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."
Taking care of an officer like this makes for pleasant work - a simple and straightforward task made into occupation, routine. He takes pride in the fact that he makes their captain look good every day, and even moreso today that it's Ross he's keeping up with just now. He turns the man's head here and there, takes his time studying the way the man's hair grows so as not to create any burn or rash.
"Do you believe every assassin kills with guns and knives, sir?"
Jovial, calm, a little quirk of his lips that likely only Ross can see. He gives the man a knowing little raise of a brow - if Ross can't speak he can at least try to signal he's on his side, can't he?
Turning to wet his blade, he catches Crozier's eye, smiles something small but genuine before he turns back to his work, brushing a thumb over the other captain's chin to start up on the final spot. He's pleased to see both of them having eaten, though - and soon to be well dressed and ready for their day.
"You forget I bring your meals and your tea. I am a very patient man, all things considered, sir. I prefer to take my time, perfect every task I'm given if there's opportunity for it. Much like this -"
The final scrape of the blade and he begins to clean away any remaining suds, then moves on to buttoning up Ross' shirt.
"I've always enjoyed being a steward. I suppose my point is, sir, if I wished to see you dead for any ungodly reason, it would be done in such a way that you would hardly notice it until the time came. Well, maybe. I'd have to do a fair bit of reading first, and there's little time for that between the pair of you making a fuss."
Crozier can't help but smile around his teacup. Arresting, how charming he can be. And it is a grand thing, to hear him speak casually and with such humor. Jopson has a way about him that doesn't sway into rudeness, but doesn't feel calculated, either. Some innate quality.
Or he's romanticizing his steward. Can't bloody say, not yet.
As everything wraps up, Ross expresses his admiration for the shave, which he claims just edges out his own steward's. In jest he threatens to have the young man swapped between ships— and Crozier knows it's in jest because the man who serves him now is one he's very stuck in his ways over, a much older sailor with long white hair ever tied in a neat bow at the nape of his neck, tattoos all down his arms and the backs of his hands. A figure who Crozier believes fills a shape cut out of him where his absent, living ghost of a father never was, and where his uncle never wanted to fit in, instead sawing out his own more painful one.
But. He plays along.
He gets up and leans over to give the barest, most teasing touch to his friend's jaw, hm, it'll do.
"It is your right of course, Captain," he says. "But he would be missed."
A detour when he straightens up, to pass a hand over the back of Jopson's head, and drop a kiss to the crown of his skull. The gesture might seem paternal if not for all the criminal behavior going on in this tent otherwise. He tugs on his gloves and leans down to fix a final buckle on his boot.
"Eat something," is a clear order for Jopson when he stands again. "We'll be ready to set off once you emerge. Brace."
—the last, a warning before he opens the tent flap for long enough to slip out, sending a shock of cold air and crisp light in before it closes again. A long day ahead, and a longer week. To work.
It makes warmth bloom behind his ribs, makes his smile a little more genuine in a way that the other captain catches onto. As Jopson finishes buttoning up the man's shirtsleeves and getting him into his canvas for the day's bitter cold, Ross gently ushers him to follow orders - eat - and after a few minutes of finishing up his own buttons, steps out into the bitter cold.
The tent seems to lose its warmth with the men gone, so Jopson makes quick work of his good (he always eats too fast), dresses for the day, and sets out into the cold.
Hunting parties organized, some teams for exploration alongside naturalists. The day is a busy one, a lot of hauling equipment, setting up extra tents for supplies, unpacking things. Jopson keeps record of their supplies, lends a hand where he can with preparing meals and making sure both captains are looked after.
It's later in the day, not an hour or so from dinner, when he finds a moment to steal to Crozier's side finally. One naturalist is drawing the landscape, with Ross nearby, watching his work. Another is taking stock of the fox's paw print in the snow. He walks alongside him on the ice and snow, quiet for a few moments.
"A question, sir."
One that he's been chewing on much of the day as he's set out about their work in the bitter cold. "Are you able to do your work even when there is no darkness? Ah, with the stars, that is. I've wondered the same for ships, sir, on these expeditions. Days of endless sunlight - it must be difficult to navigate."
A good start, a good day. His head is full of figures, his hands are cramped from taking notes and wrestling with rock equally, but he is optimistic. The only mildly sour note has been Jamie's probing notion that they name something for John Franklin, who even now continues to siphon away spark of joy left alive in Van Diemen's Land. The Coulmans will be mollified by something spectacular with their name on it, so why not him? It's not as though they can pick Cracroft. Two birds, and all.
He means well. He understands that world. Francis knows this. He also thinks Sophy would prefer he write her name on a rock and tip it overboard into the dark wound in the sea south of Japan, so it could be free and unobserved by prying eyes, forever.
Jopson's presence makes him forget it.
"Sometimes." Hands in his pockets, he glances over at the steward as they walk. A perimeter, or somesuch. If he stands still, all the sweat against his skin will go cold. "Harder, here, but that's part of what we're studying, and part of why the mapping is so vital. Compasses don't work and we can't dead reckon so much as a lunar. But sometimes—"
He nods off in one direction, thataway. Pale speckles in the icy blue sky. In a few hours, a dusting of an impression of the moon will appear.
Growing up in London, his life has always been a mess of noise, smog, activity. Long days, sore fingers and feet, running to see what his coins could get their family each night, his brothers and sister shrieking and crying as they grew up, later the heavy tears of grief from his mother after his father died, the weight of it on his shoulders, pushing him to a life at sea, well-enough paid to keep the stove warm and bread on the table.
Easy to forget out here surrounded by sea and ice, the calm quiet of being so, so far from industry, from civilization. The only real noise the men camping here to do work and even then, it's cold enough that most prefer to keep their scarves wrapped up round their face to ward off the wind.
"I see." He looks at Crozier for a moment, the line of his nose in the light, the clean shave of his jaw, the bristle of fair hair peeking out from beneath his cap - admiring. But away again, toward the horizon, stark white and endless.
"I think of pirates, on occasion, sir," a gentle call back to their little joke. "How they must have navigated these waters without any such tools and survived all the same. A life truly on the sea, no talk of lands and the names to give them. Perhaps it was pirates that found this place first by way of the moon."
A small smile. "They could have hidden their treasure here and we'd be none the wiser. Or at least that is what the storybooks would have you believe."
"I'll teach you how to read a sextant," he says after I see, because he's aware (in retrospect, a moment after he said it all) that nobody sees, from that explanation. "It'll sound less like nonsense."
No it won't. Bloody nerd, this guy.
Anyway, ehhem, talk of pirates—
"All the best pirates were navy deserters." Crozier gives him a conspiratorial look. "Does that ruin the mystique of them?"
He thinks of the ones he's seen. First as a ship's boy, on Pitcairn, and all the others, scraggly outlaws clinging to a century gone by. He offers them a scrap of mystique still, because there is a small part of another part of him that understands the cracked-glass spirit in some of those outlaws, who did crime not for lack of ethics, but for want of telling England to hang. Which he would have to do, to have a feather bed and a chandelier (and Jopson) in the great cabin.
"I'll trust you to look out for treasure in any event. Or pirates. You're a better shot than half the men here, and I feel very well looked after."
That a steward should know anything about the mechanics of sailing and wayfinding seems absolutely absurd, but it's thrilling to know that he serves under a captain who willingly teaches. No, he doesn't need to know how to use a sextant or any other tool seamen use to divine routes in the sea, but it's something outside of his routine that draws him in. Something that Crozier is passionate about, no less.
"I will always look after you, sir. Pirates or otherwise. Should you become a pirate yourself, I will keep after you. But only for the feather bed, I think."
They're far enough from anyone else as they walk that he doesn't worry about anyone overhearing and misunderstanding. He smiles all the same, amused at the image still, brought back to the comfort of their first, heated evening together.
"I've heard the men speaking over mealtime - a civilian sailor with the Captain's gun. Much of what we had at our table when I was much younger came much the same way. My father wasn't much of a marksman himself, but I took to it well enough. A keen eye for detail, I suppose, sir."
Good or bad, he doesn't know. Some men look at him with a quiet respect, others with an excitement to do the same for themselves, some of the greener sailors disgruntled that the kill was taken out from underfoot.
"I much prefer to spend my days making tea and repairing your many buttons."
There's no inkling that they might be referencing something inappropriate. Jopson is discreet, and careful, and Crozier doesn't have to turn his head in paranoia to check how far behind them the others are, or wonder if the wind has carried anything. He trusts him. Still, it's a bit surprising— not that he reacts externally.
Internally, he allows himself to enjoy it. Playful, but sweet, too. I will always look after you. A fancy more absurd than piracy, that, and a hundred times as alluring. At least he knows it's a fancy; always is the voyage, and then they will all wake up, dunked in colder water than even a polar sear returning to society and the real world (except for Francis, who has nowhere to fucking go). But nothing wrong with entertaining himself in the privacy of his own head.
"Mm."
And now he has this interesting thing: Jopson even younger than now, learning to handle a gun, learning to track and hunt. Teaching himself. Succeeding, and becoming skilled, all just to eat. His accent is London, not the rural countryside. Even more of an effort. Crozier is quietly impressed by it.
"I understand," is what he ends up saying. "I much prefer navigating. We can switch off with the gun, if you like. The last time I fired one I did hit what I was aiming at, more or less."
Exaggerating his lack of ability for comedic effect. He's alright, because everyone with any bit of dedicated training and practice is alright, and of course he's seen combat and come away without embarrassing himself, capturing ships (indeed, a few pirates) or in Portugal's war. But he loathes speaking of such topics. Men who use violence to glorify themselves revolt him.
"Hitting your target more or less is all that's necessary, isn't it?"
Especially when out here - maiming something out in the cold is as beneficial as it is to down it altogether. Easier if one shot does it, though - better use of resources. He'd rather live a life without all the guns and violence, too. He witnessed enough of that in the streets where his family live - roughnecks and tea leaves running amok. The sea comes with its own violence, though, with her waves and her storms, and yet they return all the same.
He walks beside Crozier for some time, whether they fill the silence with occasional chatter or leave it be. It's easy to settle into quiet with the man at his side, a comfort he does not feel with many others, if any. There's the whooping of men somewhere off in the distance - maybe some beast caught for dinner, maybe a card game won, it's hard to say. He tips his head to look, but the sun burns in his eyes.
"I wanted to thank you, sir," he says finally, not meeting the man's eye but instead keeping to the horizon, scanning the ice. "For the book about the stars. I've nearly finished it. I can't say I understand a great deal of it, but it has offered a pleasant break from the monotony of the ship."
He nods a little, almost uncomfortably.
"I've meant to say that, but with the storm and the expedition, I didn't want to distract you, sir. But I didn't want you to think your kindness went unnoticed. I will let you know when I finish, of course. I have a list of questions drafted that I'm certain you'll be able to answer."
Crozier can make himself at ease among most people — a skill learned like any other — but he has come to be particularly comfortable around Jopson. He likes this, the young man walking ordinarily beside him, not haunting a corner awaiting his cue to tend to something. Though his work is something honed to perfection, and he respects it just fine. This is just another facet.
Another man might nitpick on the notion of monotony on a ship, listening to him. But he thinks of all that time spent standing, waiting, and he knows how little rest Jopson permits himself. He's seen many stewards and other ship's servants over the years in all manner of disarray and leisure, but never Thomas Jopson. He wonders at it, at what bottomless reserve for being at attention is in him. Makes Crozier want to find a way to see him beside himself and relaxed.
(Again.)
"You are welcome." A sincere thing. It wasn't giving him table scraps, it was earnestness. And so: "You notice everything, of that I have faith. I'll be happy to answer every question, and if there are any answers I don't have, perhaps we can discover them out here."
That's the thing about science. Gets about as much rest as Jopson does.
"Captain Ross thinks that one's a volcano." The stark white peak out in front of them, framing their tiny camp. "What would you name it?"
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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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"Do you believe every assassin kills with guns and knives, sir?"
Jovial, calm, a little quirk of his lips that likely only Ross can see. He gives the man a knowing little raise of a brow - if Ross can't speak he can at least try to signal he's on his side, can't he?
Turning to wet his blade, he catches Crozier's eye, smiles something small but genuine before he turns back to his work, brushing a thumb over the other captain's chin to start up on the final spot. He's pleased to see both of them having eaten, though - and soon to be well dressed and ready for their day.
"You forget I bring your meals and your tea. I am a very patient man, all things considered, sir. I prefer to take my time, perfect every task I'm given if there's opportunity for it. Much like this -"
The final scrape of the blade and he begins to clean away any remaining suds, then moves on to buttoning up Ross' shirt.
"I've always enjoyed being a steward. I suppose my point is, sir, if I wished to see you dead for any ungodly reason, it would be done in such a way that you would hardly notice it until the time came. Well, maybe. I'd have to do a fair bit of reading first, and there's little time for that between the pair of you making a fuss."
leaning hard into the mongoose fursona
Or he's romanticizing his steward. Can't bloody say, not yet.
As everything wraps up, Ross expresses his admiration for the shave, which he claims just edges out his own steward's. In jest he threatens to have the young man swapped between ships— and Crozier knows it's in jest because the man who serves him now is one he's very stuck in his ways over, a much older sailor with long white hair ever tied in a neat bow at the nape of his neck, tattoos all down his arms and the backs of his hands. A figure who Crozier believes fills a shape cut out of him where his absent, living ghost of a father never was, and where his uncle never wanted to fit in, instead sawing out his own more painful one.
But. He plays along.
He gets up and leans over to give the barest, most teasing touch to his friend's jaw, hm, it'll do.
"It is your right of course, Captain," he says. "But he would be missed."
A detour when he straightens up, to pass a hand over the back of Jopson's head, and drop a kiss to the crown of his skull. The gesture might seem paternal if not for all the criminal behavior going on in this tent otherwise. He tugs on his gloves and leans down to fix a final buckle on his boot.
"Eat something," is a clear order for Jopson when he stands again. "We'll be ready to set off once you emerge. Brace."
—the last, a warning before he opens the tent flap for long enough to slip out, sending a shock of cold air and crisp light in before it closes again. A long day ahead, and a longer week. To work.
aye aye captain
It makes warmth bloom behind his ribs, makes his smile a little more genuine in a way that the other captain catches onto. As Jopson finishes buttoning up the man's shirtsleeves and getting him into his canvas for the day's bitter cold, Ross gently ushers him to follow orders - eat - and after a few minutes of finishing up his own buttons, steps out into the bitter cold.
The tent seems to lose its warmth with the men gone, so Jopson makes quick work of his good (he always eats too fast), dresses for the day, and sets out into the cold.
Hunting parties organized, some teams for exploration alongside naturalists. The day is a busy one, a lot of hauling equipment, setting up extra tents for supplies, unpacking things. Jopson keeps record of their supplies, lends a hand where he can with preparing meals and making sure both captains are looked after.
It's later in the day, not an hour or so from dinner, when he finds a moment to steal to Crozier's side finally. One naturalist is drawing the landscape, with Ross nearby, watching his work. Another is taking stock of the fox's paw print in the snow. He walks alongside him on the ice and snow, quiet for a few moments.
"A question, sir."
One that he's been chewing on much of the day as he's set out about their work in the bitter cold. "Are you able to do your work even when there is no darkness? Ah, with the stars, that is. I've wondered the same for ships, sir, on these expeditions. Days of endless sunlight - it must be difficult to navigate."
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He means well. He understands that world. Francis knows this. He also thinks Sophy would prefer he write her name on a rock and tip it overboard into the dark wound in the sea south of Japan, so it could be free and unobserved by prying eyes, forever.
Jopson's presence makes him forget it.
"Sometimes." Hands in his pockets, he glances over at the steward as they walk. A perimeter, or somesuch. If he stands still, all the sweat against his skin will go cold. "Harder, here, but that's part of what we're studying, and part of why the mapping is so vital. Compasses don't work and we can't dead reckon so much as a lunar. But sometimes—"
He nods off in one direction, thataway. Pale speckles in the icy blue sky. In a few hours, a dusting of an impression of the moon will appear.
"They like to do our heads in."
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Easy to forget out here surrounded by sea and ice, the calm quiet of being so, so far from industry, from civilization. The only real noise the men camping here to do work and even then, it's cold enough that most prefer to keep their scarves wrapped up round their face to ward off the wind.
"I see." He looks at Crozier for a moment, the line of his nose in the light, the clean shave of his jaw, the bristle of fair hair peeking out from beneath his cap - admiring. But away again, toward the horizon, stark white and endless.
"I think of pirates, on occasion, sir," a gentle call back to their little joke. "How they must have navigated these waters without any such tools and survived all the same. A life truly on the sea, no talk of lands and the names to give them. Perhaps it was pirates that found this place first by way of the moon."
A small smile. "They could have hidden their treasure here and we'd be none the wiser. Or at least that is what the storybooks would have you believe."
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No it won't. Bloody nerd, this guy.
Anyway, ehhem, talk of pirates—
"All the best pirates were navy deserters." Crozier gives him a conspiratorial look. "Does that ruin the mystique of them?"
He thinks of the ones he's seen. First as a ship's boy, on Pitcairn, and all the others, scraggly outlaws clinging to a century gone by. He offers them a scrap of mystique still, because there is a small part of another part of him that understands the cracked-glass spirit in some of those outlaws, who did crime not for lack of ethics, but for want of telling England to hang. Which he would have to do, to have a feather bed and a chandelier (and Jopson) in the great cabin.
"I'll trust you to look out for treasure in any event. Or pirates. You're a better shot than half the men here, and I feel very well looked after."
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"I will always look after you, sir. Pirates or otherwise. Should you become a pirate yourself, I will keep after you. But only for the feather bed, I think."
They're far enough from anyone else as they walk that he doesn't worry about anyone overhearing and misunderstanding. He smiles all the same, amused at the image still, brought back to the comfort of their first, heated evening together.
"I've heard the men speaking over mealtime - a civilian sailor with the Captain's gun. Much of what we had at our table when I was much younger came much the same way. My father wasn't much of a marksman himself, but I took to it well enough. A keen eye for detail, I suppose, sir."
Good or bad, he doesn't know. Some men look at him with a quiet respect, others with an excitement to do the same for themselves, some of the greener sailors disgruntled that the kill was taken out from underfoot.
"I much prefer to spend my days making tea and repairing your many buttons."
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Internally, he allows himself to enjoy it. Playful, but sweet, too. I will always look after you. A fancy more absurd than piracy, that, and a hundred times as alluring. At least he knows it's a fancy; always is the voyage, and then they will all wake up, dunked in colder water than even a polar sear returning to society and the real world (except for Francis, who has nowhere to fucking go). But nothing wrong with entertaining himself in the privacy of his own head.
"Mm."
And now he has this interesting thing: Jopson even younger than now, learning to handle a gun, learning to track and hunt. Teaching himself. Succeeding, and becoming skilled, all just to eat. His accent is London, not the rural countryside. Even more of an effort. Crozier is quietly impressed by it.
"I understand," is what he ends up saying. "I much prefer navigating. We can switch off with the gun, if you like. The last time I fired one I did hit what I was aiming at, more or less."
Exaggerating his lack of ability for comedic effect. He's alright, because everyone with any bit of dedicated training and practice is alright, and of course he's seen combat and come away without embarrassing himself, capturing ships (indeed, a few pirates) or in Portugal's war. But he loathes speaking of such topics. Men who use violence to glorify themselves revolt him.
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Especially when out here - maiming something out in the cold is as beneficial as it is to down it altogether. Easier if one shot does it, though - better use of resources. He'd rather live a life without all the guns and violence, too. He witnessed enough of that in the streets where his family live - roughnecks and tea leaves running amok. The sea comes with its own violence, though, with her waves and her storms, and yet they return all the same.
He walks beside Crozier for some time, whether they fill the silence with occasional chatter or leave it be. It's easy to settle into quiet with the man at his side, a comfort he does not feel with many others, if any. There's the whooping of men somewhere off in the distance - maybe some beast caught for dinner, maybe a card game won, it's hard to say. He tips his head to look, but the sun burns in his eyes.
"I wanted to thank you, sir," he says finally, not meeting the man's eye but instead keeping to the horizon, scanning the ice. "For the book about the stars. I've nearly finished it. I can't say I understand a great deal of it, but it has offered a pleasant break from the monotony of the ship."
He nods a little, almost uncomfortably.
"I've meant to say that, but with the storm and the expedition, I didn't want to distract you, sir. But I didn't want you to think your kindness went unnoticed. I will let you know when I finish, of course. I have a list of questions drafted that I'm certain you'll be able to answer."
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Another man might nitpick on the notion of monotony on a ship, listening to him. But he thinks of all that time spent standing, waiting, and he knows how little rest Jopson permits himself. He's seen many stewards and other ship's servants over the years in all manner of disarray and leisure, but never Thomas Jopson. He wonders at it, at what bottomless reserve for being at attention is in him. Makes Crozier want to find a way to see him beside himself and relaxed.
(Again.)
"You are welcome." A sincere thing. It wasn't giving him table scraps, it was earnestness. And so: "You notice everything, of that I have faith. I'll be happy to answer every question, and if there are any answers I don't have, perhaps we can discover them out here."
That's the thing about science. Gets about as much rest as Jopson does.
"Captain Ross thinks that one's a volcano." The stark white peak out in front of them, framing their tiny camp. "What would you name it?"
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u saw nothing
👁️👁️
🙅
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