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.
"It seems you've constructed something a bit cozier than Aether."
Wonderfully touching. He doesn't know how Thomas does it, finds these things. Be it knocking over a teacup or this, seizing the correct timing, manifesting the spine to do any of it. Francis is sure he'd be far less daring, in such a position. He appreciates that his steward is crafted in just this way.
Crozier touches his hair as he kneels, and steadies himself with a hand against the room's wooden frame. This position is mundane, it is erotic, it is gentle. He nearly makes a crass joke about Christ's feet being washed, but lets it go. (He should probably get out of the habit of making jokes about the God everyone is so taken with.)
Thomas takes his time with everything, gently pulling the man's trousers down, tugging his boots off, his socks, all of it. If they were truly out at Aether he'd force him into something warmer but what he's made for them here will be enough for a night on Terror in the ice. Folding the man's clothes and setting everything aside, he skims his hands up Crozier's thighs as he rises, smoothing his palms over Crozier's chest.
"Of course I'll stay, sir," he murmurs, reaching to cup his face and tug him in for a soft, painfully sweet kiss. I will always stay, you never have to ask, is what he should have said, but maybe the kiss will say it all anyway. "Lie down, sir."
Jopson hadn't brought any of his own night clothes but he reaches to the berth door, locks it - double the security with the great cabin secured and now this room also - and turns to pull one of Crozier's shirts out, pulling it on over his head. It's not the first nor will it be the last he wears something of the older man's to bed.
A kiss like breathing, from the same boy who he had held over his knees and spanked, who had told him he imagined it was him with the flogger. The same boy who'd named their camp Aether, and who has built another one just as temporary, just as meaningful.
Francis really must be tired, thinking all this.
He half-obeys, carefully sitting down but not laying back. He watches Thomas instead, because he's not a fool and he may be tired but he isn't dead, and the view is not to be missed. Especially not when he does what he does, and drags on one of his own shirts on. Crozier sits forward and reaches out to him, catching him at a calf, his other hand sliding up over his thigh.
"Come here."
It isn't passion that moves him (not dead, no, still tired), but near enough. Almost painful, his appreciation. Though perhaps that, too, is the exhaustion; dry pinpricks everywhere, and the lure of sleep. But the desire to hold Jopson close is a powerful one that overrides collapse.
The cool fingers on the back of his calf, the graze over his thigh - it's all enough to make his smile burn so warm, so fond, adoring event. These moments are sweet and perfectly theirs, and no matter what Crozier may think, their hearts are safe here. He leans to put out the lamp, dousing the room in cool dark.
He takes a step forward with a soft little huff of breath and takes a knee, reaching to pluck the man's hands from his legs as he settles into the thicket of furs, blankets, pillows. Any soft, warm thing he could rally without taking away from the needs of the men is here in this place. The warming pan is far enough off that they don't need to worry about kicking it, but it still emanates warmth.
Jopson wriggles beneath the layers, reaching to tug them across Crozier's lap as well.
"Mm, I'm here, sir," he murmurs, reaching to touch the man's cheek, to brush the hair from his brow fleetingly as he reclines into the furs and the warmth. Jopson tangles the fingers of one hand, tugging the Captain down in a gentle and loving sort of no, sir, you come here. And he makes room for it, letting the man press against him however he should please.
"I'd like to hold you tonight, Francis," he murmurs softly into the dark.
He thinks he's going to be collecting Jopson, but Jopson collects him, gathers him up like it's easy and like he wants nothing more than to be doing it. To hold him? It's such a specific request, and it melts something in him.
Crozier leans on one hand, and uses the other to skim over Jopson where he's being captured. Squeezes the hand holding his, slides up, finds his face. Everything is dark, like a painting made only in blacks and grays, but he's still visible just enough. He can look at him with a bare expression on his face, and not worry about being unable to name it.
No one else will ever do, he thinks, and has to follow it up with: he means as a steward. It'll never happen again, this. Utter serendipity. Thomas is...
Relentless, still.
"It's your camp," he concedes in an affectionate murmur. And after another stroke to his cheek, Crozier settles in, tucked against him. Easily allowing Jopson to situate them as he likes, as he has a plan for it, it seems. He plans on helping with the arrangement, but the moment he's horizontal all the strings holding his exhaustion at bay are cut. He's dazed, briefly, blinking in the dark. Probably feels like a wobbly dead weight.
After such a terrible and grueling day, Jopson wants nothing more than to provide this man a gentle place to land. Wants to feel him against his body and know without a doubt that he's well, that he's alive and breathing and well. Crozier earns himself a crooked little smile in the dark, one likely not seen but easily heard in the little exhaled half-laugh.
"It is my camp, sir, I'm glad you have made your surrender an elegant one."
Jopson welcomes Crozier in against him, tugs him so that they are pressed chest to chest in some way, so he can rest his cheek atop the man's head and hold him close. He noses into his hair, breathing him in and letting him find whatever nook is most comfortable against his body. The loose, dead weight of him is everything he expected would happen and he kisses his crown, winds his arms around him and pulls the furs and blankets up.
"And in my camp I must order you to rest, sir," he murmurs, voice going soft as he presses sweet butterfly kisses to his hair, his temple, his forehead. "I will be here, well and warm, when you wake."
Would that he could promise that for the rest of their days, beyond ship and beyond society, beyond everything that makes this tiny den of warmth temporary and fleeting. This is enough - it has to be. It always has to be.
It is comfortable, far more than the cramped bed they're on the floor beside, and the hard comfort of the deckboards beneath Jopson's scavenged bounty feel more welcoming than the rails that tried their best the separate them when they were at that dreamy camp. Crozier buries himself against the younger man, wraps his arms around him, and wonders what he's doing. If this is the sort of way he should be behaving. Too tired to question in earnest, though; too caught, expertly, securely.
He even likes how Jopson smells. He's in fathoms over his head.
"Don't let me sleep in," he murmurs, muffled. As though in apology for still speaking of duty even now, he kisses his steward's chest. "This'll be enough."
Resting here with him will rejuvenate him, as good as twelve hours. He's certain. And perhaps he would opine more about it, but he already feels his consciousness ebbing. Slipping into deep water, warm and peaceful.
Jopson allows the man the room to settle, smiling and pressing a kiss against his forehead as Crozier relaxes. He cannot begin to know the weight the man carries with him, how the responsibility of the title Captain forms him or bends his spine by the end of days. To offer him this and know it's plenty enough for him - another moment he'll remember. This'll be enough, in the slurred fatigue of a man who whispers his name like it's something magical.
"Of course, sir," he murmurs finally, reaching to pull the blankets and furs around them a little tighter. Thomas counts each breath Crozier makes as he sleeps, soaks up the feeling of Crozier's heart beating against his own, and drifts off not too long after.
Even in sleep, however, he can follow an order, and he wakes before the Captain does. There's a little activity abovedecks somewhere, but nothing alarming, nothing speaking to disaster or panic. Terror feels a little off-kilter but calm - weathering a quiet evening after a disastrous day.
He allows himself a few precious moments of looking at Crozier in the dim light, letting him rest a while longer tucked in against him. Jopson doesn't want to wake him - would like very much to let him sleep against him until he naturally woke, but it isn't what he promised. He pets gently down Crozier's back, noses in against him to press a soft kiss against the seam of his lips, lingering even as he speaks.
"Captain," a low murmur, another soft kiss. "I've to get you dressed in an hour, sir."
Doesn't he? Always a loss on waking, slips of smoke vanishing; maybe he did. Maybe the impressions aren't just his mind returning to consciousness, filling out corners of awareness, but some other world leaving him. What's it like in that world? Has Sophia agreed to marry him, have he and Jamie run away years ago?
Nothing, instead, but that's what he wants for. Being held so tenderly after sleeping so soundly, being warm and rested, is a boon unlike any other. As he surfaces through the muddy water of orientation, he wonders when the last time was. On shore sometime, in the house on Blackheath, or in a rented room with rented company. An officer shouldn't, but he lost eligibility for sainthood long ago anyway. Soft beds and warm fires, and yet he thinks nothing has made him feel as singularly content as this.
He roams a hand around from Jopson's side, palms over his chest, the fabric of his own shirt there covering his heart. Hm. He drags in a breath, lets it out. He's up, he's up. Mostly awake, and—
"I thought it would be nice to have a lie in, sir," he murmurs softly, kissing him again, sweet and fond. He's tired as well, but comfortable wrapped up in the warmth of the other man and all the blankets and furs. The warming pan went cold hours ago but it's done the job and the little berth is surprisingly cozy.
Soft strokes down Crozier's back still, fingers lightly pressing patterns into the fabric of his shirt. He'd be content to let the man sleep as long as he wants and merely watch him for the duration.
"Take your time waking up, enjoy the quiet while there's time to instead of rushing to the business of it right off, Captain."
A kiss to the bridge of his nose, his forehead, where his lips linger. "Go back to sleep, if you'd like - I'll be here all the same, sir."
From his tailbone to the tense spot between the man's shoulder blades, he traces every notch of the man's spine, then follows the sinewy paths of muscle, back and forth, committing every bit of it to memory. Their moments are stolen and sacred, and he wants to make the most of them while they can.
Jamie was right, it seems, he has gotten used to having a steward; but surely this is leagues from the ordinary steward experience. It feels more like— not even being courted, being seduced, even though it's all far more gentle and caring than his own overture, which had been steeped in the lust-driven catalyst of physical intensity.
Crozier presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, bumps their noses together, and pets him in idle moments. Though falling back asleep will only find him a headache upon waking again, the allure of whiling away time just coiled up with his young lover is too powerful to ignore. Despite sleeping on the deck he doesn't feel too out of sorts, and he isn't desperate to get up and piss. A slightly sore elbow and a feeling of mild dehydration, which all in all is a miraculously light bill of sale for the days past. Perhaps it wasn't just flirtations after all, and Jopson's presence has worked some witchcraft on him, rejuvenated him entirely.
Moments go by, and he finally shifts. Not to leave, just moving onto his back, and drawing his steward with him. Looking up, he frames the young man's face with his hands, and pets his hair back from his forehead. Held him all night, did he. Crozier forgets to ask himself what he's doing; simply doing it is more appealing than questioning anything.
The quiet as they both slowly wake and come back into their bodies will always be such a sacred, powerful thing. Crozier pets him, kisses him - disarms him entirely, lulls him into a lazy sort of calm. Enough that being pulled along with the man makes him huff, surprised at the trading of places.
Some of the blood comes back into his fingers, skin tingling along his palm and forearm as they find a freer position. He blinks slowly, looking down at his Captain, a crooked smile dimpling one corner of his mouth.
"I did, sir. Very well."
Jopson shifts his weight enough to pet the older man's chest, fingers tracing over one collar bone. He turns his head, pressing his mouth to the man's callused palm, a sweet kiss for the gentle touch, and he speaks against his skin.
Holding him is lovely, feeling his weight atop him is lovely; all of it, the warmth, the rest, the closeness. Crozier cradles him in his hands, traces that handsome smile with his thumb. What is Jopson doing here with him? He's pulled plenty of young men before, but brief fancies are worlds away from this. Everything laden in emotion, wrapped up in it, like the blankets and furs Jopson has arranged. He gives him a soft kiss that lands on his cheekbone, gently playful.
"Good enough to last me 'til summer," he tells him.
Some part of him wants to just get up— now that he's awake, duty pulls at him. But staying right here pulls, too, and so he lets himself melt into it. Another kiss, catching his mouth this time.
After a little while,
"I feel selfish keeping you here, all to myself. But I'll keep on." He rubs his cheek, affectionate. "Though Lieutenant Phillips at least is going to be missing you. Mr Hooker if he were aboard, too."
The warmth of blankets and furs compounded with the warmth of the man beneath him, Thomas nearly drifts back into lazy sleep, eyes heavy, letting the quiet settle in and lull his mind to peace. Reality brings him back, and a gentle one it is with Crozier's hand on his cheek. He huffs.
"It isn't selfish, sir, when I also choose to stay," he murmurs, nuzzling into his hand softly, head dipping to kiss his wrist.
Phillips, Hooker. Both men with pretty faces and sweet dispositions and curiosities outside that of just sailing. Strange they should come up here of all places, when he owes them no duty, shares no routine with them, feels nothing like he does the pull in his chest when he shares time with the older man beneath him.
A fancy, a fling, this will all go away when they reach England again, but for now -
"You do realize I've no interest in them, sir?" He murmurs against Crozier's skin, his wide eyes blinking up at him. He sighs, propping himself up on an elbow to maneuver himself. It isn't altogether graceful with the blankets wrapped up all around them but he sits up just enough to climb atop the man, night shirt pooling around his spread, bare thighs as he settles down against Crozier's hips. The bite of cold air leans him forward, bringing the furs with him so he's nose to nose and chest to chest with his Captain/
"Besides, sir - I've much thinking to do for summer now, you see. It is my duty to see you well rested and summer will be upon us before we know it. I'm going to be quite busy, Captain."
And perhaps it's too forward, too bold, but he leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet.
"I do realize that," he murmurs, and it's almost surreal to say it out loud. What might he do, if he were in Jopson's shoes? ... Well, honestly, probably the same thing. If he were Captain Ross' steward, he wouldn't have eyes for anyone else. Putting it like that in his head makes it feel all the more special, sends a lance of warmth through him.
Still—
He rubs his cheek, and sighs as Jopson moves astride him. Holds him when he bends down. In his own shirt, just that, hiding from the chill. Crozier maps his touch over him, indulgent.
"Still," there we are, train of thought catching up, "you're admired aplenty, for good reason. One of the handsomest men on the voyage. Surely on Terror, with no second pedestal in sight." He spreads his palm over his chest, then his ribs, down to his hip. Thumbs over the curve of bone, thinking about the bruise he bit into his thigh, tucked there inside. Forehead to forehead, he catches that kiss.
"What'll you be doing, then? Mm?"
Summer. He misspoke, because it feels like winter now, and endless one, but it's only because it is the warm season here at the pole that they can navigate at all. They'll winter on land to keep from dying. But it'll be summer back in England. The world is a great, beautiful thing.
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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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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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Wonderfully touching. He doesn't know how Thomas does it, finds these things. Be it knocking over a teacup or this, seizing the correct timing, manifesting the spine to do any of it. Francis is sure he'd be far less daring, in such a position. He appreciates that his steward is crafted in just this way.
Crozier touches his hair as he kneels, and steadies himself with a hand against the room's wooden frame. This position is mundane, it is erotic, it is gentle. He nearly makes a crass joke about Christ's feet being washed, but lets it go. (He should probably get out of the habit of making jokes about the God everyone is so taken with.)
If you leave me, my heart might shatter.
Mmn.
"Stay."
Better.
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"Of course I'll stay, sir," he murmurs, reaching to cup his face and tug him in for a soft, painfully sweet kiss. I will always stay, you never have to ask, is what he should have said, but maybe the kiss will say it all anyway. "Lie down, sir."
Jopson hadn't brought any of his own night clothes but he reaches to the berth door, locks it - double the security with the great cabin secured and now this room also - and turns to pull one of Crozier's shirts out, pulling it on over his head. It's not the first nor will it be the last he wears something of the older man's to bed.
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Francis really must be tired, thinking all this.
He half-obeys, carefully sitting down but not laying back. He watches Thomas instead, because he's not a fool and he may be tired but he isn't dead, and the view is not to be missed. Especially not when he does what he does, and drags on one of his own shirts on. Crozier sits forward and reaches out to him, catching him at a calf, his other hand sliding up over his thigh.
"Come here."
It isn't passion that moves him (not dead, no, still tired), but near enough. Almost painful, his appreciation. Though perhaps that, too, is the exhaustion; dry pinpricks everywhere, and the lure of sleep. But the desire to hold Jopson close is a powerful one that overrides collapse.
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He takes a step forward with a soft little huff of breath and takes a knee, reaching to pluck the man's hands from his legs as he settles into the thicket of furs, blankets, pillows. Any soft, warm thing he could rally without taking away from the needs of the men is here in this place. The warming pan is far enough off that they don't need to worry about kicking it, but it still emanates warmth.
Jopson wriggles beneath the layers, reaching to tug them across Crozier's lap as well.
"Mm, I'm here, sir," he murmurs, reaching to touch the man's cheek, to brush the hair from his brow fleetingly as he reclines into the furs and the warmth. Jopson tangles the fingers of one hand, tugging the Captain down in a gentle and loving sort of no, sir, you come here. And he makes room for it, letting the man press against him however he should please.
"I'd like to hold you tonight, Francis," he murmurs softly into the dark.
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Crozier leans on one hand, and uses the other to skim over Jopson where he's being captured. Squeezes the hand holding his, slides up, finds his face. Everything is dark, like a painting made only in blacks and grays, but he's still visible just enough. He can look at him with a bare expression on his face, and not worry about being unable to name it.
No one else will ever do, he thinks, and has to follow it up with: he means as a steward. It'll never happen again, this. Utter serendipity. Thomas is...
Relentless, still.
"It's your camp," he concedes in an affectionate murmur. And after another stroke to his cheek, Crozier settles in, tucked against him. Easily allowing Jopson to situate them as he likes, as he has a plan for it, it seems. He plans on helping with the arrangement, but the moment he's horizontal all the strings holding his exhaustion at bay are cut. He's dazed, briefly, blinking in the dark. Probably feels like a wobbly dead weight.
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"It is my camp, sir, I'm glad you have made your surrender an elegant one."
Jopson welcomes Crozier in against him, tugs him so that they are pressed chest to chest in some way, so he can rest his cheek atop the man's head and hold him close. He noses into his hair, breathing him in and letting him find whatever nook is most comfortable against his body. The loose, dead weight of him is everything he expected would happen and he kisses his crown, winds his arms around him and pulls the furs and blankets up.
"And in my camp I must order you to rest, sir," he murmurs, voice going soft as he presses sweet butterfly kisses to his hair, his temple, his forehead. "I will be here, well and warm, when you wake."
Would that he could promise that for the rest of their days, beyond ship and beyond society, beyond everything that makes this tiny den of warmth temporary and fleeting. This is enough - it has to be. It always has to be.
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He even likes how Jopson smells. He's in fathoms over his head.
"Don't let me sleep in," he murmurs, muffled. As though in apology for still speaking of duty even now, he kisses his steward's chest. "This'll be enough."
Resting here with him will rejuvenate him, as good as twelve hours. He's certain. And perhaps he would opine more about it, but he already feels his consciousness ebbing. Slipping into deep water, warm and peaceful.
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"Of course, sir," he murmurs finally, reaching to pull the blankets and furs around them a little tighter. Thomas counts each breath Crozier makes as he sleeps, soaks up the feeling of Crozier's heart beating against his own, and drifts off not too long after.
Even in sleep, however, he can follow an order, and he wakes before the Captain does. There's a little activity abovedecks somewhere, but nothing alarming, nothing speaking to disaster or panic. Terror feels a little off-kilter but calm - weathering a quiet evening after a disastrous day.
He allows himself a few precious moments of looking at Crozier in the dim light, letting him rest a while longer tucked in against him. Jopson doesn't want to wake him - would like very much to let him sleep against him until he naturally woke, but it isn't what he promised. He pets gently down Crozier's back, noses in against him to press a soft kiss against the seam of his lips, lingering even as he speaks.
"Captain," a low murmur, another soft kiss. "I've to get you dressed in an hour, sir."
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Doesn't he? Always a loss on waking, slips of smoke vanishing; maybe he did. Maybe the impressions aren't just his mind returning to consciousness, filling out corners of awareness, but some other world leaving him. What's it like in that world? Has Sophia agreed to marry him, have he and Jamie run away years ago?
Nothing, instead, but that's what he wants for. Being held so tenderly after sleeping so soundly, being warm and rested, is a boon unlike any other. As he surfaces through the muddy water of orientation, he wonders when the last time was. On shore sometime, in the house on Blackheath, or in a rented room with rented company. An officer shouldn't, but he lost eligibility for sainthood long ago anyway. Soft beds and warm fires, and yet he thinks nothing has made him feel as singularly content as this.
He roams a hand around from Jopson's side, palms over his chest, the fabric of his own shirt there covering his heart. Hm. He drags in a breath, lets it out. He's up, he's up. Mostly awake, and—
"Good morning, Jopson." Oof, creaky morning voice. "An hour?"
Muzzily, he looks up, eyebrow quirked. That's a while, what's the occasion, lad.
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Soft strokes down Crozier's back still, fingers lightly pressing patterns into the fabric of his shirt. He'd be content to let the man sleep as long as he wants and merely watch him for the duration.
"Take your time waking up, enjoy the quiet while there's time to instead of rushing to the business of it right off, Captain."
A kiss to the bridge of his nose, his forehead, where his lips linger. "Go back to sleep, if you'd like - I'll be here all the same, sir."
From his tailbone to the tense spot between the man's shoulder blades, he traces every notch of the man's spine, then follows the sinewy paths of muscle, back and forth, committing every bit of it to memory. Their moments are stolen and sacred, and he wants to make the most of them while they can.
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Crozier presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, bumps their noses together, and pets him in idle moments. Though falling back asleep will only find him a headache upon waking again, the allure of whiling away time just coiled up with his young lover is too powerful to ignore. Despite sleeping on the deck he doesn't feel too out of sorts, and he isn't desperate to get up and piss. A slightly sore elbow and a feeling of mild dehydration, which all in all is a miraculously light bill of sale for the days past. Perhaps it wasn't just flirtations after all, and Jopson's presence has worked some witchcraft on him, rejuvenated him entirely.
Moments go by, and he finally shifts. Not to leave, just moving onto his back, and drawing his steward with him. Looking up, he frames the young man's face with his hands, and pets his hair back from his forehead. Held him all night, did he. Crozier forgets to ask himself what he's doing; simply doing it is more appealing than questioning anything.
"Did you sleep well, Thomas?"
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Some of the blood comes back into his fingers, skin tingling along his palm and forearm as they find a freer position. He blinks slowly, looking down at his Captain, a crooked smile dimpling one corner of his mouth.
"I did, sir. Very well."
Jopson shifts his weight enough to pet the older man's chest, fingers tracing over one collar bone. He turns his head, pressing his mouth to the man's callused palm, a sweet kiss for the gentle touch, and he speaks against his skin.
"Did you?"
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"Good enough to last me 'til summer," he tells him.
Some part of him wants to just get up— now that he's awake, duty pulls at him. But staying right here pulls, too, and so he lets himself melt into it. Another kiss, catching his mouth this time.
After a little while,
"I feel selfish keeping you here, all to myself. But I'll keep on." He rubs his cheek, affectionate. "Though Lieutenant Phillips at least is going to be missing you. Mr Hooker if he were aboard, too."
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"It isn't selfish, sir, when I also choose to stay," he murmurs, nuzzling into his hand softly, head dipping to kiss his wrist.
Phillips, Hooker. Both men with pretty faces and sweet dispositions and curiosities outside that of just sailing. Strange they should come up here of all places, when he owes them no duty, shares no routine with them, feels nothing like he does the pull in his chest when he shares time with the older man beneath him.
A fancy, a fling, this will all go away when they reach England again, but for now -
"You do realize I've no interest in them, sir?" He murmurs against Crozier's skin, his wide eyes blinking up at him. He sighs, propping himself up on an elbow to maneuver himself. It isn't altogether graceful with the blankets wrapped up all around them but he sits up just enough to climb atop the man, night shirt pooling around his spread, bare thighs as he settles down against Crozier's hips. The bite of cold air leans him forward, bringing the furs with him so he's nose to nose and chest to chest with his Captain/
"Besides, sir - I've much thinking to do for summer now, you see. It is my duty to see you well rested and summer will be upon us before we know it. I'm going to be quite busy, Captain."
And perhaps it's too forward, too bold, but he leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet.
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Still—
He rubs his cheek, and sighs as Jopson moves astride him. Holds him when he bends down. In his own shirt, just that, hiding from the chill. Crozier maps his touch over him, indulgent.
"Still," there we are, train of thought catching up, "you're admired aplenty, for good reason. One of the handsomest men on the voyage. Surely on Terror, with no second pedestal in sight." He spreads his palm over his chest, then his ribs, down to his hip. Thumbs over the curve of bone, thinking about the bruise he bit into his thigh, tucked there inside. Forehead to forehead, he catches that kiss.
"What'll you be doing, then? Mm?"
Summer. He misspoke, because it feels like winter now, and endless one, but it's only because it is the warm season here at the pole that they can navigate at all. They'll winter on land to keep from dying. But it'll be summer back in England. The world is a great, beautiful thing.
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rip this boomerang
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