A hand at his elbow, the serious drop of Crozier's brow, the look in his eyes - they are all simply machines right now, working to free the dangerous clash of their ships and the ice. He's unable to tell if the bell and the sound comes from their own decks or Erebus, but it doesn't much matter. Jopson will fill any gap that Crozier has.
"Understood, sir, I'll get the men to it," he nods with little else to say and rushes to the watchmate. Pressure is nothing, his brain turning to work only and he does exactly what he says - finds lieutenants, communicate the Captain's orders. No one blinks an eye at Jopson delivering it himself, only they turn in their place and start about their tasks. Thick pieces of iron and steel, picks, posts - anything and everything to help tear the ships apart in the icy water.
Jopson sees the injured man belowdecks to Roberts and his apprentice, then hauls back up on deck. He should stay below, a steward's place is out of the way, but instead he starts in with one of the mates on cutting loose rigging at the deck to try and free the tangle of the two great ships. In the din of panic and chaos and water and deafening crunching, he's sure he hears Jamie's voice, his orders, clarion in the mis.
"Captain, we've freed the mizzen," he shouts over his shoulder to Crozier as one rope freed gives Terror leeway to move a tiny bit, righting her decks. A warning, so the man doesn't fall again. Other officers swarm the deck - some prying at their ships to create distance, and Jopson soon joins up, adding his muscle to the effort.
There's ice to chip at, the hull to inspect, the masts to free, the ships to separate and yet - Jopson feels nothing but cold air and icy seaspray as they begin to try and bolster Terror against her flagship.
Hard graft, everyone is wet and freezing and bruised (worse than bruised in too many cases), but they free Terror from Erebus. They shudder unevenly past the flagship, followed by minutes — mere minutes, that speed past while feeling to take an eternity at once — of rigging work done at breakneck speed. The whaleboats must be dropped and manned even as they load the mortar, and it's an ill feeling to know that the sailors scrambling into them with ropes and oars are potentially safer than those who remain on Terror, despite the fact that they'll shortly be ducking to avoid blowback from shelling the ice.
Crozier bellows a count to brace and cover ears. Three, two, one, it goes.
Alien and unsettling to have such a thing on a ship. Could science not be used for something less ruinous. A thought he's had before, the first time he ever saw one go; did cannons need such enhancements?
Apparently so. The iceberg would have crushed them together, and as it is now, Terror holds fast against any recoil of firing, and maintains her limping float despite the disturbance to the water. The small boats surge forward, rowing, pulling, critical to get clear of Erebus to let her maneuver. A raft is cobbled together and thrown off the back, lit by throwing a torch at it. A primitive brazier with a wobbly cauldron of oil, a lighthouse for Captain Ross.
If indeed Captain Ross has not been crushed by something, or drowned, or felled by a head injury.
(But he would feel it, wouldn't he? He would know—)
A wretched shuddering through the cruelly cold water. Rigging and sail and bits of spindle rain down, sawed free. The rudder is lost, and Crozier must split his time between hollering communications through a horn at the men in the small boats, and organizing the stabilization of the ship herself. But if they find themselves enclosed properly, they will die anyway.
A delicate matter all of this - one wrong move will see the ship crushed or trapped, will see Erebus brought to her knees in the water even more than they already are. The crunch of masts and snapping of ropes echo among the shouts of men and the Captain at the horn. There are a million worries to be had and suffer under but there's no time.
The ship has to come back to sorts, Erebus needs freedom to move, and Terror must limp her way in the water and pack ice. Jopson sends the injured below as they come to light and otherwise stays with the men bolstering the ship against the ice, helping sweep any fractured pieces of it from the deck and away from the small boats helping pull them below. They slip over one another - a tangle of bruised and sore bodies, hauling one another up as Terror slowly pulls free and makes room.
It's slow, or it certainly feels that way in the mist and the dark, but the makeshift brazier behind does something to inspire the men and everyone buckles down, works harder, faster. Another mortar shell, another splinter of ice, and one of their fractured arbors breaking loose of its trap in the ice, and miraculously coming out without shattering.
There are shouts coming from the mist - Erebus, no doubt - the whistle of a shipmaster signaling something. Movement? Freedom? Hard to say, but the sound of rushing water and the call of the men back into the dark seems to bring with it a new energy. Another whistle - shrill and high. Erebus sails, still, and is making her way into more open water in the treacherous cold.
Hours pass in these conditions. Each minute, laboring under extreme strain and even more extreme precision. At the first sign of open water, Crozier has an odd, bleak thought, old nonsense beliefs about the world being flat. Perhaps they're about to tip right over the edge, having in their hubris slipped past a natural safety barrier.
Crozier and McMurdo huddle at the bow to navigate the complete unknown, until they determine they're in a sound or something smaller; if they are unlucky, a dead end of an inlet, but if luck is on their side, then a it may be a sheltered bay of some kind. The persistent loom of the ice shelf is like a line drawn around reality, almost like an amateur cartoon. Iceblinks bouncing off of its glassy texture tempt disorientation, but he'll have none of it.
The whaleboats quest to discover how far from shore they are, if indeed there is a shore, and not just vertical sheets of ice. Terror slows, and finally anchored properly. Clear of immediate obstacle, they must hunker down, and not court further danger by trying to forge ahead without visibility or reconnaissance. They feed their bonfire tail, and continue to ring the bell like a lighthouse, until the small boats return, and Erebus, tilted a third of the way onto her side and missing her mast, manifests from the mist.
She, too, anchors, and there is word from the boats: shore.
Shore. Messages passed back and forth over misty, icy seas, small boats paddling their way ahead, forging a path for them. Shore. Forging ahead is a slow and careful thing, Terror limping alongside Erebus, guiding her to some modicum of safety. A cove they carefully navigate, where the two ships can nestle and anchor safely - no chance of washing out into the ice, no chance of dangerous winds or weather sweeping them up. They can wait out the mist here, let their hearts settle and take count of the damages.
Once the deck is secured and there's word from Erebus that their commander and captain is safe, some calm befalls them. He'd like to see Jamie with his own two eyes, and not trust that the shadow in the mist or the shout from the deck was the man who held him tenderly out on the ice at Aether. No, it's not his place to wait and listen for the small boats to drift back and forth with messages and plans. The coming of light in the morn
There's work to be done, though - and he helps with the onslaught of wounded and injured, tends to the men who just need something warm to eat to revitalize them, checks over all things in their inventory and pulls out the stronger stuff for them to drink. The men deserve it, he thinks, and he'll happily accept any reprimand later should there be need for one.
He finds Crozier on the deck after a few many rounds to different posts on the ship.
"Sir... if you'd prefer to stay on deck in lieu of sleep, at least allow me to bring you a hot meal?"
It makes sense that there's much to do, planning and contingencies and head counts and so much more. But he won't see this man run into the ice himself for it.
"I understand from McMurdo much is to be held until morning to give the men time to reset, sir?"
Jopson ever risking his hide over alcohol it seems. (Foreshadowing is a literary device????) But Crozier barely notices; can't afford to. The men do deserve it, anyway. Dr Robertson finds him when he goes below to survey damage, they share shots of something that burns awfully, and are helpless to do anything but laugh about it. The surgeon gave it to him, it's fine.
It's been hours since then when Jopson finds him, and Crozier nearly startles when he thinks of how long he's gone without so much as sitting down. All of a sudden everything hurts. He might be annoyed if it wasn't so considerate— and if he wasn't grateful for the opportunity to see his steward (his lover), and evaluate for himself how he seems to have fared. A boon he's been all along, and Crozier isn't taking him for granted; not his service, not his survival.
Jamie, allegedly, is fine. Thomas is too, and he can ask for nothing more.
"Aye," sounds creakier than he'd like. "Catch our breath. You can bring me coffee tea, if there's any, and something I can hold without any fuss. If you've eaten already."
Hours still and Jopson does not let himself feel any of the bumps, bruises, or scrapes he's sure he has beneath thick wool and canvas. Every man here will have some kind of ailment once things are truly, properly calm. He reaches for Crozier's elbow reflexively, almost half expecting a startle but simply squeezes it and drops his hands back to his side.
"Would you humor me and take your meal in the great cabin, sir? I think a moment out of the cold will do you some good. We've been cycling the men as well so no one is worn too thin before morning when repairs begin, sir."
Missing the point, really, but a protective, careful thing in him wants to drag the man downstairs and look him over for any signs of duress. Sure, the surgeon would have noted anything worthwhile in passing, but he can't shake it.
"I've not eaten yet myself, but I certainly will once I return belowdecks, sir."
A small smile, a nod. Someone passes by and claps Jopson on the shoulder, grunting something like gratitude before heading off to the bow. He's been present for much of their company tonight, whether bringing food or water, bringing men to the sick berth, bringing supplies or jumping in to haul wood or iron or ice. It's all been a lot, but it means he's able to stand here across from his Captain (his lover) and see him whole.
He thinks of it, suddenly: going below, sitting in the private great cabin, the place where they spend so many in-between hours in each other's comfortable company. Oft silent, working on their respective tasks, but speaking too, about books, about sailing, about nothings. And other things, held close in memory.
But it's a madhouse below, he knows that. He's given permission for it to be used as a staging area for at least two different operations that are struggling to find room without being underfoot somewhere else, and there will be no quiet break from action. Still. He offers Jopson a small, tired, but honest smile. Touched by it, given strength in this frantic time.
"It may well be cramped," he says, sounding apologetic. "Bring something up. If I sit down I risk being unable to get back on my feet anyway—" a rough sigh, shaking off any creeping exhaustion. "Can't yet."
Maybe not until he's set his own eyes on Captain Ross. Or passes out. Whichever comes first.
Jopson squashes any disappointment he might have felt under any other circumstances and gives the man an understanding nod. There are things to do, still, even when the air is quieter than it had been half an hour before in the chaos of crashing ships and ice. There are jobs to do, always, and he finds himself surprised to feel as though they should all set jobs aside for a moment of time and be men, humans. He shrugs that off faster than anything for now.
"Of course, Captain. I'll bring tea and food up immediately - should I bring anything for the others, sir?"
As if he's not already started to before this moment, but back to business all the same. Once dismissed he returns belowdecks, making up tea (a few kettles in fact for some of the officers at the operations tables, gives firm instruction to the other stewards to help in other places as well), and gathering up some bread, butter, salted meats to make a quick sandwich of sorts. Not elegant, but something.
He returns to the captain's side offering the mug of warm tea, first - nothing extra added to it, but made exactly as the man prefers it, instead.
"I've the other stewards making sure all the men are being seen to, not just their respective officers, sir. If you require anything of them, they await your orders as always, Captain."
Crozier watches him over the rim of the teacup. A small, easily overlooked upside to being somewhere too cold for true human life: one needn't wait for tea to reach palatable temperature. It cools so rapidly here on deck, he doesn't hesitate, no fear of burning his mouth.
"I know you're seeing to them."
A luxury to have Jopson. An excellent steward, and an excellent adjutant. Crozier can trust him thoroughly to be doing exactly what needs to be done, even if it's mad, even if it's beyond the scope of his regular work. Which of course is what's being asked of everyone now, and they are all performing superbly. And yet in the midst of that Jopson is unique, because he has the least expectation on him.
He wishes—
Not now.
"Eat something. Those are my orders. If you faint, what am I to do, Jopson?"
Jopson's expression warms when Crozier drinks from the tea - always a pleasure to see him caring for himself, enjoying something he's made, however small. It's nice to see him even the tiniest bit more relaxed than the past few hours, even if Thomas can see the pain and the weariness and the worry in the pale of his eyes.
"Bold of you to think I brought you and you alone something to eat, sir," a quiet jab but a friendly one, as he offers out the haphazard sandwich wrapped in paper and pulls another from the pocket of his coat for himself. Smaller, simpler - he doesn't need the kind of fuel that the Captain does for nights like this, but food all the same.
"I would hate to faint on the deck, sir, I think the men would find it too befitting of a steward and send me off to my very comfortable bed."
He can light the wick of his humor at least in the darkness of all this - and unwraps the sandwich for Crozier first and handing it off before doing the same for his own. It's not especially fancy, but it's food and the first bite reminds him how hungry he actually is. Damn the man for being right.
"I can fetch you more tea in a moment - I know it will go cold before too long, sir."
Someday, the sight of Jopson choosing to eat less will come back to haunt him in the worst of ways. As it is for now, he simply notes it as something to be repaid with pressed generosity when they're on land. He has little to offer here and now besides doing just this, nagging at him.
"You're the least likely person to faint," he concedes. He suspects the men know that too, by now. Between the mettle Jopson's displayed over the course of this voyage and the reveal of the scars on his back, he has sailed far from the reputation of a 'mere' steward. As if anyone in this line of work is not made from tougher stuff in the first place, no matter their station. But there are degrees, and Jopson has far exceeded the ones anticipated of him.
Terror sways, gently sometimes, but damage makes her uneven. A dip now and then, and everyone has to shift his weight, grab hold of something. At least it's slow, and they've allgot their sea legs.
"This'll do."
Not in a hurry to court having to piss.
"When we're stable enough I'm to take a gig to Erebus." Finally, this bit of news. "A report on the incident must get underway. You'll need to round up the carpenters, see who can be spared. She's in a worse way than us with more injuries besides. I'm sending Roberston to set up a triage as soon as camp's been made viable enough."
News, yes. The idea of Crozier leaving Terror and being out from under his care after the harrowing events of the evening pulls at something in him. Worry, most likely, that the Captain needs seeing to, but Jamie may need seeing to as well. Perhaps they can find comfort in one another amidst their planning.
"I'll ready your things so there's little to do but grab them and go when the gig is set to row off, sir. Once we've finished these sandwiches I'll get a list of the carpenters to take and find a handful of those able to assist Roberston when the time comes, Captain."
A bite of his sandwich, thoughtfully quiet. Both ships uneven and damaged in the icy night, and even now, more work to be done still.
"Will you be returning to Terror to rest, or will you remain aboard Erebus, sir? Just so I can make the proper arrangements, of course."
There's a letter he wants to send off to Jamie for one, but he doesn't want to waste his time setting up the Captain's quarters for a short but comfortable sleep if he will stay on the flagship, among other things.
Crozier does not want to be away from the ship — Terror seems to have knitted herself somewhere deep in his heart by now, and it feels wrong, on top of a general disinclination to leave Jopson fretting — but he doesn't have the luxury of bucking orders. It's not his expedition, it's Ross', and he has a very serious report to make about this dire incident.
"I'll be back here."
Which is another double-edged thing. Getting to return, but having to leave Jamie. Nevertheless, he'll carry on. They all will. Nearly finished with his sandwich when Phillips (fully dressed) appears, and Crozier goes into his plans in more detail; the lieutenant will be staying aboard, in charge, with the rest of the officers sent ashore in staggered shifts, barring McMurdo who will be attending the meeting with Ross.
The actual report writing is a haphazard thing, written as a series of lists (bullet points to describe the series of events, bullet points to describe the damage, bullet points to detail injuries) in a spare ledger, which Crozier has to drag around with him and write in while trying not to get ink everywhere. Burning through blotting paper as quick as spare rope.
"Behave," is the final instruction, which gets a chuckle out of a few. Crozier does run a tighter ship than Ross.
This bit, he thinks, will make for fine letters written back home; getting into a whaleboat from a ship threatening to sink in poor visibility (at least the wind has settled down) is the sort of event to send non-sailors into a tailspin of anxiety. But Crozier has enough life left in his knees to make it easily.
Behave. The smallest comment raises the spirits of those left behind on deck as the Captain the carefully chosen take the gig to Erebus. Just before the little boat disappears into the low-lying mist, one of the Lieutenants snorts, "No promises, Captain!" and some of the unbearable weight of the evening's events seems to lift.
He goes about his work shortly after, seeing to it that the other stewards help clean the messes belowdecks and keep close to the injured. Everything is surveyed and catalogued - any spoiled supplies must be noted, especially when they're out here on the ice. The small things matter. Terror, though limping and listing in a way a boat at rest shouldn't, goes quiet as the night approaches and some of the men take to their rest. There are more on watch tonight than is normal, but it's hardly a normal situation.
Crozier said he'd return for the night here on Terror and it's the Captain's berth where Jopson spends the quieter part of the night. The mattress on his bunk pulled free and placed on the floor (not before he scrubbed the floor clean himself, of course), extra furs and blankets spread out, looking much like a lush hideaway than a captain's sparse quarters.
Jopson decides he'll stay here tonight, even if Crozier fusses or sends him away, he'll refuse. Maybe it's presumptuous of him, but there's a strange, worried, aching thing in his chest that he won't be able to soothe otherwise. There's no doubt when Crozier returns aboard that this is where he'll find his steward, placing a warming pan in the many layers of the veritable nest in the berth.
Everything is a game of hours now; hours until they make this repair or find that replacement, hours until the tide shifts or weather turns. Hours before he makes it back to Terror, with none to speak of in any way besides business. There had been no romantic reunion, and of course he hadn't expected any— what he expected was what he got, which was a grim-faced compatriot knuckled down into business, the way he should be.
Captain Ross is a wonder at work. They spared each other nothing, in the audit of the collision. Only for a moment, brief, in his commander's (his friend's, his lover's) berth did they peel anything back and become human.
I thought I killed you, Frank, I thought I sunk us both, I thought—
They have been through worse scrapes than this.
It will be fine.
Whistles ring, captain back aboard. He gives orders, each man in shifts will find sleep, and then they are to begin repairs. In the morning he will take stock of injuries (God willing no souls lost), and he suspects once everyone's had a moment to breathe and a rest, they will rally. There is spare lumber aplenty, and though the water is cold, they're at least hemmed in without the roil of the open sea.
Strange not to see Jopson waiting for him, but he hops his steward is asleep. It brings up a tender memory of the young man in his bed— it must be so, as he passes down the hall and notices that the berth he once occupied under those very circumstances is empty. So he does expect to see Thomas there when he opens the door, just not quite like this.
Jopson, so lost in his own thoughts, doesn't hear the great cabin door open, and remains crouched as he places furs over the heating pan to event distribute the weight. He wonders if Crozier might stay aboard Erebus for the night, hunkered down with Ross, elbow deep in contingencies and reporting - he can tell they work well together under pressure besides, fitting together in a way that makes sense.
So it's a rare thing for him to startle, rising almost immediately and whirling on his heel to face the man.
"Captain," he states, a little breathless. "Welcome back, sir."
Ah, the question - and the alarm. He winces and looks down at the blankets and furs. He pitches his voice a little lower, ignoring the faintest heat creeping up his neck at the surprise of it all.
"No mold - I check it twice daily for that very thing. It's why I also insist on the heating pan, sir. This is a new arrangement - it seems as though it should be comfortable enough for two, sir, especially with the way Terror's treated us all today."
It isn't a question - a simple statement, a flippant thing as though it's normal for him to make a mess of the man's berth like this and expect to wrap up with him in all of it.
Crozier looks fine. Tired, but fine. His lower lip has a tiny, hint of a welt on it, a minor abrasion from the collision or split from the cold (it isn't, Jamie bit him, his relief pouring out to manifest in aggression). Fine. And stupefied, for a moment, staring at Jopson. A bit comical.
It settles in on a delay.
Door closed behind him, he steps forward. Doesn't take much to be in Jopson's space, with how small this cupboard of a room is. He grabs him by his sides and pulls him close until they're flush, a jerky movement with how sudden it is. Only a moment to look at him, eyes meeting, before he crushes a kiss to his mouth. It's not like with Jamie, not a clawing thing to demand proof of existence, but it's still desperate. Desperately grateful that he is alive, that he isn't in shattered pieces in triage, that he's done this sweet, caring thing for him, this gesture for them together that is all about being lovers and nothing to do with being officer and steward.
His hold has shifted to pull him even closer, clutch him against his body. When he lifts away he holds Jopson's face in one hand, a rough cradle, knitted gloves still on.
A soft noise of surprise against Crozier's mouth is the only sign of protest as he's pulled, crushed against the man. His arms with nowhere to go settle, one at the side of older man's face, the other gripping him at the shoulder. He could live in this moment, the press of their bodies and mouths, nothing needing said between them, so long as they're connected somehow.
The painful thing in his chest dissolves, turns to something just as desperate. He knows what it is now - he has a name for the terrible weight he feels every time he looks at this man, and knows what dangers that weight brings. It is a beautiful thing, but a lonely thing, this. One day he'll name it out loud.
"I'm well, sir," he tips his cheek into the touch, leans to press their foreheads together, his own fingers skirting over the man's cheekbone. "Are you, sir? Truly?"
Be honest with me he nearly says but it's a step too far - the intention is there all the same. He wants to know about every ache, every bump, every bruise. There's the red mark on his lips, the fatigue around his eyes - he knows better.
He feels strange. Rested already, just holding Jopson, and at the same time infinitely more tired; the bed on the deck floor is the most enticing thing he's ever seen now that he knows his steward wants to lay there with him. He could collapse.
Truly? the young man asks, and he can't help but chase another kiss, like a gasp of air. Just a small one. The men on Erebus are worse off, and he can't help but envision Thomas or Jamie injured in such a way, or something more dire. It would have been so easy. Thomas should have stayed below for it all, but he'd run up in the thick of it. He squeezes his side.
"Safe," sounds like a bit of a laugh, rough and low. "I don't know that we are, anywhere at sea, and especially not here. But we have weathered this disaster."
Another kiss. Francis. A secret thing to share between them, the freedom to use their Christian names. (Hah, Christian.)
"I'm well." An agreement, yes, truly. "I'll be better when I know no one's going to end up losing life or limb over it. Nothing to do but wait." A slow, deep breath, and he returns close to Thomas after, foreheads bumping again. "Jamie asked after you. Well done to us all, making it through."
A rush of embarrassment, and he chokes it down by nuzzling into the man, nose to nose, and offers a soft and sweet kiss. Safe, he'd said, and he'd meant it. That even in the ruins of the ship he'll always make a safe place for Crozier to land, that he will do everything in his power to protect him in any way possible. Too much, maybe, in a moment so serious. Being at sea, no less in the arctic, will never be safe, it's true. But there are layers to safety, aren't there?
"There are only a few serious injuries, and last I checked all are weathering it well enough. I'll keep close eye as well come morning, sir - I know you'll be busy watching over the repairs for Terror and Erebus."
He slides his hand from Crozier's cheek and hooks his arm round his neck, holding him closer still.
"Is he well, sir? Jamie? I'm glad you were able to see him face to face."
No doubt the questions and worry Crozier would have held like a tortured bird in a cage until he could lay eyes on the man. Jopson can understand, in a way, only relieved now to have Francis back and pressed against him, whole and warm and real. But he will always be that and more for Jopson. (Foreshadowing, etc, etc...)
Another kiss, then - chaste but lingering, desperate in its own way.
Metaphorical safeness passing Crozier by like ships in the night, appropriately. But they are not that, either; the prospect of being caught and exposed would be even more dire than sinking. One thing to be lost nobly at sea, another to be hanged. He cannot give Thomas safety. He wishes he could, but very few men are capable of securing such a gift. Perhaps only kings, and they are each a long ways away from such a life.
"He's angry with himself," he says, about Jamie, and then he kisses Jopson's temple. "But he performed the best any man could conceive. There was no better result possible, only worse ones."
A beat, and he slides both arms around Jopson, and rests his head against his shoulder. Just holds him there, for a while. Thinking about— what? God, it doesn't matter. His head is like rushing water, too fast to keep up with. He has wanted to hold him since it started, and he imagined him having his arm crushed like the sailor he'd helped shuffle off the deck.
In a moment, a murmur: "What have I done to deserve such care as all this, Thomas?"
Tired as he is, it slips into the Irish emphasis. His sweet boy.
Jopson allows himself fleeting moments of whimsy only rarely and in times of duress like this, in the aftermath of it all, he feels the need to reach for something softer. Perhaps the fatigue from the physical and mental duties has gotten the best of him, really - even this little haven he's created seems a little silly. But he wanted to do it for Crozier, and so his selfishness brings them here together.
He holds the man in silence, turning his head and kissing the shell of his ear, nuzzling softly against him, but saying nothing. Of course Jamie is mad at himself - he knows Crozier would be as well, were he in that spot. The curse of a Captain, but the curse of a person who cares greatly about their craft and their people.
The Irish lilt applied to his name draws out a private smile, one pressed against Crozier's temple.
"Mm. Saved a ship, the men on it, provided aid to our flagship. Only a few things, sir."
He kisses his temple, closes his eyes, and simply holds the man tightly to him, gently sifting his fingers through the hair at his nape.
"You are a kind and good man, Captain - you will always deserve care such as this, and it is my duty to make you see that, sir. Come, let me get you out of your travel things - we'll hold harbor well enough tonight sir, I've no doubt in that."
Slowly he pulls back and kisses Crozier again, soft and sweet, smoothing hands over the man's face, his neck, his shoulders. Fingers tugging at his lapels, then reaching to undo the buttons. Coat undone, he gently nudges it off his shoulders, and only when he's free of the coat he reaches for the man's hands, tugging them to rest at his waist, his shoulders, anywhere he can take purchase and stabilize himself.
"Rest your eyes, Captain. I won't let you fall over, and we'll have you in something more comfortable soon enough."
The smallest grunt of exasperation, his question having been rhetorical— not altogether comfortable with praise, but oh, it seems he's not prepared for the half of it. Jopson continues, and it's so tender that he can't quite make himself brush it off. Can't get the words to come loose, Don't flatter me, or Buttering me up for something?, instead it lands somewhere in his ribcage. The tone of his voice, or some other thing. Achingly sincere, even if Crozier is certain he doesn't actually deserve it.
Helpless to do anything but obey, his expression to one side of sheepish. I wasn't fishing, he might say, but that would be obnoxious. Steadies himself instead, but doesn't manage to keep his eyes closed; he wants to watch Jopson, and steal touches at the back of his hands, the strong curve of his shoulders.
"You're set up to stay?"
Here. With him. He said so, or near enough. Comfortable for two. He must stay. Crozier slides a palm down the front of his waistcoat, wanting to see him unwrapped and made ready to sleep, too. It is a little sentiment, but more than that, it's impatience. He doesn't have the words to convey anything, can't pinpoint it within himself, but he can hold him and pray it bleeds through to him somehow.
Jopson makes easy work of the coat, the waistcoat, the shirtsleeves and any other bolstering layers he might have for the bitter cold and icy spray. He's always enjoyed the intimacy of this little task, undressing the man and making him comfortable. A small way to show his appreciation, even before this became what it is.
He glances down at the hand between them, down the line of his waistcoat. A small smile.
"As set up as I ever am to stay, sir," wry, a little teasing. He presses one hand over Crozier's, guiding his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, tripping them open with his own fingers, but keeping the man's palm pressed squarely against him. "We'll have our own reproduction of Aether here tonight, sir. The bunks are uncomfortable enough on the best of days."
Shrugging out of his own waistcoat, then his own shirt, leaving them matching enough as he reaches for one of the man's nightshirts. This, first, and then trousers, as always. He takes his time, pressing his fingers over the man's hair and shoulders, the bare skin of his chest and the wiry hair there as he gently tugs the shirt down. Buckles and buttons of his trousers next, of course, then reaches to do his own. A lazy dance, guiding them through.
"I suppose I didn't ask if you'd like me to stay, sir," he murmurs, smiling a little to himself as he allows his own trousers to drop, stepping out of his boots and all, leaving him in only his underthings as he kneels to help the other man out of the very same.
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"Understood, sir, I'll get the men to it," he nods with little else to say and rushes to the watchmate. Pressure is nothing, his brain turning to work only and he does exactly what he says - finds lieutenants, communicate the Captain's orders. No one blinks an eye at Jopson delivering it himself, only they turn in their place and start about their tasks. Thick pieces of iron and steel, picks, posts - anything and everything to help tear the ships apart in the icy water.
Jopson sees the injured man belowdecks to Roberts and his apprentice, then hauls back up on deck. He should stay below, a steward's place is out of the way, but instead he starts in with one of the mates on cutting loose rigging at the deck to try and free the tangle of the two great ships. In the din of panic and chaos and water and deafening crunching, he's sure he hears Jamie's voice, his orders, clarion in the mis.
"Captain, we've freed the mizzen," he shouts over his shoulder to Crozier as one rope freed gives Terror leeway to move a tiny bit, righting her decks. A warning, so the man doesn't fall again. Other officers swarm the deck - some prying at their ships to create distance, and Jopson soon joins up, adding his muscle to the effort.
There's ice to chip at, the hull to inspect, the masts to free, the ships to separate and yet - Jopson feels nothing but cold air and icy seaspray as they begin to try and bolster Terror against her flagship.
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Crozier bellows a count to brace and cover ears. Three, two, one, it goes.
Alien and unsettling to have such a thing on a ship. Could science not be used for something less ruinous. A thought he's had before, the first time he ever saw one go; did cannons need such enhancements?
Apparently so. The iceberg would have crushed them together, and as it is now, Terror holds fast against any recoil of firing, and maintains her limping float despite the disturbance to the water. The small boats surge forward, rowing, pulling, critical to get clear of Erebus to let her maneuver. A raft is cobbled together and thrown off the back, lit by throwing a torch at it. A primitive brazier with a wobbly cauldron of oil, a lighthouse for Captain Ross.
If indeed Captain Ross has not been crushed by something, or drowned, or felled by a head injury.
(But he would feel it, wouldn't he? He would know—)
A wretched shuddering through the cruelly cold water. Rigging and sail and bits of spindle rain down, sawed free. The rudder is lost, and Crozier must split his time between hollering communications through a horn at the men in the small boats, and organizing the stabilization of the ship herself. But if they find themselves enclosed properly, they will die anyway.
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The ship has to come back to sorts, Erebus needs freedom to move, and Terror must limp her way in the water and pack ice. Jopson sends the injured below as they come to light and otherwise stays with the men bolstering the ship against the ice, helping sweep any fractured pieces of it from the deck and away from the small boats helping pull them below. They slip over one another - a tangle of bruised and sore bodies, hauling one another up as Terror slowly pulls free and makes room.
It's slow, or it certainly feels that way in the mist and the dark, but the makeshift brazier behind does something to inspire the men and everyone buckles down, works harder, faster. Another mortar shell, another splinter of ice, and one of their fractured arbors breaking loose of its trap in the ice, and miraculously coming out without shattering.
There are shouts coming from the mist - Erebus, no doubt - the whistle of a shipmaster signaling something. Movement? Freedom? Hard to say, but the sound of rushing water and the call of the men back into the dark seems to bring with it a new energy. Another whistle - shrill and high. Erebus sails, still, and is making her way into more open water in the treacherous cold.
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Crozier and McMurdo huddle at the bow to navigate the complete unknown, until they determine they're in a sound or something smaller; if they are unlucky, a dead end of an inlet, but if luck is on their side, then a it may be a sheltered bay of some kind. The persistent loom of the ice shelf is like a line drawn around reality, almost like an amateur cartoon. Iceblinks bouncing off of its glassy texture tempt disorientation, but he'll have none of it.
The whaleboats quest to discover how far from shore they are, if indeed there is a shore, and not just vertical sheets of ice. Terror slows, and finally anchored properly. Clear of immediate obstacle, they must hunker down, and not court further danger by trying to forge ahead without visibility or reconnaissance. They feed their bonfire tail, and continue to ring the bell like a lighthouse, until the small boats return, and Erebus, tilted a third of the way onto her side and missing her mast, manifests from the mist.
She, too, anchors, and there is word from the boats: shore.
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Once the deck is secured and there's word from Erebus that their commander and captain is safe, some calm befalls them. He'd like to see Jamie with his own two eyes, and not trust that the shadow in the mist or the shout from the deck was the man who held him tenderly out on the ice at Aether. No, it's not his place to wait and listen for the small boats to drift back and forth with messages and plans. The coming of light in the morn
There's work to be done, though - and he helps with the onslaught of wounded and injured, tends to the men who just need something warm to eat to revitalize them, checks over all things in their inventory and pulls out the stronger stuff for them to drink. The men deserve it, he thinks, and he'll happily accept any reprimand later should there be need for one.
He finds Crozier on the deck after a few many rounds to different posts on the ship.
"Sir... if you'd prefer to stay on deck in lieu of sleep, at least allow me to bring you a hot meal?"
It makes sense that there's much to do, planning and contingencies and head counts and so much more. But he won't see this man run into the ice himself for it.
"I understand from McMurdo much is to be held until morning to give the men time to reset, sir?"
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It's been hours since then when Jopson finds him, and Crozier nearly startles when he thinks of how long he's gone without so much as sitting down. All of a sudden everything hurts. He might be annoyed if it wasn't so considerate— and if he wasn't grateful for the opportunity to see his steward (his lover), and evaluate for himself how he seems to have fared. A boon he's been all along, and Crozier isn't taking him for granted; not his service, not his survival.
Jamie, allegedly, is fine. Thomas is too, and he can ask for nothing more.
"Aye," sounds creakier than he'd like. "Catch our breath. You can bring me
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"Would you humor me and take your meal in the great cabin, sir? I think a moment out of the cold will do you some good. We've been cycling the men as well so no one is worn too thin before morning when repairs begin, sir."
Missing the point, really, but a protective, careful thing in him wants to drag the man downstairs and look him over for any signs of duress. Sure, the surgeon would have noted anything worthwhile in passing, but he can't shake it.
"I've not eaten yet myself, but I certainly will once I return belowdecks, sir."
A small smile, a nod. Someone passes by and claps Jopson on the shoulder, grunting something like gratitude before heading off to the bow. He's been present for much of their company tonight, whether bringing food or water, bringing men to the sick berth, bringing supplies or jumping in to haul wood or iron or ice. It's all been a lot, but it means he's able to stand here across from his Captain (his lover) and see him whole.
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But it's a madhouse below, he knows that. He's given permission for it to be used as a staging area for at least two different operations that are struggling to find room without being underfoot somewhere else, and there will be no quiet break from action. Still. He offers Jopson a small, tired, but honest smile. Touched by it, given strength in this frantic time.
"It may well be cramped," he says, sounding apologetic. "Bring something up. If I sit down I risk being unable to get back on my feet anyway—" a rough sigh, shaking off any creeping exhaustion. "Can't yet."
Maybe not until he's set his own eyes on Captain Ross. Or passes out. Whichever comes first.
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"Of course, Captain. I'll bring tea and food up immediately - should I bring anything for the others, sir?"
As if he's not already started to before this moment, but back to business all the same. Once dismissed he returns belowdecks, making up tea (a few kettles in fact for some of the officers at the operations tables, gives firm instruction to the other stewards to help in other places as well), and gathering up some bread, butter, salted meats to make a quick sandwich of sorts. Not elegant, but something.
He returns to the captain's side offering the mug of warm tea, first - nothing extra added to it, but made exactly as the man prefers it, instead.
"I've the other stewards making sure all the men are being seen to, not just their respective officers, sir. If you require anything of them, they await your orders as always, Captain."
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"I know you're seeing to them."
A luxury to have Jopson. An excellent steward, and an excellent adjutant. Crozier can trust him thoroughly to be doing exactly what needs to be done, even if it's mad, even if it's beyond the scope of his regular work. Which of course is what's being asked of everyone now, and they are all performing superbly. And yet in the midst of that Jopson is unique, because he has the least expectation on him.
He wishes—
Not now.
"Eat something. Those are my orders. If you faint, what am I to do, Jopson?"
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"Bold of you to think I brought you and you alone something to eat, sir," a quiet jab but a friendly one, as he offers out the haphazard sandwich wrapped in paper and pulls another from the pocket of his coat for himself. Smaller, simpler - he doesn't need the kind of fuel that the Captain does for nights like this, but food all the same.
"I would hate to faint on the deck, sir, I think the men would find it too befitting of a steward and send me off to my very comfortable bed."
He can light the wick of his humor at least in the darkness of all this - and unwraps the sandwich for Crozier first and handing it off before doing the same for his own. It's not especially fancy, but it's food and the first bite reminds him how hungry he actually is. Damn the man for being right.
"I can fetch you more tea in a moment - I know it will go cold before too long, sir."
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"You're the least likely person to faint," he concedes. He suspects the men know that too, by now. Between the mettle Jopson's displayed over the course of this voyage and the reveal of the scars on his back, he has sailed far from the reputation of a 'mere' steward. As if anyone in this line of work is not made from tougher stuff in the first place, no matter their station. But there are degrees, and Jopson has far exceeded the ones anticipated of him.
Terror sways, gently sometimes, but damage makes her uneven. A dip now and then, and everyone has to shift his weight, grab hold of something. At least it's slow, and they've allgot their sea legs.
"This'll do."
Not in a hurry to court having to piss.
"When we're stable enough I'm to take a gig to Erebus." Finally, this bit of news. "A report on the incident must get underway. You'll need to round up the carpenters, see who can be spared. She's in a worse way than us with more injuries besides. I'm sending Roberston to set up a triage as soon as camp's been made viable enough."
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"I'll ready your things so there's little to do but grab them and go when the gig is set to row off, sir. Once we've finished these sandwiches I'll get a list of the carpenters to take and find a handful of those able to assist Roberston when the time comes, Captain."
A bite of his sandwich, thoughtfully quiet. Both ships uneven and damaged in the icy night, and even now, more work to be done still.
"Will you be returning to Terror to rest, or will you remain aboard Erebus, sir? Just so I can make the proper arrangements, of course."
There's a letter he wants to send off to Jamie for one, but he doesn't want to waste his time setting up the Captain's quarters for a short but comfortable sleep if he will stay on the flagship, among other things.
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"I'll be back here."
Which is another double-edged thing. Getting to return, but having to leave Jamie. Nevertheless, he'll carry on. They all will. Nearly finished with his sandwich when Phillips (fully dressed) appears, and Crozier goes into his plans in more detail; the lieutenant will be staying aboard, in charge, with the rest of the officers sent ashore in staggered shifts, barring McMurdo who will be attending the meeting with Ross.
The actual report writing is a haphazard thing, written as a series of lists (bullet points to describe the series of events, bullet points to describe the damage, bullet points to detail injuries) in a spare ledger, which Crozier has to drag around with him and write in while trying not to get ink everywhere. Burning through blotting paper as quick as spare rope.
"Behave," is the final instruction, which gets a chuckle out of a few. Crozier does run a tighter ship than Ross.
This bit, he thinks, will make for fine letters written back home; getting into a whaleboat from a ship threatening to sink in poor visibility (at least the wind has settled down) is the sort of event to send non-sailors into a tailspin of anxiety. But Crozier has enough life left in his knees to make it easily.
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He goes about his work shortly after, seeing to it that the other stewards help clean the messes belowdecks and keep close to the injured. Everything is surveyed and catalogued - any spoiled supplies must be noted, especially when they're out here on the ice. The small things matter. Terror, though limping and listing in a way a boat at rest shouldn't, goes quiet as the night approaches and some of the men take to their rest. There are more on watch tonight than is normal, but it's hardly a normal situation.
Crozier said he'd return for the night here on Terror and it's the Captain's berth where Jopson spends the quieter part of the night. The mattress on his bunk pulled free and placed on the floor (not before he scrubbed the floor clean himself, of course), extra furs and blankets spread out, looking much like a lush hideaway than a captain's sparse quarters.
Jopson decides he'll stay here tonight, even if Crozier fusses or sends him away, he'll refuse. Maybe it's presumptuous of him, but there's a strange, worried, aching thing in his chest that he won't be able to soothe otherwise. There's no doubt when Crozier returns aboard that this is where he'll find his steward, placing a warming pan in the many layers of the veritable nest in the berth.
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Captain Ross is a wonder at work. They spared each other nothing, in the audit of the collision. Only for a moment, brief, in his commander's (his friend's, his lover's) berth did they peel anything back and become human.
I thought I killed you, Frank, I thought I sunk us both, I thought—
They have been through worse scrapes than this.
It will be fine.
Whistles ring, captain back aboard. He gives orders, each man in shifts will find sleep, and then they are to begin repairs. In the morning he will take stock of injuries (God willing no souls lost), and he suspects once everyone's had a moment to breathe and a rest, they will rally. There is spare lumber aplenty, and though the water is cold, they're at least hemmed in without the roil of the open sea.
Strange not to see Jopson waiting for him, but he hops his steward is asleep. It brings up a tender memory of the young man in his bed— it must be so, as he passes down the hall and notices that the berth he once occupied under those very circumstances is empty. So he does expect to see Thomas there when he opens the door, just not quite like this.
"Did you find mold in it?"
—Somewhat alarmed. Is the bed okay.
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So it's a rare thing for him to startle, rising almost immediately and whirling on his heel to face the man.
"Captain," he states, a little breathless. "Welcome back, sir."
Ah, the question - and the alarm. He winces and looks down at the blankets and furs. He pitches his voice a little lower, ignoring the faintest heat creeping up his neck at the surprise of it all.
"No mold - I check it twice daily for that very thing. It's why I also insist on the heating pan, sir. This is a new arrangement - it seems as though it should be comfortable enough for two, sir, especially with the way Terror's treated us all today."
It isn't a question - a simple statement, a flippant thing as though it's normal for him to make a mess of the man's berth like this and expect to wrap up with him in all of it.
"Allow me to pour you some tea, sir?"
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It settles in on a delay.
Door closed behind him, he steps forward. Doesn't take much to be in Jopson's space, with how small this cupboard of a room is. He grabs him by his sides and pulls him close until they're flush, a jerky movement with how sudden it is. Only a moment to look at him, eyes meeting, before he crushes a kiss to his mouth. It's not like with Jamie, not a clawing thing to demand proof of existence, but it's still desperate. Desperately grateful that he is alive, that he isn't in shattered pieces in triage, that he's done this sweet, caring thing for him, this gesture for them together that is all about being lovers and nothing to do with being officer and steward.
His hold has shifted to pull him even closer, clutch him against his body. When he lifts away he holds Jopson's face in one hand, a rough cradle, knitted gloves still on.
"Tell me you're well."
A plea.
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The painful thing in his chest dissolves, turns to something just as desperate. He knows what it is now - he has a name for the terrible weight he feels every time he looks at this man, and knows what dangers that weight brings. It is a beautiful thing, but a lonely thing, this. One day he'll name it out loud.
"I'm well, sir," he tips his cheek into the touch, leans to press their foreheads together, his own fingers skirting over the man's cheekbone. "Are you, sir? Truly?"
Be honest with me he nearly says but it's a step too far - the intention is there all the same. He wants to know about every ache, every bump, every bruise. There's the red mark on his lips, the fatigue around his eyes - he knows better.
"You're safe here, Francis - we're safe here."
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Truly? the young man asks, and he can't help but chase another kiss, like a gasp of air. Just a small one. The men on Erebus are worse off, and he can't help but envision Thomas or Jamie injured in such a way, or something more dire. It would have been so easy. Thomas should have stayed below for it all, but he'd run up in the thick of it. He squeezes his side.
"Safe," sounds like a bit of a laugh, rough and low. "I don't know that we are, anywhere at sea, and especially not here. But we have weathered this disaster."
Another kiss. Francis. A secret thing to share between them, the freedom to use their Christian names. (Hah, Christian.)
"I'm well." An agreement, yes, truly. "I'll be better when I know no one's going to end up losing life or limb over it. Nothing to do but wait." A slow, deep breath, and he returns close to Thomas after, foreheads bumping again. "Jamie asked after you. Well done to us all, making it through."
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"There are only a few serious injuries, and last I checked all are weathering it well enough. I'll keep close eye as well come morning, sir - I know you'll be busy watching over the repairs for Terror and Erebus."
He slides his hand from Crozier's cheek and hooks his arm round his neck, holding him closer still.
"Is he well, sir? Jamie? I'm glad you were able to see him face to face."
No doubt the questions and worry Crozier would have held like a tortured bird in a cage until he could lay eyes on the man. Jopson can understand, in a way, only relieved now to have Francis back and pressed against him, whole and warm and real. But he will always be that and more for Jopson. (Foreshadowing, etc, etc...)
Another kiss, then - chaste but lingering, desperate in its own way.
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"He's angry with himself," he says, about Jamie, and then he kisses Jopson's temple. "But he performed the best any man could conceive. There was no better result possible, only worse ones."
A beat, and he slides both arms around Jopson, and rests his head against his shoulder. Just holds him there, for a while. Thinking about— what? God, it doesn't matter. His head is like rushing water, too fast to keep up with. He has wanted to hold him since it started, and he imagined him having his arm crushed like the sailor he'd helped shuffle off the deck.
In a moment, a murmur: "What have I done to deserve such care as all this, Thomas?"
Tired as he is, it slips into the Irish emphasis. His sweet boy.
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He holds the man in silence, turning his head and kissing the shell of his ear, nuzzling softly against him, but saying nothing. Of course Jamie is mad at himself - he knows Crozier would be as well, were he in that spot. The curse of a Captain, but the curse of a person who cares greatly about their craft and their people.
The Irish lilt applied to his name draws out a private smile, one pressed against Crozier's temple.
"Mm. Saved a ship, the men on it, provided aid to our flagship. Only a few things, sir."
He kisses his temple, closes his eyes, and simply holds the man tightly to him, gently sifting his fingers through the hair at his nape.
"You are a kind and good man, Captain - you will always deserve care such as this, and it is my duty to make you see that, sir. Come, let me get you out of your travel things - we'll hold harbor well enough tonight sir, I've no doubt in that."
Slowly he pulls back and kisses Crozier again, soft and sweet, smoothing hands over the man's face, his neck, his shoulders. Fingers tugging at his lapels, then reaching to undo the buttons. Coat undone, he gently nudges it off his shoulders, and only when he's free of the coat he reaches for the man's hands, tugging them to rest at his waist, his shoulders, anywhere he can take purchase and stabilize himself.
"Rest your eyes, Captain. I won't let you fall over, and we'll have you in something more comfortable soon enough."
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Helpless to do anything but obey, his expression to one side of sheepish. I wasn't fishing, he might say, but that would be obnoxious. Steadies himself instead, but doesn't manage to keep his eyes closed; he wants to watch Jopson, and steal touches at the back of his hands, the strong curve of his shoulders.
"You're set up to stay?"
Here. With him. He said so, or near enough. Comfortable for two. He must stay. Crozier slides a palm down the front of his waistcoat, wanting to see him unwrapped and made ready to sleep, too. It is a little sentiment, but more than that, it's impatience. He doesn't have the words to convey anything, can't pinpoint it within himself, but he can hold him and pray it bleeds through to him somehow.
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He glances down at the hand between them, down the line of his waistcoat. A small smile.
"As set up as I ever am to stay, sir," wry, a little teasing. He presses one hand over Crozier's, guiding his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, tripping them open with his own fingers, but keeping the man's palm pressed squarely against him. "We'll have our own reproduction of Aether here tonight, sir. The bunks are uncomfortable enough on the best of days."
Shrugging out of his own waistcoat, then his own shirt, leaving them matching enough as he reaches for one of the man's nightshirts. This, first, and then trousers, as always. He takes his time, pressing his fingers over the man's hair and shoulders, the bare skin of his chest and the wiry hair there as he gently tugs the shirt down. Buckles and buttons of his trousers next, of course, then reaches to do his own. A lazy dance, guiding them through.
"I suppose I didn't ask if you'd like me to stay, sir," he murmurs, smiling a little to himself as he allows his own trousers to drop, stepping out of his boots and all, leaving him in only his underthings as he kneels to help the other man out of the very same.
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