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.
The heat reaches his cheeks, though fainter than a moment before, if only because he feels a little foolish now. Company. Reading. Just like the time they sat in the quiet of the tent while Jamie rested. Unfamiliar territory, this. Resting together in the dark sharing kisses and touches feels less terrifying than this, and for that he feels like a fool. It's unfamiliar territory, but not unwelcome.
He pages through the book, finding a chapter on Greek culture and myth. It takes a moment of skimming ahead before he starts reading, from the first true mythology (the creation story, of course) to the modern interpretations. So much of it, despite being from another country and pantheon altogether, tries to tie the fantastical stories into any good Christian faith. But he appreciates that it has retellings of the myths, at the very least.
Jopson stumbles over a word or two, especially over anything that's transcribed from the Greek. Never once in his life has he claimed to be any kind of skilled orator and it shows here, reading aloud to his Captain while he has his supper. He apologizes and softly clears his throat each time his tongue tangles up in his mouth.
Finally, at a break in the page: "I did not realize so many of these stories have correlating constellations. You're the first commander I've met that seems interested in the stars and the world around us for more than just business. Is that why your library has books like this, sir?"
Jamie might know better about how to make him feel at ease, but then again, Jamie might just laugh at him, say something like Your charms worked on me without any help at all, old man.
Crozier eats dinner, downs the whiskey (he's always handled it fine, has to drink twice as much as the next man to feel anything), and makes thoughtful sounds now and then. Doesn't correct Jopson when he struggles on this word or that, though he does remark that he has a history of butchering the names, himself. At least to more formally learned ears.
He doesn't rush it. In no hurry to waste the minutes stolen, and the food is fine. He sips water, conducts a very slow execution for the last portion of the meal.
"'Just business' would be a bitter and tragic end in the Discovery Service," he laments. Foreshadowing is a narrative device. "Those stories are how we know the stars at all. I've never felt it was a complete understanding to just know the mathematics. Not as though there's some personality to a star, we feel things, and tides change, and it's worthwhile to know the contexts of the history of watching them, and not just... the watching."
Jopson carefully closes the book, but not before marking his page with the fine ribbon attached to its spine. He thinks perhaps this could become a routine, a shared ritual of sorts at mealtimes and the thought warms him. An intimate thing to be shared that, from outside of this room, would seem simply a steward doing the duty he's told to. No one needs to know much else.
"I agree with you, sir. In the time I've worked at your side I've learned more about the history of what we do out here in the cold and it has made it even more worthwhile."
Genuine, earnest, because a world where he is allowed to bask in the warmth of Crozier's curiosity is a fine one. This last mission will always be special for the many things he learned from it.
"I like the idea that the stars we follow could be gods or those put there for safeguarding. Sailors have their own tales of course, but there's something beautiful about these older stories, their origins."
He smooths his hand over the book with its fine leatherbound cover. Yes, he'll place this book aside so they may continue reading from time to time in these quiet moments together.
"Though I think Mount Erebus and the future Mount Eustace will be heavy on the men's minds for some time."
"We're still them," he says, with a nod at the book. "Just shuffled around."
Crozier doesn't believe in those old gods any more than he believes in the singular one that's fashionable these days, but they're interesting. More avenues for interest overall— their diversity of ethics and goals, their entanglement with mortal humankind. It no doubt made sailors and astronomers see things different. Though he knows, personally, if the circumstances were flipped, if the God of Abraham was king in the ancient world and they were meant to worship a grand pantheon today, he would find things just as uncompelling.
Things he should not ramble on to Jopson about, no matter that listening to him read it all is compelling. He'll bore the poor boy half the death.
A half-chuckle, then, about volcanoes.
"It'll be on my mind as well. I've seen a few go, but the fear and beauty of it has never waned. I hope it never does."
"It was remarkable. I've read about them, of course, but seeing it myself? It doesn't compare."
Terrifying, awe-inspiring, beautiful. Strange to think what their little rock can do and the things that can be seen when out at sea. Never would young Thomas, the son of a tailor, think that he would be out on the sea watching a volcano come to life underfoot. He'd never expect he'd find some kind of kindred spirit out here, too - the dark of the tent and the warm press of two men, a pleasant and safe point in time he's not soon to forget.
Standing, he tucks the chair back into its place and rounds the table to set the book on Crozier's desk. No one will think to borrow a tome from the desk of their commander, so it seems as safe a place as any. Staring down at the cover, the desk littered with papers and things his captain has to catch up on, he considers the carefully folded page in his inner coat pocket, burning and heavy now that he's given thought to it again.
"I have something for you, Captain," he says quietly, a hint of nerves behind it. "It is nothing like your work or Commander Ross', but I had no assigned tasks at the time of Mount Erebus' eruption..."
Approaching Crozier's side, he draws out the page and on it the drawing he'd sat in the cold with. Crozier and Ross, shoulder to shoulder, the volcano in the distance. It's not a terrible drawing, but couldn't hold a candle to the naturalists and surgeons who have perfected their craft for documentation.
"It isn't much, sir. But it is how I will remember Mount Erebus, best. I'd like for you to have it."
And at the bottom of the page - The Eruption of Mount Erebus, from Camp Aether - 1841.
For the life of him, Crozier can't begin to guess what Jopson might give him. It catches him off guard, this offer, and Jopson's obvious shyness over it, and he finds himself sitting and waiting like a child being offered a surprise. So unbearably curious, but because of what it will reveal about the young man.
And then it's there, presented to him, and he feels like Jopson's slid in with a lovely, pleasant knife somewhere between his ribs. A soft defenseless part of him skewered on it, that leaves him speechless for a moment. The artistic merit is negligible, he's got a poor eye for it anyway and so it looks perfectly alright. Perfectly recognizable, and perfectly unique to Jopson's hand, and Jopson's perspective, and Jopson's intent.
Him and Jamie, and the camp that Thomas named.
Francis is unable to say anything at first, which probably seems rude. But he's caught around the throat about it. When he looks up at his steward finally, he's unaware of how open and bare he looks. Almost boyish, so touched by it. A heartbeat, then another, before he musters a response, which is in a tone that's oddly rough in contrast with the expression on his face. Still caught.
"You sell yourself far too short."
It isn't much? Laughable.
"Thank you."
The bells go for shift changes. They must move on. But in a moment still, just another moment.
Easier to look at the drawing and the way Crozier holds it, at first, instead of trying to search the man's expression for any signs of approval. Eventually he looks up, because he has to, and the openness there surprises him. Jopson hasn't any idea when Ross and Crozier first met and tangled themselves in one another but he can see the warmth and light in him from the younger man he was and understands.
An older man before him, but the curious and fiery spirit of a younger sailor wrapped up within.
"I wanted to capture the moment, sir. In many ways it seemed significant enough to mark."
Thomas smiles, finally, pleased that Crozier likes it, that he understands the heart behind the piece. He doesn't think he'll put his hand to the page again after this, but he'd felt drawn to it in the moment. A picture of two men who, even out on the ice far from civilization, belong together.
The bell goes and he knows he must as well - things to do, duties to tend to. But he reaches out with a hand, tips of his fingers tipping Crozier's chin up so that he may bend and kiss him, chaste and sweet. A quiet, simple promise in it all - that he will hold those days close, and that he will care for those two men as much as it is within his power to do so.
"I'll return within the hour to prepare your berth for the evening, Captain."
Crozier has a number of private mementos concerning Ross, most of them obscure, recognizable only to him as though made with some secret code. This will not be one, not truly. It's a memento concerning Thomas Jopson. That it overlaps with a man he's loved for two decades is— not coincidental, nor irrelevant, but secondary. Just makes it better, in his estimation. He doesn't feel lucky very often, just gets on with things without thinking about all that nonsense, but he does now.
A voyage of true exploration, their volcano, and this young man.
And to think he gets paid for all this as well. Can anyone blame him for putting off things that go on ashore, when life can be like this, out in the wilds? He tips up into that chaste kiss, accepting it. When Jopson withdraws, he just touches his elbow lightly, once, a silent extra Thank you, a small touch to offer continuation of the simple intimacy of it.
"Ancient gods willing I'll be here for it," is a bit of a joke to follow up. Business on deck to see to once he's done writing. Over the next few weeks they will decide if they can post up within the ice to winter, or if they should withdraw to the islands, and they will need to plot a course as best they can.
The bell tolls, the shift changes, Jopson slips out of the great cabin and disappears belowdecks. Cleaning to do, some inventory, some laundry. There are plenty of repairs to make after a few weeks on the ice that he needs to get to sooner rather than later. Crozier wears clothes as they're meant to be - for work, utilitarian and practical. Not for show or looks. But it hadn't been difficult to see the difference in the wear and quality of Ross' coat, comparatively.
The hour comes and there's noise about the ship still as Crozier wanders through the crew. The men are pleased their captain is back aboard, of course, and eagerly await what their next port of call might be.
Jopson doesn't worry himself with such things - he will go where their Captain takes them, without question or complaint. The next time Crozier returns to the great cabin and his berth, he's already folded his bedclothes back, warmed the foot with two coal pans, started up a steaming cup of hot water with lemon and honey, particularly since he's been wandering abovedeck as well.
Folded on the table is the man's nightshirt as well, all things prepared, vigilant as ever.
"Sir? I've made you something warm to chase off the cold, if you'd like. Mr Hooker says we may see colder temperatures for a few days with the winds picking up."
"Mr Hooker will make an adequate seaman yet if he keeps it up," is easy banter. He likes the kid, he's just funny. "But it'll start to bite out there. Watch your eyes above."
Grit at the corners freeze, cut into soft tissue. Not any fun. Crozier is chilly, it's true, but warm enough now below, even while still shaking life back into his hands. Hasn't quite managed to get them warm again after building the observation hut at camp; normally he finds himself a bit ashamed at the lopsided luxury of heating pans, but tonight he's grateful, and will probably stick his hands there as soon as Jopson's gone.
Which is a hitch in several ways. He's in no hurry to see him gone.
Holding the warm cup will do for now.
"All's well?" Eyebrows, over taking a sip. He's asked him this before; tone of voice is pitched halfway towards the dark of the tent. As much asking casually as he is asking him how he is.
Jopson takes to tidying the little tea station, the papers on Crozier’s desk, the table - righting all things put askew both in their absence and in their work. There’s plenty to do on the ship to catch up, details missed and small tasks overlooked.
“Mm, quite a bit of catching up to do but nothing that will set my dailies back, sir.”
The knee jerk response always focused on the work. It’s what he knows best, after all. But the tone draws his eye and he levels their gazes. Offers a small smile.
“Oh. All’s well. Are you warm enough?”
An eye for the coloring of Crozier’s fingers. He’ll keep watch a few minutes longer, bring him something warmer if the need arises. Out of all things ordinary, he moves to take up a chair at the table, cornered to Crozier. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t stand and wait to be told what to do. Instead decides (uncomfortably) to take up some space. Nothing like the nearness of the tent.
His fingers are the correct color; the chill is set deeper, some internal thing that's slower to warm, but it'll happen with patience. At least it's not his toes, a fate he finds somehow more disturbing despite the overall much higher value of fingers. And so he nods about being warm enough, sips more of the hot water, and watches as Jopson situates himself. He recalls early days, the young man standing to one side, watchful waiting. Probably for this very thing, to do his work unimpeded by his obstinate charge.
Relentless. It makes him smile into the cup.
"I think those might be welded on by now," he muses, mild enough that it could be a demure warning about the state of his feet (it isn't), or playing around (it's this). Not uncomfortable about the overlap in positioning— it is what it is, in these odd sized cabins, even the captain's being a narrow strip of a glorified closet, smaller than servant quarters on land.
Welded or not, he does relent, reaching to work on the cinch buckles. Really wedged in there, but Jopson'll be familiar with his habit of nearly too many layers of socks and wraps. Staunchly opposed to trench foot and blisters alike.
“Ah, I see. Wise to have the boilersmith weld them for you then. I’ll wager you’ll have the most attractive feet in the fleet.”
Playing around accepted and volleyed, even as he reaches to assist with the buckle until it’s loose. Easier to do from the floor than his chair and so he does eventually slip down to a knee, gently tugging one boot off and then starting at the other.
“I’ve some fresh socks set out for you - should I call for a new weld as well?”
A small smile and soon enough he’s starting on the layers - the wraps first, taking his time with it. Once the wrap comes off, he presses his fingers into the muscle of Crozier’s calf, thumbs following the front of his shin, to his ankles, the sole of his foot. Follows this pattern with every layer that comes off, one by one, encouraging blood flow beneath the skin to warm him further. He’s quiet as he works, the pleasant intimacy of his job satisfying - he enjoys making sure the Captain is well cared for.
“Perhaps tomorrow we may read at supper again, if time allows. I enjoyed it very much, sir.”
"Reckon seal flippers would be handsome at all, or just practical?"
He would never ask for the kind of attention Jopson is paying him now, not from him or any steward — indeed, it would be a boundary violated to ask for such intimacy. Captain Parry despaired dreadfully one year about feeling like a libertine when he was made to soak his feet and have them worked over, embarrassed, but it was necessary to prevent the black frost from taking over. Crozier had pointed out he'd be less burdened by it if he'd quietly let Mr Arder handle it instead of forcing the entire number of his lieutenants to hold him down for his own health. Parry had not liked that reasoning much, but could not in fact argue.
Very different, this. Jopson slides his touch over him, and Crozier lets one hand drift from the cup to the young man's shoulder, just lightly, not interfering but merely keeping him company in the circuit of emotion they've made. Silently appreciative.
"I'd like that," he says. "I'm happy we've found each other's company so agreeable."
A comically polite thing to say about what all they've been up to. But he does mean it.
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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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The heat reaches his cheeks, though fainter than a moment before, if only because he feels a little foolish now. Company. Reading. Just like the time they sat in the quiet of the tent while Jamie rested. Unfamiliar territory, this. Resting together in the dark sharing kisses and touches feels less terrifying than this, and for that he feels like a fool. It's unfamiliar territory, but not unwelcome.
He pages through the book, finding a chapter on Greek culture and myth. It takes a moment of skimming ahead before he starts reading, from the first true mythology (the creation story, of course) to the modern interpretations. So much of it, despite being from another country and pantheon altogether, tries to tie the fantastical stories into any good Christian faith. But he appreciates that it has retellings of the myths, at the very least.
Jopson stumbles over a word or two, especially over anything that's transcribed from the Greek. Never once in his life has he claimed to be any kind of skilled orator and it shows here, reading aloud to his Captain while he has his supper. He apologizes and softly clears his throat each time his tongue tangles up in his mouth.
Finally, at a break in the page: "I did not realize so many of these stories have correlating constellations. You're the first commander I've met that seems interested in the stars and the world around us for more than just business. Is that why your library has books like this, sir?"
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Crozier eats dinner, downs the whiskey (he's always handled it fine, has to drink twice as much as the next man to feel anything), and makes thoughtful sounds now and then. Doesn't correct Jopson when he struggles on this word or that, though he does remark that he has a history of butchering the names, himself. At least to more formally learned ears.
He doesn't rush it. In no hurry to waste the minutes stolen, and the food is fine. He sips water, conducts a very slow execution for the last portion of the meal.
"'Just business' would be a bitter and tragic end in the Discovery Service," he laments. Foreshadowing is a narrative device. "Those stories are how we know the stars at all. I've never felt it was a complete understanding to just know the mathematics. Not as though there's some personality to a star, we feel things, and tides change, and it's worthwhile to know the contexts of the history of watching them, and not just... the watching."
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"I agree with you, sir. In the time I've worked at your side I've learned more about the history of what we do out here in the cold and it has made it even more worthwhile."
Genuine, earnest, because a world where he is allowed to bask in the warmth of Crozier's curiosity is a fine one. This last mission will always be special for the many things he learned from it.
"I like the idea that the stars we follow could be gods or those put there for safeguarding. Sailors have their own tales of course, but there's something beautiful about these older stories, their origins."
He smooths his hand over the book with its fine leatherbound cover. Yes, he'll place this book aside so they may continue reading from time to time in these quiet moments together.
"Though I think Mount Erebus and the future Mount Eustace will be heavy on the men's minds for some time."
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Crozier doesn't believe in those old gods any more than he believes in the singular one that's fashionable these days, but they're interesting. More avenues for interest overall— their diversity of ethics and goals, their entanglement with mortal humankind. It no doubt made sailors and astronomers see things different. Though he knows, personally, if the circumstances were flipped, if the God of Abraham was king in the ancient world and they were meant to worship a grand pantheon today, he would find things just as uncompelling.
Things he should not ramble on to Jopson about, no matter that listening to him read it all is compelling. He'll bore the poor boy half the death.
A half-chuckle, then, about volcanoes.
"It'll be on my mind as well. I've seen a few go, but the fear and beauty of it has never waned. I hope it never does."
No matter how much paperwork it comes with.
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Terrifying, awe-inspiring, beautiful. Strange to think what their little rock can do and the things that can be seen when out at sea. Never would young Thomas, the son of a tailor, think that he would be out on the sea watching a volcano come to life underfoot. He'd never expect he'd find some kind of kindred spirit out here, too - the dark of the tent and the warm press of two men, a pleasant and safe point in time he's not soon to forget.
Standing, he tucks the chair back into its place and rounds the table to set the book on Crozier's desk. No one will think to borrow a tome from the desk of their commander, so it seems as safe a place as any. Staring down at the cover, the desk littered with papers and things his captain has to catch up on, he considers the carefully folded page in his inner coat pocket, burning and heavy now that he's given thought to it again.
"I have something for you, Captain," he says quietly, a hint of nerves behind it. "It is nothing like your work or Commander Ross', but I had no assigned tasks at the time of Mount Erebus' eruption..."
Approaching Crozier's side, he draws out the page and on it the drawing he'd sat in the cold with. Crozier and Ross, shoulder to shoulder, the volcano in the distance. It's not a terrible drawing, but couldn't hold a candle to the naturalists and surgeons who have perfected their craft for documentation.
"It isn't much, sir. But it is how I will remember Mount Erebus, best. I'd like for you to have it."
And at the bottom of the page - The Eruption of Mount Erebus, from Camp Aether - 1841.
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And then it's there, presented to him, and he feels like Jopson's slid in with a lovely, pleasant knife somewhere between his ribs. A soft defenseless part of him skewered on it, that leaves him speechless for a moment. The artistic merit is negligible, he's got a poor eye for it anyway and so it looks perfectly alright. Perfectly recognizable, and perfectly unique to Jopson's hand, and Jopson's perspective, and Jopson's intent.
Him and Jamie, and the camp that Thomas named.
Francis is unable to say anything at first, which probably seems rude. But he's caught around the throat about it. When he looks up at his steward finally, he's unaware of how open and bare he looks. Almost boyish, so touched by it. A heartbeat, then another, before he musters a response, which is in a tone that's oddly rough in contrast with the expression on his face. Still caught.
"You sell yourself far too short."
It isn't much? Laughable.
"Thank you."
The bells go for shift changes. They must move on. But in a moment still, just another moment.
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An older man before him, but the curious and fiery spirit of a younger sailor wrapped up within.
"I wanted to capture the moment, sir. In many ways it seemed significant enough to mark."
Thomas smiles, finally, pleased that Crozier likes it, that he understands the heart behind the piece. He doesn't think he'll put his hand to the page again after this, but he'd felt drawn to it in the moment. A picture of two men who, even out on the ice far from civilization, belong together.
The bell goes and he knows he must as well - things to do, duties to tend to. But he reaches out with a hand, tips of his fingers tipping Crozier's chin up so that he may bend and kiss him, chaste and sweet. A quiet, simple promise in it all - that he will hold those days close, and that he will care for those two men as much as it is within his power to do so.
"I'll return within the hour to prepare your berth for the evening, Captain."
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A voyage of true exploration, their volcano, and this young man.
And to think he gets paid for all this as well. Can anyone blame him for putting off things that go on ashore, when life can be like this, out in the wilds? He tips up into that chaste kiss, accepting it. When Jopson withdraws, he just touches his elbow lightly, once, a silent extra Thank you, a small touch to offer continuation of the simple intimacy of it.
"Ancient gods willing I'll be here for it," is a bit of a joke to follow up. Business on deck to see to once he's done writing. Over the next few weeks they will decide if they can post up within the ice to winter, or if they should withdraw to the islands, and they will need to plot a course as best they can.
What's ahead? Could be anything.
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The hour comes and there's noise about the ship still as Crozier wanders through the crew. The men are pleased their captain is back aboard, of course, and eagerly await what their next port of call might be.
Jopson doesn't worry himself with such things - he will go where their Captain takes them, without question or complaint. The next time Crozier returns to the great cabin and his berth, he's already folded his bedclothes back, warmed the foot with two coal pans, started up a steaming cup of hot water with lemon and honey, particularly since he's been wandering abovedeck as well.
Folded on the table is the man's nightshirt as well, all things prepared, vigilant as ever.
"Sir? I've made you something warm to chase off the cold, if you'd like. Mr Hooker says we may see colder temperatures for a few days with the winds picking up."
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Grit at the corners freeze, cut into soft tissue. Not any fun. Crozier is chilly, it's true, but warm enough now below, even while still shaking life back into his hands. Hasn't quite managed to get them warm again after building the observation hut at camp; normally he finds himself a bit ashamed at the lopsided luxury of heating pans, but tonight he's grateful, and will probably stick his hands there as soon as Jopson's gone.
Which is a hitch in several ways. He's in no hurry to see him gone.
Holding the warm cup will do for now.
"All's well?" Eyebrows, over taking a sip. He's asked him this before; tone of voice is pitched halfway towards the dark of the tent. As much asking casually as he is asking him how he is.
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“Mm, quite a bit of catching up to do but nothing that will set my dailies back, sir.”
The knee jerk response always focused on the work. It’s what he knows best, after all. But the tone draws his eye and he levels their gazes. Offers a small smile.
“Oh. All’s well. Are you warm enough?”
An eye for the coloring of Crozier’s fingers. He’ll keep watch a few minutes longer, bring him something warmer if the need arises. Out of all things ordinary, he moves to take up a chair at the table, cornered to Crozier. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t stand and wait to be told what to do. Instead decides (uncomfortably) to take up some space. Nothing like the nearness of the tent.
“Let me help you with your boots first, sir.”
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Relentless. It makes him smile into the cup.
"I think those might be welded on by now," he muses, mild enough that it could be a demure warning about the state of his feet (it isn't), or playing around (it's this). Not uncomfortable about the overlap in positioning— it is what it is, in these odd sized cabins, even the captain's being a narrow strip of a glorified closet, smaller than servant quarters on land.
Welded or not, he does relent, reaching to work on the cinch buckles. Really wedged in there, but Jopson'll be familiar with his habit of nearly too many layers of socks and wraps. Staunchly opposed to trench foot and blisters alike.
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Playing around accepted and volleyed, even as he reaches to assist with the buckle until it’s loose. Easier to do from the floor than his chair and so he does eventually slip down to a knee, gently tugging one boot off and then starting at the other.
“I’ve some fresh socks set out for you - should I call for a new weld as well?”
A small smile and soon enough he’s starting on the layers - the wraps first, taking his time with it. Once the wrap comes off, he presses his fingers into the muscle of Crozier’s calf, thumbs following the front of his shin, to his ankles, the sole of his foot. Follows this pattern with every layer that comes off, one by one, encouraging blood flow beneath the skin to warm him further. He’s quiet as he works, the pleasant intimacy of his job satisfying - he enjoys making sure the Captain is well cared for.
“Perhaps tomorrow we may read at supper again, if time allows. I enjoyed it very much, sir.”
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He would never ask for the kind of attention Jopson is paying him now, not from him or any steward — indeed, it would be a boundary violated to ask for such intimacy. Captain Parry despaired dreadfully one year about feeling like a libertine when he was made to soak his feet and have them worked over, embarrassed, but it was necessary to prevent the black frost from taking over. Crozier had pointed out he'd be less burdened by it if he'd quietly let Mr Arder handle it instead of forcing the entire number of his lieutenants to hold him down for his own health. Parry had not liked that reasoning much, but could not in fact argue.
Very different, this. Jopson slides his touch over him, and Crozier lets one hand drift from the cup to the young man's shoulder, just lightly, not interfering but merely keeping him company in the circuit of emotion they've made. Silently appreciative.
"I'd like that," he says. "I'm happy we've found each other's company so agreeable."
A comically polite thing to say about what all they've been up to. But he does mean it.
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