Jamie knows his mind as good as his own; his soul, too, something intrinsic and almost supernatural about it. (Crozier says he isn't superstitious, he's a scientist, he's not that kind of sailor, and yet he and Ross think they can read each other's minds.) Somehow, without Francis saying, he's fished out of his head that having this interpersonal progression with Thomas has made him happy. And God, it has, hasn't it. There is no pleasure like trusting someone, and they have earned something nearing it together.
Please, and his name. It makes him jerk Thomas' cock quicker, using Jamie's hand to do it, and it does feel an awful lot like their one mind is operating together this way. Such a good boy for him, and Jamie's been — well a brat, mostly, over the course of their friendship, but he adores him for it. Thomas is honey-sweet and there is biting cinnamon burnt sugar in Jamie, and he's here, something bitter, acidic, everything melting.
He could say—
A dozen stupid, suicidal things. The best, I don't want another one, the only one I've bothered with. Things he's bad at saying, that Jamie has had to wrench out of him or intuit and later demand (truthful) confirmation of. Not his place, is the thing.
What is his place: getting Thomas off, making him feel good, thrilling Jamie with the tangled intimacy of it, pressing the earnestness of his desire and his enjoyment into every touch, every inch of skin, every breath and scrape of teeth.
"There you are. Sweet boy. And you, you bloody menace."
Jamie's laugh is a breathless scrape and he follows it with Yes, yes—
Thomas can't tell their voices apart as everything in his body wires tight, burns white-hot, becomes focused on everything carnal. No thinking, no parsing their words apart only good and sweet and yes. It's not frenzied, any of it, but it feels like he's been sucked under water, pressure in his ears, in his belly, in the back of his mind.
What would life be like, existing like this? Caught between two vastly different worlds, storms of their own, these men, dragging him to and fro. They are perfect, the pair of him and he's picked apart in the onslaught of their passion - like they know he was meant to be here wrapped up with them all along.
He can't control himself when he plummets, when the mens' joined hands work him faster. A groan, first, low, and then Jamie's free hand pressing fingers to his lips to quiet him, and the feral, animal part of him wraps his lips around each one, near to gagging himself on them as he comes hard, spilling into Jamie's hand, wetting the fabric beneath Crozier's. He chases the feeling of Crozier's cock between his thighs, the tension in his body wringing him up tight, thighs clamping to create a tight, needy passage for the slick, hard line of him.
Jamie works Thomas until he stops twitching, murmuring sweet praises into Jopson's hair - shh, shh, shh, you've done so well - while Jopson sucks on his fingers to keep from making noise out into the quiet of the arctic night.
"Frank," Ross says, breathless, pulls his soiled hand free from Jopson's trousers and offers his fingers up to the other commander - cheeky, menace, a look what I brought you sort of chuckle in the dark.
Here is a problem with himself, he supposes: this should be sinful, but it feels holy. It feels sacred. Growing up he watched every countryman, every family member, negotiate with God and his tenets like a solicitor parsing wages, trying to litigate which was the right way to believe in the divine, for to pick the wrong one could lead to prosecution or death.
Just like this.
Crozier has seen no evidence of God, but he's tumbled more times than he can count, he's made lovers smile, he's been moved near to tears by emotion. Humanity is better than God, when they do good.
A lot of thinking for the animal satisfaction of making a young man spend himself. And for the equally animal enjoyment of Jamie's fingers in his mouth with that ill-tasting but deeply pleasing wetness, Thomas distilled down to the barest part of himself. When Ross' fingers are clean he presses a kiss to his steward's jaw, tells him: "You still taste good."
Hadn't gotten much, that night before the storm. But enough to recognize him again.
He lets Jopson lean back more against him, taking his weight, letting himself rock into that space between his thighs. Still not frantic, because he paws Ross forward to follow, his hand switching gears to touch him now, greeted by a low sound when he tugs at his pajama trousers to delve inside. Almost too warm between them, like he might sweat through everything. Burn through it. Sink into the ground, the ice, the permafrost.
Every nerve ending in his body sings to life even as he leans back into Crozier, melts at the very warmth of him. Jamie licks his own fingers when the older man is done, the bitter taste of the steward enough to make him hum, like a fat cat that's gotten into the cream. Easier still to chase the younger man with a kiss, his slick palm reaching between them again to pet his abdomen, to his belly, soothing.
"Thank you, sir," Thomas sighs, tilting his head into the kiss, wanting to turn and have his own, but not until both men feel the same buzzing warmth he does. It makes his thoughts go molten, a dewy summer haze in the biting cold of winter. Jamie's voice reminds him much of the sweet, sticky honey kept in the little jar by the tea set - thick and rich, and Thomas understands immediately why men and women both quiver at the knees for him.
He touches Crozier's arm, fingers slowly tracing the strong muscle of his forearm, to his wrist. Wraps his hand around Crozier's, loose, wanting to feel the way Francis pleases Jamie, learn what the man likes from his Captain. In the same note he arches into the little movements between his thighs, disregarding his own over-sensitivity. It's a striking sort of bite that keeps him present.
He wants to see both men off - it's his duty as much as it is his desire. Jamie groans, the warmth and weight of two hands enough to make him laugh a airily. He grips Thomas' side, a pretty handle made in the dip of the man's waist. Thomas in turn leans up to kiss him, lazy and hungry, chasing the taste of himself of Jamie's tongue, all the while he squeezes his hand over Crozier's.
Tucked in so close to Jopson, and pulling off a man he first fooled around with because they almost started throwing punches. Too much, too scrambled up in tension, and now he knows just how to hold his cock, just how to stroke him. He could get Ross off in a matter of heartbeats, but he wants to feel him. What other chance will he get, just so? With someone else they're both so fond of suspended between them, sharing hands and mouths and sweat and fluid. All of this will warm him through the ice for months yet.
He shows Jopson how to touch their commander. Lets him feel it all through his hand, as he mouths kisses and worries in gentle teeth marks against his shoulder, and the soft part of his ear. His cock is still so hard, and it twitches where Jopson has it held snug and possessive. His other hand, threatening to go slightly numb thanks to his arm being wrapped beneath his steward, still clutches onto him. Linked there, a precious thing.
Slow and steady, until Jamie swears a desperate, rasped word, and grabs at their hands. It makes Francis exhale a laugh, feeling the impatient demand even before the shift in mood— tells him alright, alright, I've got you, don't I always, and jacks him off just the way he needs. He feels nails biting into his shoulder where Jamie scrambles a hand, polite even then, not wanting to claw at Thomas who might not appreciate it. Always goes so tense like it hurts just before. Maybe it does; Francis thinks it must just be like everything else with him, so intense, be it his intellect or his drive or his passions. In the dark he can only half-see his expression, but he knows it well anyway. Hot, wet spend in his hand, and he pulls him through those spasms, Jamie enduring it with his face buried against Thomas to help stifle himself, though he's practiced at being silent through it.
Like all his strings are cut, then. The weight of command, the demands of his station (the encroaching inevitability of failing health that he'll never speak of), he's always useless in the aftermath. But pliable, happy, euphoric. He sighs and murmurs and keens into them both, bestowing soft messy kisses, bubbling over with it.
Thomas receives Jamie as he burrows into his chest, shuddering through his climax with an intensity that suits him. Easy to feel the tension in him, the way the commander's long limbs twitch and flex, the way his body seems to be anything but his own for a few fiery moments. Impossibly erotic, the way his hands molds over Francis', how he manages to come away with a smear of the man's spend over his fingers.
His other hand wraps around Jamie, fingers diving up into his hair and cradling him into his chest, letting him find somewhere warm to fall in the aftermath of it all. His turn to murmur soft shh, shh, shh, you did very well, sir into the man's soft hair, nosing at his temple as Jamie catches his breath. Thomas can't truly settle all loose-limbed and warm until he's certain Francis has had his fill.
He grinds his bottom back against the captain, an invitation in the dark, coupled with his free hand reaching back to palm along Crozier's flank, fingers working beneath the fabric of his pajama trousers and resting there against the warm skin of his hip, petting him there, smearing the wet of Jamie's spend into his skin.
"You can, if you'd like," Thomas says quietly, head turning to try and see him in the dark where he thinks of saying chase your desire with my body. But it's no use, and keeps his other hand petting Jamie's hair while the man mouths lazy wet kisses against his collarbone. "Or would you like my hand, Francis? Anything."
Anything, and that's true, isn't it. Jopson would do anything for him, let him have anything. He imagined it was him flogging him, with the strap; he would have let Crozier push him down over the table and take his bare hand to him. He let him fuck his mouth on his knees when he was already in pain.
Doesn't need to be that way. (Though it can be, sometimes, because it's enjoyable.) They nearly kiss, almost close enough for it, cheek to cheek for a moment, scraping so near.
"Let me have you any way I asked, wouldn't you," he murmurs. Their hands are still linked and he flexes his fingers, tightens them again. Grounding them together. "Just this, Tom. You're so good, just as you are right here."
Jamie hums and nuzzles in, bumping noses and foreheads with the younger man. He slips his hand down, presses at Thomas' thighs so he can wriggle fingers in between to toy with Francis' cock where it's tucked. It makes Crozier's knee jerk in surprise, the sudden change in sensation almost ticklish. A huff of laughter, and he ducks his head against Jopson's shoulder. Mmn.
"You don't have to be noble about it," he half-drawls, a teasing, familiar complaint.
"Hardly—"
"You're just being mannerly, I know, but you make everyone who wants you wait so bloody long. I bet you ignored Thomas for ages." Jamie presses a kiss to the steward's mouth. "He did, didn't he. Do you want him to make a mess all over you now?"
"James—"
But his breath is caught on some other feeling, sparks down his spine.
Jopson's eyes close into every little kiss, but it's the captain's words that quiet him, render him still and pleasantly obedient. Crozier could ask for anything right now and he would melt, allow it, revere him for it. Foolish, maybe, how willing he is to give himself over to what could be a fleeting nautical romance. Tom, Crozier says, and he tries to memorize the sound of it on his tongue.
He parts his thighs just enough for Jamie's hands, groaning lowly at the sensation of the fingers pressed between his thighs and the slide of Crozier's desire absolutely searing his skin. Thomas squeezes the man's hand, uncaring that the position is going to leave him with a bruise on his hip from the rails. One more reminder of this, blissful and pleasant and befuddling.
"He was very kind to me, even in his punishment."
A murmur in the dark, equal parts earnest as it is lustful. The strap, the searing heat of their gaze, the press of hands on his back, and...
He turns his head, cheek to cheek again, mouthing at his skin, the stubble there he'd been too stubborn to allow him to shave off.
"Come for me, Francis," he whispers against his skin, the fingers of his free hand squeezing his hip, nails making half moons of his skin. And then, a little coy: "I won't waste a drop, sir."
Jamie laughs into Jopson's mouth and he pets fingers along the underside of Crozier's cock in the warm press of the stewards thighs.
The way Jopson talks about it, that horrid thing that tipped them over the edge, makes his cock twitch. No doubt they all feel it, Jopson in the soft skin between his thighs and Ross with his fingers, stroking him, teasing him, encouraging him to find a slide there that tucks himself even closer up against the steward's body.
He wants him. He aches for it. Usually easier to keep control of, to not want something he puts off-limits at sea. I won't waste a drop, sir. Like his cock belongs against him, inside of him, giving him everything to taste and consume and keep sacred.
Arousal does the daftest things to his bloody thought process, doesn't it.
Crozier kisses him, shifts up enough to manage it halfway as he ruts steadily into his backside, letting Ross guide him, keeping Jopson sandwiched between them. Finally letting himself slip into taking his own pleasure. Not that he hasn't been— he finds himself on edge quickly once he allows himself full awareness of it all, and a shudder runs up his spine. Fuck, he doesn't quite let himself say aloud. His other hand grips Jopon's hip, hard, a mirror of the grasp on his own.
Something deep and feral in him wishes he could feel more of Crozier, made full and hot and taken in the cool of the tent. The thought takes him somewhere for a fraction of a moment, but the kiss brings him right back. He groans into Crozier's mouth, low and wanting, the kiss a little strained for how he twists to meet it but he feels starved for it, hungry in a way he can't explain after he's already been spent once.
His hand leaves the older man's hip, reaching for the one at his own and gripping the man's fingers, pressing them into his skin harder, encouraging him to grab and take and pull however he needs. The pressure between his thighs, Jamie guiding the older man's prick so he can feel it slide between his cheeks and up against the back of his sac - it makes him more than delirious with want.
Jamie strokes the underside of Crozier's cock, the other hand dragging him in for a kiss, a nip against his lips as he whispers to him - give your sweet boy what he wants, Commander. What he wants, too - Jamie to feel him spend hot and wet over his hand, messy between Thomas' thighs.
The next slide of Crozier's prick and he circles his hand, giving him a delicate squeeze, adding even more friction.
The angles are a mess. The weight of the furs, the segmentation of the bunks, the awkward press and tangle of so many limbs and hands. But it's enough, and it works for him, maybe better than one of them taking him in hand artfully— it's raw and needy, a feedback loop of it, and Jamie says Your sweet boy like he hired him just to give him something special, like he'd looked at Thomas and could foresee this exact place in time.
Ridiculous. Crozier'd made him shave himself to prove he could do it without slicing anything off while the ship swayed.
And yet.
A slower fuse sometimes, but he's still a mortal man. Between the contact and the encouragement, it doesn't take much longer. A low sound, a gasp, and he clutches Jopson all the harder (too hard?) as the peak finds him and sends him over. Everything going as tense as can be before breaking open, like a dropped vase.
Over Jamie's hand, between Thomas' thighs, the asked-for mess. It feels wrenched out of him, suddenly hyper-aware of how tiring the past few weeks have been with all of his nerve endings turned inside out and open. A lightning bolt to his body and a tranquilizer to his brain. His face is buried against the soft spot between Jopson's ear and the rest of him, crushing close. The loud crash of his heartbeat deafens him momentarily, sound slowly returning, seeing stars behind his eyes in the dark as he winds down.
Crozier could clutch him until he bruises bones and Thomas wouldn't protest - no doubt there will be a bruise over the pale skin at his hip, perhaps even something on his shoulder the way Jamie worked it. It sends a faint thrill down his spine to think about it, warms his cheeks, his body beginning to slip into the pleasant warmth of the other two.
Jamie sighs when he feels his hand go sticky and slick, chuckles softly, but everything in it impossibly fond. For how intimate all of it is, there's pleasure in the filth of it, too - in the way he licks his fingers clean, the taste of Crozier so familiar even if sour. It will never taste good, but it will always taste like Francis.
He kisses Thomas after, deep and slow and sensuous, sharing the taste of the man they both care for on it, like they were meant to do this all along. Jopson lingers in the kiss with Jamie, hazy and sleepy and sated, chasing the taste of the older man on his tongue - the sounds of their kissing soft and wet in the dark.
When Jamie pulls away in the dark, Thomas almost reaches for him, wanting the nearness, craving the intimacy. The distance doesn't last long, anyway, and the commander gently helps him away from Crozier, a hand between the man's thighs to help part them, leaving the sticky mess for now, and encouraging him to go flat to his back, looping an arm around his waist and settling in on his side beside him.
"Captain," Jopson whispers in the dark, hand finding the one wrapped round him and tugging the older man, inviting him to crowd against his chest.
Crozier sacrifices shirttails to make sure Jopson isn't going to wake up dismally uncomfortable, even though they're all going to be a smidge revolting in the morning. A burden worth undertaking. He shifts closer, and first slides his hand up to cup his steward's jaw. His, something about it stirs him in a way he knows better than to look at closely.
"Good boy."
He kisses the side of his mouth, leans up to give Ross one too, and then he's settling in with his palm over Jopson's heart. Jamie exhales, a sigh, and he nearly laughs to hear it; aware his dear friend is already half-asleep. Characteristic of a sailor to be able to nod off at the drop of a hat, but this is charming all the same. He must have needed it.
Francis will drift off soon, too. A habit to force himself to stay awake, like doing the last rounds on watch. He wants to make sure Jamie is safe, and that Thomas is comfortable. His thumb rubs gentle patterns on him, through his own shirt the young man is wearing.
They'll be a sight come morning, but that will be easy enough to settle - Jopson's faced worse messes as it is, and tending to the pair of commanders hardly seems like a chore. For now, though, he likes that they're anything but their titles and ranks - Francis, Jamie, Thomas. He reaches his hand to rest over Crozier's, lightly resting his palm over his fingers, holding them close to the beat of his heart.
Good boy, he says, and if he were not so tired himself it might stir something in him. (Does, in a way - a mental tally to remember the man's said it). He noses into the older man's hair, breathing him in and soaking up the warmth of him beneath the furs and blankets.
Thomas kisses his temple, lips lingering against the skin. Foolish to imagine them anywhere else but a tent in the arctic, but he does for a moment. It'd be easy to imagine some London apartment, comfortable but practical. He smooths a hand down Crozier's back, tracing each vertebrae up and down in slow, lazy lines.
He hums, thoughtful, goes quiet as Jamie bullies up close to him, nestling up against his other side. Once he settles and sighs again, Thomas presses another kiss to Crozier's temple.
It is — expectedly — a right pain in the morning, but they make do. Gigs from Erebus arrive to transfer laundry, supplies, packed away findings, and the like; Crozier takes reports and the officers have a meeting on overturned crates. Some time is snatched away by a half-dozen minke whales passing by the ships, porpoising and spyhopping and sending up gusts from their blowholes. There's some talk of trying to kill one for food, but Ross forbids it on grounds of how deceptively difficult whaling is, no matter how modestly these ones are sized. They're here for research and exploration, not to spend the rest of the week struggling through boiling blubber.
They lose a lieutenant to a smashed finger, and Crozier takes his watch overnight, leaving Jopson and Ross to have a nice time (or just a nice nap) without him. Hooker tries to stay up with him, recognizing a captive audience, but only lasts a few hours.
It's on the last morning before they have to catch the tide out that Jamie gets a wish granted. He's on the other side of the hill, wrapping up some last notes in the observatory hut. Crozier notices first, but it's only a few heartbeats later that someone yells.
"Jopson." A note of expedience in his voice, but when he gets the steward's attention—
In their final morning, Jopson spends much of his time packing up the commanders' non-essentials and his own personal effects. It's an easy job for how tidy he keeps things, for one, but it gives him time to think about on the trip. A strange one to begin with, out on the ice while Terror and Erebus drifted on the water after a storm - but stranger still for his tentmates.
A wonderful thing. He'd never imagined the arctic tundra could ever be something so warm and sacred. For that's what it was - sacred, to be wrapped up in furs and warmed by two men he cares for. One he's grown to care for in their time here, and when Crozier was out on watch, they could have done anything in his absence. Instead they lay tucked in against one another, wrapped up together, and talked until they could barely keep their eyes open. Things that men cannot do in the light of day - on many levels.
It means leaving this place is bittersweet. Jamie will return to Erebus, He and Crozier to Terror. A world apart even if only by water. But work must get done and the fantasy dissolved, as are the way of things out at sea. He's just packing some of Crozier's field notes when the man calls and he looks up, worried at first, until -
Following the line of Crozier's arm he blinks up at the feature they called mountain when they first arrived here. But now, with plumes erupting from the top, he stares, awed by the look of it. A volcano. Just like Ross and Crozier both expected it to be.
"It is an excellent send off for Camp Aether, sir," he says quietly, astonished, coming to stand beside the captain and watch in wonder, elbows knocking though not intentionally. His body knows a comfortable familiarity that, while focused on the horizon, forgets its propriety.
"Even so cold and it's capable of this." A gesture, a childlike wonder that makes him want to move closer, as though he could climb it in the distance and look down to whatever fiery belly lies within.
He could kiss him, out here under the white sky, watching the eruption. Jamie, too, who even at this distance Crozier can tell has practically split his face open with a smile. Of course it's a volcano, it was shaped like one, but of course, because James Clark Ross called it Erebus, it's alive. Breathing smoke, belching fire, like the living nightmare his ship is called after. Mount Terror, he suspects, purely for thematic consistency, will sleep silent and watching, like any proper lurking horror.
"We're the same distance from the heart of the Earth as Hawai'i," he says, because i triple checked and in fact it was called the kingdom of hawai'i and hickey is just that eurocentric. "Or thereabouts. Something inside this rock we live on is as volatile as blood."
Alive, in a way.
It's frightening, and it's beautiful, and it's going to put their departure back to the barest minute, because this all must be recorded. Crozier nudges Jopson with his elbow, shoots him a brief, pleased look, and then he's off, hurrying over to Ross so that they can get to work. Reactions are scattered: fear, wonder, some who've seen others go in different places in the world are pretending they aren't impressed. It'll be drawn from every angle, even by men with no artistic talent, just for fodder to remember it by. The shape of the plumes, the weight of the ash clouds, the tempo of it, the exact time.
Smoke goes from black to white over the course of their recording, and then their leaving. Far enough away that the strange smell of it doesn't touch them four hours after, but close enough that they'll be able to scour the shoreline for debris to collect. He and Ross and the surgeons talk until the last second about the timing of marine life moving about before it blew, animated. It doesn't properly hit him until he's helping shove Jamie's gig off the rocky outcropping.
Well, goodbye for now, he supposes. They stare at each other.
"I'll just throw my report over in a bottle," is as good a parting as anything.
Always a little heartache. Ross watches him for the perfect amount of time, looking away the second before it becomes strange for anyone to observe, and Crozier turns to oversee the last of everything.
The gigs packed as well as they can be, Jopson watches Crozier run off to Ross and for a moment he's sure he sees them as the younger men they once were, sky-eyed and bright with all the boundless curiosity they can muster. He sits farther off from the men, watches in the distance and though he doesn't have an artist's hand, it's the line of Crozier and Ross' shoulders pressed together in the cold as they take notes that he draws, committing it to paper and memory.
Even wonder passes, though, and he stands just behind Crozier as Ross' gig shoves off and he gives the man and small, respectful nod. It's a terrible, lonely game they all play, but however brief, it meant something.
It's later that they shove off and make it back to Terror. The crew aboard are brimming with chatter and excitement at seeing the volcanic activity out at sea, at having their captain and crewmen back. It's a celebration belowdecks, the men drinking and singing and telling stories of their tough but fruitful time on the ice. Jopson observes quietly from a back corner, shoveling food into his mouth with a speed that should be inhuman. Eats, tidies his mess, prepares Crozier's meal, takes it along with him up to the great cabin.
Strange that they're surrounded by fine, old wood and shelves of books and frosty windows. The canvas tent walls felt more like home than this does now, but that will wear off in time. It has to. He steps inside after a knock, nodding his head to his Captain.
"Sir. I've brought your supper."
Sat on the table for him, a half finger of whiskey poured into a glass for him. Something sharp but warm, and a glass of cool, clean water to chase it.
"The men are below forging their tale of Mount Erebus, who saw what first and when. I believe they're scheming on names for the next great volcano we find in your studies."
Personal emotions get packed away like luggage. He is practiced at it by now, an expert, having honed the craft since he was a child leaving a crowded but comfortable home to be a ship's boy. No thoughts of that luggage shelf ever collapsing under the weight he piles onto it; the other ship, and Ross within her, is just across the water. They have years before he has to consider another voyage. Far enough away it may never come.
"Jopson."
Crozier looks over his shoulder to greet him. Putting booklets of maps and notes away, volumes crammed into shelves (normal ones, not the ones he's ignoring in his head). Organizational work a steward can't do, this is all his research notes, kept orderly for the surgeons and his own perusal. A few left out for the writing he still has to do, and the pile of all the other reports of business aboard that he's missed. Lieutenant Kay's presence is a recent thing, an extra chair still askew at the corner of the table.
"Anything fanciful, or just rude words?"
Amused. Tired, but amused. He likes all of these sailors.
"I think Mr Harper was at sea in the Orient when Tambora went." A beat, consideration as he turns all the way around, nods his thanks for supper. "What year were you born? After the sky changed?"
The meal set out in front of Crozier, Jopson goes about tidying a room he hasn't had his hands on in some time. It shows, a few things not in their proper place. The chair, for one, tucked back neatly to its place. A few bits and bobs put back to their rightful home in the cabin, as though they'd never left for some faraway mission to begin with.
"Some rude, some named for the girls waiting for them on land. All pleasantly uninspired. One wished to name the next after the family's hound - Eustace, sir. It's sure to win favor with all commanders."
A little wry. There are many things they've both had to pack away on the proverbial shelves but Jopson feels more at ease in this cabin than he had when they'd shipped off to the ice. A funny thing, being seen - a beautiful thing, even if they must pack it away, too.
He looks up from tidying the library shelves, over his shoulder at the man. "1816, sir. Tambora was before me, I'm afraid."
Books all tidied and lined up, he turns round fully to look at his captain, brows pinched as he thinks on his question before he speaks. He's asked plenty of foolish questions in the last week or so, why not one more?
"Did the sky actually change that year, sir? I find it difficult to discern when a sailor's tales are made from half truths. As any tale about sea life should be, I suppose."
"I like the sound of a dog more than a sweetheart."
Justice for Eustace the hound. But—
1816. It should make him feel old, but he just feels fond. Maybe it shows on his face, even as his fingertips find the edge of his dinner plate, the fine ceramics that have held up despite the inevitable churn of sailing. We are still civilized men, the deck officer had told him on his first ship, when he asked why everything's not just tin or wood. The man meant well; Francis had meant why there was a division between what the men before and behind the mast ate off of.
Anyway. He thinks of these things, from time to time.
"You were born for winter," he muses. "No summer in 1816, thanks to Tambora. And they sky did change. Still is different, by my reckoning. The shade of blue seems near enough by now with years gone by, but not sunset. Never so red before, like something bleeding. And now it's ordinary. It makes me think of Homer. He calls the sea wine-colored. I wonder what changed in the Earth. Was it the light? The sea?"
He shrugs, and his expression is self-deprecating. Aware he's being a bit whimsical. Talk of ancient poetry.
"We may yet experience something else that changes the world that way. For surely it'll happen again, and again, this odd rock growing day by day the same as we are. But that's all—" he gestures, dismissive. "Did you eat anything, or did you mime at doing so?"
"My mother tells me often I was an easy child, but happiest when summers ended, sir."
Perhaps it was her way of telling the story - the first year of his life with a cold, changed sky. Their business did well that year, another story his father tells him. Colder weather means more layers, and more layers means more work. Cold, work, money. Ironic, then, that he's found himself on an polar expedition.
Thomas' expression warms as Crozier takes a turn for whimsy, an unstoppable fondness welling in his chest.
"Yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure… I often wonder if the waves we look on are the same of Homer and those before us? That it might well be us who changed while the sea in all this time remains constant."
But ah, the food. Yes. He straightens a little.
"I always eat, sir. Foolish not to in cold like this. Which - your food is getting cold, sir."
Little Thomas was probably cuddled more when it was cold out, he thinks.
And—
Well, that should shame him a bit, shouldn't it. But once again it just makes him feel fond. He didn't know Jopson when he was a child, and even though he's called him boy, there's a stark difference between things whispered in heated moments and actual children. When he imagines him, it's in a context of the past as he knows it, even though it would be awfully old fashioned (and awfully Irish) for a Londoner twenty years his junior.
In any event it brings him 'round to the feelings he's packed away. How much experience does Jopson have, doing that same thing? Different shapes than chores and duties. He's smiling, listening to that quote. The same waves, surely. They're under the same stars.
"A pity two ways, because if you hadn't eaten I'd be wasting less of your time," he says as he pulls the chair back, making ready to sit. "As it stands: why don't you pick a book that looks interesting and find something out of it, then sit right there where Kay's left the chair wrong."
Jopson half expects to be dismissed - it's not unusual for meals, that he returns sometime after to clean up and assist the captain with his night routine. He almost moves to the door, but stutter stops when Crozier speaks, turning to look back at him.
"You're not wasting my time, sir," he says as he slowly moves to the book shelf as he'd been told to do. A small part of him can't help but wonder what kind of test he's being put up to - does the book matter? Does the passage matter? And why, of all chairs, does he point out the one that's wrong?
Jopson skims the titles all the while heat flushes over his throat, his heart rate picking up. Were he out in the woods with a gun, facing down a bear, he'd be less concerned. But here in the great cabin, under no threat or danger, he feels his heart flutter uneasily in his chest.
He finally decides on a book with an elegant, navy binding with gold leaf accents. A book on myth and legends. A surprise, but he slowly moves to the chair left askew and settles down into it. The book seems untouched - maybe even new - the cover smooth, glossy with its pages uncreased. He opens it reverently, careful not to crack the spine, running fingers along the soft pages. It smells of ink and paper, much like the little book store that was a few blocks up into the square from his home.
Because it's the other chair that's out, Mr Jopson.
Crozier sits down, gets a look at dinner. Keeping track of what's being used, and trying to assess the morale of the kitchen from afar, like reading tea leaves. Half pointless, half accurate. But calm waters for a week after a storm, time to fish, time for what leisure there was on board, must be as good as any tonic.
Fork in hand, he considers Jopson after he considers the food. He looks apprehensive, and a more insecure man might immediately begin second-guessing everything. Francis is too steady for any of that, though, and just finds it funny that the young man is shy now, after a week of sleeping tangled together, including a memorable evening in which he spent between his arsecheeks and had yet more fed to him on Jamie's fingers. Books, though. Who knows what might go wrong. Or perhaps it's just that they aren't in the dark.
"Read something," he says. "Out loud if you fancy humoring me, but just your company is more than fine."
They had been on a certain path, before the flogging. Testing each other, carefully, gently. A little teasing, a little curious, a little sincere. Crozier wonders at it, and where it'll head now.
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Please, and his name. It makes him jerk Thomas' cock quicker, using Jamie's hand to do it, and it does feel an awful lot like their one mind is operating together this way. Such a good boy for him, and Jamie's been — well a brat, mostly, over the course of their friendship, but he adores him for it. Thomas is honey-sweet and there is biting cinnamon burnt sugar in Jamie, and he's here, something bitter, acidic, everything melting.
He could say—
A dozen stupid, suicidal things. The best, I don't want another one, the only one I've bothered with. Things he's bad at saying, that Jamie has had to wrench out of him or intuit and later demand (truthful) confirmation of. Not his place, is the thing.
What is his place: getting Thomas off, making him feel good, thrilling Jamie with the tangled intimacy of it, pressing the earnestness of his desire and his enjoyment into every touch, every inch of skin, every breath and scrape of teeth.
"There you are. Sweet boy. And you, you bloody menace."
Jamie's laugh is a breathless scrape and he follows it with Yes, yes—
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What would life be like, existing like this? Caught between two vastly different worlds, storms of their own, these men, dragging him to and fro. They are perfect, the pair of him and he's picked apart in the onslaught of their passion - like they know he was meant to be here wrapped up with them all along.
He can't control himself when he plummets, when the mens' joined hands work him faster. A groan, first, low, and then Jamie's free hand pressing fingers to his lips to quiet him, and the feral, animal part of him wraps his lips around each one, near to gagging himself on them as he comes hard, spilling into Jamie's hand, wetting the fabric beneath Crozier's. He chases the feeling of Crozier's cock between his thighs, the tension in his body wringing him up tight, thighs clamping to create a tight, needy passage for the slick, hard line of him.
Jamie works Thomas until he stops twitching, murmuring sweet praises into Jopson's hair - shh, shh, shh, you've done so well - while Jopson sucks on his fingers to keep from making noise out into the quiet of the arctic night.
"Frank," Ross says, breathless, pulls his soiled hand free from Jopson's trousers and offers his fingers up to the other commander - cheeky, menace, a look what I brought you sort of chuckle in the dark.
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Just like this.
Crozier has seen no evidence of God, but he's tumbled more times than he can count, he's made lovers smile, he's been moved near to tears by emotion. Humanity is better than God, when they do good.
A lot of thinking for the animal satisfaction of making a young man spend himself. And for the equally animal enjoyment of Jamie's fingers in his mouth with that ill-tasting but deeply pleasing wetness, Thomas distilled down to the barest part of himself. When Ross' fingers are clean he presses a kiss to his steward's jaw, tells him: "You still taste good."
Hadn't gotten much, that night before the storm. But enough to recognize him again.
He lets Jopson lean back more against him, taking his weight, letting himself rock into that space between his thighs. Still not frantic, because he paws Ross forward to follow, his hand switching gears to touch him now, greeted by a low sound when he tugs at his pajama trousers to delve inside. Almost too warm between them, like he might sweat through everything. Burn through it. Sink into the ground, the ice, the permafrost.
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"Thank you, sir," Thomas sighs, tilting his head into the kiss, wanting to turn and have his own, but not until both men feel the same buzzing warmth he does. It makes his thoughts go molten, a dewy summer haze in the biting cold of winter. Jamie's voice reminds him much of the sweet, sticky honey kept in the little jar by the tea set - thick and rich, and Thomas understands immediately why men and women both quiver at the knees for him.
He touches Crozier's arm, fingers slowly tracing the strong muscle of his forearm, to his wrist. Wraps his hand around Crozier's, loose, wanting to feel the way Francis pleases Jamie, learn what the man likes from his Captain. In the same note he arches into the little movements between his thighs, disregarding his own over-sensitivity. It's a striking sort of bite that keeps him present.
He wants to see both men off - it's his duty as much as it is his desire. Jamie groans, the warmth and weight of two hands enough to make him laugh a airily. He grips Thomas' side, a pretty handle made in the dip of the man's waist. Thomas in turn leans up to kiss him, lazy and hungry, chasing the taste of himself of Jamie's tongue, all the while he squeezes his hand over Crozier's.
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He shows Jopson how to touch their commander. Lets him feel it all through his hand, as he mouths kisses and worries in gentle teeth marks against his shoulder, and the soft part of his ear. His cock is still so hard, and it twitches where Jopson has it held snug and possessive. His other hand, threatening to go slightly numb thanks to his arm being wrapped beneath his steward, still clutches onto him. Linked there, a precious thing.
Slow and steady, until Jamie swears a desperate, rasped word, and grabs at their hands. It makes Francis exhale a laugh, feeling the impatient demand even before the shift in mood— tells him alright, alright, I've got you, don't I always, and jacks him off just the way he needs. He feels nails biting into his shoulder where Jamie scrambles a hand, polite even then, not wanting to claw at Thomas who might not appreciate it. Always goes so tense like it hurts just before. Maybe it does; Francis thinks it must just be like everything else with him, so intense, be it his intellect or his drive or his passions. In the dark he can only half-see his expression, but he knows it well anyway. Hot, wet spend in his hand, and he pulls him through those spasms, Jamie enduring it with his face buried against Thomas to help stifle himself, though he's practiced at being silent through it.
Like all his strings are cut, then. The weight of command, the demands of his station (the encroaching inevitability of failing health that he'll never speak of), he's always useless in the aftermath. But pliable, happy, euphoric. He sighs and murmurs and keens into them both, bestowing soft messy kisses, bubbling over with it.
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His other hand wraps around Jamie, fingers diving up into his hair and cradling him into his chest, letting him find somewhere warm to fall in the aftermath of it all. His turn to murmur soft shh, shh, shh, you did very well, sir into the man's soft hair, nosing at his temple as Jamie catches his breath. Thomas can't truly settle all loose-limbed and warm until he's certain Francis has had his fill.
He grinds his bottom back against the captain, an invitation in the dark, coupled with his free hand reaching back to palm along Crozier's flank, fingers working beneath the fabric of his pajama trousers and resting there against the warm skin of his hip, petting him there, smearing the wet of Jamie's spend into his skin.
"You can, if you'd like," Thomas says quietly, head turning to try and see him in the dark where he thinks of saying chase your desire with my body. But it's no use, and keeps his other hand petting Jamie's hair while the man mouths lazy wet kisses against his collarbone. "Or would you like my hand, Francis? Anything."
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Doesn't need to be that way. (Though it can be, sometimes, because it's enjoyable.) They nearly kiss, almost close enough for it, cheek to cheek for a moment, scraping so near.
"Let me have you any way I asked, wouldn't you," he murmurs. Their hands are still linked and he flexes his fingers, tightens them again. Grounding them together. "Just this, Tom. You're so good, just as you are right here."
Jamie hums and nuzzles in, bumping noses and foreheads with the younger man. He slips his hand down, presses at Thomas' thighs so he can wriggle fingers in between to toy with Francis' cock where it's tucked. It makes Crozier's knee jerk in surprise, the sudden change in sensation almost ticklish. A huff of laughter, and he ducks his head against Jopson's shoulder. Mmn.
"You don't have to be noble about it," he half-drawls, a teasing, familiar complaint.
"Hardly—"
"You're just being mannerly, I know, but you make everyone who wants you wait so bloody long. I bet you ignored Thomas for ages." Jamie presses a kiss to the steward's mouth. "He did, didn't he. Do you want him to make a mess all over you now?"
"James—"
But his breath is caught on some other feeling, sparks down his spine.
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He parts his thighs just enough for Jamie's hands, groaning lowly at the sensation of the fingers pressed between his thighs and the slide of Crozier's desire absolutely searing his skin. Thomas squeezes the man's hand, uncaring that the position is going to leave him with a bruise on his hip from the rails. One more reminder of this, blissful and pleasant and befuddling.
"He was very kind to me, even in his punishment."
A murmur in the dark, equal parts earnest as it is lustful. The strap, the searing heat of their gaze, the press of hands on his back, and...
He turns his head, cheek to cheek again, mouthing at his skin, the stubble there he'd been too stubborn to allow him to shave off.
"Come for me, Francis," he whispers against his skin, the fingers of his free hand squeezing his hip, nails making half moons of his skin. And then, a little coy: "I won't waste a drop, sir."
Jamie laughs into Jopson's mouth and he pets fingers along the underside of Crozier's cock in the warm press of the stewards thighs.
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He wants him. He aches for it. Usually easier to keep control of, to not want something he puts off-limits at sea. I won't waste a drop, sir. Like his cock belongs against him, inside of him, giving him everything to taste and consume and keep sacred.
Arousal does the daftest things to his bloody thought process, doesn't it.
Crozier kisses him, shifts up enough to manage it halfway as he ruts steadily into his backside, letting Ross guide him, keeping Jopson sandwiched between them. Finally letting himself slip into taking his own pleasure. Not that he hasn't been— he finds himself on edge quickly once he allows himself full awareness of it all, and a shudder runs up his spine. Fuck, he doesn't quite let himself say aloud. His other hand grips Jopon's hip, hard, a mirror of the grasp on his own.
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His hand leaves the older man's hip, reaching for the one at his own and gripping the man's fingers, pressing them into his skin harder, encouraging him to grab and take and pull however he needs. The pressure between his thighs, Jamie guiding the older man's prick so he can feel it slide between his cheeks and up against the back of his sac - it makes him more than delirious with want.
Jamie strokes the underside of Crozier's cock, the other hand dragging him in for a kiss, a nip against his lips as he whispers to him - give your sweet boy what he wants, Commander. What he wants, too - Jamie to feel him spend hot and wet over his hand, messy between Thomas' thighs.
The next slide of Crozier's prick and he circles his hand, giving him a delicate squeeze, adding even more friction.
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Ridiculous. Crozier'd made him shave himself to prove he could do it without slicing anything off while the ship swayed.
And yet.
A slower fuse sometimes, but he's still a mortal man. Between the contact and the encouragement, it doesn't take much longer. A low sound, a gasp, and he clutches Jopson all the harder (too hard?) as the peak finds him and sends him over. Everything going as tense as can be before breaking open, like a dropped vase.
Over Jamie's hand, between Thomas' thighs, the asked-for mess. It feels wrenched out of him, suddenly hyper-aware of how tiring the past few weeks have been with all of his nerve endings turned inside out and open. A lightning bolt to his body and a tranquilizer to his brain. His face is buried against the soft spot between Jopson's ear and the rest of him, crushing close. The loud crash of his heartbeat deafens him momentarily, sound slowly returning, seeing stars behind his eyes in the dark as he winds down.
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Jamie sighs when he feels his hand go sticky and slick, chuckles softly, but everything in it impossibly fond. For how intimate all of it is, there's pleasure in the filth of it, too - in the way he licks his fingers clean, the taste of Crozier so familiar even if sour. It will never taste good, but it will always taste like Francis.
He kisses Thomas after, deep and slow and sensuous, sharing the taste of the man they both care for on it, like they were meant to do this all along. Jopson lingers in the kiss with Jamie, hazy and sleepy and sated, chasing the taste of the older man on his tongue - the sounds of their kissing soft and wet in the dark.
When Jamie pulls away in the dark, Thomas almost reaches for him, wanting the nearness, craving the intimacy. The distance doesn't last long, anyway, and the commander gently helps him away from Crozier, a hand between the man's thighs to help part them, leaving the sticky mess for now, and encouraging him to go flat to his back, looping an arm around his waist and settling in on his side beside him.
"Captain," Jopson whispers in the dark, hand finding the one wrapped round him and tugging the older man, inviting him to crowd against his chest.
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"Good boy."
He kisses the side of his mouth, leans up to give Ross one too, and then he's settling in with his palm over Jopson's heart. Jamie exhales, a sigh, and he nearly laughs to hear it; aware his dear friend is already half-asleep. Characteristic of a sailor to be able to nod off at the drop of a hat, but this is charming all the same. He must have needed it.
Francis will drift off soon, too. A habit to force himself to stay awake, like doing the last rounds on watch. He wants to make sure Jamie is safe, and that Thomas is comfortable. His thumb rubs gentle patterns on him, through his own shirt the young man is wearing.
Very quietly: "All's well?"
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Good boy, he says, and if he were not so tired himself it might stir something in him. (Does, in a way - a mental tally to remember the man's said it). He noses into the older man's hair, breathing him in and soaking up the warmth of him beneath the furs and blankets.
Thomas kisses his temple, lips lingering against the skin. Foolish to imagine them anywhere else but a tent in the arctic, but he does for a moment. It'd be easy to imagine some London apartment, comfortable but practical. He smooths a hand down Crozier's back, tracing each vertebrae up and down in slow, lazy lines.
He hums, thoughtful, goes quiet as Jamie bullies up close to him, nestling up against his other side. Once he settles and sighs again, Thomas presses another kiss to Crozier's temple.
"All's well. Get some rest, captain."
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All is well, and he'll get some rest.
It is — expectedly — a right pain in the morning, but they make do. Gigs from Erebus arrive to transfer laundry, supplies, packed away findings, and the like; Crozier takes reports and the officers have a meeting on overturned crates. Some time is snatched away by a half-dozen minke whales passing by the ships, porpoising and spyhopping and sending up gusts from their blowholes. There's some talk of trying to kill one for food, but Ross forbids it on grounds of how deceptively difficult whaling is, no matter how modestly these ones are sized. They're here for research and exploration, not to spend the rest of the week struggling through boiling blubber.
They lose a lieutenant to a smashed finger, and Crozier takes his watch overnight, leaving Jopson and Ross to have a nice time (or just a nice nap) without him. Hooker tries to stay up with him, recognizing a captive audience, but only lasts a few hours.
It's on the last morning before they have to catch the tide out that Jamie gets a wish granted. He's on the other side of the hill, wrapping up some last notes in the observatory hut. Crozier notices first, but it's only a few heartbeats later that someone yells.
"Jopson." A note of expedience in his voice, but when he gets the steward's attention—
"Look."
It's a volcano after all.
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A wonderful thing. He'd never imagined the arctic tundra could ever be something so warm and sacred. For that's what it was - sacred, to be wrapped up in furs and warmed by two men he cares for. One he's grown to care for in their time here, and when Crozier was out on watch, they could have done anything in his absence. Instead they lay tucked in against one another, wrapped up together, and talked until they could barely keep their eyes open. Things that men cannot do in the light of day - on many levels.
It means leaving this place is bittersweet. Jamie will return to Erebus, He and Crozier to Terror. A world apart even if only by water. But work must get done and the fantasy dissolved, as are the way of things out at sea. He's just packing some of Crozier's field notes when the man calls and he looks up, worried at first, until -
Following the line of Crozier's arm he blinks up at the feature they called mountain when they first arrived here. But now, with plumes erupting from the top, he stares, awed by the look of it. A volcano. Just like Ross and Crozier both expected it to be.
"It is an excellent send off for Camp Aether, sir," he says quietly, astonished, coming to stand beside the captain and watch in wonder, elbows knocking though not intentionally. His body knows a comfortable familiarity that, while focused on the horizon, forgets its propriety.
"Even so cold and it's capable of this." A gesture, a childlike wonder that makes him want to move closer, as though he could climb it in the distance and look down to whatever fiery belly lies within.
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He could kiss him, out here under the white sky, watching the eruption. Jamie, too, who even at this distance Crozier can tell has practically split his face open with a smile. Of course it's a volcano, it was shaped like one, but of course, because James Clark Ross called it Erebus, it's alive. Breathing smoke, belching fire, like the living nightmare his ship is called after. Mount Terror, he suspects, purely for thematic consistency, will sleep silent and watching, like any proper lurking horror.
"We're the same distance from the heart of the Earth as Hawai'i," he says, because i triple checked and in fact it was called the kingdom of hawai'i and hickey is just that eurocentric. "Or thereabouts. Something inside this rock we live on is as volatile as blood."
Alive, in a way.
It's frightening, and it's beautiful, and it's going to put their departure back to the barest minute, because this all must be recorded. Crozier nudges Jopson with his elbow, shoots him a brief, pleased look, and then he's off, hurrying over to Ross so that they can get to work. Reactions are scattered: fear, wonder, some who've seen others go in different places in the world are pretending they aren't impressed. It'll be drawn from every angle, even by men with no artistic talent, just for fodder to remember it by. The shape of the plumes, the weight of the ash clouds, the tempo of it, the exact time.
Smoke goes from black to white over the course of their recording, and then their leaving. Far enough away that the strange smell of it doesn't touch them four hours after, but close enough that they'll be able to scour the shoreline for debris to collect. He and Ross and the surgeons talk until the last second about the timing of marine life moving about before it blew, animated. It doesn't properly hit him until he's helping shove Jamie's gig off the rocky outcropping.
Well, goodbye for now, he supposes. They stare at each other.
"I'll just throw my report over in a bottle," is as good a parting as anything.
Always a little heartache. Ross watches him for the perfect amount of time, looking away the second before it becomes strange for anyone to observe, and Crozier turns to oversee the last of everything.
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Even wonder passes, though, and he stands just behind Crozier as Ross' gig shoves off and he gives the man and small, respectful nod. It's a terrible, lonely game they all play, but however brief, it meant something.
It's later that they shove off and make it back to Terror. The crew aboard are brimming with chatter and excitement at seeing the volcanic activity out at sea, at having their captain and crewmen back. It's a celebration belowdecks, the men drinking and singing and telling stories of their tough but fruitful time on the ice. Jopson observes quietly from a back corner, shoveling food into his mouth with a speed that should be inhuman. Eats, tidies his mess, prepares Crozier's meal, takes it along with him up to the great cabin.
Strange that they're surrounded by fine, old wood and shelves of books and frosty windows. The canvas tent walls felt more like home than this does now, but that will wear off in time. It has to. He steps inside after a knock, nodding his head to his Captain.
"Sir. I've brought your supper."
Sat on the table for him, a half finger of whiskey poured into a glass for him. Something sharp but warm, and a glass of cool, clean water to chase it.
"The men are below forging their tale of Mount Erebus, who saw what first and when. I believe they're scheming on names for the next great volcano we find in your studies."
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"Jopson."
Crozier looks over his shoulder to greet him. Putting booklets of maps and notes away, volumes crammed into shelves (normal ones, not the ones he's ignoring in his head). Organizational work a steward can't do, this is all his research notes, kept orderly for the surgeons and his own perusal. A few left out for the writing he still has to do, and the pile of all the other reports of business aboard that he's missed. Lieutenant Kay's presence is a recent thing, an extra chair still askew at the corner of the table.
"Anything fanciful, or just rude words?"
Amused. Tired, but amused. He likes all of these sailors.
"I think Mr Harper was at sea in the Orient when Tambora went." A beat, consideration as he turns all the way around, nods his thanks for supper. "What year were you born? After the sky changed?"
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"Some rude, some named for the girls waiting for them on land. All pleasantly uninspired. One wished to name the next after the family's hound - Eustace, sir. It's sure to win favor with all commanders."
A little wry. There are many things they've both had to pack away on the proverbial shelves but Jopson feels more at ease in this cabin than he had when they'd shipped off to the ice. A funny thing, being seen - a beautiful thing, even if they must pack it away, too.
He looks up from tidying the library shelves, over his shoulder at the man. "1816, sir. Tambora was before me, I'm afraid."
Books all tidied and lined up, he turns round fully to look at his captain, brows pinched as he thinks on his question before he speaks. He's asked plenty of foolish questions in the last week or so, why not one more?
"Did the sky actually change that year, sir? I find it difficult to discern when a sailor's tales are made from half truths. As any tale about sea life should be, I suppose."
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Justice for Eustace the hound. But—
1816. It should make him feel old, but he just feels fond. Maybe it shows on his face, even as his fingertips find the edge of his dinner plate, the fine ceramics that have held up despite the inevitable churn of sailing. We are still civilized men, the deck officer had told him on his first ship, when he asked why everything's not just tin or wood. The man meant well; Francis had meant why there was a division between what the men before and behind the mast ate off of.
Anyway. He thinks of these things, from time to time.
"You were born for winter," he muses. "No summer in 1816, thanks to Tambora. And they sky did change. Still is different, by my reckoning. The shade of blue seems near enough by now with years gone by, but not sunset. Never so red before, like something bleeding. And now it's ordinary. It makes me think of Homer. He calls the sea wine-colored. I wonder what changed in the Earth. Was it the light? The sea?"
He shrugs, and his expression is self-deprecating. Aware he's being a bit whimsical. Talk of ancient poetry.
"We may yet experience something else that changes the world that way. For surely it'll happen again, and again, this odd rock growing day by day the same as we are. But that's all—" he gestures, dismissive. "Did you eat anything, or did you mime at doing so?"
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Perhaps it was her way of telling the story - the first year of his life with a cold, changed sky. Their business did well that year, another story his father tells him. Colder weather means more layers, and more layers means more work. Cold, work, money. Ironic, then, that he's found himself on an polar expedition.
Thomas' expression warms as Crozier takes a turn for whimsy, an unstoppable fondness welling in his chest.
"Yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure… I often wonder if the waves we look on are the same of Homer and those before us? That it might well be us who changed while the sea in all this time remains constant."
But ah, the food. Yes. He straightens a little.
"I always eat, sir. Foolish not to in cold like this. Which - your food is getting cold, sir."
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And—
Well, that should shame him a bit, shouldn't it. But once again it just makes him feel fond. He didn't know Jopson when he was a child, and even though he's called him boy, there's a stark difference between things whispered in heated moments and actual children. When he imagines him, it's in a context of the past as he knows it, even though it would be awfully old fashioned (and awfully Irish) for a Londoner twenty years his junior.
In any event it brings him 'round to the feelings he's packed away. How much experience does Jopson have, doing that same thing? Different shapes than chores and duties. He's smiling, listening to that quote. The same waves, surely. They're under the same stars.
"A pity two ways, because if you hadn't eaten I'd be wasting less of your time," he says as he pulls the chair back, making ready to sit. "As it stands: why don't you pick a book that looks interesting and find something out of it, then sit right there where Kay's left the chair wrong."
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"You're not wasting my time, sir," he says as he slowly moves to the book shelf as he'd been told to do. A small part of him can't help but wonder what kind of test he's being put up to - does the book matter? Does the passage matter? And why, of all chairs, does he point out the one that's wrong?
Jopson skims the titles all the while heat flushes over his throat, his heart rate picking up. Were he out in the woods with a gun, facing down a bear, he'd be less concerned. But here in the great cabin, under no threat or danger, he feels his heart flutter uneasily in his chest.
He finally decides on a book with an elegant, navy binding with gold leaf accents. A book on myth and legends. A surprise, but he slowly moves to the chair left askew and settles down into it. The book seems untouched - maybe even new - the cover smooth, glossy with its pages uncreased. He opens it reverently, careful not to crack the spine, running fingers along the soft pages. It smells of ink and paper, much like the little book store that was a few blocks up into the square from his home.
"What would you have me do, Captain?"
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Crozier sits down, gets a look at dinner. Keeping track of what's being used, and trying to assess the morale of the kitchen from afar, like reading tea leaves. Half pointless, half accurate. But calm waters for a week after a storm, time to fish, time for what leisure there was on board, must be as good as any tonic.
Fork in hand, he considers Jopson after he considers the food. He looks apprehensive, and a more insecure man might immediately begin second-guessing everything. Francis is too steady for any of that, though, and just finds it funny that the young man is shy now, after a week of sleeping tangled together, including a memorable evening in which he spent between his arsecheeks and had yet more fed to him on Jamie's fingers. Books, though. Who knows what might go wrong. Or perhaps it's just that they aren't in the dark.
"Read something," he says. "Out loud if you fancy humoring me, but just your company is more than fine."
They had been on a certain path, before the flogging. Testing each other, carefully, gently. A little teasing, a little curious, a little sincere. Crozier wonders at it, and where it'll head now.
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