. Why him? A thing to wonder over. They get on, there is chemistry between them. He's had chemistry with people before, though.
Crozier lets the tea cup warm his hands, and after a moment, reaches out to tuck Jopson's hair behind his ear.
"Comfortably enough," is agreeable. "You know you don't have to apologize for the rate at which heat dissipates in a ship floating through polar waters."
Colder in a bed than in a hammock, really. Wooden frames and cloth mattresses love to retain a chill, just like they love to retain bloody mold if they aren't careful. If the temperature dips further he might hang up the sling again, and this time not because a steward's in the bunk.
Jopson looks up as hair is tucked behind his ear, huffing a soft sound that is nearly a laugh. There are a thousand reasons he should absolutely apologize for the bed going cold but he bites his tongue and takes the playful jab for what it is. Of course he isn't responsible, but all the same.
"I'm well, Captain," he nods his head, watching Crozier's expression. "Half a measure in a pleasant way, nothing that will inhibit my work. I feel better today than I have in some time on Terror, sir."
He turns his attention back to his task, adjusting one of the man's socks, the hem of his night shirt.
"But how are you, sir? You were very kind to me yesterday when I was not myself, and I'd like to be sure you're given the same care, sir."
Eyebrows raise a little, for the implication that he might have been feeling less than his best for a prolonged amount of time due to a lack of having been bent over his commander's knees. But he understands, too, the value of relief in a sudden rush. It seems as though previously invisible weights have been scoured away from Thomas, as though he's experienced weeks of leave compressed into the course of an evening.
Francis gives his chin an affectionate touch before he returns to the teacup. One foot flexes, something near playful.
"Oh, you were still yourself." Recognizable and familiar, even if he was functioning without inhibition at all. He would not have liked it near as much if Jopson had transformed into some other person. No— this was him, just bared down to a particular part, he thinks. "And as for me, I enjoyed myself plenty. It's not every day I get to be the one looking after you. You trusted me."
Being the one to be trusted, being the one to have put Jopson in that state, had been very satisfying. Still is. There is the animal aspect of it too, something more base and depraved, taking erotic enjoyment out of such wanton submission. He can't deny it. But the inciting act was only that. The inciting act. The whole of it was something more.
Serious and sudden, an intensity behind his eyes when he meets the man’s gaze again. Crozier is the one man on this ship that he would not doubt nor second guess even once, and that trust did not come easily but something that snuck up over many, many days and nights however tiring.
“I enjoyed it. How I felt, being cared for by you, sir.”
He reaches for the playful foot, begins to gently massage again, up to his shin, his calf. Keeping his hands busy but also acknowledging this soft moment they have together until duty calls once again.
“But I wish to know if you’re well now, Captain. If you woke with a clear head, or if something still lingers, sir. I was in no state to care for you yesterday, and for that I wanted to check on you before we begin our morning routine, sir.”
Next, thumbs pressing into the connective tissue on either side of his tibia, in slow circles.
He can't help the soft sound he makes when Jopson pushes his thumbs in. It feels nice.
"You were in just the right state, as you needed to be."
Crozier knows by now that it's pointless to argue with him about being required to put so much focus on care for him. Relentless. He might as well just let Jopson have his way with him (and what a funny thought that is, here and now, after his phrasing the evening before).
But he confirms: "My head's clear. I'm very content."
Doesn't mean he isn't happy to see him, or that the searing affection brought on by their closeness has vanished. He reaches out again, just to touch his hair. Clever, and diligent, and a bit strange, and beautiful. Jopson is fascinating.
Jopson smiles to himself as he works, hands working up one leg, fingers pressing into calf muscle, to the knee, to the top of his thigh. Back down then to the other leg, diligent and tender.
"I'm glad to hear it, sir."
That Crozier is content, clear-headed, happy. As strange a setup as yesterday and he still feels the thrum of warmth and affection between them, resonating in time with the sway of Terror herself. He makes it to the top of Crozier's thigh on the other leg, smooths hands back over it, then looks up at him.
"I feel very much the same - clear and content, sir. I am glad I did not wake you too soon ahead of the first bell, sir, but I wanted to see to it you had a gentle start to your morning. I could serve your breakfast here in your bunk, if you'd like, Captain."
Tempting him to arousal so early and still blurry and warm from sleep, touching up to his thighs, sitting there so appealing and open. But if he indulges — and Jopson would oblige, of that he's certain — then he'll just want to go right back to sleep, which is unacceptable. Dozy morning copulation is simply not in the cards for a sailor.
So, unfortunately—
"You make a strong case for it just by being here," he admits, "but if I take you up on it I won't want to leave. And, Jopson, crumbs in the bunk?"
Lad. pls.
He gives him another touch to his hair (perhaps too lingering, too aching, betraying the wants and the hooks still in him for it all), and nods. Up. Time for him to get dressed and get to work.
"You've still your wits then, Captain, very good. Breakfast at the great table, then, of course."
Jopson laughs softly, rising to his feet. Too early for anything other than work after yesterday - they've had their time to ignore the day in favor of one another. Today is for work, and just as he means to, that's what he's here for.
"I would have had Doctor Roberston on standby for your wellbeing had you agreed with me, sir," he muses, turning to snatch up the man's coat and offer it to him, in turn reaching to take the steaming tea cup from him to hold. Breakfast before the real dressing and washing up and the shave.
"There are a few additional papers from Erebus on your desk - I understand they were sent over an hour or ago, sir. I'm certain they will be completely unserious. I know Captain Ross' penmanship well after working beneath you both on this expedition, sir."
"You just wait until I send the lot of you to take navigation lessons from him," he threatens playfully. "See how unserious it is."
Sailing. A big deal.
(The lot of you, junior officers, stewards, the assistant surgeon, the young men he trains who Jopson has been lumped in with now, even though he has no desire to use this as a social climbing opportunity. Still. It is good to know, in this line of work.)
Into the day they go, bit by bit. Crozier spares another kiss to his forehead, a proper one this time, before breakfast, and chatter over it. Quiet for shaving, which he's come to enjoy, one hand resting against his steward's chest. (A touch he'd never bestow on a barber.) Back to work after, though it nearly feels like a new world. A slightly different shade to the light, like the whole of everything after the volcano in the oriental seas clouded the skies for months; Jopson, born in a year without summer, granting a long one now for Crozier, warm and satisfied.
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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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"Good morning, Jopson."
Seeing him stirs his heart, though not as intensely as the night before. Not to say he feels less for him, but he feels more ordinary. Which is, in itself, something to be cherished. He looks at him, clearly assessing what he sees, how his steward is carrying himself, the clarity of his gaze, if he seems shaken or not. It's one thing to do what they did, another to wake up the day after and reckon with it. He hopes the younger man isn't uncomfortable in the aftermath.
And he hopes leaving him hadn't been the wrong move, necessary as it was.
"Did you sleep well?"
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He brings him a steaming cup of tea as he enters, offering it out to him.
"I slept very well, thank you, sir. Did you rest comfortably last night, sir?"
Once he's relieved of the teacup he kneels at the man's feel, bending to get the man's feet tucked into woolen slippers (yes, he made this some months ago) until it's time to get him dressed properly in his uniform. He's careful with each foot, pressing his thumb into the sole, then along the Achilles tendon, a pressure around the ankle, then onto the next. All made to seem as though any steward should do this for their assigned officer.
"I apologize if the pan warmers had gone cold by the time you returned to your quarters, Captain."
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Crozier lets the tea cup warm his hands, and after a moment, reaches out to tuck Jopson's hair behind his ear.
"Comfortably enough," is agreeable. "You know you don't have to apologize for the rate at which heat dissipates in a ship floating through polar waters."
Colder in a bed than in a hammock, really. Wooden frames and cloth mattresses love to retain a chill, just like they love to retain bloody mold if they aren't careful. If the temperature dips further he might hang up the sling again, and this time not because a steward's in the bunk.
"How are you today? Speak plainly."
No dancing around why he's asking, if he pleases.
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"I'm well, Captain," he nods his head, watching Crozier's expression. "Half a measure in a pleasant way, nothing that will inhibit my work. I feel better today than I have in some time on Terror, sir."
He turns his attention back to his task, adjusting one of the man's socks, the hem of his night shirt.
"But how are you, sir? You were very kind to me yesterday when I was not myself, and I'd like to be sure you're given the same care, sir."
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Francis gives his chin an affectionate touch before he returns to the teacup. One foot flexes, something near playful.
"Oh, you were still yourself." Recognizable and familiar, even if he was functioning without inhibition at all. He would not have liked it near as much if Jopson had transformed into some other person. No— this was him, just bared down to a particular part, he thinks. "And as for me, I enjoyed myself plenty. It's not every day I get to be the one looking after you. You trusted me."
Being the one to be trusted, being the one to have put Jopson in that state, had been very satisfying. Still is. There is the animal aspect of it too, something more base and depraved, taking erotic enjoyment out of such wanton submission. He can't deny it. But the inciting act was only that. The inciting act. The whole of it was something more.
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Serious and sudden, an intensity behind his eyes when he meets the man’s gaze again. Crozier is the one man on this ship that he would not doubt nor second guess even once, and that trust did not come easily but something that snuck up over many, many days and nights however tiring.
“I enjoyed it. How I felt, being cared for by you, sir.”
He reaches for the playful foot, begins to gently massage again, up to his shin, his calf. Keeping his hands busy but also acknowledging this soft moment they have together until duty calls once again.
“But I wish to know if you’re well now, Captain. If you woke with a clear head, or if something still lingers, sir. I was in no state to care for you yesterday, and for that I wanted to check on you before we begin our morning routine, sir.”
Next, thumbs pressing into the connective tissue on either side of his tibia, in slow circles.
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"You were in just the right state, as you needed to be."
Crozier knows by now that it's pointless to argue with him about being required to put so much focus on care for him. Relentless. He might as well just let Jopson have his way with him (and what a funny thought that is, here and now, after his phrasing the evening before).
But he confirms: "My head's clear. I'm very content."
Doesn't mean he isn't happy to see him, or that the searing affection brought on by their closeness has vanished. He reaches out again, just to touch his hair. Clever, and diligent, and a bit strange, and beautiful. Jopson is fascinating.
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"I'm glad to hear it, sir."
That Crozier is content, clear-headed, happy. As strange a setup as yesterday and he still feels the thrum of warmth and affection between them, resonating in time with the sway of Terror herself. He makes it to the top of Crozier's thigh on the other leg, smooths hands back over it, then looks up at him.
"I feel very much the same - clear and content, sir. I am glad I did not wake you too soon ahead of the first bell, sir, but I wanted to see to it you had a gentle start to your morning. I could serve your breakfast here in your bunk, if you'd like, Captain."
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So, unfortunately—
"You make a strong case for it just by being here," he admits, "but if I take you up on it I won't want to leave. And, Jopson, crumbs in the bunk?"
Lad. pls.
He gives him another touch to his hair (perhaps too lingering, too aching, betraying the wants and the hooks still in him for it all), and nods. Up. Time for him to get dressed and get to work.
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Jopson laughs softly, rising to his feet. Too early for anything other than work after yesterday - they've had their time to ignore the day in favor of one another. Today is for work, and just as he means to, that's what he's here for.
"I would have had Doctor Roberston on standby for your wellbeing had you agreed with me, sir," he muses, turning to snatch up the man's coat and offer it to him, in turn reaching to take the steaming tea cup from him to hold. Breakfast before the real dressing and washing up and the shave.
"There are a few additional papers from Erebus on your desk - I understand they were sent over an hour or ago, sir. I'm certain they will be completely unserious. I know Captain Ross' penmanship well after working beneath you both on this expedition, sir."
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Sailing. A big deal.
(The lot of you, junior officers, stewards, the assistant surgeon, the young men he trains who Jopson has been lumped in with now, even though he has no desire to use this as a social climbing opportunity. Still. It is good to know, in this line of work.)
Into the day they go, bit by bit. Crozier spares another kiss to his forehead, a proper one this time, before breakfast, and chatter over it. Quiet for shaving, which he's come to enjoy, one hand resting against his steward's chest. (A touch he'd never bestow on a barber.) Back to work after, though it nearly feels like a new world. A slightly different shade to the light, like the whole of everything after the volcano in the oriental seas clouded the skies for months; Jopson, born in a year without summer, granting a long one now for Crozier, warm and satisfied.