coldsober | but i don't make you lonely;

A knock on the side of the hauled-out boat, for luck. The ground, such as it is, could still move. Are there earthquakes here in the polar south? Perhaps they'll find out. But he huffs a laugh about the rest of it—

"I look a sight, don't I."

His face stuck in that horrid in-between stage past stubble (which doesn't look right on fair-haired men anyway, even those that don't have patchwork colors like he does) but before anything that can be called a beard. Truly an embarrassment, unlike the attractive scruff both Ross and Jopson are sporting. The younger man is right, though, he'll feel better for it even if he can't see himself.

One bag over a shoulder, another held in hand, he leaves his rifle with Jopson and they can head out. A lieutenant sighs wistfully about the hard ground and lack of trees, ever hopeful about camping somewhere he can pitch a hammock instead of a tent. Chatter, about how plenty of able seaman would be happy for his berth, and others insisting they'd never give up the comfort of the sling. And it is a better sleep, hung up like that, in Crozier's opinion. But they're not at the dinner table and so he doesn't do much socializing outside of entertaining Mr Hooker's excited inquiries about the implications of their compass readings.

It is so unbearably cold that no men are alone in their tents, not even the officers. As usual, Crozier feels warm relief to be spending time in close quarters with Jamie. Doubly warm to observe his friend chatting with Jopson, asking him about something-or-other he can't hear. Windy, still, but in an ordinary way, not the brutal lashing of the past week. Tents, surveying, and a late dinner; massive seabirds cruise overhead, and there is evidence of penguins having nested nearby in the not too distant past.

Captain Ross authorizes a bit of hunting, casual about it instead of a party. They are well-supplied, it's more of a lark to see what the sound brings, instead of strict need. But if someone can bag a bird or a fox, it's always a positive to have something fresh, and let the stores be. He grins at Francis, meanwhile, in a way that makes him want to roll his eyes at him in response. A dozen things unsaid, but perfectly mutually understood.

Preparations to sleep out on the ice in the bitter cold take time - something Jopson happily busies himself with, guiding some of the greener men on how to pitch their tents, the angles to set the stakes, the way to seal up the tent flaps. Then he's soon starting on the captain's, working quicker than most men are out in the cold, for which Captain Ross draws his attention. It's a quick exchange, amusing, enough to make Jopson's ears turn a little pink with more than the biting cold.

You could set the entirety of the camp before some of these officers tied their first hitch.

A polite, self-deprecating comment, a laugh from Ross, and Jopson goes back to it, warmed by the compliment, but working a half-measure slower so as not to draw any ire from those around him.

"I've set your things as you like them in your tent, sir," he says to Crozier, smiling evenly. "Might have to do without the kettle until the morning, though, I'm afraid."

A crack of a rifle - some boyish whooping as a seabird flaps frenetically overhead and away. It's good, seeing the men of the ship, even if the conditions are miserable in another sense. Another crack, another bird. Terrible shots, the lot of them, and the rumble of a wager: first catch goes to the man who caught it and him alone. A right feast out here on the ice.

The tents set, a small fire going, a few men on the hunt. Jopson stands out at the fringes. Watches a fox roam in the distance, drawn by the smoke of the fire. Watches the men around him oblivious to its gleaming eyes in the distance. It's muscle memory that has him draw the rifle, not a thought in his head as he levels the shot, takes a breath, and fires.

The fox screams out into the polar quiet and falls onto the ice. The men look around, startled - then at Jopson, a little wide-eyed, a little confused, a little impressed. He looks down at his own hands, the gun, almost like someone else fired the round, not the proper, quiet steward he should be.

"Apologies, sir," he says simply, looking back to the fox one of the men head out to retrieve. "I thought it was going to get away."

"I can't believe you even saw it!" Ross is the first to carry on, laughter in his voice. Crozier gives Jopson a bracing pat on his shoulder, quietly impressed. Eyebrows up. Well done, though his expression.

Their young naturalist is the most awed by far. Only a few years younger than Jopson, Mr Hooker is keen on inspecting the animal, eager to determine if it's a native, true arctic creature, or a wayward one somehow drawn from the nearest continental branch. This was a planned narrative detail I am not correcting a misleading prior comment. Much debate on the feasibility of land mammals, and so on; in any event, it's a boon to have someone so adept at skinning and dismembering, even if it is sometimes mildly disconcerting to hear it out of a man who sounds barely past puberty.

Predators are often a bit miserable to eat, but the fox is in remarkable condition, far from being the parasite-laden scavengers that haunt the outskirts of London. The meat is lean, but more importantly, the next time the crews mingle, Mr Jopson will no doubt have a gift of a marvelously cleaned and preserved pelt of the most beautiful silver fur.

(When they can get away with it— Your boy is eager to get your tent up, a near-silent aside from Ross, which he returns, It's your tent you menace, and they don't laugh, but there's shared affection and humor.)

A stew with fox, seabirds, and a fat penguin. The penguin meat is shockingly divisive among the assembled company, softer raw than cooked, and tasting more like fish than anything else. Later, Crozier will admit in private to Jopson that he feels a little bit bad about the penguins. They waddle over to the camp with fearless innocence, investigating a new neighbor. Maybe they look like penguins themselves, in their dark coats. In any event, watch patterns are assigned, and so are tents; Captain Ross' steward has stayed on Erebus, and so Jopson is given the questionable-to-some honor of being assigned to both for the stretch of the excursion. Away from the officers' ears, a joke is put forth that at least he's got excellent aim if he needs to kill one of them for a break.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with Mr Hooker?" a pause, in the tent. Jamie is outside seeing to things, Francis and Thomas are alone for a moment. He rests his gloved hand on his steward's shoulder, close to the side of his neck. "We'll probably talk half the night and drive you to tears."

But his tone of voice is warm, and welcoming. There's room. It'll be cozy.

The praise for his sharp eye bolsters him against the sharp winds but he doesn't make a fuss of it - a simple nod and gratitude and moving onto his work after to assist in stoking the fire as the stew. The first ladles of stew are meant for him first - as prescribed by the conditions of the wager - but he waves it off and makes his trays up for both captains.

Dinner, a wash up, a careful collection of warm clothes for sleeping, and a few hot coals to prime the bedrolls and cots for an evening of arctic cold. A kettle ready for boil but cold yet to prevent it from being tepid by the time the men settle in for the night. He's just folding one of Crozier's shirts as the man approaches. The touch draws his eye first, fingers nearly along the line of his neck, where one day he'd like to feel the scruff of the man's chin.

"If I'm to look after you both on this mission I think it best I stay close should either of you need anything."

He reaches to smooth a hand over the man's chest, for all intents and purposes looking as though he's smoothing some stubborn wrinkle.

"That and Hooker snores, unfortunately. Miserably so. If it is no matter to either of you I'd quite like to stay here, even if you insist on talking most of your sleep hours away. I won't be a bother, sir, I assure you. You will hardly know I'm there."

Small touches exchanged. His hand itches to escape his glove, touch his steward's face. Surely some of that wanting is there, in his expression; then again, he's got this awful not-quite-beard, so perhaps it's rendered him mysterious. The idea of being confined to a small tent with his long-time lover and his new one is... well, it's an idea that one shouldn't have, doing one's job. But here they are, and he is helpless against it.

"It's not of no matter," he says, and gives him a look. Because you matter. "I'm happy to have you here."

And he always knows he's about. Surely Jopson has caught on to that, by now. An invisible steward, except Crozier manages to call for him or look across the room and find him, each time, when someone else might forget a servant entirely. Simply not his way.

"Had enough to eat?"

(Tragic, delayed foreshadowing.)

More smalltalk interrupted by tasks, but soon they'll bed down for the evening. Ross is cheerful about it all when he joins them, perpetually, effortlessly charismatic in a way that many men of standing for decades to come will desperately try and fail to emulate. Their share of furs is well-appointed, but still best served by wedging the cots together in the middle of the tent so that no one is left adrift at a wall. And indeed, the captains do talk. And talk. And talk. Jopson, no matter how discreet and determined, is not safe, his opinion polled for this or that, or his activities asked after. Reports and journals to keep up, and they still go on. Ross shows them the sketches he's worked on, a far cry from the real talents they have on the expedition, but competent enough.

The cots have no raised edges, but the rails are still tangible, uneven bumps sequestering them. Nevertheless, beneath the blankets, Francis winds an arm around Thomas. James is stretching out, finally succumbing to a yawn, even as he wonders aloud about it being a waste of time to keep ice melted enough to make gouache palettes viable. He didn't bring any oil paints, both because he has no training in the art, and because of the mess.

Jopson works to keep the tent in order as the two men chatter on, occasionally speaking when Ross prods at him here and there. He does pause to enjoy the man's sketches, marveling at the detail and delicacy even if he has an untrained hand. He could never do anything like that himself and he always enjoys the way the varied sailors and explorers view the icy world around them.

"You make it look beautiful," he says finally, a little soft at the edges before he returns to setting out the two mens' underclothes for tomorrow and brews a tea that cools too quickly for them - cheekily with a small dollop of honey added in. For their health against the cold, after all. It only means he gets to suck the spoon clean after which is a small delight in and of itself.

He settles on his own cot and the men talk and talk and talk, but it's pleasant listening - even when he lies back from fatigue and laughs at some bawdy story Ross has or the way he and Crozier pick and snip at one another in affectionate ways. He turns out the lamp when they both finally tire out, see to it they have the better of the furs and knits, then settles.

The arm around his middle surprises him, though it shouldn't - not in present company. He listens for Ross' yawn, the shuffle and creak of fabric and cot rails, but he blinks up at his captain in the dark. He wants to kiss him - that much feels so painfully true, but he doesn't. Instead he slides his hand over Crozier's, to his elbow, using him as leverage to scoot the tiniest bit closer to him, marveling at his warmth.

"I'm afraid even spirits won't keep your water afloat, sir," he murmurs, a little tired, but happy to indulge both men until they've gone off to sleep. Ross laughs softly at the tail end of another yawn - wasting liquor on paints? A marvelous idea.

Easiest for the steward to be in the center. A captain might have to leap up to attend to an emergency, and there will be no sleeping in before the bells for anyone in the morning. It would only be a shame not to hold James in his arms overnight if there weren't this particular young man between them; he thinks, he hopes this all isn't overwhelming or unwelcome. Crozier considers himself decently capable of reading people, neither perpetually oblivious nor preternaturally skilled, and he thinks Jopson is enjoying himself. He thinks the way he turns into him just a smidge is enthusiasm, and not a man trying to play an expected role until he can escape.

He can trust the way Ross seems at ease, in any event. The other seaman is more of that preternatural being about it, able to understand people in a look.

"Heaven forbid," he murmurs, about mixing paint and alcohol. Tucked close. Jamie's arm is a centimeter from his hand where he's wrapped an arm around Jopson, his steward is inching in against him. "You'll just have to take it from a kettle."

A funny way to paint, probably.

They'll drift off. It's deadly cold outside the tent, inside as well, but wrapped up in heavy layers and radiating heat between their bodies, it is as warm as anything. Sometimes the wind blows and the sound of Mr Hooker snoring uproariously drifts by; sometimes a hint of low-toned conversation of the men on watch when they do their rounds. The dark of the tent simulates night, and Francis doesn't fight against it.

Pressed between two men of import feels strange in many ways but freeing in another. The Captain's berth holds nothing to the room of the tent and the warmth beneath furs and blankets, the bodies bracketing his own. It makes sense - no one can be in the way should someone direly call for a commander, and yet he feels selfish for all the warmth he's soaking up on his own.

Crozier's arm around him stills any uncertainty, Ross' movement behind him as he, too, draws closer soothes the rabbiting of his own heart. He can feel the strong line of the man's shoulder against him as he drifts, and soon allows himself to rest as well.

When he wakes it's not quite morning, he can feel it in the heaviness of his eyes. Though the sun might not set his body knows its clock better than anything. He blinks up in the dark of the tent, finding himself moved, pressed into Crozier's chest, face nestled in against his shoulder. There's warmth at his back, too - Ross, a strong arm around his waist, the man's chest nearly flush with his shoulder blades. He's sound asleep, the breathing tells him as much, and he dares a look up at Crozier instead, moving slowly.

He reaches to touch the captain's jaw, fingertips gently rubbing over the stubble there, appreciating the curve and set - brings him to a thumb brushing over his lips. He'll give him something in the morning to spare them being chapped, he thinks. He could kiss him like this, peaceful and in the dark, but it seems unfair.

By habit, Crozier doesn't stay under for too many hours. Used to shifts since he was a boy, used to dropping off into sleep like a stone, and waking without complaint. (Harder every year, the relentless march of time, but something about one's habits. Hours, drawers.) He is lulled from the depths by some gentle siren at the surface, waking gently.

Ah.

A momentarily puzzling configuration, but it settles soon enough. Thomas is gathered in his arms, pressed against him, and Jamie is on the other side, and he can feel where their arms are crossed, and his own his pinned between them. Francis waits there for a while, eyes closed, just enjoying it. The company, the warmth, the touch of his steward's soft exploration. After a few minutes, he blinks his eyes open. Not much to see in the dark, but Jopson might feel the way his eyelashes flutter. He'll surely feel it beneath his palm when he smiles. As his eyes adjust he sees dark gray outlines, like a cozy veil.

"Good morning," is so quiet as to be nearly inaudible. He can tell by the cadence of his breathing that James is still asleep, and by the lack of sound outside that it's not quite time for a start to the day.

The curve of a smile should warn him off but emboldened by the dark and the warmth of being cocooned between two men he keeps his thumb pressed softly to the man's mouth, feeling the curve of it, pressing tenderly at the corner when he speaks. A jolt of something - guilt, worry. It dissipates, or at the very least the intensity lowers as Crozier whispers.

"Good morning, Francis," he says just as quietly. How daring to call him by his first name but it feels apt here like it would not in the light. Only in these soft, waking hours will he use the name, he decides, when their armor is down and their soft spots vulnerable.

Fingers slide against the stubble up to the crook of his jaw, slowly exploring the fair hair at his temples, carding it back and away from the man's face. "I apologize if I woke you, sir."

Ross shifts at his back, presses in closer against his spine and sighs, lost deep to sleep. Would that he could will Crozier back to sleep so both Captains may see a healthy night's rest.

Francis.

It's a boring, old-fashioned named. (Francis and Moira in the same list, awfully feminine, he has been informed approximately ten thousand times.) And it's wonderful to hear it so quiet from Thomas. Sir holds a different kind of weight from him than from anyone else, but there's something profoundly reassuring about hearing his given name. It's a liberty, and he's happy his steward feels comfortable enough to take it.

A low, quiet sound; dismissive. "You didn't," soft enough to keep this spell cast. He squeezes Jopson's side where he's still holding him. The poles of the cots are between them, but they aren't intrusive enough to be uncomfortable. It's a hallmark of this strange luxury in an otherwise brutally difficult excursion, charming for it. Not a bed, but what are the alternatives? Worse, all.

Their noses bump together. It makes him smile.

So easy to take advantage of their nearness, to press his wandering hand to Crozier's neck, his chest, resting just where he can press the skin above his shirt's collar. It's nice, feeling the warmth, the wiry hairs, the ones he can remember tasting in those intimate moments following their evening together.

He tips his head, their noses bump, and he huffs something a little sheepish, startled. They're so close in the dark it's difficult to tell where his body ends and Crozier's begins.

"Good," he whispers back, nosing in just enough that the ghost of his lips might brush Francis' as he speaks. "We've some time yet until the bell. An hour, maybe."

Usually he wakes when it's time to dress, prepare the captain's things for the day, the careful walk he takes around the great cabin preparing all things. Harder, when they're out on the ice like this - no room to work in, the temperatures more unforgiving, the necessities changing.

"You should rest," he says again, shifting one leg, slowly nudging it against the older man's, tangling them up farther. "The day will be long on you."

The tease of his mouth against his own makes his skin prickle on the back of his neck. Old adages about men in the morning, and maybe so, but the second a hint of cold air weasels its sharp claws in below their middles and punishment will be swift and inexplicably burning. Nevertheless, the temptation of intimacy, even no further than this, is powerfully alluring.

Ankles linked. He likes it. As much as he likes Thomas' hands exploring him.

"What else is this, Tom?"

Mild teasing. He thinks, and—

He could drift off again, true, but not to full sleep. Best case scenario, just dozing. When he's up he's up. Better than that is being here just like this. An hour, a wealth of time in which to drift. So he does what he wants most, and kisses the younger man. It is soft and chaste, slow, blending in with this sleepy, peaceful atmosphere within their tent.

Tom.

A beautiful thing, the darkness in the tent - it hides the sudden flush of warmth in his cheeks, the tips of his ears. Here they are tangled together and the captain has called him Tom of all things. So casual, familiar, comfortable. Everything feels like the first time on trembling legs with this man and also like they've been at it a dozen years. Comfortable, terrifying, all in one.

What's not terrifying is the kiss, the way he tips his head back and presses into it slowly, letting it linger overlong before he chases another soft, short kiss. He nudges their noses together, flexes his fingers against his chest, careful not to move too much else he wakes Captain Ross.

"This is anything but resting, mind you," he teases, whispered against his mouth, stealing another soft, chaste kiss, less hungry for it and more for the convenience of it, how they're nestled in together. "You should get more sleep, else I'll smother you with the fox pelt when it's ready."

A very sweet sinking. He is neither motivated to push forwards towards anything more heated, nor to slip back into sleep. Just here, as liminal as a steward's presence at the peripherals of the great cabin, as willfully ignored as the invisible end to the ladder between Irish and English. Another one of the back hallways they each navigate, but theirs alone.

Jamie, bless him, a rather literal part of the metaphor. Though Francis knows his only objection, if any would exist at all, would be missing the sight.

He laughs silently, a tangible thing, but they're close enough for Thomas to feel it clearly. If he keeps making him laugh, there's really no way he's drifting back off.

"Can't even have you punished for that threat," he murmurs. "No one would believe me."

Thomas Jopsons, captain's steward, six lashes for threats of murder via fox pelt smothering. A poor log entry. He kisses him again, on his mouth, on his cheek.

Thomas grins against the man’s shoulder, stifling his own little laugh, a scrunch of the nose the only sign he might boil over into sound. He bites it back, takes a breath just as Crozier kisses him again. He presses his lips to the man’s bristly chin, grinning against it.

“They have to believe you, you’re the Captain. I’m certain there’s some law on questioning your commander.”

He nuzzles in against Crozier’s cheek, simply pressing in close and staying there so he may whisper easily against his ear.

“I suspect Captain Ross would find it all very entertaining.”

Speak of the devil himself - Ross shifts in his sleep, arm tightening around Jopson’s middle, palm flat against his chest. There’s a little bit of incoherent mumbling before he’s off to quiet and stillness again. Thomas snorts softly. They’re no better than school boys the lot of them.

“Is he always like this, sir?”

Perhaps there's just never an age where this sort of fraternization isn't charming. Crozier can't help his grin, and he slides his hand over Jopson's shoulder, holding him there, before passing his touch over Ross' arm and around them both. Half-expecting the other captain to wake up from a dead sleep at hearing the magic phrase of his title, but he must really be exhausted. No wonder as to why, after that week of hellish weather and Erebus leading the way.

"Only when he's very comfortable."

Hardly crawling into bed with just anyone. He recalls how tense things became between them in early days, trying to sort out how to best vent the ever-building intensity of their friendship without ruining things. Desperate to be around each other (driving Parry mad, driving his uncle mad, driving everyone bloody mad), but uncertain what would be welcome, or safe.

Seems a lifetime ago.

"But when he is: yes."

A sponge for affection, for receiving it, and giving it too. Even as Crozier quietly relates these things, Ross presses closer, face buried against Jopson's shoulder, knee shoving between the steward's and hitting Crozier's ankle, which makes him almost laugh. Francis rubs his bicep, fond. When he draws his hand back, he cradles Thomas' face, and tries to look at him properly in the dark.

"All is well?"

Speaking of being comfortable.

There's a warmth that blooms in his chest - that a captain other than Crozier himself would feel comfortable with him is an honor of the highest regard. Especially when it comes to matters like this - all wrapped up in one another, tangled and cozy. It's much warmer this way, that much can't be denied, but the company does much for his spirits.

Thomas goes still, letting Ross find a spot he's comfortable with, nearly laughing as well when the knee works its way between his, when there is so very little space left between him and the other captain.

"Yes, of course," he huffs softly, paused until he's sure Ross has settled before he relaxes, sliding his hand gently over the hand at his chest. He turns his head to press a kiss against the heel of Crozier's palm. "So long as he gets the rest he needs."

Some time before they need to move, before Jopson has to sneak himself out of the tangle and start their mornings. Two captains to himself, and yet it hardly feels like work at all.

"It's nice," he says finally, voice low. "I suppose it's womanly of me but I much prefer sleeping like this. I always wake better rested than I would on my own."

Arms around him, bodies close, personal space lost to a friendly intimacy. He reaches for Francis' hand, tugging it down to where Ross' rests against his chest, holds his hand there. Better this way, all three of them tangled from head to toe.

It is interesting: continuing to learn just how much of Jopson's happiness is tied up in aiding others, in useful servitude. Not the first time he's come across someone with such a compulsion, but is that really it, with this young man? He seems fulfilled by it earnestly, no fiendish self-torment involved. So long as he gets the rest he needs, putting Ross above his own comfort, though it's clear Jopson is, indeed, also personally comfortable.

Crozier wonders how best to show him that his companionship is valued even without any mechanics of service. If it would be insulting to do so. Something to think on; perhaps this study out on the ice will give him data to build up a hypothesis. As if he's a real bloody scientist, hah, but magnetism and the observation of his steward are fine uses of his limited acumen.

"Mm, women have to have company, to know they like it," he muses. He splays his hand, as though he can thread his fingers with Ross' and Jopson's at once. "At least some of that company is men, surely."

Some humor for companionable degenerates. Women don't have to run off and become sailors if they prefer the company of their own sex, merely close doors on gentlemen callers like any well-bred lady of virtue, doing nothing at all but needlework with her friends.

I like it, too, he nearly says. Nearly. It's the truth, but admitting it feels strange. Like turning over some vulnerable spot. He doesn't think he'd be in danger showing it to Jopson, but he struggles to acknowledge these things in himself. If he doesn't like it overmuch, then he won't long for it, and he can't feel cold without it. He'll just ignore it, and it will never build pressure in his spirit, and it's fine.

He does kiss him, though.

"And yet we've been sent off to sea all the same."

Amused, the joke not lost. He doesn't have a woman waiting for him at the docks, for one thing. Likely never will, but he doesn't mind it. It's never been at the forefront of his mind to find a wife, to settle down, not when he is the caretaker of the family, all of his funds pointed to their wellbeing first and foremost.

Taking up a life of sailing had been for the money, but it's here wrapped up between two of the Royal Navy's finest in the bitter cold of frozen no man's land, that he truly believes he's here for something far more fulfilling. The money will always be there, but companionship, trust, duty? He's not so sure - and this makes all of it worth it.

He hums against the kiss, a little surprised by it in the dark, tipping his head just so that he can press a little closer, deepen it only enough for him to sneak another shortly after.

"Rest your eyes, sir, while you can. I'll be seeing both of you up before too long."

He kisses him again, sweet and short, and noses in under his jaw after.

Men like it, they hide behind women; here, they hide behind the Articles. There is a thread of connectivity. Point is, he doesn't think Jopson is effeminate to any degree that would be detrimental. Would there be such a degree in anyone? Most seem to believe so, society certainly does, but Crozier has always been bored by those distinctions. Part of his trouble in recent years, probably, too much time switching sides, without committing.

Can I still kiss you with my eyes closed?

Tempted towards cheeky banter, but Jopson is right. He should rest, they all should. Most of the officers have a grueling hike incoming. He sighs, contented, and rests his hand at the nape of his neck, holding him there where he's tucked in against him.

He should say it, that he likes it too. Really.

(Perhaps next time.)

"I'll rest if you stay right here," is his quiet agreement.

"Is that an order, sir?"

Cheeky banter even on the cusp of dozing off, he smiles against the curve of Crozier's neck. It's incredibly warm beneath the furs, their bodies tangled close, and it's enough to make his eyelids go heavy, slip shut. The cold is miserable, the hike along the ice will be worse, but it's made worth it in these moments. Will be worth it to see Crozier look up at the heavens with all wonder and curiosity in his eyes.

"I'll stay another few minutes still."

Whatever this is of theirs - it will always be minutes. Minutes with cold cloths on his back, minutes with salve, minutes with kisses, minutes in the warm, pleasant afterglow in a cramped berth. He presses a soft kiss to the man's throat, sighs, and dozes easily through the time left before rising.

But their true morning comes without fail, even if he would much prefer to stay in the lazy, warm nest they've built on their cots. Ross gives him a sleepy squeeze before he pries himself out between the two men, leaving them to the cots a while longer as he dresses, prepares hot water for tea, for shaving, for washing up their faces and hands. It's bitterly cold comparatively but he's left feeling more relaxed, well rested, and it shows in the warmth of his face, the easy light of his eyes.

He disappears and returns with breakfast - some kind of hot porridge with a sausage sliced into it. Simple, but hearty for the brutal elements.

"Captains," he murmurs, "Shall I serve you breakfast in your cots or would you like to be dressed first?"

Normal questions, as he contentedly sets the porridge on the little stove he has set up near the tent flaps.

Crozier is sitting up by the time Jopson has returned, not-quite-bleary. Contented, though on his face, a lot of things end up looking bleary. Ross has migrated to Jopson's middle cot, happy to lounge against his friend, slower to come to full consciousness. Still, he says:

"I think it's grounding," as if responding to something Crozier has said (he hasn't said anything, but does immediately roll his eyes), "A ritual. And you've gotten well used to it, so you can't call it ostentatious or say English like it's derogatory."

Clearly there's some leftover conversation about being dressed he's picking up the latter half of, started god-knows-when. Weeks or months ago perhaps. But the younger captain's tone is good-natured, and only a bit teasing, all of which is aimed at the Irishman.

"Certainly, you know yourself," is what Francis says, which prompts Jamie to pinch him, which just makes him laugh. Caught with his bullshit nothing answer. But then he does admit: "Jopson has trained me."

Ross' attention moves, then, to the steward, peeking up out of the furs. "The only man to have claim to such an accomplishment. He even taught himself to work a galvanometer, did you know that?"

At this, Crozier fobs him off, fussing around to get ready for the day. Yes, yes, getting dressed, delivering himself to Jopson's clutches. Ross is perfectly happy to lay around a while and let them busy themselves first. Quality time, in his opinion. They will be working hard and bitter for most of this excursion, and then they will go back to different ships. Important minutes to be indulged in just observing, chatting about nonsense.

The chatter of the two captains becomes pleasant background noise as he works, the pair always warm and casual in a way that's refreshing considering the other officers he's worked with. Serious when it matters, otherwise it's this - and he suspects this is why they're so well respected among the crew.

He glances up when he hears his name, a brow raised as he brings a bowl of the porridge and a steaming cup of tea to Ross still tucked in the cot. Feed one while he dresses the other and such.

"It was not an easy task, but I believe we've come to a comfortable agreement, sir," a smile, and snags one of the furs to put round Ross' shoulders when he sits up - yes, Jopson will nudge him to sit up, stubborn man that he is - and insists he eats.

His attention back on Crozier he helps him dress, everything muscle memory from warm smallclothes to trousers and shirtsleeves and braces. He snags the man's coat to drape round his shoulders as well, then tugs him to sit. A shave, then tea and breakfast, so he can methodically move on to Ross next.

"Sit, while the water still has some warmth left, sir. I'm afraid this may take me some minutes longer what with a week of neglect." A gentle hand to Crozier's chin, not unlike the way the captain has done him a few times now. "Assuming Captain Ross eats and does not talk away his breakfast, we will be in fine shape before the first bells."

There's a playful scoff from the cots.

"You should let him know I'm not easily tamed, Francis," Ross snorts, almost sing-song as he shovels a spoonful of the porridge into his mouth with a playful exaggeration. See? He's eating! Stop fussing.

"Yes, you are."

A hint of the forbidden in Crozier's response, even as he sits as he's instructed, and settles in for something he was highly skeptical of when they first set sail. Not that no one had shaved him before, but there's a world of difference between visiting a barber and having one assigned. Ross just laughs, bright and pleased. Apparently, he's enjoyed being tamed by Crozier, if no one else.

And then he waits until the older captain is caught under a blade to begin to tell a story about him, knowing there can be no objection. Crozier complains as best he can, but he knows better than to so much as flinch, especially when Jopson is intent on dealing with the amount of growth his blond-red-greying beard has gotten up to. And so Jopson gets to hear about Parry's expedition, and the topical islands in the Pacific that they visited on their way back; he queries Jopson now and then, too, aware the young steward has sailed in the West Indies.

Even if he's somewhat embarrassed to be spoken about (even positively— worse when it's positive, sometimes), Francis is comfortable. Before Jopson really gets going, he touches his steward's chest in silent acknowledgement. He does like this. Not because he's gotten used to having a steward. Because he's gotten used to Jopson. And if they do have a ritual, it's one between them, with little to do with the actual stewarding.

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