"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?"
"I'm certain there is much to be discovered out here."
The vast, icy landscape, so different from the lands of England, from the sea. Its wide, clear skies and biting cold have served the naturalists and Crozier well it seems, so he's curious to see where this little stop takes them. He wonders what it is like adventuring in warmer climes with the man, and what he enjoys better when he travels. He's always wondered why so many of these men end up on ships instead of anywhere else.
Tipping his head up he measures the white peak with his eyes, imagining what it must be like standing at the foot of it, gazing up at the high point of it. He wishes, sometimes, he could capture it in a plate and take it back for his siblings to see. He cannot draw, for one, and does not own any sort of photographic equipment. His words will have to suffice for the enormity and vastness of this cold place.
"Does he have reason to think it's a volcano? I can't imagine something so hot existing in this cold."
A name. What would he name a volcano?
"Aether, perhaps. The very opposite of our ships. Though if I were to fall victim to the naming conventions of your fellow commanders we'd be pressed to call it Mount Ross, would we not, sir?"
A small smile. He may choose to tease Ross with this later - who's to say.
Approval in his tone. It's not quite whimsy, but ethereal, and fits right in as a light veil over the darkness of Erebus and Terror. Crozier makes a sound after, implying a laugh.
"Great men and their achievements, or something to that effect, for all these great monuments of Earth." Crozier, of course, will attempt to decline any for himself. Let it be Terror, if anything. She deserves it. "But you and I can call her Mount Aether. Or perhaps our camp will have to bear such a name, fleeting as it is."
Camp Aether, a temporary place.
"It's the shape," about the probably-volcanic nature of the mountain. "Some mountains were made by ancient eruptions, and some by some other force, and they have a look about them— poured upwards from within, or crushed together in a force. We're supposed to dissuade thought of that second bit, the notion of things moving very slowly over millions of years, out of respect for divine provenance. I suppose it's insulting to God to say it took him more than seven days."
They've had the sort of sex which would see them hanged, a little life-ruining atheist humor can't be over the line for Jopson, can it? A man can hope.
"Through the glasses we've seen ice structures that could be made from thermal vents, as well. With any luck we'll be able to coax some decent rock out of the ice, do some testing, see how much is volcanic."
Better to name the camp than the mountain itself, for when it does inevitably get named for Ross or someone on the expedition, he doesn't want to mistake it in front of those it may matter most to. So Camp Aether will be what they share in those quiet moments. Temporary, all of it - even the warmth of the two bodies round him at night. It's not impermanent, though. He'll remember these moments fondly.
He tilts his head to look at the mountain in a different way, but the Captain's words draw out a surprised snort. Uncharacteristic of him in many ways and he quickly rights himself, clearing his throat.
"I suppose God never imagined we'd find such a place," he muses, a little dry, but the hint of a smile on his voice. Godless men, surely. He'd believed once, when he was younger, but had no time to invest in his faith to any great degree, not when finding food and making a living meant survival over prayers.
"Men are impossibly stubborn, sir."
Pig-headed, really. Doggedly sure that everything out in the world is theirs for the taking.
"Will you show me the rock when the testing is done? I won't ask for the details of your tests of course, that is for you and the Admiralty, but I don't believe I've seen volcanic rock before. Not even drawings."
Their camp, a harsh refuge and cozy hideaway at once. Crozier watches Jopson sidelong, the rest of his vision encompassing the terrain, otherworldly in its beauty and mystery, and the men at work with figures or drawings. Jamie, the shape of him familiar and striking.
Does God imagine anything at all? Illnesses, cruelty, small intimacies that never made it into the Bible?
Crozier doubts it.
"The makings of rocks are hardly state secrets," he tells him, half-turning to give him a small smile. "The crown wishes for the prestige of attaching its name to these works, is all. And of course we must oblige."
There's no discovery without the money to back it. The crown's as good as any; plenty of nations with fleets do no progressive work at all, and keep them only for war and pillage. Far worse options, about the globe, and none better. Which is as much an indictment of mankind as it is praise to Britain, but Francis would rather strip naked and leap in the water than speak of actual politics. Drowned by a ghost after all, or somesuch.
"I'll ask Mr Hooker to fish us up some dirt. We might be surprised early."
Sure, the making of rocks might not be secrets, but that a Steward should ask and stick his nose in anything like this is presumptuous at best. And though Crozier opened the door to this curiosity early, he still feels every need to ask permission first and foremost, fearful that the moment he becomes comfortable and makes an assumption - he will fumble and make a mistake.
He forgets that so much of this world is familiar to the captains, that these small discoveries have lost their excitement and wonder. It is an honor to be on the coattails of it all the same.
"I'm certain whatever you uncover on this expedition will be something for the Crown to smile on," he nods his head, turning his gaze to Crozier's profile for a moment, then back out to the horizon.
"I should go assist with supper," he says finally, not truly wanting to part but knowing that the work must be done no matter the time or the desire. "By the time you and Captain Ross have done your rounds it should be ready. Will you take your meal in your tent, sir, or out with the rest of the men?"
Some kind of stew, no doubt - with hearty chunks of something the men caught earlier, judging by the excitement he'd heard in the distance.
A good lad. Once in a while, he looks back and rolls his eyes at himself for being so opposed to having a personal steward. But mostly he's grateful for their prolonged period of negotiation. It's made this arrangement now all the more meaningful, and earned, man to man.
"Out with everyone, I think." The weather, while cold, is tolerable to sit in, and hot food will help with it. "Whether that's keeping the men on their toes or showing camaraderie is for each to decide."
Crozier has liked the company of some of his superiors, disliked others. He hopes to be liked or tolerated without resentment — especially after that spat of near-mutiny he and Ross endured a few years ago. He likes to think he's learned well about being seen as unreachable.
"And after, we will be at your mercy, of course."
Cheeky.
Away they go, then: Jopson to help with supper and Crozier to catch up with Ross and begin wrapping up for the evening, taking stock of what's been done and what more's left, what new tasks have made themselves known, and so on. The next few days prove to be busier ones than this, and so he's stern about chasing everyone away from working past reasonable hours. Save it for the coming days, he tells them.
They all sit on overturned crates or stools around the fire, not a perfect circle, little knots of people blobbing out this way and that, but collected to catch at least one side warmed. No one has seen any more foxes, but lots of penguins; Crozier laughs a bit to himself when one of the marines expresses the same opinion he has about them, in that he feels a bit bad. Not very sporting at all. But they taste alright.
While the cold leaves much to be desired, sitting among the men by the fire in quiet moments after long days can make the hardest days seem lighter. There's a camaraderie in the journey, especially out here it seems in the bite of cold and bitter winds. The fire does well enough to warm up their small group and it doesn't take long for him to assist in doling out bowls of hot stew, boiling still so that by the time they are able to spoon it out the cold hasn't taken all the heat from it.
He eats last of everyone and sits off to one side, enjoying the stew but eating quickly. There's plenty to do before the captains retire to the tent for the night. Thankfully the ship's boy that's joined them will assist in the cleanup of it all.
He watches Crozier and Ross both by the fire, the way the light casts shadows over their faces as they talk among themselves. They look at home, cut against the background of a wild and vast winter landscape. Men that were made for the water, to have shipboards and waves beneath their feet and the sun at their brow. Handsome, both of them. Infuriatingly so.
By the time the captains finish, Jopson has slipped away to begin preparing their tent. He turns down the covers, lights up the lamp to give the impression of night, sets out their night clothes, begins to boil up something for their tea. He'll wrap the charred embers from the stove and use it to warm the foot of Crozier and Ross' cots if there's enough.
The men talk and sing and laugh outside - the conditions tough but their spirits tougher. Jopson contents himself to sit and watch the water, waiting for it to boil in the cold.
"It's colder tonight," he says when one walks in. "It's taking longer for the water to catch."
Ross, at the tent flap, and he closes it behind him— apparently Crozier is still seeing to something. But the soles of his feet feel numb, and so he's retiring for the night before pins and needles set in. The transition from the bleak, bright forever-day into the deliberately crafted coziness makes him stop for a moment, briefly dazzled.
"It's the way of things." Laughing a little. But no one would mind lukewarm tea, given the circumstances. Wrestling a bit with his scarf as he pulls it away. "I'm glad I was right in my measure of you, Mr Jopson, you're quite good at your trade."
Little details, attentiveness, that aren't strictly required. He notices. Time to remove himself from the canvas outer layer and uniform middle layer and perhaps even the rest of it. Only patches are crunchy with frost; it's not that cold, at least not for the South Pole, but the wind off the water makes it like knives. After a slightly wheezing laugh of thanks for helping him escape, he ends up sitting with one knee drawn up, checking his toes (they're fine), folded up like a child playing with his laces.
"You really do get on with Frank, don't you?" Warm eyes observe Jopson, curious and appreciative. "I'm glad. I hope it doesn't seem too strange that I am."
All entanglements that God frowns on are unique in their ways, but it can still be a shock, he knows.
The water is all but forgotten the moment Ross steps in and he's up on his feet immediately, assisting him out of his canvas and coat and uniform. He doesn't let him go without too many layers, though, and once he settles to check his feet, he fetches one of the furs and wraps it around his shoulders. He takes the man's day clothes and carefully hangs or folds them, setting aside things that will need a scrub in the remaining hot water.
"It is my honor to serve you both, sir," he murmurs, an earnestness in his voice even if he appears distracted by the clothes. All look well enough except for his shirtsleeves and he fetches some fuller's earth for it almost immediately - a dab of the night's stew, maybe? Or lunch. It's hard to say.
His hands still, however, and he looks up at Ross, startled by the warmth in his gaze.
"It isn't strange. Or I certainly don't find it to be strange, sir. I admit I knew you were both more than fond of one another simply by way of guarding the door of the great cabin."
A small smile, and he turns back to the stain, scrubbing some of the earth into the dry fabric. "Discretion is the first and most important tenant of my work. I wish to make the Captain's life comfortable aboard the ship as much as he will let me. He is a good man. A kind man."
He cannot put to words the swelling, fond thing in his chest - not yet. But it's there in his voice all the same. "And he deserves as many as can be who care for him, no matter the shape of it."
A soft chuckle. Fond, knowing. Aware they were made early— a striking rarity, one that could have been a dire fright. Not ruinous, he knows how to handle indiscretions observed by those beneath him in England's hierarchy, but it's unpleasant. More than an inconvenience. Tiring to the soul in a way he has no words for. But this young steward had been a dream about it all.
He sees why, of course. Front row seat for why.
"You're right about that," he agrees quietly.
Francis isn't here to brush all this off. James knows why, the abhorrent things he's been made to endure (tales he won't tell, far happier to share stories of heroism and cleverness), the things society has made them both do and contort themselves into. He does deserve it. They all do.
"Not so long ago it was illegal for Irish and English to marry." As he wriggles into pajamas while still mostly under the fur. "Further in the past women were traded like cattle. Imagine, in a hundred years, what beautiful enlightenments await humanity. I think about that, while doing this. 'Exploring.' We must go forward, Mr Jopson. In everything. I know we will. And I know— I know this sleeve hole is here, somewhere."
A brilliant mind and the most sought-after man in any military faction, stuck in a night shirt.
There's a lightness in Ross that Jopson can admire, that makes it even easier to see why Crozier took to him so easily. They're opposites in many ways, kindred spirits in the same. It's interesting to watch from afar, to enjoy the quiet happiness they bring one another. If he could bottle this mission, regardless of the cold, and give it to them both, he thinks he would.
"I admit I've never much had a taste for the politics of our Queen's land, sir," he murmurs, turning and seeing the man struggle. Poor thing, really. He sighs and approaches him, pressing fingers to his cheek first to still him, then moves to help find the sleeve and carefully manipulate it so Ross may find the arm hole.
"My captain is greater than most Englishmen I've met. Cares for his men. Cares for the wonder of the world and what it owes us. Makes his choices not for himself or for the glory of it, but for what is right, sir. That is what will lead us forward on, regardless of the exploration."
He reaches into the sleeve and guides Ross's hand through it, smoothing the fabric out before moving to do up the tie on the front of it, falling into muscle memory in a way that takes little mental energy.
"It is a shame that we must sail to far reaches to have a taste of what life could be like hundreds of years in our future. But I'm happy for it, regardless, sir. I'm lucky to have been given a spot on this expedition."
A hand smooths over the fabric, pressing fingers above the man's heart ever so briefly before he reaches to pull the fur around the man's shoulders with a small, pleasant smile.
"I suspect I may be tired," he chuckles as he's helped. Something about it. Not yet recovered from the week of bad weather. Willing his body not to betray him as so many sailors have experienced— but he shrugs those thoughts off; Francis is older than he is, and doing alright. Just tired. He'll sail until he drops dead doing it, at a hundred years beneath him. That's the goal.
After, he reaches out and takes Jopson's face in his hands. Just to look at him, just to judge the sincerity of that smile, and offer one (a real one, truly) of his own.
Doesn't kiss him. Decides that's something he's only going to do with Frank around. For him, something like that. But it feels respectful of Thomas, too. My captain, in that tone of voice. He understands, and sees it clearly, even if the steward doesn't yet have a name for it.
"We're lucky."
In the end, he opts out of tea, and just lays down in a cocoon. Takes a while for Crozier to return — his voice is audible at one point, speaking to a lieutenant, the tone of speech and pace of footsteps businesslike but not urgent. They pass by, off to see to something, but do not yet come in. Ross is in some liminal dozing space, neither asleep nor awake, when the other captain finally shuffles inside.
No immediate greeting, for he notices the quiet in the tent, and then the sleeping lump in the cots. Eye contact with Jopson, silently inquisitive. All is well?
Jopson feels the burn of Ross' hands on his cheeks long after the man has gone to the cots. Something has passed between them, shared and raw, but he keeps it carefully packaged, something sacred, something he'll think on in the hours he's trying to sleep. The quiet of the arctic leaves his mind wide open.
He tucks one of his furs around Ross, pets his hair from his face, and slips back to some small, quiet tasks. There's a loose button, that pesky stain, Crozier's tea. He even takes the captain's clothes and folds them near the little stove so the night shirt has some residual warmth clinging to it when the man arrives.
And on cue -
A glance from him to Ross and Jopson's expression softens, a nod.
"Tired," he murmurs, quiet. "If we can afford it and can encourage him to stay sedentary for half a day I think it would do him some good. You as well, sir."
And he rises to help Crozier out of his coat for one, his hat, his scarf, the canvas. He presses the man's hands between his own palms, rubbing some warmth into them.
"Sit, get warm," he whispers. "I'll get your tea made up for you."
But not before setting out a fur for him on the arm of a chair, and turns to begin making his cuppa just as he likes it. He'll make one for himself later.
Jamie isn't at all delicate, but Crozier worries (a light worry, but all the same) about him now and again. Put to harsh living too young. He's an aristocrat, to be sure, but cover his name up on his service record and you'd never know. Some modernists say civilized societies should not send children to war, he once opined over a dinner. It was not a popular remark.
But it was a long week. Nothing for it.
Jopson makes him smile. They have a comfortable routine by now, and they move easily around each other. His hands warm under the attention, and he feels it like a soporific; a luring thing, a siren song of giving up only half-undressed. No, no, forge ahead. Quick but not hurried, in companionable quiet.
Eventually, his voice very low—
"Get yours and sit with me a moment, will you?"
If he falls asleep before Jopson there'll be no end to trip hazards.
Their routine hardly changes belowdecks or not, and once he's sure Crozier's warmed up enough he helps him into his night clothes and has the fur back round his shoulders as soon as he can, with a mug of quickly cooling tea to press between his palms.
"Of course, sir."
And he does as told - makes up a cup for himself, a little hurried and slapdash, but tea is tea. It will be a warm welcome after a day out in the bitter cold. The tent helps to some degree, of course, but it is the arctic. But soon enough he settles beside the man, unable to help fussing the way he pulls the fur up higher on the man's shoulders.
"Are you well, sir?"
He still feels the ghost of Ross' hands on his cheeks, the glimmer and warmth of his smile - we're lucky. It leaves so many questions and makes Crozier's usual quiet feel leaden with something he doesn't recognize or understand. He can't help but glance back at the man cocooned in furs and quilts. Remembers the feeling of his hair on his brow as he saw him carefully placed into his cot.
"I didn't put honey in your tea, but if you think it might help, I'm happy to remake it, Captain."
"I'm grand, Jopson," is warm, faintly amused. Quiet enough not to disturb Ross, who lingers in twilight. Relax, kiddo. "I'm only hoping you'll humor me with your company for a spell."
Just sit with some tea. No conversation needed, no goal in mind. They have a few minutes while the tea's pleasantly warm, and Crozier will want to find unconsciousness as quickly as possible after, which means shuffling Jopson along with him. Might as well be complementary in their timing. He doesn't imagine anything as dire as Has no one ever simply wanted to sit with you?, but more thinks his steward is like a shark of diligence, perpetually in motion.
But there's no need, right this second. A more pressing need: just this. Companionable silence and knees knocking together. Chatting would risk waking up Jamie, so he doesn't bother whispering anything. When he's done, he gives Jopson a look—
Anything he can do to smooth things along, so they can all pass out? This is a different feeling than their introductory weeks, suspicious and reluctant to accept help. Reciprocal, instead.
Sitting still, warm cup in hand, and the quiet of the tent takes time to acclimate to. No, if the question had been posed, Jopson has not been asked to simply sit for a while. There are always things needed from him, responsibilities to fulfill, lists to be made and checked. But here they are in the quiet - enjoying tea, enjoying the knocking of knees and quiet looks.
It makes him realize just how tired he is, too. Down to the bones, really. Perhaps not as much as his Captain, but it's there - the fatigue of many months finally catching up. He's nearly done with his tea when he catches the man's eye - and smiles warmly. A small shake of his head and he rises, taking the man's cup from him. He can wash it up properly in the morning. He quickly drinks down the dregs of his own so as not to waste it (and to taste the touch of honey he's come to enjoy in these moments).
He doesn't bother with layers like he had with the other two men - simply takes the time to undress. Never would he ask the man to help him - even when he was beaten and sore. When he shrugs his shirt of, the marks are dwindling, but a few look like they've taken, dry skin making the welt a semi-permanent discoloration. It will ease over time when the bruise wears off.
It's bitterly cold, though, and he pulls on a thick jumper instead of his nightshirt with his long drawers. Stupidly, though, he's gotten it twisted, fumbling with a sleeve himself much like Ross had.
"You can lie down, sir - I'll be there in a moment." Whispered, of course.
He has to turn the lamp out, set out their things for tomorrow, a laundry list of things. Well, once he can get the sweater twisted round correctly. It's soft against his skin, though - an old thing, worn in the elbows, the rich green of the color fading over years of wear.
Francis puts the light out, and then shuffles over to rescue his steward. Haunted by bruises, and how beautiful he looks besides; easier to be in darkness, which he is adept at moving in. Years of night watch and navigating inky waters. Once Jopson is righted, he catches him around the middle and herds him to the cots. Gentle but firm.
"So I do."
And so do you.
He knows what he's got ahead of him in the morning, and so Jopson is bullied in the middle again. Crozier will be up with or before him, having stuck it into his mind to do so, in need of getting ahead of weather patterns for certain observations. Ross can sleep in, and be poked awake at a respectable, but not brutal hour. As is his right as ranking officer.
If he could hold them both he would. Check heartbeats, and toes and fingertips. Somewhere forever warm and comfortable. But this will do and do well enough to be a luxury besides. He doesn't want to presume, but he doesn't want to let Jopson fold in on himself if he has the option to clutch him close, and so that's what he does. Rails between them, but the blankets laid overtop of the cots dampen it enough not to be a pain. He holds one of his steward's hands against his chest, tucked under thick layers of everything, warming it.
A knot tightens behind his ribs, knocking up against the beat of his heart. Ross' words, his hands, his smile. Crozier's quiet, his smile, his hand. He feels a little like he's under water, like he can't make sense of the hazy comfort wrapped up in tent flaps, fur, and canvas. A whirlwind, being urged to bed before his tasks are complete, before the night feels fully settled and right. A creature of routine, he doesn't always know what to do when he's pulled from it.
The warmth of Crozier's chest helps - his fingers flexing against the fabric of his night clothes. He blinks up at the man in the dark, searching for his eyes, his nose, his mouth. There's too much distance, but he doesn't want to leave the sleeping Ross, either. Better to stay close to both, isn't it?
That knot - annoying and pressing and real - makes him act selfishly. (Something he'll feel guilt over later). Pushing across the rails so he's taking more of the brunt of it, he presses into Crozier's space, the hand on his chest curling into the fabric of his clothes to hold him there just long enough that he can kiss him - chaste, but lingering, yearning.
"I agreed to this abduction with the understanding I'd be given a feather bed," he murmurs, a little sleepy and sweet. "I suppose this will do, sir."
He wants to kiss him again. Wants to hold his hands. Wants to press against his chest and curl into his warmth and disappear.
The kiss bewitches him. A fool you are, he tells himself. Of course a young, beautiful man has a dazzling effect. Folly of all old men, and not everyone is as blessed as Jamie, perpetually stunningly handsome, attracting so many admirers he's begun to hand them out to other people. Sophy wanted James and took the consolation offer; Jopson, hired by him in the first place.
He doesn't resent it. Life could be miserable, instead he doesn't have to be lonely.
(Except when he is.)
Go to sleep, he instructs himself, and then feigns ignorance by leaning forward to tangle closer to Jopson and kiss him again. He chases that taste of yearning, opens his mouth to it, gives what he can. Whatever he has left at the end of this long, cold day. They're going to nod off in minutes no matter what they do, so surely there's no harm in this.
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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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The vast, icy landscape, so different from the lands of England, from the sea. Its wide, clear skies and biting cold have served the naturalists and Crozier well it seems, so he's curious to see where this little stop takes them. He wonders what it is like adventuring in warmer climes with the man, and what he enjoys better when he travels. He's always wondered why so many of these men end up on ships instead of anywhere else.
Tipping his head up he measures the white peak with his eyes, imagining what it must be like standing at the foot of it, gazing up at the high point of it. He wishes, sometimes, he could capture it in a plate and take it back for his siblings to see. He cannot draw, for one, and does not own any sort of photographic equipment. His words will have to suffice for the enormity and vastness of this cold place.
"Does he have reason to think it's a volcano? I can't imagine something so hot existing in this cold."
A name. What would he name a volcano?
"Aether, perhaps. The very opposite of our ships. Though if I were to fall victim to the naming conventions of your fellow commanders we'd be pressed to call it Mount Ross, would we not, sir?"
A small smile. He may choose to tease Ross with this later - who's to say.
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Approval in his tone. It's not quite whimsy, but ethereal, and fits right in as a light veil over the darkness of Erebus and Terror. Crozier makes a sound after, implying a laugh.
"Great men and their achievements, or something to that effect, for all these great monuments of Earth." Crozier, of course, will attempt to decline any for himself. Let it be Terror, if anything. She deserves it. "But you and I can call her Mount Aether. Or perhaps our camp will have to bear such a name, fleeting as it is."
Camp Aether, a temporary place.
"It's the shape," about the probably-volcanic nature of the mountain. "Some mountains were made by ancient eruptions, and some by some other force, and they have a look about them— poured upwards from within, or crushed together in a force. We're supposed to dissuade thought of that second bit, the notion of things moving very slowly over millions of years, out of respect for divine provenance. I suppose it's insulting to God to say it took him more than seven days."
They've had the sort of sex which would see them hanged, a little life-ruining atheist humor can't be over the line for Jopson, can it? A man can hope.
"Through the glasses we've seen ice structures that could be made from thermal vents, as well. With any luck we'll be able to coax some decent rock out of the ice, do some testing, see how much is volcanic."
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Better to name the camp than the mountain itself, for when it does inevitably get named for Ross or someone on the expedition, he doesn't want to mistake it in front of those it may matter most to. So Camp Aether will be what they share in those quiet moments. Temporary, all of it - even the warmth of the two bodies round him at night. It's not impermanent, though. He'll remember these moments fondly.
He tilts his head to look at the mountain in a different way, but the Captain's words draw out a surprised snort. Uncharacteristic of him in many ways and he quickly rights himself, clearing his throat.
"I suppose God never imagined we'd find such a place," he muses, a little dry, but the hint of a smile on his voice. Godless men, surely. He'd believed once, when he was younger, but had no time to invest in his faith to any great degree, not when finding food and making a living meant survival over prayers.
"Men are impossibly stubborn, sir."
Pig-headed, really. Doggedly sure that everything out in the world is theirs for the taking.
"Will you show me the rock when the testing is done? I won't ask for the details of your tests of course, that is for you and the Admiralty, but I don't believe I've seen volcanic rock before. Not even drawings."
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Does God imagine anything at all? Illnesses, cruelty, small intimacies that never made it into the Bible?
Crozier doubts it.
"The makings of rocks are hardly state secrets," he tells him, half-turning to give him a small smile. "The crown wishes for the prestige of attaching its name to these works, is all. And of course we must oblige."
There's no discovery without the money to back it. The crown's as good as any; plenty of nations with fleets do no progressive work at all, and keep them only for war and pillage. Far worse options, about the globe, and none better. Which is as much an indictment of mankind as it is praise to Britain, but Francis would rather strip naked and leap in the water than speak of actual politics. Drowned by a ghost after all, or somesuch.
"I'll ask Mr Hooker to fish us up some dirt. We might be surprised early."
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Sure, the making of rocks might not be secrets, but that a Steward should ask and stick his nose in anything like this is presumptuous at best. And though Crozier opened the door to this curiosity early, he still feels every need to ask permission first and foremost, fearful that the moment he becomes comfortable and makes an assumption - he will fumble and make a mistake.
He forgets that so much of this world is familiar to the captains, that these small discoveries have lost their excitement and wonder. It is an honor to be on the coattails of it all the same.
"I'm certain whatever you uncover on this expedition will be something for the Crown to smile on," he nods his head, turning his gaze to Crozier's profile for a moment, then back out to the horizon.
"I should go assist with supper," he says finally, not truly wanting to part but knowing that the work must be done no matter the time or the desire. "By the time you and Captain Ross have done your rounds it should be ready. Will you take your meal in your tent, sir, or out with the rest of the men?"
Some kind of stew, no doubt - with hearty chunks of something the men caught earlier, judging by the excitement he'd heard in the distance.
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"Out with everyone, I think." The weather, while cold, is tolerable to sit in, and hot food will help with it. "Whether that's keeping the men on their toes or showing camaraderie is for each to decide."
Crozier has liked the company of some of his superiors, disliked others. He hopes to be liked or tolerated without resentment — especially after that spat of near-mutiny he and Ross endured a few years ago. He likes to think he's learned well about being seen as unreachable.
"And after, we will be at your mercy, of course."
Cheeky.
Away they go, then: Jopson to help with supper and Crozier to catch up with Ross and begin wrapping up for the evening, taking stock of what's been done and what more's left, what new tasks have made themselves known, and so on. The next few days prove to be busier ones than this, and so he's stern about chasing everyone away from working past reasonable hours. Save it for the coming days, he tells them.
They all sit on overturned crates or stools around the fire, not a perfect circle, little knots of people blobbing out this way and that, but collected to catch at least one side warmed. No one has seen any more foxes, but lots of penguins; Crozier laughs a bit to himself when one of the marines expresses the same opinion he has about them, in that he feels a bit bad. Not very sporting at all. But they taste alright.
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He eats last of everyone and sits off to one side, enjoying the stew but eating quickly. There's plenty to do before the captains retire to the tent for the night. Thankfully the ship's boy that's joined them will assist in the cleanup of it all.
He watches Crozier and Ross both by the fire, the way the light casts shadows over their faces as they talk among themselves. They look at home, cut against the background of a wild and vast winter landscape. Men that were made for the water, to have shipboards and waves beneath their feet and the sun at their brow. Handsome, both of them. Infuriatingly so.
By the time the captains finish, Jopson has slipped away to begin preparing their tent. He turns down the covers, lights up the lamp to give the impression of night, sets out their night clothes, begins to boil up something for their tea. He'll wrap the charred embers from the stove and use it to warm the foot of Crozier and Ross' cots if there's enough.
The men talk and sing and laugh outside - the conditions tough but their spirits tougher. Jopson contents himself to sit and watch the water, waiting for it to boil in the cold.
"It's colder tonight," he says when one walks in. "It's taking longer for the water to catch."
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"It's the way of things." Laughing a little. But no one would mind lukewarm tea, given the circumstances. Wrestling a bit with his scarf as he pulls it away. "I'm glad I was right in my measure of you, Mr Jopson, you're quite good at your trade."
Little details, attentiveness, that aren't strictly required. He notices. Time to remove himself from the canvas outer layer and uniform middle layer and perhaps even the rest of it. Only patches are crunchy with frost; it's not that cold, at least not for the South Pole, but the wind off the water makes it like knives. After a slightly wheezing laugh of thanks for helping him escape, he ends up sitting with one knee drawn up, checking his toes (they're fine), folded up like a child playing with his laces.
"You really do get on with Frank, don't you?" Warm eyes observe Jopson, curious and appreciative. "I'm glad. I hope it doesn't seem too strange that I am."
All entanglements that God frowns on are unique in their ways, but it can still be a shock, he knows.
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"It is my honor to serve you both, sir," he murmurs, an earnestness in his voice even if he appears distracted by the clothes. All look well enough except for his shirtsleeves and he fetches some fuller's earth for it almost immediately - a dab of the night's stew, maybe? Or lunch. It's hard to say.
His hands still, however, and he looks up at Ross, startled by the warmth in his gaze.
"It isn't strange. Or I certainly don't find it to be strange, sir. I admit I knew you were both more than fond of one another simply by way of guarding the door of the great cabin."
A small smile, and he turns back to the stain, scrubbing some of the earth into the dry fabric. "Discretion is the first and most important tenant of my work. I wish to make the Captain's life comfortable aboard the ship as much as he will let me. He is a good man. A kind man."
He cannot put to words the swelling, fond thing in his chest - not yet. But it's there in his voice all the same. "And he deserves as many as can be who care for him, no matter the shape of it."
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He sees why, of course. Front row seat for why.
"You're right about that," he agrees quietly.
Francis isn't here to brush all this off. James knows why, the abhorrent things he's been made to endure (tales he won't tell, far happier to share stories of heroism and cleverness), the things society has made them both do and contort themselves into. He does deserve it. They all do.
"Not so long ago it was illegal for Irish and English to marry." As he wriggles into pajamas while still mostly under the fur. "Further in the past women were traded like cattle. Imagine, in a hundred years, what beautiful enlightenments await humanity. I think about that, while doing this. 'Exploring.' We must go forward, Mr Jopson. In everything. I know we will. And I know— I know this sleeve hole is here, somewhere."
A brilliant mind and the most sought-after man in any military faction, stuck in a night shirt.
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"I admit I've never much had a taste for the politics of our Queen's land, sir," he murmurs, turning and seeing the man struggle. Poor thing, really. He sighs and approaches him, pressing fingers to his cheek first to still him, then moves to help find the sleeve and carefully manipulate it so Ross may find the arm hole.
"My captain is greater than most Englishmen I've met. Cares for his men. Cares for the wonder of the world and what it owes us. Makes his choices not for himself or for the glory of it, but for what is right, sir. That is what will lead us forward on, regardless of the exploration."
He reaches into the sleeve and guides Ross's hand through it, smoothing the fabric out before moving to do up the tie on the front of it, falling into muscle memory in a way that takes little mental energy.
"It is a shame that we must sail to far reaches to have a taste of what life could be like hundreds of years in our future. But I'm happy for it, regardless, sir. I'm lucky to have been given a spot on this expedition."
A hand smooths over the fabric, pressing fingers above the man's heart ever so briefly before he reaches to pull the fur around the man's shoulders with a small, pleasant smile.
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After, he reaches out and takes Jopson's face in his hands. Just to look at him, just to judge the sincerity of that smile, and offer one (a real one, truly) of his own.
Doesn't kiss him. Decides that's something he's only going to do with Frank around. For him, something like that. But it feels respectful of Thomas, too. My captain, in that tone of voice. He understands, and sees it clearly, even if the steward doesn't yet have a name for it.
"We're lucky."
In the end, he opts out of tea, and just lays down in a cocoon. Takes a while for Crozier to return — his voice is audible at one point, speaking to a lieutenant, the tone of speech and pace of footsteps businesslike but not urgent. They pass by, off to see to something, but do not yet come in. Ross is in some liminal dozing space, neither asleep nor awake, when the other captain finally shuffles inside.
No immediate greeting, for he notices the quiet in the tent, and then the sleeping lump in the cots. Eye contact with Jopson, silently inquisitive. All is well?
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He tucks one of his furs around Ross, pets his hair from his face, and slips back to some small, quiet tasks. There's a loose button, that pesky stain, Crozier's tea. He even takes the captain's clothes and folds them near the little stove so the night shirt has some residual warmth clinging to it when the man arrives.
And on cue -
A glance from him to Ross and Jopson's expression softens, a nod.
"Tired," he murmurs, quiet. "If we can afford it and can encourage him to stay sedentary for half a day I think it would do him some good. You as well, sir."
And he rises to help Crozier out of his coat for one, his hat, his scarf, the canvas. He presses the man's hands between his own palms, rubbing some warmth into them.
"Sit, get warm," he whispers. "I'll get your tea made up for you."
But not before setting out a fur for him on the arm of a chair, and turns to begin making his cuppa just as he likes it. He'll make one for himself later.
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But it was a long week. Nothing for it.
Jopson makes him smile. They have a comfortable routine by now, and they move easily around each other. His hands warm under the attention, and he feels it like a soporific; a luring thing, a siren song of giving up only half-undressed. No, no, forge ahead. Quick but not hurried, in companionable quiet.
Eventually, his voice very low—
"Get yours and sit with me a moment, will you?"
If he falls asleep before Jopson there'll be no end to trip hazards.
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"Of course, sir."
And he does as told - makes up a cup for himself, a little hurried and slapdash, but tea is tea. It will be a warm welcome after a day out in the bitter cold. The tent helps to some degree, of course, but it is the arctic. But soon enough he settles beside the man, unable to help fussing the way he pulls the fur up higher on the man's shoulders.
"Are you well, sir?"
He still feels the ghost of Ross' hands on his cheeks, the glimmer and warmth of his smile - we're lucky. It leaves so many questions and makes Crozier's usual quiet feel leaden with something he doesn't recognize or understand. He can't help but glance back at the man cocooned in furs and quilts. Remembers the feeling of his hair on his brow as he saw him carefully placed into his cot.
"I didn't put honey in your tea, but if you think it might help, I'm happy to remake it, Captain."
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Just sit with some tea. No conversation needed, no goal in mind. They have a few minutes while the tea's pleasantly warm, and Crozier will want to find unconsciousness as quickly as possible after, which means shuffling Jopson along with him. Might as well be complementary in their timing. He doesn't imagine anything as dire as Has no one ever simply wanted to sit with you?, but more thinks his steward is like a shark of diligence, perpetually in motion.
But there's no need, right this second. A more pressing need: just this. Companionable silence and knees knocking together. Chatting would risk waking up Jamie, so he doesn't bother whispering anything. When he's done, he gives Jopson a look—
Anything he can do to smooth things along, so they can all pass out? This is a different feeling than their introductory weeks, suspicious and reluctant to accept help. Reciprocal, instead.
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It makes him realize just how tired he is, too. Down to the bones, really. Perhaps not as much as his Captain, but it's there - the fatigue of many months finally catching up. He's nearly done with his tea when he catches the man's eye - and smiles warmly. A small shake of his head and he rises, taking the man's cup from him. He can wash it up properly in the morning. He quickly drinks down the dregs of his own so as not to waste it (and to taste the touch of honey he's come to enjoy in these moments).
He doesn't bother with layers like he had with the other two men - simply takes the time to undress. Never would he ask the man to help him - even when he was beaten and sore. When he shrugs his shirt of, the marks are dwindling, but a few look like they've taken, dry skin making the welt a semi-permanent discoloration. It will ease over time when the bruise wears off.
It's bitterly cold, though, and he pulls on a thick jumper instead of his nightshirt with his long drawers. Stupidly, though, he's gotten it twisted, fumbling with a sleeve himself much like Ross had.
"You can lie down, sir - I'll be there in a moment." Whispered, of course.
He has to turn the lamp out, set out their things for tomorrow, a laundry list of things. Well, once he can get the sweater twisted round correctly. It's soft against his skin, though - an old thing, worn in the elbows, the rich green of the color fading over years of wear.
"You need to rest."
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"So I do."
And so do you.
He knows what he's got ahead of him in the morning, and so Jopson is bullied in the middle again. Crozier will be up with or before him, having stuck it into his mind to do so, in need of getting ahead of weather patterns for certain observations. Ross can sleep in, and be poked awake at a respectable, but not brutal hour. As is his right as ranking officer.
If he could hold them both he would. Check heartbeats, and toes and fingertips. Somewhere forever warm and comfortable. But this will do and do well enough to be a luxury besides. He doesn't want to presume, but he doesn't want to let Jopson fold in on himself if he has the option to clutch him close, and so that's what he does. Rails between them, but the blankets laid overtop of the cots dampen it enough not to be a pain. He holds one of his steward's hands against his chest, tucked under thick layers of everything, warming it.
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The warmth of Crozier's chest helps - his fingers flexing against the fabric of his night clothes. He blinks up at the man in the dark, searching for his eyes, his nose, his mouth. There's too much distance, but he doesn't want to leave the sleeping Ross, either. Better to stay close to both, isn't it?
That knot - annoying and pressing and real - makes him act selfishly. (Something he'll feel guilt over later). Pushing across the rails so he's taking more of the brunt of it, he presses into Crozier's space, the hand on his chest curling into the fabric of his clothes to hold him there just long enough that he can kiss him - chaste, but lingering, yearning.
"I agreed to this abduction with the understanding I'd be given a feather bed," he murmurs, a little sleepy and sweet. "I suppose this will do, sir."
He wants to kiss him again. Wants to hold his hands. Wants to press against his chest and curl into his warmth and disappear.
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Odd texture and all.
The kiss bewitches him. A fool you are, he tells himself. Of course a young, beautiful man has a dazzling effect. Folly of all old men, and not everyone is as blessed as Jamie, perpetually stunningly handsome, attracting so many admirers he's begun to hand them out to other people. Sophy wanted James and took the consolation offer; Jopson, hired by him in the first place.
He doesn't resent it. Life could be miserable, instead he doesn't have to be lonely.
(Except when he is.)
Go to sleep, he instructs himself, and then feigns ignorance by leaning forward to tangle closer to Jopson and kiss him again. He chases that taste of yearning, opens his mouth to it, gives what he can. Whatever he has left at the end of this long, cold day. They're going to nod off in minutes no matter what they do, so surely there's no harm in this.
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u saw nothing
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