"The honey is good for the cold, if we're to stand outside later this evening."
Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
Thoughtful, as ever. Like he is made for it, mapping out his interiority onto his work, onto whomever he is assigned to serve. He thinks of Jopson saying that his captain on Racer was a difficult man— and wonders what that cost him. The exchange must have been worth it for him to continue, and find himself here, exploring as well as serving.
One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
"That would be a waste of good pudding," he muses, thoughtful. "I rather like my pudding solid. Cakes and things. This would be the perfect thing to put me to it the morning."
He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
A subtle shift of weight, which includes flexing his leg to better let Jopson hook his foot around it. Forward of them both, if this were polite society, and not two men only playing at politeness on a ship in uncharted waters at the end of the Earth. No need for this except for the want of it, and Crozier finds he likes that.
Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
There are dozens of things that should have never transpired here in the captain's cabins - the many conversations, the late night talks over tea, the cold strips on his back, the strong hands on his neck, in his hair, this. A delicate dance, and one that Jopson knows the rules to - hooking his foot where there's space made.
Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
Jopson moves to get up, and Crozier brushes a light touch on his forearm as he goes. Looks at him, his expression gentle and fond. Yes, he's welcome to say something. Another time, any time. They will have it, because they have a wealth of moments alone together. More than most can say on a voyage like this.
But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
The dim of evening begins to fall overhead and Jopson makes the appropriate preparations for their little stint out in the gig. The hunk of rock they stop on is no palatial by any means, but enough that they can all have their own ground to stand or sit upon, look across in varying directions. He's packed some food and drink for them to get by on through the evening while the ship drifts some distance away from them, bobbing sleepily in the waters.
He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
Fish peace made, courtesy of his steward. A logical mind, Crozier really does think he could have set out to do anything if he wanted. But he wanted this, and that is something to be respected. Jopson is good at his job, and Crozier is lucky to have him as his steward, and as his friend, too. He hopes that's what they are, even if that answer never comes.
Paying attention. Crozier smiles.
"And the book is correct."
So—
Stargazing. Crozier finds Omega Centauri, the brightest 'star' and easily visible to the naked eye. He explains how only quite recently a bloke called Dunlop determined definitively that it's globular cluster and not merely stars that appear near to each other. Dunlop resides in New South Wales, and they've had correspondence with him in preparation from the journey— probably he'll be receiving some mail from this very study. Anyway, there it is, the centaur. A specific centaur, unlike the general representation of Sagittarius, which is visible as well but not so visible.
In this way, unbeknownst to them (for now), they end up in a sketchbook, a little note under it, Polar explorers. One man pointing heavenward, another listening.
With his eyes set on the sky, following the careful line of Crozier's hand as he explains, it's easy to believe they're not on any sea-bound voyage, but in the bubble of whatever world this might be. Sure, he can hear Lieutenant Kay plop his line back in the water, the faint scratchings of pencil on paper, but nothing keeps him so much as the man beside him. The warmth coming off of him is tempting, the scent of his aftershave, the smell of sea spray.
"I see."
It's so much to take in. He spends the better part of the hour at Crozier's side, occasionally talking about what globular clusters they're looking at, listening to all of them make conjectures at how far away it might be in the sky. As far as my stomach is empty, Kay ribs them for the fish and there's a laugh. Peace, out here on the little light house, away from the ship. He could stay here like this for a long while, he thinks, out in the biting cold with a clear, crisp sky overhead.
It's not to be. They're packing up on the gig before too long, Kay in tow with two interesting sea fish that the naturalist sketches until the last minute, Jopson last on to be sure nothing is left behind. They're welcomed back aboard with a hand from Phillps and McMurdo who whistle and elbow Kay for his good fishing.
All sorts of excitement among them, one of the more scientific men approaching Crozier with wide, eager eyes, rambling at him about the drawing. Jopson slips away in the bustle of it all, retreating back to the captain's quarters, listening to the thrill of enlightenment above decks until he disappears into the belly of the ship to put on something hot to warm the Captain when he returns.
(That and the cold has made his back ache - the welts tight, the skin dry. But he'll never admit it).
Jopson seems happier for the attention than anyone Crozier has ever spoken to. And he doesn't seem sentimental at all, nothing in him ever seems anything less than honest— refreshing, and it puts him at ease. He could go on for ages, chatting with him, or just sitting quietly. It reminds him of the same peace he attains with Jamie, when they're not trying to cram in weeks of sailing into a day's meeting.
Aside from fish, he's got plenty to go over with Kay during warm drinks, and then a late dinner. It's not until the wee hours that he has time to find Jopson alone, though he pauses momentarily. The hesitation is plain on his face, and so he doesn't bother to pretend otherwise.
"You might be too tired," he says. "But if you like, go and fetch the arnica from the surgeon and I'll see to it."
Too forward. But he had ambushed him before. This time, an offer.
Warm drinks, a little paperwork on their supplies, dinner, clean up, and the like. It's a quiet evening, and he begins down the laundry list of responsibilities that were waylaid by the little starry adventure.
When Crozier finds him, he's pressing the man's shirts for the morning, having done the work already to make up the man's berth, heating it with the leftover coals once again. It won't keep the chill out long, but it should help him find rest quicker at the very least. He blinks up at the man, brow pinching at first from the look on his face alone, with a surprised Captain? -
"Oh, thank you, sir," a different surprise. Pausing, but then a quiet nod. He'll be behind come morning if he stops, but - a nod. He finishes his last press on a sleeve, sets the smoothing iron back on the small stove it sits on. Not too long after and he's reporting back to the Captain's quarters, a little pot of the stuff in hand, pulling the door shut behind him.
"I'll finish pressing your shirts come morning, if it's all the same to you, sir? I try not to light new coals for the stove when we can't make better use of it."
That isn't why he's come back, that isn't hardly the most pressing thing between them now, and yet it goes without saying. He approaches, sets the little pot of arnica paste on the table, not unlike he gently passed the cup of tea this morning.
"I'll add what's left to the pan in your berth, hopefully keep the chill out a while longer."
It's Jopson's world, all this. Sometimes Crozier still forgets, has to have things pulled away from his own attention, finds himself almost put off by being cared for like he's some lord. But Jopson has a way about him— and so his captain is smiling a bit now as he finishes cleaning his hands, coat put away, sleeves already rolled up.
The penguins don't mind if his shirts aren't pressed, and neither does Francis, but he thinks his steward will hit the roof.
"Would you like the chair as before, or to lay down? I don't mind you there."
He picks up the jar. Happy to have the offer accepted. Jopson hides it well, but Crozier can still see the careful way he holds himself straight or turns just so, now and then. Only a few days, so he expects another week before things have turned green and painless.
He's seen Crozier in all manner of dress - simply the nature of his job - but the man paints a strong image with sleeves rolled up, coat put away. Casual in a way a Captain is not, and for a moment he can imagine him out in the sun like this, damp with sea or covered in muck and dirt.
The chair or... what, the bed? A strange though to be back in the man's bed, but by choice. Instead of answering immediately he undoes the buttons on his coat, carefully shrugs it off and folds it over the back of the chair. The coat is easier - the waistcoat not nearly so. He takes his time with those buttons, in particular.
"Thank you for allowing me to join the excursion earlier this evening, sir," quiet, and he turns, just enough that his expression is shielded as he works his way out of the vest, and with a soft sigh, finally folds it with the jacket. Bruises, for one, but with the skin dry and tight, the pinch of shoulder blades is murderous.
"I'm not sharp enough for all the talk of magnetism and pulls and forces, but I enjoyed your view of the stars very much."
Crozier waits, observant. Mm. As expected, with the way Jopson shields himself. But he's allowed his flinches in private— being here at all is far and above a show of vulnerability as it is.
"You aren't dull." Even if he doesn't consider himself properly sharp. He is, Crozier thinks, but it's an odd thing to argue about that will quickly feel like hollow flattery. He opts to say something unassailable in its truth instead: "I enjoyed your company."
Jopson's company suits him. And, he thinks, so does a steward who's curious about the world. A small sound as the jar of salve opens. In no rush, but he puts a little on his hands to work in, to warm things. Different from that first night when fresh damage needed help from swelling, now, warmth will ease stiffness.
Taking too much time now, what with the Captain waiting on him. Feels like steam in the boilers building up, applying just enough pressure to rush him, to make fingers fumble a little with his shirt buttons in a way that as a steward he simply doesn't.
Crozier could have dozens of men, dozens of women, if he chose. He's spent much of the last few days puzzling why it's him on the other end of this treatment.
"I think I'll lie down," he murmurs, focused on his hands, the buttons finally free enough that he pulls his shirttails from his trousers, peels the shirt off altogether and folds it with his other clothes. The pale skin on his back already turning a myriad of colors, bruises and welts blooming angrily from the lashing, mottling the old scars from years ago.
Jopson looks up at the man, warming his hands in arnica, sleeves rolled up, face wind-burned and flushed. The captain could be covered in filth and he would still admire him much the same. Would his answer change things? He moves toward the bed anyway, careful to lower himself down into the bed he's just made. He could just say it now - and maybe he will.
"I enjoyed your company as well. Should the opportunity arise where I can join again, I think I would like to."
Clarity, perhaps, on what the question meant: more of an are you alright, it looks like it bloody hurts taking your shirt off, less of a hurry up. Crozier is there when Jopson turns, in a half-step forward to offer to help slide shirtsleeves off, but doesn't interfere with him tidying things away.
Probably looks a little funny. Oops. Caught.
Well, anyway.
"You'll be welcome anytime it's reasonable."
Sometimes it won't be, they all have roles and ranks and jobs, but sometimes it will be, and he'd like it very much. Even if the answer is no, and this has just been a bit of tense fun and that's all. He's bright, and he's able, and they're in this place that almost doesn't seem like it's in the same world as the kingdom they've sailed all the way here from. Staying on the ship beneath the deck the length of the the voyage would be a misery.
"Mm. Looks to be healing nicely, if that's any consolation to the shit I know it feels like." Crozier moves his chair over, to sit beside him. Knee against the wooden border of his bed, aligned with Jopson's middle.
They're an awkward waltz of limbs and courtesies, the half steps, the uncomfortable shift on the bed as he tries to find a position that feels best. He folds his arms beneath his head, turns to rest a cheek there so he can look in Crozier's direction.
"It is feeling better, but I think much of that is owed to you."
That first night with the cold cloths and the gentle place to rest. Not too different from now, save for the way he's stretched across the captain's sheets. It would be safer to say no, to gently turn anything down after this, let this care be a lovely button on a lovelier dream, but Crozier is careful. Perhaps even more so than Jopson is, and there's value in that vulnerability, in the way he spoke low and gentle, the way he touched his chin. A sigh, and he moves, turning a little on his side so he may elbow up, get a better look at the man.
He winces - the twist hurts, but:
"My answer is yes, sir."
Sudden, perhaps, but before the man touches him. Gives him a chance to change his mind, turn heel and go.
"It was the same when you told me, but I waited as you asked. If - If I understood you correctly, of course, then it's a yes. I'd like it to be."
Mildly alarming, when Jopson twists like that. A beat of worry that he's abruptly changed his mind, and is getting up, or something's wrong— can't be comfortable. But then he says that, and Crozier stills, taken by surprise.
A good surprise, but all the same.
Yes. And an emphatic yes, The same when you told me. Jopson feels better because of the care that night, but he needed the care that night because of the punishment Crozier assigned; punishment Jopson would have shouldered even if it was ten times worse. But it's still yes, twisting himself into an uncomfortable pose, just to look at him plain while he gives the answer.
Crozier leans down, elbows on his knees, closer to the younger man. His expression melts into one of soft, sincere warmth. Touched by this, its thoroughness. He reaches out to cradle Jopson's face with one hand, the herbal smell of the salve lingering. He'd like to take some of the pressure off the posture he's got himself in, but the only solution is to encourage him back down. One moment, first.
"You did."
Understand him correctly. A beat, and then he leans closer, to press a kiss to his mouth.
Jopson never considered himself graceful, though since he got his sea legs beneath him some have commented on his surety, his steady hand, his light feet. He feels awkward, uncoordinated, foolish the way he's bent himself back and up, not quite twisting onto his hip like should have.
But Crozier leans in and all worries disappear in favor of the thumping rhythm of his heart in his ears, thunderous and loud. He leans into the kiss slowly, wishing he had a hand free to touch the man in return, to feel the lines of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers. Anything, really, but to move an arm now would plummet him face first into the bed.
Damn it all.
"Sorry, sir, I just-"
It's a little inelegant, a little uncomfortable, but he pulls away, just enough to turn onto a hip with a little wince, the pinch of his upper back taking the weight enough to make the marks burn even more, but for this it's worth it. Topside arm free he reaches back in, chasing another kiss now that he can touch Crozier's face in return, fingers curled into his cheek and around his jaw.
It's good. Some strange tonic that all intimacy with sudden feeling has, intoxicating and refreshing at once, sweetness crashed up against animal interest. Even just this, chaste on a technicality with closed mouth against closed mouth.
And then Jopson says Sorry, for a moment Crozier thinks Christ and Mary, bloody misread that, and then (! again), he's shuffling and it makes sense, that was a bit like going over a jump on a horse with a loose saddle, wasn't it, and he can't help his startled, breathless laugh.
"Careful now," he cautions, but whatever else is gone, captured against Jopson's mouth again. One hand still cradles his head, and he rests the other on the younger man's hip, careful not to let his fingers inch any higher or further back. A feeling jolts through him like a conduit, and he nudges forward to deepen it, taste the inside of his mouth, show him Yes, you understood, yes, I want you.
Not for long. He disengages with a thumb to his steward's mouth. "Thomas," he says, but it's heavily like Tomás, too Irish, emphasis in the wrong place. So, a correction, more English: "Thomas."
What a wonder.
"I'd rather you not torture yourself. Go on, let me tend to you."
Everything in the world aligns for the first time in what feels like all of his life. The warm press of mouths, the rock of the ship, the steady hand on his hip and the taste of honeyed tea on Crozier's tongue. No spirits needed to warm him, the way a pink flush works its way into the high points of his cheeks. He could live in this moment, wants to chase for more, but the distance is there in a blink of an eye.
He drops his hand, petting down his neck and shoulder to his chest. The thumb is maddening, sending oil-hot signals down his spine. He presses a soft, lingering kiss against it, big, pale eyes on Crozier's.
"I liked the way you said it - Ah, I'll botch this: Tomás? That wasn't it at all, was it?" A little too open, a little too English, but even his accent is frowned upon in some circles for how low it is.
A sigh, eyes dropping to Crozier's mouth again, then back up to the fond, warm glint of his eyes.
"It's not torture, sir, when it's you."
He concedes, hand dropping from the man's chest to the hand on his hip, plucking it away as much as he is also holding on to steady himself as he slowly, slowly turns back onto his stomach. The kiss distracted him from it earlier, but the injuries throb a little in protest as he manages to relax, even if his fingers stay tangled with Crozier's for a moment longer.
The touch makes him want more, now. Makes him want to press upon Jopson's earnest tolerance and draw him forward, kiss him deeper, feel the weight of him pulled into his lap, or over him on the floor, anywhere. Tangible, perhaps, in the way his hand squeezes Thomas' hip when he dots that kiss on his thumb, visible in the heated look in his eyes.
When it's you.
A remarkable thank-you to Jamie is due. Better work than introducing him to Sophia, who he likes plenty as well, but who is not about to lay down in his bed with this look in her eyes, enduring a beating and still aching to be touched.
"I'll still be here when it's done."
There are less painful positions in which to trade kisses. They can get there. Francis ducks down, presses a kiss to his temple. A moment to squeeze his hand and let him settle, and then he's stroking his hair back the way he's seen him do dozens of times, a sweep of dark hair over his ear, while he fetches the jar again with the other. Careful work, starting light to let the balm do its superficial work, before he'll start gently probing for places he can press into without too much pain. Not a nurse by any means, but he's been bruised up plenty, over the years.
Thomas knows he'll hear those words for the rest of his days, and as he settles belly down on the man's bed, chin propped on his arms, he begins to etch them against the back of his skull, imagining what they might look like in Francis' hand. (Francis, not Crozier, Sir, Captain - Francis). His eyes flutter closed under the man's touch, lips on his temple, fingers across his hair - he sighs and his shoulders relax.
"I'm not certain I would have had you not approached me yourself."
The furious, protective, encompassing thing he feels for this man would have stayed secret, tucked behind his ribs, wielded only as his stewardly devotion and care. It would be enough, serving him like this, caring for him at arm's length, but now - he doesn't have to.
"I would have stayed by your side regardless, sir. I am most comfortable here than I could be anywhere else."
Another ship. Another captain. London. Home. His family.
What does it say about him that in such short turn (life on the sea is never short) this man has seen him down to his core, and Thomas has let him in?
A little noise of discomfort, a thumb finding a tender spot, but it's one that makes his toes curl curiously, his lower back dip, a sigh following.
It stokes pleasant embers in him. A bit of fun, he always says, always tells himself, and so this must be too, but Francis has a bad habit of caring a whole lot about his bits of fun. Second best thing for it, on a voyage— first best is to not care at all, and never risk a problem if things turn sour, but if he were a man of first bests his entire life would look very different. No, this is him, all of him, not satisfied with seeing the way his steward looks at him and offering a quick pull in the pantry and a bracing slap on the shoulder after. Instead: whatever the bloody hell they're doing here.
"You've surprised me at every turn," he says, tucking that confession away somewhere dear. "Never sparred with someone who can be so bitterly stubborn and kindly patient at the same time. I'm happy you're comfortable. You have made me so, too."
Captaincy has turned out to be isolating, but his posts before this were, too. Any rank past lieutenant does it by degrees, and adding on the way those around him are always in a hurry to remind him of what he isn't, puts him a pace aside in most contexts. Not all bad: he is freer from politics, which he dislikes and is content to be shut out of, be it involving peerage or ship gossip, and he is afforded more privacy. He can leverage his status as an outsider with men who would not ordinarily trust an officer. He walks between worlds with less concern of acting outside his station, because his station is so socially unimpressive.
Plenty of his men love him, he knows, in a way only sailors can look up to superior officers. The way he has loved some of his own superiors. And then there is Ross, sitting in some near-mirrored position on Erebus, perhaps writing to Ann, perhaps laughing with one of the doctors, perhaps reading while his own steward knits socks and sharpens knives. Dear Jamie, always singular.
And now, Jopson.
Hm. He adjust his touch, keeping track of the reactions. Some discomfort will lead to mending, but it mustn't go too far.
"Is this too much?" Near his shoulder blade, pressing in. "Feels like a stone."
"It is my duty and my honor to challenge you, sir. It's usually for your own comfort, mind. I've done my best to let you come to things on your own time. Well, some of the time, anyway."
Training a Captain to accept a Steward hadn't been something he'd expected necessarily when he was hired on, but Captain Ross seemed more than optimistic. Hindsight, he can see Ross was as interested to see how it all went down as he was, though far more willing to watch both parties flounder for the amusement of it. Ross is at least a good commander and excellent sailor.
His eyes fall closed as Crozier's hands work over his back. Some places sing out particularly painfully, but he makes no noise other than a low hum or soft puff of air.
"No, it's - it's a good sort of pain, sir."
What happens if Crozier tires of him? If whatever intimate and strange thing they have shatters? If it is only temporary, lasting as long as the bruises on his back? Questions he'll chew on later. For now, his body sings with electricity - painful, yes, but under Crozier's hand it turns to something thick and hot, blood slowing and heat prickling his skin.
"Doctor's said I carry my tension in my shoulders. Always tells me to relax when I pass him belowdecks, to little success." Amusement, and a hitch in his voice again.
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Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
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One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
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He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
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Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
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Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
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But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
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He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
See? He's paying attention.
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Paying attention. Crozier smiles.
"And the book is correct."
So—
Stargazing. Crozier finds Omega Centauri, the brightest 'star' and easily visible to the naked eye. He explains how only quite recently a bloke called Dunlop determined definitively that it's globular cluster and not merely stars that appear near to each other. Dunlop resides in New South Wales, and they've had correspondence with him in preparation from the journey— probably he'll be receiving some mail from this very study. Anyway, there it is, the centaur. A specific centaur, unlike the general representation of Sagittarius, which is visible as well but not so visible.
In this way, unbeknownst to them (for now), they end up in a sketchbook, a little note under it, Polar explorers. One man pointing heavenward, another listening.
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"I see."
It's so much to take in. He spends the better part of the hour at Crozier's side, occasionally talking about what globular clusters they're looking at, listening to all of them make conjectures at how far away it might be in the sky. As far as my stomach is empty, Kay ribs them for the fish and there's a laugh. Peace, out here on the little light house, away from the ship. He could stay here like this for a long while, he thinks, out in the biting cold with a clear, crisp sky overhead.
It's not to be. They're packing up on the gig before too long, Kay in tow with two interesting sea fish that the naturalist sketches until the last minute, Jopson last on to be sure nothing is left behind. They're welcomed back aboard with a hand from Phillps and McMurdo who whistle and elbow Kay for his good fishing.
All sorts of excitement among them, one of the more scientific men approaching Crozier with wide, eager eyes, rambling at him about the drawing. Jopson slips away in the bustle of it all, retreating back to the captain's quarters, listening to the thrill of enlightenment above decks until he disappears into the belly of the ship to put on something hot to warm the Captain when he returns.
(That and the cold has made his back ache - the welts tight, the skin dry. But he'll never admit it).
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Aside from fish, he's got plenty to go over with Kay during warm drinks, and then a late dinner. It's not until the wee hours that he has time to find Jopson alone, though he pauses momentarily. The hesitation is plain on his face, and so he doesn't bother to pretend otherwise.
"You might be too tired," he says. "But if you like, go and fetch the arnica from the surgeon and I'll see to it."
Too forward. But he had ambushed him before. This time, an offer.
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When Crozier finds him, he's pressing the man's shirts for the morning, having done the work already to make up the man's berth, heating it with the leftover coals once again. It won't keep the chill out long, but it should help him find rest quicker at the very least. He blinks up at the man, brow pinching at first from the look on his face alone, with a surprised Captain? -
"Oh, thank you, sir," a different surprise. Pausing, but then a quiet nod. He'll be behind come morning if he stops, but - a nod. He finishes his last press on a sleeve, sets the smoothing iron back on the small stove it sits on. Not too long after and he's reporting back to the Captain's quarters, a little pot of the stuff in hand, pulling the door shut behind him.
"I'll finish pressing your shirts come morning, if it's all the same to you, sir? I try not to light new coals for the stove when we can't make better use of it."
That isn't why he's come back, that isn't hardly the most pressing thing between them now, and yet it goes without saying. He approaches, sets the little pot of arnica paste on the table, not unlike he gently passed the cup of tea this morning.
"I'll add what's left to the pan in your berth, hopefully keep the chill out a while longer."
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It's Jopson's world, all this. Sometimes Crozier still forgets, has to have things pulled away from his own attention, finds himself almost put off by being cared for like he's some lord. But Jopson has a way about him— and so his captain is smiling a bit now as he finishes cleaning his hands, coat put away, sleeves already rolled up.
The penguins don't mind if his shirts aren't pressed, and neither does Francis, but he thinks his steward will hit the roof.
"Would you like the chair as before, or to lay down? I don't mind you there."
He picks up the jar. Happy to have the offer accepted. Jopson hides it well, but Crozier can still see the careful way he holds himself straight or turns just so, now and then. Only a few days, so he expects another week before things have turned green and painless.
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The chair or... what, the bed? A strange though to be back in the man's bed, but by choice. Instead of answering immediately he undoes the buttons on his coat, carefully shrugs it off and folds it over the back of the chair. The coat is easier - the waistcoat not nearly so. He takes his time with those buttons, in particular.
"Thank you for allowing me to join the excursion earlier this evening, sir," quiet, and he turns, just enough that his expression is shielded as he works his way out of the vest, and with a soft sigh, finally folds it with the jacket. Bruises, for one, but with the skin dry and tight, the pinch of shoulder blades is murderous.
"I'm not sharp enough for all the talk of magnetism and pulls and forces, but I enjoyed your view of the stars very much."
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"You aren't dull." Even if he doesn't consider himself properly sharp. He is, Crozier thinks, but it's an odd thing to argue about that will quickly feel like hollow flattery. He opts to say something unassailable in its truth instead: "I enjoyed your company."
Jopson's company suits him. And, he thinks, so does a steward who's curious about the world. A small sound as the jar of salve opens. In no rush, but he puts a little on his hands to work in, to warm things. Different from that first night when fresh damage needed help from swelling, now, warmth will ease stiffness.
"All right, lad?"
Getting out of things. Hm.
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Taking too much time now, what with the Captain waiting on him. Feels like steam in the boilers building up, applying just enough pressure to rush him, to make fingers fumble a little with his shirt buttons in a way that as a steward he simply doesn't.
Crozier could have dozens of men, dozens of women, if he chose. He's spent much of the last few days puzzling why it's him on the other end of this treatment.
"I think I'll lie down," he murmurs, focused on his hands, the buttons finally free enough that he pulls his shirttails from his trousers, peels the shirt off altogether and folds it with his other clothes. The pale skin on his back already turning a myriad of colors, bruises and welts blooming angrily from the lashing, mottling the old scars from years ago.
Jopson looks up at the man, warming his hands in arnica, sleeves rolled up, face wind-burned and flushed. The captain could be covered in filth and he would still admire him much the same. Would his answer change things? He moves toward the bed anyway, careful to lower himself down into the bed he's just made. He could just say it now - and maybe he will.
"I enjoyed your company as well. Should the opportunity arise where I can join again, I think I would like to."
Jopson, you coward.
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Probably looks a little funny. Oops. Caught.
Well, anyway.
"You'll be welcome anytime it's reasonable."
Sometimes it won't be, they all have roles and ranks and jobs, but sometimes it will be, and he'd like it very much. Even if the answer is no, and this has just been a bit of tense fun and that's all. He's bright, and he's able, and they're in this place that almost doesn't seem like it's in the same world as the kingdom they've sailed all the way here from. Staying on the ship beneath the deck the length of the the voyage would be a misery.
"Mm. Looks to be healing nicely, if that's any consolation to the shit I know it feels like." Crozier moves his chair over, to sit beside him. Knee against the wooden border of his bed, aligned with Jopson's middle.
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"It is feeling better, but I think much of that is owed to you."
That first night with the cold cloths and the gentle place to rest. Not too different from now, save for the way he's stretched across the captain's sheets. It would be safer to say no, to gently turn anything down after this, let this care be a lovely button on a lovelier dream, but Crozier is careful. Perhaps even more so than Jopson is, and there's value in that vulnerability, in the way he spoke low and gentle, the way he touched his chin. A sigh, and he moves, turning a little on his side so he may elbow up, get a better look at the man.
He winces - the twist hurts, but:
"My answer is yes, sir."
Sudden, perhaps, but before the man touches him. Gives him a chance to change his mind, turn heel and go.
"It was the same when you told me, but I waited as you asked. If - If I understood you correctly, of course, then it's a yes. I'd like it to be."
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A good surprise, but all the same.
Yes. And an emphatic yes, The same when you told me. Jopson feels better because of the care that night, but he needed the care that night because of the punishment Crozier assigned; punishment Jopson would have shouldered even if it was ten times worse. But it's still yes, twisting himself into an uncomfortable pose, just to look at him plain while he gives the answer.
Crozier leans down, elbows on his knees, closer to the younger man. His expression melts into one of soft, sincere warmth. Touched by this, its thoroughness. He reaches out to cradle Jopson's face with one hand, the herbal smell of the salve lingering. He'd like to take some of the pressure off the posture he's got himself in, but the only solution is to encourage him back down. One moment, first.
"You did."
Understand him correctly. A beat, and then he leans closer, to press a kiss to his mouth.
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But Crozier leans in and all worries disappear in favor of the thumping rhythm of his heart in his ears, thunderous and loud. He leans into the kiss slowly, wishing he had a hand free to touch the man in return, to feel the lines of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers. Anything, really, but to move an arm now would plummet him face first into the bed.
Damn it all.
"Sorry, sir, I just-"
It's a little inelegant, a little uncomfortable, but he pulls away, just enough to turn onto a hip with a little wince, the pinch of his upper back taking the weight enough to make the marks burn even more, but for this it's worth it. Topside arm free he reaches back in, chasing another kiss now that he can touch Crozier's face in return, fingers curled into his cheek and around his jaw.
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And then Jopson says Sorry, for a moment Crozier thinks Christ and Mary, bloody misread that, and then (! again), he's shuffling and it makes sense, that was a bit like going over a jump on a horse with a loose saddle, wasn't it, and he can't help his startled, breathless laugh.
"Careful now," he cautions, but whatever else is gone, captured against Jopson's mouth again. One hand still cradles his head, and he rests the other on the younger man's hip, careful not to let his fingers inch any higher or further back. A feeling jolts through him like a conduit, and he nudges forward to deepen it, taste the inside of his mouth, show him Yes, you understood, yes, I want you.
Not for long. He disengages with a thumb to his steward's mouth. "Thomas," he says, but it's heavily like Tomás, too Irish, emphasis in the wrong place. So, a correction, more English: "Thomas."
What a wonder.
"I'd rather you not torture yourself. Go on, let me tend to you."
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He drops his hand, petting down his neck and shoulder to his chest. The thumb is maddening, sending oil-hot signals down his spine. He presses a soft, lingering kiss against it, big, pale eyes on Crozier's.
"I liked the way you said it - Ah, I'll botch this: Tomás? That wasn't it at all, was it?" A little too open, a little too English, but even his accent is frowned upon in some circles for how low it is.
A sigh, eyes dropping to Crozier's mouth again, then back up to the fond, warm glint of his eyes.
"It's not torture, sir, when it's you."
He concedes, hand dropping from the man's chest to the hand on his hip, plucking it away as much as he is also holding on to steady himself as he slowly, slowly turns back onto his stomach. The kiss distracted him from it earlier, but the injuries throb a little in protest as he manages to relax, even if his fingers stay tangled with Crozier's for a moment longer.
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When it's you.
A remarkable thank-you to Jamie is due. Better work than introducing him to Sophia, who he likes plenty as well, but who is not about to lay down in his bed with this look in her eyes, enduring a beating and still aching to be touched.
"I'll still be here when it's done."
There are less painful positions in which to trade kisses. They can get there. Francis ducks down, presses a kiss to his temple. A moment to squeeze his hand and let him settle, and then he's stroking his hair back the way he's seen him do dozens of times, a sweep of dark hair over his ear, while he fetches the jar again with the other. Careful work, starting light to let the balm do its superficial work, before he'll start gently probing for places he can press into without too much pain. Not a nurse by any means, but he's been bruised up plenty, over the years.
"Thank you. For telling me."
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Thomas knows he'll hear those words for the rest of his days, and as he settles belly down on the man's bed, chin propped on his arms, he begins to etch them against the back of his skull, imagining what they might look like in Francis' hand. (Francis, not Crozier, Sir, Captain - Francis). His eyes flutter closed under the man's touch, lips on his temple, fingers across his hair - he sighs and his shoulders relax.
"I'm not certain I would have had you not approached me yourself."
The furious, protective, encompassing thing he feels for this man would have stayed secret, tucked behind his ribs, wielded only as his stewardly devotion and care. It would be enough, serving him like this, caring for him at arm's length, but now - he doesn't have to.
"I would have stayed by your side regardless, sir. I am most comfortable here than I could be anywhere else."
Another ship. Another captain. London. Home. His family.
What does it say about him that in such short turn (life on the sea is never short) this man has seen him down to his core, and Thomas has let him in?
A little noise of discomfort, a thumb finding a tender spot, but it's one that makes his toes curl curiously, his lower back dip, a sigh following.
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"You've surprised me at every turn," he says, tucking that confession away somewhere dear. "Never sparred with someone who can be so bitterly stubborn and kindly patient at the same time. I'm happy you're comfortable. You have made me so, too."
Captaincy has turned out to be isolating, but his posts before this were, too. Any rank past lieutenant does it by degrees, and adding on the way those around him are always in a hurry to remind him of what he isn't, puts him a pace aside in most contexts. Not all bad: he is freer from politics, which he dislikes and is content to be shut out of, be it involving peerage or ship gossip, and he is afforded more privacy. He can leverage his status as an outsider with men who would not ordinarily trust an officer. He walks between worlds with less concern of acting outside his station, because his station is so socially unimpressive.
Plenty of his men love him, he knows, in a way only sailors can look up to superior officers. The way he has loved some of his own superiors. And then there is Ross, sitting in some near-mirrored position on Erebus, perhaps writing to Ann, perhaps laughing with one of the doctors, perhaps reading while his own steward knits socks and sharpens knives. Dear Jamie, always singular.
And now, Jopson.
Hm. He adjust his touch, keeping track of the reactions. Some discomfort will lead to mending, but it mustn't go too far.
"Is this too much?" Near his shoulder blade, pressing in. "Feels like a stone."
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Training a Captain to accept a Steward hadn't been something he'd expected necessarily when he was hired on, but Captain Ross seemed more than optimistic. Hindsight, he can see Ross was as interested to see how it all went down as he was, though far more willing to watch both parties flounder for the amusement of it. Ross is at least a good commander and excellent sailor.
His eyes fall closed as Crozier's hands work over his back. Some places sing out particularly painfully, but he makes no noise other than a low hum or soft puff of air.
"No, it's - it's a good sort of pain, sir."
What happens if Crozier tires of him? If whatever intimate and strange thing they have shatters? If it is only temporary, lasting as long as the bruises on his back? Questions he'll chew on later. For now, his body sings with electricity - painful, yes, but under Crozier's hand it turns to something thick and hot, blood slowing and heat prickling his skin.
"Doctor's said I carry my tension in my shoulders. Always tells me to relax when I pass him belowdecks, to little success." Amusement, and a hitch in his voice again.
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i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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