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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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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.