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.
Jopson could be content with Crozier's hands on him for the rest of his life if he was granted nothing else. His skin burns beneath the night shirt, prickling beneath the path the older man's hand takes. It takes everything in him not to kiss the rebuttals from Crozier's mouth - handsomest, admired, it doesn't matter. None of that matters when he's here, wrapped up in his captain for the little time they have remaining.
He shifts his weight, settling heavier on the man's hips, resting his elbows on either side of Crozier's head so he may smooth a hand over his forehead, brushing fair hair from his brow.
"Helping you relax, sir," he murmurs, dipping to kiss him again, a little deeper, a little hungrier, cheekily nipping the little inflamed part where he's sure Ross's teeth had been. "If I'm to get you to rest in summer at all, Captain, it usually requires great distraction."
A tip of his head, mouth trailing wet kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing his earlobe, the side of his throat. He reaches a hand to trace along one of Crozier's arms, tugging at his hand to pin it gently into the mattress and furs.
"Let me demonstrate for you, sir?" Though it's not truly a question, not when he sits up, reaches for the hand at his hip and pins it much the same to the soft nest they've made here. He moves only when he's sure the man's hands will stay put and he rucks up his night shirt, bows his head, and kisses his chest, sucking a soft mark into the man's collar bone.
Perfectly relaxed, still sleep-warm, thinking about the whole hour that Jopson has sectioned off for them. He kisses him, licks against his mouth at that nip, shifts just slightly beneath him. It feels good, his weight. His presence, the way there's no room for anything else in his awareness. The way Jopson pins his hands is interesting, it piques his curiosity, and he raises an eyebrow at him but lets him proceed.
"If you like."
A breath in, as Jopson explores. Thinks about him tipping the teacup over, but this is different. Multitudes within this young man.
"I haven't committed much thought to you and anyone else, to be clear," he offers up after a moment. "When I think of you, it's only ever with myself."
Selfish, as he said. And — to him and himself alone — a worrying admission. Surely he should occasionally be thinking of him with Jamie, too. And glancing over those thoughts now isn't unpleasant, it's just while he has the freedom for it, what's the harm? No one has to know besides him. Thinking about possessive, unwarranted things.
Jopson burns hotter with each sound Crozier makes, the hitch of his breath and the shift of his body beneath him - it's a beautiful thing to make this man feel good. He thumbs over Crozier's pulse at each wrist, applying gentle pressure still, sliding his tongue over the length of his collar bone, worrying the mark he's made beneath it. A place where it can be hidden beneath layers until it fades in a few hours - nothing permanent, nothing lasting. Nothing like the aching thing he's worked back to life in his thigh.
He nuzzles against the fair hair of his chest, scraping his teeth over his skin, flicking his tongue over a nipple before raising his head to look at the man.
"As it should be, sir," he murmurs, petting hands up his arms to gather his face and kiss him once more, hungry and slow and deep - committing the taste of him to memory again. They could have lost one another, they could have died in the collision. That's enough to warrant this, to lather in him in affection.
"I am your steward, first and foremost, Captain," he murmurs against his mouth, ducking his head after to press a kiss to his sternum, to spread his thighs and let his weight settle heavy against the man's hips.
"You rest your tired hands, sir, I'll care for you."
Teeth marks, little half-formed bruises, and Crozier imagines it's to offset the small welt on his lip. Looks like nothing, but Jopson will know; will be the only one who will. Now, he's marked for both of them, but the only one he feels is the young man pawing at him, sitting over him, caging him in.
It's very pleasant, though he thinks (not without humor) that Jopson might take mild offense at it being called pleasant, and not some stronger think. There is arousal, yes, but he has no instinct to submit. Nevertheless, he isn't made uncomfortable by the posture of it all. He likes the attention, the intimacy, even though he knows he isn't the sort to sink into it the way Jopson had when he took him over his knees.
He flexes his hands, open, closed, missing Jopson's own as he slides them away.
"No hardship to touch you," he promises, but keeps his hands where they are. For now.
Crozier's skin warms his mouth, only serves to deepen the sleep-warm blush on his cheeks. He could stay like this, perched over him and kissing every inch of him, wrapped up in furs and the scent of him. The captain could flip them, drag him away, rake hands over him, anything he wished and he wouldn't balk at the idea - the feigned control here only for show, for a moment to savor the older man beneath him. Pleasant, yes, that Crozier plays the game for now.
Palms slide along his arms again, over his shoulders, his chest, pressing nails lightly into the skin as he shimmies down once more. It's a careful grind of his rear against the man's hips, thighs spread wide and inviting the line of his prick between the clothed spread of his arse.
"I feel much the same, sir," he murmurs, sliding further down the man's body so that when he bends again it's just above his navel he kisses. "It is never any hardship to care for you."
Being asked not to just makes him want to curl his arms around him more, cradle his head, dig fingers into his hair. But he can take orders as well as give them, surely. Still. Crozier tips one knee up slightly, jostling him only enough to feel the weight of him. His skin prickles, almost like static, from the contrast of the cold air and Jopson's warm mouth.
"You're going to bend yourself in half like that," he observes. It's impressive, but because Crozier is old, he's also thinking about Jopson's spine.
(His cock doesn't share the same concern. Thickening beneath him, where he's saddled.)
"No one has ever taken such care." He flexes his hands again. He wants to kiss him. He wants to watch him suck his cock. "In any respect."
No officers' steward, no lover. This liminal space, this overlapping seam of their roles, offers something no one else has ever touched. A seam, a hidden stitch along the well-crafted uniform of the service, where they're hiding away.
"That's a shame, sir," he murmurs, heartfelt, sliding his hips away from Crozier's now even if he can feel the rise of heat beneath him. Difficult to resist rutting against it instead, chasing something else that isn't this careful and lingering affection. "You deserve even more care than this. If I could give more of myself, Captain, I would."
Francis Crozier, as gentle and thoughtful and kind as he is stern and sea-hardened. Sharp, clever, diligent. Cast off by others for the pretty lilt of his words, something Jopson likes hearing, especially wrapped around his own name. Foolish, for even his first voyage, he can see how brilliant a captain he is.
He sits back, looks down at the man he's gently tousled and mussed here in the bedclothes, night shirt rucked up and the blooming, faint bruise on his fair skin. A burning thing that feels like possession licks down his spine but he quickly chokes the flame out. No, Crozier doesn't belong to him in any right, but it's pleasant to pretend. Just for now.
He shifts his weight, wedging a knee between Crozier's thighs, parting them and sliding down between. He maps kisses around his stomach, his sides, his hips. Laving his tongue over a rogue freckle or mole, dragging his teeth along the ridge of his hip bone, seeking out little scars or blemishes here and there, savoring him, free hand reaching and petting over his chest, applying the faintest pressure.
"It is an honor to care for you and serve you, sir," he whispers against the man's hip, nuzzling into the fabric of his under things, until he drags his mouth hot and open over the hard line of his cock through the cloth.
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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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He shifts his weight, settling heavier on the man's hips, resting his elbows on either side of Crozier's head so he may smooth a hand over his forehead, brushing fair hair from his brow.
"Helping you relax, sir," he murmurs, dipping to kiss him again, a little deeper, a little hungrier, cheekily nipping the little inflamed part where he's sure Ross's teeth had been. "If I'm to get you to rest in summer at all, Captain, it usually requires great distraction."
A tip of his head, mouth trailing wet kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing his earlobe, the side of his throat. He reaches a hand to trace along one of Crozier's arms, tugging at his hand to pin it gently into the mattress and furs.
"Let me demonstrate for you, sir?" Though it's not truly a question, not when he sits up, reaches for the hand at his hip and pins it much the same to the soft nest they've made here. He moves only when he's sure the man's hands will stay put and he rucks up his night shirt, bows his head, and kisses his chest, sucking a soft mark into the man's collar bone.
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Perfectly relaxed, still sleep-warm, thinking about the whole hour that Jopson has sectioned off for them. He kisses him, licks against his mouth at that nip, shifts just slightly beneath him. It feels good, his weight. His presence, the way there's no room for anything else in his awareness. The way Jopson pins his hands is interesting, it piques his curiosity, and he raises an eyebrow at him but lets him proceed.
"If you like."
A breath in, as Jopson explores. Thinks about him tipping the teacup over, but this is different. Multitudes within this young man.
"I haven't committed much thought to you and anyone else, to be clear," he offers up after a moment. "When I think of you, it's only ever with myself."
Selfish, as he said. And — to him and himself alone — a worrying admission. Surely he should occasionally be thinking of him with Jamie, too. And glancing over those thoughts now isn't unpleasant, it's just while he has the freedom for it, what's the harm? No one has to know besides him. Thinking about possessive, unwarranted things.
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He nuzzles against the fair hair of his chest, scraping his teeth over his skin, flicking his tongue over a nipple before raising his head to look at the man.
"As it should be, sir," he murmurs, petting hands up his arms to gather his face and kiss him once more, hungry and slow and deep - committing the taste of him to memory again. They could have lost one another, they could have died in the collision. That's enough to warrant this, to lather in him in affection.
"I am your steward, first and foremost, Captain," he murmurs against his mouth, ducking his head after to press a kiss to his sternum, to spread his thighs and let his weight settle heavy against the man's hips.
"You rest your tired hands, sir, I'll care for you."
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It's very pleasant, though he thinks (not without humor) that Jopson might take mild offense at it being called pleasant, and not some stronger think. There is arousal, yes, but he has no instinct to submit. Nevertheless, he isn't made uncomfortable by the posture of it all. He likes the attention, the intimacy, even though he knows he isn't the sort to sink into it the way Jopson had when he took him over his knees.
He flexes his hands, open, closed, missing Jopson's own as he slides them away.
"No hardship to touch you," he promises, but keeps his hands where they are. For now.
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Palms slide along his arms again, over his shoulders, his chest, pressing nails lightly into the skin as he shimmies down once more. It's a careful grind of his rear against the man's hips, thighs spread wide and inviting the line of his prick between the clothed spread of his arse.
"I feel much the same, sir," he murmurs, sliding further down the man's body so that when he bends again it's just above his navel he kisses. "It is never any hardship to care for you."
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"You're going to bend yourself in half like that," he observes. It's impressive, but because Crozier is old, he's also thinking about Jopson's spine.
(His cock doesn't share the same concern. Thickening beneath him, where he's saddled.)
"No one has ever taken such care." He flexes his hands again. He wants to kiss him. He wants to watch him suck his cock. "In any respect."
No officers' steward, no lover. This liminal space, this overlapping seam of their roles, offers something no one else has ever touched. A seam, a hidden stitch along the well-crafted uniform of the service, where they're hiding away.
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Francis Crozier, as gentle and thoughtful and kind as he is stern and sea-hardened. Sharp, clever, diligent. Cast off by others for the pretty lilt of his words, something Jopson likes hearing, especially wrapped around his own name. Foolish, for even his first voyage, he can see how brilliant a captain he is.
He sits back, looks down at the man he's gently tousled and mussed here in the bedclothes, night shirt rucked up and the blooming, faint bruise on his fair skin. A burning thing that feels like possession licks down his spine but he quickly chokes the flame out. No, Crozier doesn't belong to him in any right, but it's pleasant to pretend. Just for now.
He shifts his weight, wedging a knee between Crozier's thighs, parting them and sliding down between. He maps kisses around his stomach, his sides, his hips. Laving his tongue over a rogue freckle or mole, dragging his teeth along the ridge of his hip bone, seeking out little scars or blemishes here and there, savoring him, free hand reaching and petting over his chest, applying the faintest pressure.
"It is an honor to care for you and serve you, sir," he whispers against the man's hip, nuzzling into the fabric of his under things, until he drags his mouth hot and open over the hard line of his cock through the cloth.
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rip this boomerang
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