Wrenched away and shoved into the doctor's view, who gives him a once over and nods. Thomas knows putting his clothes back on will hurt more than the strap itself, but he pulls his shirt on as though it doesn't, then his coat. He glances back at Crozier, already announcing the next man's crimes, unsure of why he feels hot all over. (Thomas, please). When the whip comes out a terrible, dark thing akin to guilt and horror churns in his gut instead. The whip - the thing itself that Thomas lied for, to preserve Chambers a few moments of ship time without it. And here they are.
He will find the boy later - bring him something warm to help him sleep. He shouldn't, but it's what another seaman had done for him when he was lashed on the Racer. Small things go a long, long way.
The strikes turn brutal, the whole room tensing and turning acrid with the tang of blood and the uncomfortable coughs and huffs of men. It stops just before turning into something dizzying and the bloody man with twelve lashes is ushered off toward the doctor in far worse shape than he. The room is dismissed, the example made, and most of the men return quietly to their tables or to their hammocks to wind down for the evening as well as one can following such a show.
Thomas is no different. He straightens himself, turns to his own little hovel and splashes cold water in his face, smooths his hair into place, tries to cool some of the heat in his cheeks and throat. His back is murderously painful and it takes everything not to pour some of that cold water down the stinging heat of his spine. Instead he adjusts his jacket and slips back out.
The Captain's quarters need to be cleaned up from dinner, his bed made up for sleep, a nightcap, and night clothes prepared. While the Captain is out of sight he moves carefully, finding which ways he can bend and turn that won't send white-hot pain down his spine. It's only when he hears the scuff of boots and the groan of hinges that he straightens, tidying up the table, focused on the task.
"Your quarters are ready for you, Captain. I've just to remove these and pull the shades. Do you require a nightcap, sir? There's a decanter of water at your bedside all the same should you need it."
Work to do, still. In between becoming a sailor and becoming a captain he became a scientist, and still is; work on magnetism and heavenly objects remains a priority. Easy to get lost in, even if the distraction of Jopson's silent determination still sits at the edge of his mind like he's got a home there. Their naturalist sketches endlessly, and asks him a dozen questions about the rotation of the earth, watching as he draws out long equations to explain the spinning of the compass.
Nearly forgets dinner. Does forget to have any spirits, but that's fine. Lightheaded enough, he tells himself it's from the frustration of discipline, and not anything else.
(And it isn't, not anything. Something in particular.)
"Thank you, Jopson."
Everything is fine. He doesn't require a nightcap, just room to set down the box in his hands, a dozen rolled up papers and a jangle of magnetic odds and ends. Calibrating a dozen things through Fox's experiments.
"If you could clear up the table, and come back for the box—"
Not a lie, he does want him to put the box away. Eventually. It's just that, also in the box is a bowl, and while Jopson is clearing up the table, Crozier is setting something up in his cabin. Narrow, cramped, smaller than a servant's closet on land, it's nevertheless the roomiest berth on Terror, and he's become accustomed to moving about in it as if it were the queen's bedchamber. Now, when the steward returns, Crozier puts a hand on the door behind him to close it.
"A moment."
Maybe it will just be a moment. He's not being held captive in here. Crozier looks at him.
"Take your shirt off and sit," he indicates the chair from his desk, now in the middle of the slim clear space of the berth, "facing the wall." Straddling it, he means. "If you feel I'm overstepping, I'm putting my trust in you to find your voice, this time."
Clear up the table. Come back for the box. Thomas takes the order with ease, making certain the naturalist and others have their drinks topped off or take any food with them should they require it before he picks up properly. The table cleared and carefully wiped down and redressed, he steps back in to collect the box of items.
A moment.
All he wants is to return to his little cabin and lie on his stomach, let his back rest. He stills, watches Crozier shut the door behind him, and he wonders if he is once again going to be questioned, scolded. He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, his brow pinching, confused. A glance to the chair, the open berth, the door shut behind him. Heat rushes back into his blood, and he'll chalk it up to the pain and the way he's been moving around since the whipping tending to the Captain and the other science-minded of the crew.
"A Captain and Commander cannot overstep on his own ship. It is simply impossible," he says finally, not quite the same cheek as before but still all the befuddled wonder of a Steward well and fully turned upside down by one man.
"The good doctor has already seen to my back and says it should heal without issue."
A little sigh. He doesn't move to leave, or take the box, or do anything other than stand in the close company of the captain. "I warmed the foot of your bed with the remaining coals from the kitchen, it will go cold before too long, sir."
Part of him wonders if it will be some other punishment, or if the man simply wants to see his injuries, if he wants to see the old scars, if he - he doesn't know what he wants. A day of distance, all brought to this.
If he and Chambers really are pulling each other off in the alcoves, the boy's lucky. A much worse crime if they're discovered— on some other ship, anyway. So long as manners and dignity are maintained, here on this expedition, the gaze of authority politely shifts.
(He and Jamie would immediately expire from hypocrisy, anyhow.)
"Aye, God on the ship, the French say," in a tone that suggests he very much can overstep, but of course they both know that. It's a matter of a commanding officer being called up for it, something that Crozier would not be, actually, but is offering.
"I'll sit just there, then, thank you."
His arse can be warm while they proceed. Unless, of course, Jopson finds his voice.
The extremes of it all leave him a little dizzy. The cold professionalism of a ship’s Captain turned to the exasperated friendliness of days and days before. He blinks a little dumbly and finally relents.
“I’ll reheat it for you when you’re ready to retire, sir.”
But he’d been given a directive, hadn’t he? He steps further inside and begins to remove his clothes. They come off slowly, his face still carefully pulled into practiced resolve. His jacket comes first, then waistcoat, then shirt. It’s the shirt that finally gets a face out of him, and a low grunt of pain as it peels away from the angry, swollen skin. He takes the time to carefully fold his clothes over the back of a chair and moves to the Captain’s berth, sitting as instructed.
You don't have to act like you're headed to the gallows, he could say. Punishment's over.
But is it.
While Jopson does as was asked, Crozier follows suit halfway; just his shirtsleeves and the knit over it, he undoes his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. At least the air is warm in the cabin, between the two of them milling about and the bed warmer. He doesn't gasp or wince at the sight of his back— that would be precious of him, and he's just not that way. Pain is pain, as he said, and they just get on with it.
Crozier sits, then, so he's speaking to Jopson's back. Brief, potentially mysterious noises occur. A scrape of metal over wood, the rustle of fabric as he picks something up.
"What are your siblings' names?"
An uninspired question, but he hopes to distract Jopson from tense anticipation at least a hair, because he knows the shock of application will be almost painful: he places a wet, cold cloth over part of his back, shoulder to rib.
The noises behind him pique his interest, but make tension pinch at his shoulders in spite of the tight pain of his back. The question surprises him, brings him back to the desk - you’re the oldest.
“Three, sir. One brother and two sisters. Henry John, Sarah, Mar- ah.”
The cold cloth comes as a shock, makes the wounds sing alive with sharp, needling pain until the cool sets in. He jumps at the contact, but relaxes a little into the back of the chair. It feels good - better than the sad attempt he was going to make himself. Stranger still that it’s the captain himself tending his injuries.
“Just - just a moment before the next.”
An admission if ever there was one of the pain. Ten angry welts, built up on top of one another in a furious patchwork, all laid over the pale and pink scars from the Racer. Finally, a soft little sigh.
Contrasting visions in his head, for this commentary.
One: sitting with Ross in the parlor of the hotel in Hobart they plan to put them up in, And he says to me, the steward you sent into my service, with the eyes, stop laughing you demon, he says—
Two: far too indecent to commit to words.
Crozier rests his hand high on Jopson's shoulder while he waits for him to gather himself. Away from any visibly reddened flesh, as though he hadn't been watching with such rapt attention, as if his eyes hadn't followed him when he turned as close as a caress, and he knows the strap did not go so high. His gaze now travels down over his back, over the swollen, angry skin, and the raised pale tracks of old lashmarks. Not nearly as old as the scattered few he has, their positions odd on his back, reaching almost to his sides now, having been laid into him before he was fully grown. Not nearly this many. All but the coldest captains are weary of giving too many to children, no matter the seriousness of their infractions. And those were the only years that Francis was ever caught engaging with infractions.
He makes a low, thoughtful sound as he unfurls the next piece of cloth, and then he lays it opposite the first. A third down the middle will cover the bulk of it, but again he waits, again with a hand high on the slope of his shoulder. Letting the cold seep into the inflammation to soothe it.
No further questions. If Jopson wants to tell him — about his siblings, about the scars, about Chambers — he has space to. If not, quiet between them has always been easy.
The third goes on and he sinks his weight into the back of the chair, hangs his head as the cold cloth does wonders for his pain. So does the hand on his shoulder, high, nearly where he could slip fingers into his hairline, or around his nape. He has rough, sailors hands, and he commits the attention and touch to memory.
He sits quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, enjoying the companionable silence. It’s always easy company with Captain Crozier in a way he appreciates - words often difficult day in and out, and to save that energy for the crew he’s sure makes himself far more effective a Steward.
“He’s made of softer stuff, Chambers. I found the men drinking in their hammocks, telling ghost tales and childish stories. The young man was crying, likely worse due to the drink. Utterly fuddled with it, I think. But the men were keen to run him up, and I suppose I pitied him. I cried in my hammock for two weeks straight about a month at sea. Captain Byng wasn’t an easy man to serve and I worried for my family - he caught me one evening when he came to speak to one of the ship masters. I was blamed for the men’s rowdiness, though I didn’t partake in it. The path of least resistance at the time - I needed the position and the funds that it carried.”
The lashes, then. All while the older seamen watched with feigned solemnity. A cold crew in many ways, but work that Jopson enjoyed, and thrived within.
“I suppose I saw myself in Chambers. He seems younger than his years - I’d hoped to spare him a pain that may harden him against us. Presumptuous of me, I hardly know the boy and he’s gotten the whip anyway.”
He shifts his weight, foot knocking back against Crozier’s.
Good, that Jopson can't see him from this angle. (He'd have to turn his head, try to.) Because it's now that Crozier looks surprised, and how absurd, to have remained so stone-faced during the punishment only to be malleable now. To hear him speak so openly is rare, and so he listens.
A civilian being lashed doesn't bring the same camaraderie as it does between those enlisted. Always just a little apart. He imagines Jopson, lacking even the benefit of a sailor's training, and he thinks he understands. His own introduction to this life was so different— practically a child still, not trying to escape poverty but invisibility. He wanted to live. See something, anything, beyond the house, and the same green hills, and his mother forgetting if he was Hugh, Francis, or Graham. They were not wealthy, but it was a big house and well-kept, and no one went hungry. But it was still a shock. Another big house, floating, going from world to world, and failings ruthlessly judged and hammered into place.
Jopson's foot knocks his.
"I know."
It won't. His steward is too clever for that. He nudges his foot forward, a loop of contact, hand on his shoulders, toe to heel.
Another little while before he says anything. Mulling it over.
"Your empathy is a mark of honor, as a man. As a human at all. Far ahead of plenty. Maybe even most." His hand rubs over the base of the younger man's neck. He may still be buggering Chambers. Who knows. "Bad luck that this situation was a mess for all involved."
Crozier can't apologize for having punishments doled out. Not on the boy, not on Jopson. It simply isn't a realm, as a commanding officer, as the acting captain on the ship, he can afford to step into. Not even here in the privacy of his own cabin. Not even in his own mind. If he has the capacity to be sorry about it, he doesn't allow himself to acknowledge it. Any shake in confidence can lead to ruin, he knows damn well.
"Chambers may find solace in brotherhood after this," he muses. "And in that solace there is strength. If not, I wish for no man to be made permanently unwell over being unsuited for the work. I will speak to Ross about it, when we next winter on the island."
Jopson feels foolish for letting his mouth run, for exposing just how vulnerable the last two days have left him. It wouldn't be hard to serve a cruel Captain, to tend to war mongers and brutish politicians. It's the isolation that gets at him worst - losing the companionship of the man serves, trapped in his own thoughts. A dangerous cycle when there is nothing to mark the difference in days, weeks, months, than the passing of the sun overhead.
His shoulders relax under Crozier's hands, letting out a low, shaken sigh when one travels to the base of his neck. It's good the man can't see his face, or the way his eyes flutter closed, the way he soaks up the attention, warmth returning beneath his skin, a little life coming back into his eyes. But by the grace of God his back hurts.
"He handled himself well, I've no doubt they'll rally to him now."
The men will turn to the aid of most who have been lashed - not so openly where commanders and officers might see, but in small gestures. Jopson knows there will be little waiting for him. He's on a different step, and usually alone. For now, though, he has this - the Captain's care.
Quiet again, mind churning, thoughts bouncing around, the urge to say everything now he feels so terribly raw, but the stubborn care of a steward, not wishing to add to a burden that he's already done in. He'd like to ask about the naturalist, about the things Crozier's sky box of trinkets has revealed, or what they intend to look for next they have open, clear skies. That would mean admitting he eavesdrops, that he sometimes pauses when filling one of the naturalist's glasses to peer at the drawing he works on.
"I've kept you up, sir. My apologies."
He doesn't move yet. He knows doing so will hurt beyond measure, the cold cloths warmed now by his angry, inflamed skin.
Wounds heal. Broken bones mend strong. Scar tissue, like the kind on Jopson's back, earned for perceived weakness, is thicker than what was there before. The crew will knit closer, they will work better together; what is sacrificed is more space between command and them. But that's how it should be. A steward walks a high-wire strung between decks. Between the community of the crew, and the island of command. Crozier reckons he'll have a few more spotters, after this. Not enough to even out the number of those who are indifferent, or those who look at him with suspicion over his access to the officers and freedom from hard labor, but some.
A hammock on Racer, to his own berth on Terror. He must have done well, or at least not done offensively. Or perhaps Ross picked his name out of a hat.
However it happened, Francis is glad for it.
"Oh? You strong-armed me into this?" He thumbs a slope of muscle where neck joins shoulder. "Sneaky of you. Just sit for a while, Jopson."
Don't make me order you. (Don't make me forget that saying You looked beautiful, while it was happening would be madness.)
The hand stays, as though it alone can prevent any escape. Crozier leaves it until a gentle touch confirms the strips have all begun to match the temperature of Jopson's body, and then, carefully, he peels one off. Just one.
"Here—" a lean into view, as he stretches to take the pillow (so neatly tucked) from his bed. He hands it to Jopson before he rights himself. Not done yet. The one strip is replaced with another from the bowl, still freezing cold from the melted ice. He is careful about laying it down, and then swapping out the next, and the next.
"Not too long," the commander muses. "Or it'll go raw. But some minutes still, I think."
"Shall I tell you the steps I took to strong-arm you then, Captain?"
A weak joke, but he could make one of it. A map of his wrong doings that have otherwise made the Captain sit him down here, tend to his injuries. But the threat is there all the same - don't make me order you. He doesn't even have to say it. (Though part of him wishes he would).
The thumb skirting muscle has him sighing faintly, uncontrolled, the touch tender and so unfamiliar. The Captain's bare skin against his own - that's a tightrope he's wanted to walk for some time, but would never, ever put voice to it. The Captain has his own prospects, certainly, and yet he can't get the look of the man's eyes out of his mind. The hazel mixed with the coldness of a man giving punishment, the hazel burning enough that he could almost imagine the hand hitting him instead of the straps.
The pillow is a welcome surprise, one he takes with a near bashful dip of his head, using it to bolster himself against the back of the chair, sinking his head sideways upon it, arms tucked carefully underneath. It smells of him - sweat and musk and the rich spice he uses to freshen up the man's linens every so often.
He jumps a little with every new application, the cold cloths a shock at first, but relaxing again after the last one is placed.
"Thank you," he murmurs, quiet and with the air of fatigue on the end. Poor sleep last night, all the stress from the day, the lashing - if it weren't for the welts on his back he's sure he'd nod off quickly, and deeply.
"I'll gather a clean case for your pillow and a nightcap for you when we're through. But still some minutes, yes."
Crozier's hands are steady and careful; the contrast between how rough they look and feel, work-worn and strong, and the delicate precision he's capable of, writing long formal letters and calibrating intricate navigation devices, on tactile display. He's not as good at attending to another person as Jopson, so deft with his needlework, his grooming, the expert slip of fingers over his face for shaving (what an adjustment that's been, coaxed into it like a bear taking treats from a zookeeper) but he doesn't apologize. He thinks the younger man likes it anyway.
His touch lands here and there on Jopson's back, making sure the cloth is adhered. He presses a dry towel against the small of his back, wiping away freezing runoff that threatens the waistband of his trousers. He rubs his hands together, chasing the worst of the chill off, before placing them on the steward's biceps, then slides then up to the caps of his shoulders. Carefully rubs, thinks about where his own joints get the most sore through repetitive motion and anxious tension.
Thinks about how that pillowcase is going nowhere, actually.
"When we're through, you're going right to bed."
Good luck arguing.
"I won't have another boy in, I'll just leave any mess for you to sort in the morning. Maybe make one on purpose just to amuse you, since I know you look for extra things to put to rights. See if you can guess which disorderly pen arrangement was my absentmindedness and which I tipped over willfully."
The hands skate over his arms and shoulders and he can’t control the way the hair at his arms at the nape of his neck stand at end. His eyes flutter closed entirely, letting the man make work of his tense muscles. Particularly sore now after the lashings, the way he’d pressed his weight into his arms to keep from reacting, from showing the pain.
“And if I refuse? Will you carry me there yourself, Captain? At the very least allow me to make you a warm brew to help you rest.”
There’s a lazy, almost casual tone to his voice as the fatigue sets in, his accent a little thicker, voice a semitone deeper.
He’s not had anyone touch him like this in ages, not with such care. Admittedly there have been a few little flyaway moments with a deck hand or even a ships boy but not since Racer. Not since he met Captain Crozier, who haunts his dreams and makes miserable work for his own hand when he’s alone at night. Now he has this for reference. Hands rough from work at sea, a callus on the side of his right middle finger where the quill presses. He’s washed these hands, trimmed his nails, and so much more but to feel them like this?
He has to stop thinking about it - his blood has begun to turn a touch too warm and will betray him before too long.
He sits up a little, just enough to try and turn to look at the older man.
“Wait, Sorry. Do you often willfully make messes for me to chase after, sir?”
Not really a question; there's a lilt of implied teasing. On an edge, they are. Really, Jopson, going to refuse an order after being punished so harshly? But ah, here's his captain, comforting him after. A reward on the heels of a beating. He thinks of the way they'd been staring at each other. He wants to lay his hands on his back without any cold water or linen between his palms and the abused skin and feel the heat. He doesn't.
Eyebrows go up when Jopson looks at him. The picture of innocence.
(Just once, when he didn't have his longer coat on, to see him bend at the middle. Harmless.)
"You can make me hot water with juiced lemon," he says, instead of answering about messes, "if you have some too."
Sitting together here, sharing not-quite-tea. That sounds alright.
"But still. In some minutes."
Until the cloth pieces rise to his body temperature again. Crozier shifts one hand higher, fingers pressing into where tendons hold the head and neck together, and Jopson's dark hair.
The rush of warmth to his cheeks when he's praised for behaving well feels utterly obscene. He takes great pride in his work, in being the most diligent and thoughtful and organized, but this? Coming from Crozier himself? He thinks again of the way the strap felt on his back, and knowing now what the man's hands feel like on bare skin, imagine it to be that instead.
He should get up, make a fuss, leave. Draw the lines so he doesn't feel tempted to arch into the press of fingers at his neck, so he can dispel the heat from his face and the giddy beginnings of a racing heart sending that heat southerly.
The sigh that escapes him as the man's fingers press into tight muscle and slide into his hair is something he can't contain. With it comes a rounding of his shoulders, a drop of his head, his body relaxing into the pillow he's putting much of his weight into now.
"Mm. Hot water with juiced lemon. Perhaps some ginger as well?"
Things he uses sparingly, but a treat when the time comes. This feels like one such moment. Another sigh, his body relaxing fully into the chair.
A heady thing, to know how much Jopson will endure. How much he was willing to endure, having already experienced a real, proper lashing, if Crozier found it necessary. Would he have stayed so silent, held his gaze so diligently, if it had been the whip? ... No, he doesn't actually want to know the answer to that. He has no taste for blood, and he hopes Jopson is right: he hopes it doesn't happen again.
If they are ever to revisit this scenario, he would prefer it to be with Jopson over his knees, as—
Mm, well, some propriety should be observed. He hadn't told his steward to lie down on the bed for a reason. Let his thoughts run off with that one after Jopson's tucked away into his own berth, no witnesses except whatever powers observe minds from the heavens. (So: none.)
"If you sit until I'm satisfied with the color back here."
He rubs small circles with his thumb, close to behind Jopson's ear. Encroaching past what's an actual massage, he's transparently just touching him now. But he can see his steward melt, see the faint blush on his cheekbones.
What else is he to say to his Captain? To sit in this chair for the remainder of their journey would be nothing short of an honor if it's what the Captain ordered. Just as he would haven taken the whip or worse should Crozier have commanded it. Some might think it restrictive, the way he devotes his every moment to the man behind him and this ship, but he's chosen it. One of the few things he can choose about this life. The job is a necessity, but this - he'd happily sail another decade in the bitter cold of unknown worlds if he was asked.
The nature of the massage changes but the outcome is very much the same - a quiet hum of approval as that strong, deliberate hand works its way up. He tilts his head into the touch subtly, encouraging more pressure, welcoming in. What would it feel like if the Captain grabbed him now, fingers twisted in his hair or around the nape of his neck?
For the love of the Holy Ghost itself he has to stop thinking of that just now.
"I'm like to fall asleep here Captain if you keep at it," quiet, a little teasing in as much as he can considering the low and sleepy timbre of this words. "My eyes may be too heavy to be trusted with a kettle boil before too long."
Hardly true. He could perform his duties in his sleep if he had to - and he would.
Pushing at the boundaries. One hand at Jopson's bare shoulder still, the other continues on, up onto the curve of his skull, fingers spread out in his hair. Nearly petting him. He imagines getting a grip on it, and gently but firmly pulling him off the chair onto the floor. Would he give him the same look, wide-eyed and adoring?
"So this is what it takes to get my way with you."
Arguing and stubbornness hadn't worked. Shutting the door in his face hadn't worked. No matter how he tried, polite, then with increasing bluntness, his steward remained steadfast in his determination to do his job to its fullest. No half measures, no resigning himself to busywork and laundry and leaving Crozier to his own tidiness. It turns out Jopson is the quiet but relentless river and Crozier, bloody stone that he is, became worn down under the rushing of it.
Until now, and lo and behold, his first assertion — you're going right to bed — may come true after all.
"Mm, it is an excellent persuader, Captain," he mumbles against his forearm, splayed out in the chair with nowhere else to go. But does he mean the hand in his hair? The hand on his shoulder? The lashes? Difficult to tell, but Crozier could ask for anything and he would see to it that he received it. The temptation to lean back into the press of fingers and palm, to stretch across the man's lap, to sit at his feet and put his head against one thigh -
The strips of cloth on his back have gone warm, it's easy to tell, but he says nothing, only lets out a long, slow sigh. The hand in his hair will be the stuff of his late nights and dreams now, no doubt. Soon he'll be made to get up, he's sure of it. Make the hot water with lemon and ginger, serve it in a pristine and expensive china cup. Funny the things they do when out at sea, where money means little against the waves.
He fights it, the heavy pull of relaxation and sleep, but not all men can wage war against their own bodies. His is worn thin, adrenaline used up and drained. He mumbles something, though it's near unintelligible for the way fatigue pulls at him. Sounds something like you'll always have your way with me captain, all mush-mouthed and muffled into a pillow, lulled by gentle hands and gentler care. He goes quiet shortly after, his breathing beginning to slow and even out, the man nodding off, face and arms nestled together against the pillow while Crozier's hand sifts into his hair.
No surprise. Stress steals energy even more than labor, and adding onto it pain, it's a wonder Jopson made it to this hour at all. No doubt the others who were punished are fast asleep in their hammocks, or desperately wishing they were while in sickbay instead. Crozier keeps pace for a while, gently petting him, though he knows he won't ever reach a point where he's had his fill. Best to stop and begin to tidy up, and eventually, carefully coax the young man into bed.
He's got experience with this. A packed house with a dozen siblings, and then decades of living in cramped quarters, and a highly illegal affair with his fellow officer. With any luck, Jopson will experience the transition as a barely-there dream, and Francis will be able to lull him back to sleep once he's laid down. The sheet he drapes over him is soft (laundered by Jopson himself), and he's slow and careful about the blankets, which he knows may cause discomfort with their weight, but it'll be too devastatingly cold without them.
And now here he is, a captain with his berth occupied.
He could just sleep on the floor, but he's too far on the lapsed side of things to engage in self-flagellation. There's an empty bed in a private room, and so goes there, simple as.
(Early up, he only catches Dr Robertson in transition — All's well — Aye — The embarrassment got him more than the strap I think — Nothing serious on the rest — and is perfectly capable of looking after himself to get ready for the day.)
First bell. He closes the door behind him, not pointedly loud, but not timidly, either. That's enough of a lie-in, any longer and the schedule will threaten to run together, and also he thinks Jopson might work himself into an episode.
"Lad." Near the bed. He leans with an arm on the ledge above, his other hand gently touching his steward's shoulder. "Up with ye."
It’s true that the transition from the chair to the bed is one he won’t remember. Likely for the best, considering the sleepy way he’d all but leaned his head into Crozier’s shoulder as he stood up and attempted to get into the bed. But once down, he fell quickly back into an easeful sleep.
He sleeps deeply, and by the time Crozier leans over him he’s not much moved since he was put down the night before. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep, Jopson sleeps soundly, unaware of the door and the ship coming to life above decks. The touch and the voice feel like a dream, like something he wants to lean into like he had the night before, except -
The night before. It isn’t night. There’s light, there’s sound, the smell of coals and fired wood. A knee jerk reaction he startles awake, sitting up with such a fury that he forgets the lashes altogether. At least until the pain of his sore, tightened flesh. It takes the breath out of him, dried out over the night from the cool air, but still fresh and raw. He winces, face wrenched up in pain.
“Captain,” quickly, panicked, a little breathless. “My apologies. I - I’ve never -“
Then and only then he realizes he’s not in his own berth. That the bed he’s in smells of rich spice, sweat, sea spray. He knows these quarters as well as his own- and he scrambles up out of the bed, hissing again at the pain burning down his back.
“I’ll make your tea immediately,” he scrubs at his face, starts looking for his shirt and jacket. Yesterday’s clothes. How unseemly. “Terribly sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
Captain voice. Probably startling, given the circumstances, but he wants to halt the potential spiral immediately. Once he's sure Jopson has settled and is looking at him—
"I made the choice to leave you be and I'm satisfied with it. The matter is closed. Proceeding with the day, you're to see the Doctor first thing for a salve of arnica on your back, and then be about your regular work."
That's that. His expression and tone clearly convey there will be no arguing, no fussing, or else he is going to be unhappy. Helpfully, however, he has already found Jopson's clothes for him, and he holds up the first discarded layer.
"You'll have to rate my performance," he says, as soon as he's managed to convince his steward to accept the aid into his shirtsleeves, which no doubt feels awful. And he will stand there like he's cornered a badger until Jopson cooperates, so. Pick your battles, kiddo.
One more thing, before he leaves. But he's going to see him dressed first, so that he can depart at once if it lands poorly.
Crozier halts him with the ease and confidence of a Captain. One syllable and he’s frozen in place, wide eyes blinking up to him for a moment before his body relaxes, before he takes a careful and proper stance to show his respect and attention.
And gentler, in a far more collected (albeit a little sheepish) tone: “My apologies. I’ve my wits about me now, sir.”
The shirtsleeves break some of that resolve - face twisting at the pain and discomfort of dry and tight injuries alighting down his back as he slips into them with assistance. It has to be far better than those who suffered the straps or whips alongside him - he’s had excellent care. That he’s being aided again by the Captain is something else altogether to worry about. Another burden on the man’s shoulders, even if this one seems to be taken by choice.
“Fortunately you do not seem to be a strangers to shirtsleeves, sir. Your skill is not lost in its disuse.”
A meager attempt at good humors as he smooths the front, carefully tucks it into his wrinkled trousers. What a mess he looks. Waistcoat next, then jacket, each layer bringing with it a new and special sort of pain. The knowledge he’ll have to take all the layers off again to be seen by the doctor is harrowing, but an order is an order.
“Thank you, sir.” Quiet, but grateful - the light back in his eyes. For helping, for caring, for all of it.
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He will find the boy later - bring him something warm to help him sleep. He shouldn't, but it's what another seaman had done for him when he was lashed on the Racer. Small things go a long, long way.
The strikes turn brutal, the whole room tensing and turning acrid with the tang of blood and the uncomfortable coughs and huffs of men. It stops just before turning into something dizzying and the bloody man with twelve lashes is ushered off toward the doctor in far worse shape than he. The room is dismissed, the example made, and most of the men return quietly to their tables or to their hammocks to wind down for the evening as well as one can following such a show.
Thomas is no different. He straightens himself, turns to his own little hovel and splashes cold water in his face, smooths his hair into place, tries to cool some of the heat in his cheeks and throat. His back is murderously painful and it takes everything not to pour some of that cold water down the stinging heat of his spine. Instead he adjusts his jacket and slips back out.
The Captain's quarters need to be cleaned up from dinner, his bed made up for sleep, a nightcap, and night clothes prepared. While the Captain is out of sight he moves carefully, finding which ways he can bend and turn that won't send white-hot pain down his spine. It's only when he hears the scuff of boots and the groan of hinges that he straightens, tidying up the table, focused on the task.
"Your quarters are ready for you, Captain. I've just to remove these and pull the shades. Do you require a nightcap, sir? There's a decanter of water at your bedside all the same should you need it."
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Nearly forgets dinner. Does forget to have any spirits, but that's fine. Lightheaded enough, he tells himself it's from the frustration of discipline, and not anything else.
(And it isn't, not anything. Something in particular.)
"Thank you, Jopson."
Everything is fine. He doesn't require a nightcap, just room to set down the box in his hands, a dozen rolled up papers and a jangle of magnetic odds and ends. Calibrating a dozen things through Fox's experiments.
"If you could clear up the table, and come back for the box—"
Not a lie, he does want him to put the box away. Eventually. It's just that, also in the box is a bowl, and while Jopson is clearing up the table, Crozier is setting something up in his cabin. Narrow, cramped, smaller than a servant's closet on land, it's nevertheless the roomiest berth on Terror, and he's become accustomed to moving about in it as if it were the queen's bedchamber. Now, when the steward returns, Crozier puts a hand on the door behind him to close it.
"A moment."
Maybe it will just be a moment. He's not being held captive in here. Crozier looks at him.
"Take your shirt off and sit," he indicates the chair from his desk, now in the middle of the slim clear space of the berth, "facing the wall." Straddling it, he means. "If you feel I'm overstepping, I'm putting my trust in you to find your voice, this time."
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A moment.
All he wants is to return to his little cabin and lie on his stomach, let his back rest. He stills, watches Crozier shut the door behind him, and he wonders if he is once again going to be questioned, scolded. He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, his brow pinching, confused. A glance to the chair, the open berth, the door shut behind him. Heat rushes back into his blood, and he'll chalk it up to the pain and the way he's been moving around since the whipping tending to the Captain and the other science-minded of the crew.
"A Captain and Commander cannot overstep on his own ship. It is simply impossible," he says finally, not quite the same cheek as before but still all the befuddled wonder of a Steward well and fully turned upside down by one man.
"The good doctor has already seen to my back and says it should heal without issue."
A little sigh. He doesn't move to leave, or take the box, or do anything other than stand in the close company of the captain. "I warmed the foot of your bed with the remaining coals from the kitchen, it will go cold before too long, sir."
Part of him wonders if it will be some other punishment, or if the man simply wants to see his injuries, if he wants to see the old scars, if he - he doesn't know what he wants. A day of distance, all brought to this.
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(He and Jamie would immediately expire from hypocrisy, anyhow.)
"Aye, God on the ship, the French say," in a tone that suggests he very much can overstep, but of course they both know that. It's a matter of a commanding officer being called up for it, something that Crozier would not be, actually, but is offering.
"I'll sit just there, then, thank you."
His arse can be warm while they proceed. Unless, of course, Jopson finds his voice.
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“I’ll reheat it for you when you’re ready to retire, sir.”
But he’d been given a directive, hadn’t he? He steps further inside and begins to remove his clothes. They come off slowly, his face still carefully pulled into practiced resolve. His jacket comes first, then waistcoat, then shirt. It’s the shirt that finally gets a face out of him, and a low grunt of pain as it peels away from the angry, swollen skin. He takes the time to carefully fold his clothes over the back of a chair and moves to the Captain’s berth, sitting as instructed.
“Is this how you’d like me seated, sir?”
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You don't have to act like you're headed to the gallows, he could say. Punishment's over.
But is it.
While Jopson does as was asked, Crozier follows suit halfway; just his shirtsleeves and the knit over it, he undoes his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. At least the air is warm in the cabin, between the two of them milling about and the bed warmer. He doesn't gasp or wince at the sight of his back— that would be precious of him, and he's just not that way. Pain is pain, as he said, and they just get on with it.
Crozier sits, then, so he's speaking to Jopson's back. Brief, potentially mysterious noises occur. A scrape of metal over wood, the rustle of fabric as he picks something up.
"What are your siblings' names?"
An uninspired question, but he hopes to distract Jopson from tense anticipation at least a hair, because he knows the shock of application will be almost painful: he places a wet, cold cloth over part of his back, shoulder to rib.
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“Three, sir. One brother and two sisters. Henry John, Sarah, Mar- ah.”
The cold cloth comes as a shock, makes the wounds sing alive with sharp, needling pain until the cool sets in. He jumps at the contact, but relaxes a little into the back of the chair. It feels good - better than the sad attempt he was going to make himself. Stranger still that it’s the captain himself tending his injuries.
“Just - just a moment before the next.”
An admission if ever there was one of the pain. Ten angry welts, built up on top of one another in a furious patchwork, all laid over the pale and pink scars from the Racer. Finally, a soft little sigh.
“I can take another.”
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One: sitting with Ross in the parlor of the hotel in Hobart they plan to put them up in, And he says to me, the steward you sent into my service, with the eyes, stop laughing you demon, he says—
Two: far too indecent to commit to words.
Crozier rests his hand high on Jopson's shoulder while he waits for him to gather himself. Away from any visibly reddened flesh, as though he hadn't been watching with such rapt attention, as if his eyes hadn't followed him when he turned as close as a caress, and he knows the strap did not go so high. His gaze now travels down over his back, over the swollen, angry skin, and the raised pale tracks of old lashmarks. Not nearly as old as the scattered few he has, their positions odd on his back, reaching almost to his sides now, having been laid into him before he was fully grown. Not nearly this many. All but the coldest captains are weary of giving too many to children, no matter the seriousness of their infractions. And those were the only years that Francis was ever caught engaging with infractions.
He makes a low, thoughtful sound as he unfurls the next piece of cloth, and then he lays it opposite the first. A third down the middle will cover the bulk of it, but again he waits, again with a hand high on the slope of his shoulder. Letting the cold seep into the inflammation to soothe it.
No further questions. If Jopson wants to tell him — about his siblings, about the scars, about Chambers — he has space to. If not, quiet between them has always been easy.
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He sits quietly for a few minutes, eyes closed, enjoying the companionable silence. It’s always easy company with Captain Crozier in a way he appreciates - words often difficult day in and out, and to save that energy for the crew he’s sure makes himself far more effective a Steward.
“He’s made of softer stuff, Chambers. I found the men drinking in their hammocks, telling ghost tales and childish stories. The young man was crying, likely worse due to the drink. Utterly fuddled with it, I think. But the men were keen to run him up, and I suppose I pitied him. I cried in my hammock for two weeks straight about a month at sea. Captain Byng wasn’t an easy man to serve and I worried for my family - he caught me one evening when he came to speak to one of the ship masters. I was blamed for the men’s rowdiness, though I didn’t partake in it. The path of least resistance at the time - I needed the position and the funds that it carried.”
The lashes, then. All while the older seamen watched with feigned solemnity. A cold crew in many ways, but work that Jopson enjoyed, and thrived within.
“I suppose I saw myself in Chambers. He seems younger than his years - I’d hoped to spare him a pain that may harden him against us. Presumptuous of me, I hardly
know the boy and he’s gotten the whip anyway.”
He shifts his weight, foot knocking back against Crozier’s.
“It won’t happen again, sir.”
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A civilian being lashed doesn't bring the same camaraderie as it does between those enlisted. Always just a little apart. He imagines Jopson, lacking even the benefit of a sailor's training, and he thinks he understands. His own introduction to this life was so different— practically a child still, not trying to escape poverty but invisibility. He wanted to live. See something, anything, beyond the house, and the same green hills, and his mother forgetting if he was Hugh, Francis, or Graham. They were not wealthy, but it was a big house and well-kept, and no one went hungry. But it was still a shock. Another big house, floating, going from world to world, and failings ruthlessly judged and hammered into place.
Jopson's foot knocks his.
"I know."
It won't. His steward is too clever for that. He nudges his foot forward, a loop of contact, hand on his shoulders, toe to heel.
Another little while before he says anything. Mulling it over.
"Your empathy is a mark of honor, as a man. As a human at all. Far ahead of plenty. Maybe even most." His hand rubs over the base of the younger man's neck. He may still be buggering Chambers. Who knows. "Bad luck that this situation was a mess for all involved."
Crozier can't apologize for having punishments doled out. Not on the boy, not on Jopson. It simply isn't a realm, as a commanding officer, as the acting captain on the ship, he can afford to step into. Not even here in the privacy of his own cabin. Not even in his own mind. If he has the capacity to be sorry about it, he doesn't allow himself to acknowledge it. Any shake in confidence can lead to ruin, he knows damn well.
"Chambers may find solace in brotherhood after this," he muses. "And in that solace there is strength. If not, I wish for no man to be made permanently unwell over being unsuited for the work. I will speak to Ross about it, when we next winter on the island."
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His shoulders relax under Crozier's hands, letting out a low, shaken sigh when one travels to the base of his neck. It's good the man can't see his face, or the way his eyes flutter closed, the way he soaks up the attention, warmth returning beneath his skin, a little life coming back into his eyes. But by the grace of God his back hurts.
"He handled himself well, I've no doubt they'll rally to him now."
The men will turn to the aid of most who have been lashed - not so openly where commanders and officers might see, but in small gestures. Jopson knows there will be little waiting for him. He's on a different step, and usually alone. For now, though, he has this - the Captain's care.
Quiet again, mind churning, thoughts bouncing around, the urge to say everything now he feels so terribly raw, but the stubborn care of a steward, not wishing to add to a burden that he's already done in. He'd like to ask about the naturalist, about the things Crozier's sky box of trinkets has revealed, or what they intend to look for next they have open, clear skies. That would mean admitting he eavesdrops, that he sometimes pauses when filling one of the naturalist's glasses to peer at the drawing he works on.
"I've kept you up, sir. My apologies."
He doesn't move yet. He knows doing so will hurt beyond measure, the cold cloths warmed now by his angry, inflamed skin.
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A hammock on Racer, to his own berth on Terror. He must have done well, or at least not done offensively. Or perhaps Ross picked his name out of a hat.
However it happened, Francis is glad for it.
"Oh? You strong-armed me into this?" He thumbs a slope of muscle where neck joins shoulder. "Sneaky of you. Just sit for a while, Jopson."
Don't make me order you. (Don't make me forget that saying You looked beautiful, while it was happening would be madness.)
The hand stays, as though it alone can prevent any escape. Crozier leaves it until a gentle touch confirms the strips have all begun to match the temperature of Jopson's body, and then, carefully, he peels one off. Just one.
"Here—" a lean into view, as he stretches to take the pillow (so neatly tucked) from his bed. He hands it to Jopson before he rights himself. Not done yet. The one strip is replaced with another from the bowl, still freezing cold from the melted ice. He is careful about laying it down, and then swapping out the next, and the next.
"Not too long," the commander muses. "Or it'll go raw. But some minutes still, I think."
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A weak joke, but he could make one of it. A map of his wrong doings that have otherwise made the Captain sit him down here, tend to his injuries. But the threat is there all the same - don't make me order you. He doesn't even have to say it. (Though part of him wishes he would).
The thumb skirting muscle has him sighing faintly, uncontrolled, the touch tender and so unfamiliar. The Captain's bare skin against his own - that's a tightrope he's wanted to walk for some time, but would never, ever put voice to it. The Captain has his own prospects, certainly, and yet he can't get the look of the man's eyes out of his mind. The hazel mixed with the coldness of a man giving punishment, the hazel burning enough that he could almost imagine the hand hitting him instead of the straps.
The pillow is a welcome surprise, one he takes with a near bashful dip of his head, using it to bolster himself against the back of the chair, sinking his head sideways upon it, arms tucked carefully underneath. It smells of him - sweat and musk and the rich spice he uses to freshen up the man's linens every so often.
He jumps a little with every new application, the cold cloths a shock at first, but relaxing again after the last one is placed.
"Thank you," he murmurs, quiet and with the air of fatigue on the end. Poor sleep last night, all the stress from the day, the lashing - if it weren't for the welts on his back he's sure he'd nod off quickly, and deeply.
"I'll gather a clean case for your pillow and a nightcap for you when we're through. But still some minutes, yes."
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His touch lands here and there on Jopson's back, making sure the cloth is adhered. He presses a dry towel against the small of his back, wiping away freezing runoff that threatens the waistband of his trousers. He rubs his hands together, chasing the worst of the chill off, before placing them on the steward's biceps, then slides then up to the caps of his shoulders. Carefully rubs, thinks about where his own joints get the most sore through repetitive motion and anxious tension.
Thinks about how that pillowcase is going nowhere, actually.
"When we're through, you're going right to bed."
Good luck arguing.
"I won't have another boy in, I'll just leave any mess for you to sort in the morning. Maybe make one on purpose just to amuse you, since I know you look for extra things to put to rights. See if you can guess which disorderly pen arrangement was my absentmindedness and which I tipped over willfully."
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“And if I refuse? Will you carry me there yourself, Captain? At the very least allow me to make you a warm brew to help you rest.”
There’s a lazy, almost casual tone to his voice as the fatigue sets in, his accent a little thicker, voice a semitone deeper.
He’s not had anyone touch him like this in ages, not with such care. Admittedly there have been a few little flyaway moments with a deck hand or even a ships boy but not since Racer. Not since he met Captain Crozier, who haunts his dreams and makes miserable work for his own hand when he’s alone at night. Now he has this for reference. Hands rough from work at sea, a callus on the side of his right middle finger where the quill presses. He’s washed these hands, trimmed his nails, and so much more but to feel them like this?
He has to stop thinking about it - his blood has begun to turn a touch too warm and will betray him before too long.
He sits up a little, just enough to try and turn to look at the older man.
“Wait, Sorry. Do you often willfully make messes for me to chase after, sir?”
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Not really a question; there's a lilt of implied teasing. On an edge, they are. Really, Jopson, going to refuse an order after being punished so harshly? But ah, here's his captain, comforting him after. A reward on the heels of a beating. He thinks of the way they'd been staring at each other. He wants to lay his hands on his back without any cold water or linen between his palms and the abused skin and feel the heat. He doesn't.
Eyebrows go up when Jopson looks at him. The picture of innocence.
(Just once, when he didn't have his longer coat on, to see him bend at the middle. Harmless.)
"You can make me hot water with juiced lemon," he says, instead of answering about messes, "if you have some too."
Sitting together here, sharing not-quite-tea. That sounds alright.
"But still. In some minutes."
Until the cloth pieces rise to his body temperature again. Crozier shifts one hand higher, fingers pressing into where tendons hold the head and neck together, and Jopson's dark hair.
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He should get up, make a fuss, leave. Draw the lines so he doesn't feel tempted to arch into the press of fingers at his neck, so he can dispel the heat from his face and the giddy beginnings of a racing heart sending that heat southerly.
The sigh that escapes him as the man's fingers press into tight muscle and slide into his hair is something he can't contain. With it comes a rounding of his shoulders, a drop of his head, his body relaxing into the pillow he's putting much of his weight into now.
"Mm. Hot water with juiced lemon. Perhaps some ginger as well?"
Things he uses sparingly, but a treat when the time comes. This feels like one such moment. Another sigh, his body relaxing fully into the chair.
"I'll make enough for the both of us."
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If they are ever to revisit this scenario, he would prefer it to be with Jopson over his knees, as—
Mm, well, some propriety should be observed. He hadn't told his steward to lie down on the bed for a reason. Let his thoughts run off with that one after Jopson's tucked away into his own berth, no witnesses except whatever powers observe minds from the heavens. (So: none.)
"If you sit until I'm satisfied with the color back here."
He rubs small circles with his thumb, close to behind Jopson's ear. Encroaching past what's an actual massage, he's transparently just touching him now. But he can see his steward melt, see the faint blush on his cheekbones.
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What else is he to say to his Captain? To sit in this chair for the remainder of their journey would be nothing short of an honor if it's what the Captain ordered. Just as he would haven taken the whip or worse should Crozier have commanded it. Some might think it restrictive, the way he devotes his every moment to the man behind him and this ship, but he's chosen it. One of the few things he can choose about this life. The job is a necessity, but this - he'd happily sail another decade in the bitter cold of unknown worlds if he was asked.
The nature of the massage changes but the outcome is very much the same - a quiet hum of approval as that strong, deliberate hand works its way up. He tilts his head into the touch subtly, encouraging more pressure, welcoming in. What would it feel like if the Captain grabbed him now, fingers twisted in his hair or around the nape of his neck?
For the love of the Holy Ghost itself he has to stop thinking of that just now.
"I'm like to fall asleep here Captain if you keep at it," quiet, a little teasing in as much as he can considering the low and sleepy timbre of this words. "My eyes may be too heavy to be trusted with a kettle boil before too long."
Hardly true. He could perform his duties in his sleep if he had to - and he would.
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"So this is what it takes to get my way with you."
Arguing and stubbornness hadn't worked. Shutting the door in his face hadn't worked. No matter how he tried, polite, then with increasing bluntness, his steward remained steadfast in his determination to do his job to its fullest. No half measures, no resigning himself to busywork and laundry and leaving Crozier to his own tidiness. It turns out Jopson is the quiet but relentless river and Crozier, bloody stone that he is, became worn down under the rushing of it.
Until now, and lo and behold, his first assertion — you're going right to bed — may come true after all.
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The strips of cloth on his back have gone warm, it's easy to tell, but he says nothing, only lets out a long, slow sigh. The hand in his hair will be the stuff of his late nights and dreams now, no doubt. Soon he'll be made to get up, he's sure of it. Make the hot water with lemon and ginger, serve it in a pristine and expensive china cup. Funny the things they do when out at sea, where money means little against the waves.
He fights it, the heavy pull of relaxation and sleep, but not all men can wage war against their own bodies. His is worn thin, adrenaline used up and drained. He mumbles something, though it's near unintelligible for the way fatigue pulls at him. Sounds something like you'll always have your way with me captain, all mush-mouthed and muffled into a pillow, lulled by gentle hands and gentler care. He goes quiet shortly after, his breathing beginning to slow and even out, the man nodding off, face and arms nestled together against the pillow while Crozier's hand sifts into his hair.
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No surprise. Stress steals energy even more than labor, and adding onto it pain, it's a wonder Jopson made it to this hour at all. No doubt the others who were punished are fast asleep in their hammocks, or desperately wishing they were while in sickbay instead. Crozier keeps pace for a while, gently petting him, though he knows he won't ever reach a point where he's had his fill. Best to stop and begin to tidy up, and eventually, carefully coax the young man into bed.
He's got experience with this. A packed house with a dozen siblings, and then decades of living in cramped quarters, and a highly illegal affair with his fellow officer. With any luck, Jopson will experience the transition as a barely-there dream, and Francis will be able to lull him back to sleep once he's laid down. The sheet he drapes over him is soft (laundered by Jopson himself), and he's slow and careful about the blankets, which he knows may cause discomfort with their weight, but it'll be too devastatingly cold without them.
And now here he is, a captain with his berth occupied.
He could just sleep on the floor, but he's too far on the lapsed side of things to engage in self-flagellation. There's an empty bed in a private room, and so goes there, simple as.
(Early up, he only catches Dr Robertson in transition — All's well — Aye — The embarrassment got him more than the strap I think — Nothing serious on the rest — and is perfectly capable of looking after himself to get ready for the day.)
First bell. He closes the door behind him, not pointedly loud, but not timidly, either. That's enough of a lie-in, any longer and the schedule will threaten to run together, and also he thinks Jopson might work himself into an episode.
"Lad." Near the bed. He leans with an arm on the ledge above, his other hand gently touching his steward's shoulder. "Up with ye."
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He sleeps deeply, and by the time Crozier leans over him he’s not much moved since he was put down the night before. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep, Jopson sleeps soundly, unaware of the door and the ship coming to life above decks. The touch and the voice feel like a dream, like something he wants to lean into like he had the night before, except -
The night before. It isn’t night. There’s light, there’s sound, the smell of coals and fired wood. A knee jerk reaction he startles awake, sitting up with such a fury that he forgets the lashes altogether. At least until the pain of his sore, tightened flesh. It takes the breath out of him, dried out over the night from the cool air, but still fresh and raw. He winces, face wrenched up in pain.
“Captain,” quickly, panicked, a little breathless. “My apologies. I - I’ve never -“
Then and only then he realizes he’s not in his own berth. That the bed he’s in smells of rich spice, sweat, sea spray. He knows these quarters as well as his own- and he scrambles up out of the bed, hissing again at the pain burning down his back.
“I’ll make your tea immediately,” he scrubs at his face, starts looking for his shirt and jacket. Yesterday’s clothes. How unseemly. “Terribly sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
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Captain voice. Probably startling, given the circumstances, but he wants to halt the potential spiral immediately. Once he's sure Jopson has settled and is looking at him—
"I made the choice to leave you be and I'm satisfied with it. The matter is closed. Proceeding with the day, you're to see the Doctor first thing for a salve of arnica on your back, and then be about your regular work."
That's that. His expression and tone clearly convey there will be no arguing, no fussing, or else he is going to be unhappy. Helpfully, however, he has already found Jopson's clothes for him, and he holds up the first discarded layer.
"You'll have to rate my performance," he says, as soon as he's managed to convince his steward to accept the aid into his shirtsleeves, which no doubt feels awful. And he will stand there like he's cornered a badger until Jopson cooperates, so. Pick your battles, kiddo.
One more thing, before he leaves. But he's going to see him dressed first, so that he can depart at once if it lands poorly.
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Crozier halts him with the ease and confidence of a Captain. One syllable and he’s frozen in place, wide eyes blinking up to him for a moment before his body relaxes, before he takes a careful and proper stance to show his respect and attention.
And gentler, in a far more collected (albeit a little sheepish) tone: “My apologies. I’ve my wits about me now, sir.”
The shirtsleeves break some of that resolve - face twisting at the pain and discomfort of dry and tight injuries alighting down his back as he slips into them with assistance. It has to be far better than those who suffered the straps or whips alongside him - he’s had excellent care. That he’s being aided again by the Captain is something else altogether to worry about. Another burden on the man’s shoulders, even if this one seems to be taken by choice.
“Fortunately you do not seem to be a strangers to shirtsleeves, sir. Your skill is not lost in its disuse.”
A meager attempt at good humors as he smooths the front, carefully tucks it into his wrinkled trousers. What a mess he looks. Waistcoat next, then jacket, each layer bringing with it a new and special sort of pain. The knowledge he’ll have to take all the layers off again to be seen by the doctor is harrowing, but an order is an order.
“Thank you, sir.” Quiet, but grateful - the light back in his eyes. For helping, for caring, for all of it.
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i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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