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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
Jopson enjoys the chatter, smiling when Ross makes little jabs at Crozier, smiles even wider at Crozier's attempted complaints. He answers when he's spoken to, but otherwise focuses on the task at hand. The hand on his chest provokes some warmth in his cheeks but it's fond, at the very least, and he takes to carefully tipping Crozier's chin and beginning the shave, careful of any scars or bumps that he could find with his eyes closed.
Little direction is needed for this anymore, especially with Crozier compliant, not fussing overlong like he had in the beginning. They're in safe company, though, and it emboldens him, fingers sliding down from his chin to his throat, thumb resting against his pulse point as he washes the blade and comes back to another patch of hair, this more red than the rest.
He's sure his hands are freezing, and though he tries to warm them before shaving the man, today he lets it fall to the wayside, warming his fingers instead as he runs them back up the man's neck, to cradle his cheek. It all looks mostly innocuous should anyone come rushing in, but he gently strokes his thumb over Crozier's cheek bone, impossibly affectionate.
"It's likely best you're on separate ships," he muses, a mischief in his tone that also sparkles in his eyes. "You bicker like two old maids. I think the men would be driven to madness."
His hands may be cold at first, but everything is cold outside the pocket of their cobbled together bed, and he would endure worse for Jopson's touch. A brief fancy of a thought, that maybe his steward will push his fingers in his mouth; thinking of that frantic evening makes him think of the bruises no doubt still lingering on the younger man's back, though. He seems to be recovering brilliantly, but perhaps they'll have a calm enough night before returning that he might tend to him again layered beneath blankets and furs.
Soap, and foam, and the soft slide of the sharpest blade, and the softer caress of Jopson's fingers. He hums a little at that accusation, old maid!!?, but he's lulled into complacency here, under this touch. He imagines laying back down and watching Ross and Jopson couple, indecent and hungry. For some reason it's easier to envision the two of them together instead of inserting himself, even though he knows it would be welcome, wanted, possibly even required. He'll just want too much, too selfishly, if he lets himself lean into it. And then what? He'll have to finish the equation, which leads to the hurdle of finding a wife and footing on the ladder he is the wrong caste for, which he is nevertheless been perched on for decades.
Problems for later. For after the expedition. Perhaps there will be another expedition, and he can put it off even longer. Ideal.
"It's a fine thing to have someone whose mind may as well be my own on Terror," Ross says, his voice taking on some strange, warm liquid quality that Crozier has only heard a time or two before. He doesn't turn his head to look, though he wonders at his expression. "But a great loss not to share the same ship. A punishing business, this work. If we kept each other to ourselves, our career would suffer. If Frank goes again after this, and he should because he deserves it, he'll have my job. Where am I, then?"
Where I was when you left with your uncle, Crozier might say, but this dismal answer is held in check by Jopson's care. A blessing. He had been meant for that voyage, and Jamie is still angry about his absence; the near-disaster it turned into and his uncle being knighted after presenting King William with willfully forged maps displaying fictitious land masses still burns bitterly in him.
"We'll just become pirates," he ends up murmuring as soon as he's able. A little joke, that Jopson is in on. Ross, hearing this notion for the first time, laughs abruptly. Lurking gloomy mood successfully dispelled.
Ross demands to see Jopson's handiwork when it's done, and when Crozier obliges him, he reaches up and pulls him down for a kiss that's almost painful. In its bare emotion, and, of course, due to freshly shorn skin pressed up against the man's bristles. But he endures it gladly. He loves him, he's loved him since he met him. It is so strange to feel something so profoundly. It must be one of the things only humans are capable of, that sets them apart.
Time to swap. Suited up and shaved, for Captain Ross, while Crozier begins to put the cots in order against one side of the tent so they have room to be up and about. It clears space for the desk, and he sits on a chair there to eat breakfast and watch as Jopson handles the other man.
"Haven't had this particular view before," he notes. He finds himself very interested. A mundane task, but one that's become intimate.
The Captains are as unpredictable as the sea itself and Thomas keeps his eyes on his work as the men talk, a dip into something almost melancholy maybe, to boisterous laughter. Pirates - it even makes him snort a little, grinning as he finishes up the man's shave with a final check, making sure there are no spots yet remaining.
The kiss shared between the two makes something move, deep and aching in his chest. He can see it - the magnetic thing that pulls them together. Yearns for something like of himself one day, but he smiles in face of it. No jealousy, no envy - just an understood happiness that, however torrential it might be, that they care for one another. It's obvious in everything they do together - at least to him, who watches both so, so closely.
He eyes Crozier, watching and waiting for him to settle with his food before he looks back to Ross, handling him with the same care as he dresses him, and then the shave. His fingers gently turning his head, brushing his cheek, tipping his jaw. Assessing before he begins lathering the man's jaw, but it's the sensation of eyes on him - the prickle at the back of his neck that makes his cheeks tinge.
"It was a true miracle I got you to sit for me at all, sir," he teases, and once Ross is lathered up he picks up the razor and carefully begins his work. "Captain Ross does not squirm so much - the first time you allowed me to shave you, I feared I would be blamed for the your murder, sir."
Gentle little ribbings, but he focuses on his work, eyes never leaving the line his razor follows.
"I think we've come to an excellent understanding now, though."
Magnetism. A thing that literally brought them together, academically. A thing that stays between them now, in another animal sense. And there is a moon in Jopson, too. Pulling at a tide Crozier has not yet mapped. (Ann Coulman is a constellation, and what is Sophy Cracroft? A shooting star? She'd like that.)
He does feel better with his face tidied up, even though he knows it'll sting when the air outside hits it. That's alright. Bracing. He eats, and watches Jopson proceed. It's not altogether unlike his inappropriate fantasy, just very, very restrained; an erotic thing in itself. It becomes an art piece to observe.
"First time on a ship I had berth I could turn around in," he says, after taking a sip of lukewarm tea, "and there was another man in there, waiting with a knife."
Ross makes a sound that Crozier interprets expertly, which is: Don't make me laugh right now, I'll kill you. Crozier ignores this.
"Comely and neat but such could be true of any well-prepared assassin."
Thomas Jopson, assassin. Yes. Crozier is lingering with his food as he watches the shave, at (assassin) Jopson's blade and fingers sweeping Ross' jaw, or pressing along his throat to hold skin taught. Tipping him gently. And he looks at his steward, too. Watches his expression, and if he looks up, holds his gaze. Appreciative, admiring.
"But if he is one, he's doing a terrible job. Look at me, months on and I'm still alive."
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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“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?”
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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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Little direction is needed for this anymore, especially with Crozier compliant, not fussing overlong like he had in the beginning. They're in safe company, though, and it emboldens him, fingers sliding down from his chin to his throat, thumb resting against his pulse point as he washes the blade and comes back to another patch of hair, this more red than the rest.
He's sure his hands are freezing, and though he tries to warm them before shaving the man, today he lets it fall to the wayside, warming his fingers instead as he runs them back up the man's neck, to cradle his cheek. It all looks mostly innocuous should anyone come rushing in, but he gently strokes his thumb over Crozier's cheek bone, impossibly affectionate.
"It's likely best you're on separate ships," he muses, a mischief in his tone that also sparkles in his eyes. "You bicker like two old maids. I think the men would be driven to madness."
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Soap, and foam, and the soft slide of the sharpest blade, and the softer caress of Jopson's fingers. He hums a little at that accusation, old maid!!?, but he's lulled into complacency here, under this touch. He imagines laying back down and watching Ross and Jopson couple, indecent and hungry. For some reason it's easier to envision the two of them together instead of inserting himself, even though he knows it would be welcome, wanted, possibly even required. He'll just want too much, too selfishly, if he lets himself lean into it. And then what? He'll have to finish the equation, which leads to the hurdle of finding a wife and footing on the ladder he is the wrong caste for, which he is nevertheless been perched on for decades.
Problems for later. For after the expedition. Perhaps there will be another expedition, and he can put it off even longer. Ideal.
"It's a fine thing to have someone whose mind may as well be my own on Terror," Ross says, his voice taking on some strange, warm liquid quality that Crozier has only heard a time or two before. He doesn't turn his head to look, though he wonders at his expression. "But a great loss not to share the same ship. A punishing business, this work. If we kept each other to ourselves, our career would suffer. If Frank goes again after this, and he should because he deserves it, he'll have my job. Where am I, then?"
Where I was when you left with your uncle, Crozier might say, but this dismal answer is held in check by Jopson's care. A blessing. He had been meant for that voyage, and Jamie is still angry about his absence; the near-disaster it turned into and his uncle being knighted after presenting King William with willfully forged maps displaying fictitious land masses still burns bitterly in him.
"We'll just become pirates," he ends up murmuring as soon as he's able. A little joke, that Jopson is in on. Ross, hearing this notion for the first time, laughs abruptly. Lurking gloomy mood successfully dispelled.
Ross demands to see Jopson's handiwork when it's done, and when Crozier obliges him, he reaches up and pulls him down for a kiss that's almost painful. In its bare emotion, and, of course, due to freshly shorn skin pressed up against the man's bristles. But he endures it gladly. He loves him, he's loved him since he met him. It is so strange to feel something so profoundly. It must be one of the things only humans are capable of, that sets them apart.
Time to swap. Suited up and shaved, for Captain Ross, while Crozier begins to put the cots in order against one side of the tent so they have room to be up and about. It clears space for the desk, and he sits on a chair there to eat breakfast and watch as Jopson handles the other man.
"Haven't had this particular view before," he notes. He finds himself very interested. A mundane task, but one that's become intimate.
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The kiss shared between the two makes something move, deep and aching in his chest. He can see it - the magnetic thing that pulls them together. Yearns for something like of himself one day, but he smiles in face of it. No jealousy, no envy - just an understood happiness that, however torrential it might be, that they care for one another. It's obvious in everything they do together - at least to him, who watches both so, so closely.
He eyes Crozier, watching and waiting for him to settle with his food before he looks back to Ross, handling him with the same care as he dresses him, and then the shave. His fingers gently turning his head, brushing his cheek, tipping his jaw. Assessing before he begins lathering the man's jaw, but it's the sensation of eyes on him - the prickle at the back of his neck that makes his cheeks tinge.
"It was a true miracle I got you to sit for me at all, sir," he teases, and once Ross is lathered up he picks up the razor and carefully begins his work. "Captain Ross does not squirm so much - the first time you allowed me to shave you, I feared I would be blamed for the your murder, sir."
Gentle little ribbings, but he focuses on his work, eyes never leaving the line his razor follows.
"I think we've come to an excellent understanding now, though."
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He does feel better with his face tidied up, even though he knows it'll sting when the air outside hits it. That's alright. Bracing. He eats, and watches Jopson proceed. It's not altogether unlike his inappropriate fantasy, just very, very restrained; an erotic thing in itself. It becomes an art piece to observe.
"First time on a ship I had berth I could turn around in," he says, after taking a sip of lukewarm tea, "and there was another man in there, waiting with a knife."
Ross makes a sound that Crozier interprets expertly, which is: Don't make me laugh right now, I'll kill you. Crozier ignores this.
"Comely and neat but such could be true of any well-prepared assassin."
Thomas Jopson, assassin. Yes. Crozier is lingering with his food as he watches the shave, at (assassin) Jopson's blade and fingers sweeping Ross' jaw, or pressing along his throat to hold skin taught. Tipping him gently. And he looks at his steward, too. Watches his expression, and if he looks up, holds his gaze. Appreciative, admiring.
"But if he is one, he's doing a terrible job. Look at me, months on and I'm still alive."
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leaning hard into the mongoose fursona
aye aye captain
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u saw nothing
👁️👁️
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