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.
He feels a flush take his skin, emotion expressed physically that would be painfully obvious on one so pale if he weren't already turning pink from Jopson's touches and careful bites. It doesn't sound like flattery to rile him up in bed, it sounds like—
"I happen to be quite attached to yourself, Thomas," he says, To-mas, lost in himself. He gives up keeping his hands where they are, unable to stop himself from bringing them down to cradle his steward's head. One hand delves into his hair, running blunt nails along his scalp, tender. "Don't give everything away, even to me. You're worth maintaining."
It must feel good, to sear away everything and be able to trust in doing so. He can understand it in a way. But he wants him to remember that he's valued without it, too. Being a servant is simply a job, he is a person. A person Crozier has become unbearably attached to.
His breath hitches. He strokes against the young man's cheek with his other hand. Alright, alright, he gets that it's a sex thing, he isn't a child. Still. Feels important to remind him.
Funny that it isn't just a sex thing - that he would give everything in him to this man without a second thought no matter where they are, no matter what they got up to. No, it's a funny thing that makes a tangle in his chest, threatens to take breath from his lungs for the way he won't give life to what it truly is.
But Crozier says To-mas and pets through his hair and promises a delicate safety. He sighs against the outline of the man's prick, cheeks going ruddy with heat. He turns his face into the hand at his cheek, pressing his mouth to the older man's palm. Overwhelm is the only way to put it - you're worth maintaining; whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe - and to avoid facing the desperate and devoted thing that sparks to life in him he licks a hot stripe against Crozier's palm, sucks his forefinger into his mouth once. Lewd and wet, always.
"I will cherish the same, sir," he murmurs, nipping at Crozier's wrist before turning his head back into the hot line of his dick. He mouths at him even through his smallclothes, chases nibbles along the side, nosing against his sac.
"I'd like to taste you, sir," he mumbles against the damp fabric, mouth seeking out the flared head of his prick and sucking softly.
Thomas sucks on his finger, Crozier feels the soft texture of his tongue, and he thinks about what he must sound like gagging, really struggling for it; emotion seizes his chest at the same time, because he wishes he could offer genuine safety. He only has that, some metaphorical thing, because he still maintains (will always maintain) that they'll never be safe. But when this young man comes to him for attention, what he gives over to him when he does, he can hold carefully.
Thank the devil for the absurd amount of furs and mattresses piled up. Enough for him to look down without straining. He shifts, restless, but doesn't buck up. Too old to be over-eager for this, he tells himself, but the thought burns away in the face of this fire.
"That what you're after?" he traces the side of Jopson's mouth with his fingertips, intrudes on the contact between it and his covered, thickening cock. No deterrence, he just wants to feel him there, to tease him (tease them both). "This may be the most decadent I've been in my whole life, Tom."
A lie-in, getting his prick sucked by a much younger man, who he has ultimate control over. A last touch to his mouth, and he slides his hand up, a comforting thing, a permissive thing, while the other keeps its place in his hair. He could get a hard grip at any time and pull.
"As I've intended, sir," he says quietly. Decadent, relaxed, devoured, cared for. Anything to send him into the next many hours with muscles loosened and warmth kindled under his skin.
Thomas sucks softly at Crozier's fingertips, the press of them at his mouth, the disruption from seeking out his cock beneath the fabric. Though it's wildly erotic to feel both the curve of the man's fingers and the thick length of his cock in one swipe of his tongue or press of his lips. One day he'll beg the man to fuck his mouth open with his fingers alone before he swallows his prick in the dark of the berth.
Let me feel your mouth is all it takes for the sigh, for a reach of fingers up and over his hip, starting the pull of the fabric before he catches it between his teeth. He only does this so that as the fabric comes down he can nuzzle and nose in at the hardening and heated flesh beneath. Breathe hotly over him until he grows impatient, tugging it down all the way with two hooked fingers.
Hot, wet kisses start below his navel again, Thomas licking and sucking his way down hip bones to the thatch of fair, wiry hair. A breath in, the scent of sweat and musk and Francis overwhelming, coaxing a low, heady moan. A sound that rumbles and carries over into the first pass of his tongue and lips over the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
A simple act. But it's dreamlike, too. A dream, that's what you are, he might tell him. (Doesn't, of course.) Crozier drags fingernails over his scalp, gets a grip, but just holds him without jerking his head around. Grounding support for himself more than anything as Thomas gets him uncovered and stars to lick at him.
"Ah, fuck."
Sighed out. Barely a touch so far, but everything feels superheated, like these lazy minutes have been boiling them the whole time and he's just now noticed how bloody hot it is. His cock isn't fully hard yet, age and the mileage of the past few days slowing his reaction even in the morning, but it won't be long 'til he's caught up. The heady rush of it swims heat through his blood, makes all the aching parts of him strain as though to reach out for Jopson, absurdly desirous.
"Whiling away all this time just for you," he murmurs, voice heavy. "No one else could convince me."
Another lazy swipe of his tongue along the man's half-hard prick, taking his time from root to tip. He slides his hand to the man's belly, tracing soft little lines into his skin that match the languid pace of his mouth - vertical lines for every swipe of his tongue, and gentle circles when he wraps his lips around the velvety head of his prick and does the very same with his tongue.
He raises his head, the sticky wet sounds of his lips proceeding.
"You should know that everyone sees your hard work, sir. Even Captains deserve a reprieve, of course. Though if you have other things to tend to, sir, I can certainly ready your uniform for the day."
Cheeky, really. Moreso that he mouths over the head of him again, then nuzzles downward. He could take his prick up in his hand and suck him down like he has before, but something about all of this does feel decadent and special. Well, at least before he dips his head to press an opened mouth kiss to his sac, nose bumping up against the root of him.
No, he corrects himself internally a beat later. He doesn't believe in sin. Instead he thinks of the ancient gods who named the stars, and though he doesn't believe in them either, he finds their version of piety far more relatable in this moment. To commune with gods they drank, made love, sacrificed animals, screamed at the sky. Acts like these have always been holy for anyone who mattered at all.
Crozier brushes his knuckles up against Jopson's chin while he threatens to steer their course elsewhere, lets his touch linger on his cheek when he goes back to nuzzling at the tenderest parts of him.
"No," he admits. He would not prefer that at all.
However.
"It's for you, too. If I sent you out now I'd have a lap-full of tea later."
A rough scrape of drawling banter, and a cheeky dare in it to argue. He thinks he's got Thomas' coordinates more or less settled by now. Has he?
Jopson could spend all day with Crozier petting his cheek, his chin, tangling fingers in his hair. Simple pleasures, always bringing the older man to the forefront. How ridiculous it would be to admit that though he lies between the man's thighs, tasting every intimate part of him, he'd be just as happy here being caressed and touched than anything else.
He turns his head, kissing the soft skin of Crozier's thigh, speaking against it:
"I'd make certain it was lukewarm tea at the very least, sir."
Fingers trace lines down Crozier's belly to the happy trail of fair hair, taking his time and watching closely how his skin blooms under the soft scratch of nails. He takes the man into his hand, fingers gently circling him at the base, thumbing at the underside.
"But I need nothing from you in this moment, Captain," he murmurs, wriggling to prop himself up better on his free elbow, wide eyes peering up at the man beneath him. "I want this moment to be for you."
He smiles, bows his head in spite of the flop of dark hair across his brow and takes his prick into his mouth, painstakingly slow, to the point it looks as though he can't take more but does, and swallows around the thick head of him there to prove it.
Fingers, his mouth, but more importantly, just him. Being looked at this way, and the sentiment of For you. It hooks into something in him, a soft part he only indulges in with fantasy. He could laugh at himself for how easily it's stirred to life— but a pitying laugh. You'd steal away this young man with his whole life ahead of him, Franics?
He touches Jopson's face, rubs his sideburn, tucks hair behind his ear, and then cradles him as he takes him into his mouth. It makes his breath catch, makes him reflexively tense up before melting. A heartbeat to catch up to how Jopson doesn't just bob down then up, and, oh.
Some profanity or other leaves him, a breathless, scraping sound. Too soon in the morning for this, he's going to embarrass himself. His other hand clenches in dark hair, a rough grounding in contrast to the wet, heated point of contact between them. He feels his own pulse in Jopson's mouth, steady and fast.
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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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"I happen to be quite attached to yourself, Thomas," he says, To-mas, lost in himself. He gives up keeping his hands where they are, unable to stop himself from bringing them down to cradle his steward's head. One hand delves into his hair, running blunt nails along his scalp, tender. "Don't give everything away, even to me. You're worth maintaining."
It must feel good, to sear away everything and be able to trust in doing so. He can understand it in a way. But he wants him to remember that he's valued without it, too. Being a servant is simply a job, he is a person. A person Crozier has become unbearably attached to.
His breath hitches. He strokes against the young man's cheek with his other hand. Alright, alright, he gets that it's a sex thing, he isn't a child. Still. Feels important to remind him.
"Whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe."
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But Crozier says To-mas and pets through his hair and promises a delicate safety. He sighs against the outline of the man's prick, cheeks going ruddy with heat. He turns his face into the hand at his cheek, pressing his mouth to the older man's palm. Overwhelm is the only way to put it - you're worth maintaining; whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe - and to avoid facing the desperate and devoted thing that sparks to life in him he licks a hot stripe against Crozier's palm, sucks his forefinger into his mouth once. Lewd and wet, always.
"I will cherish the same, sir," he murmurs, nipping at Crozier's wrist before turning his head back into the hot line of his dick. He mouths at him even through his smallclothes, chases nibbles along the side, nosing against his sac.
"I'd like to taste you, sir," he mumbles against the damp fabric, mouth seeking out the flared head of his prick and sucking softly.
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Thank the devil for the absurd amount of furs and mattresses piled up. Enough for him to look down without straining. He shifts, restless, but doesn't buck up. Too old to be over-eager for this, he tells himself, but the thought burns away in the face of this fire.
"That what you're after?" he traces the side of Jopson's mouth with his fingertips, intrudes on the contact between it and his covered, thickening cock. No deterrence, he just wants to feel him there, to tease him (tease them both). "This may be the most decadent I've been in my whole life, Tom."
A lie-in, getting his prick sucked by a much younger man, who he has ultimate control over. A last touch to his mouth, and he slides his hand up, a comforting thing, a permissive thing, while the other keeps its place in his hair. He could get a hard grip at any time and pull.
"Let me feel your mouth."
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Thomas sucks softly at Crozier's fingertips, the press of them at his mouth, the disruption from seeking out his cock beneath the fabric. Though it's wildly erotic to feel both the curve of the man's fingers and the thick length of his cock in one swipe of his tongue or press of his lips. One day he'll beg the man to fuck his mouth open with his fingers alone before he swallows his prick in the dark of the berth.
Let me feel your mouth is all it takes for the sigh, for a reach of fingers up and over his hip, starting the pull of the fabric before he catches it between his teeth. He only does this so that as the fabric comes down he can nuzzle and nose in at the hardening and heated flesh beneath. Breathe hotly over him until he grows impatient, tugging it down all the way with two hooked fingers.
Hot, wet kisses start below his navel again, Thomas licking and sucking his way down hip bones to the thatch of fair, wiry hair. A breath in, the scent of sweat and musk and Francis overwhelming, coaxing a low, heady moan. A sound that rumbles and carries over into the first pass of his tongue and lips over the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
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"Ah, fuck."
Sighed out. Barely a touch so far, but everything feels superheated, like these lazy minutes have been boiling them the whole time and he's just now noticed how bloody hot it is. His cock isn't fully hard yet, age and the mileage of the past few days slowing his reaction even in the morning, but it won't be long 'til he's caught up. The heady rush of it swims heat through his blood, makes all the aching parts of him strain as though to reach out for Jopson, absurdly desirous.
"Whiling away all this time just for you," he murmurs, voice heavy. "No one else could convince me."
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Another lazy swipe of his tongue along the man's half-hard prick, taking his time from root to tip. He slides his hand to the man's belly, tracing soft little lines into his skin that match the languid pace of his mouth - vertical lines for every swipe of his tongue, and gentle circles when he wraps his lips around the velvety head of his prick and does the very same with his tongue.
He raises his head, the sticky wet sounds of his lips proceeding.
"You should know that everyone sees your hard work, sir. Even Captains deserve a reprieve, of course. Though if you have other things to tend to, sir, I can certainly ready your uniform for the day."
Cheeky, really. Moreso that he mouths over the head of him again, then nuzzles downward. He could take his prick up in his hand and suck him down like he has before, but something about all of this does feel decadent and special. Well, at least before he dips his head to press an opened mouth kiss to his sac, nose bumping up against the root of him.
"Would you prefer that, Captain?"
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No, he corrects himself internally a beat later. He doesn't believe in sin. Instead he thinks of the ancient gods who named the stars, and though he doesn't believe in them either, he finds their version of piety far more relatable in this moment. To commune with gods they drank, made love, sacrificed animals, screamed at the sky. Acts like these have always been holy for anyone who mattered at all.
Crozier brushes his knuckles up against Jopson's chin while he threatens to steer their course elsewhere, lets his touch linger on his cheek when he goes back to nuzzling at the tenderest parts of him.
"No," he admits. He would not prefer that at all.
However.
"It's for you, too. If I sent you out now I'd have a lap-full of tea later."
A rough scrape of drawling banter, and a cheeky dare in it to argue. He thinks he's got Thomas' coordinates more or less settled by now. Has he?
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He turns his head, kissing the soft skin of Crozier's thigh, speaking against it:
"I'd make certain it was lukewarm tea at the very least, sir."
Fingers trace lines down Crozier's belly to the happy trail of fair hair, taking his time and watching closely how his skin blooms under the soft scratch of nails. He takes the man into his hand, fingers gently circling him at the base, thumbing at the underside.
"But I need nothing from you in this moment, Captain," he murmurs, wriggling to prop himself up better on his free elbow, wide eyes peering up at the man beneath him. "I want this moment to be for you."
He smiles, bows his head in spite of the flop of dark hair across his brow and takes his prick into his mouth, painstakingly slow, to the point it looks as though he can't take more but does, and swallows around the thick head of him there to prove it.
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He touches Jopson's face, rubs his sideburn, tucks hair behind his ear, and then cradles him as he takes him into his mouth. It makes his breath catch, makes him reflexively tense up before melting. A heartbeat to catch up to how Jopson doesn't just bob down then up, and, oh.
Some profanity or other leaves him, a breathless, scraping sound. Too soon in the morning for this, he's going to embarrass himself. His other hand clenches in dark hair, a rough grounding in contrast to the wet, heated point of contact between them. He feels his own pulse in Jopson's mouth, steady and fast.
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