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.
"Mm, I think they would be the star. Far better than the regulation boots, sir. You might be onto something."
A small smile, though he doesn't look up from his work, taking his time removing each sock and rubbing warmth back into Crozier's feet and ankles. He'd be detailed, of course, before, but he wouldn't have taken this time - thumbs seeking out the tense points in his Achilles tendon, through the arch of his foot. The next foot is much the same, careful working of tired muscles and tendons until every layer is peeled away.
Always focused on his work he rises, careful to gently shrug Crozier's touch away so that he may fetch the warming socks from the other room. He returns moments later, settling back down on a knee to begin pulling them on. The wool has been warmed on the hot pans, to help chase away some of the chill of the air.
"I'm happy as well. It... it was unexpected, but I am glad for it. It also means I can be more meticulous in my care for you as well, sir."
Jopson smiles up at him, releasing his foot finally. A tiny part of him wants to simply lean and rest his head in this man's lap, soak in his warmth and the quiet of the great cabin. Let his eyes close and take it all in. Instead, he squeezes the man's knee and returns to his seat.
"Or... ah, relentless, I believe you called it. Not meticulous."
A word that has a hint of a sting to it as much as it does fondness.
Such an odd young man. Sweet, competent, clever, but odd. Crozier doesn't mind at all, he's just curious about the single-minded purpose that drives him.
"You don't like 'relentless'?"
A query as he contemplates the idea of being cared for meticulously. (Relentlessly.) He was minded well enough as a child, but never spoiled or attended to with more attention than was necessary. With so many children it was only sensible that the parenting was a split duty between the older ones, and that each were expected to be self-sufficient as soon as possible. He has never lived with a servant, and has only ever availed himself of the basics in any boarding houses. Dropping off laundry, saying thank-you for supper. It brings to mind the kind of care that some men expect of their wives, but even that, he struggles to conceptualize. Attempting to imagine Sophia putting warm socks on him doesn't work at all.
"I mean it only fondly. There is strength to you."
Relentless feels like something that never stops and in a way, it's certainly how he works, how he thinks. No doubt that other Stewards would think him strange for all he's willing to do and the many things he keeps careful tabs on. He enjoys the puzzle of it, enjoys keeping busy, providing care for his captain above anything else. Especially now that he can show his care more openly, that he can give way to the softer side of that very same dogged determination.
"Or the day it is, I trust you will tell me, sir."
He smiles, reaches for the kettle he's left to pour Crozier more warm water. If he doesn't drink it, no terrible loss as it will go cold and be of fine use in the morning.
"The strength is a must in this work, I'm afraid. There is no telling what I would be up to had I not won you over in the end with all this. I might while away my hours thinking of names like Eustace for a volcano. Or perhaps worse. I suppose I might be rowing behind both of the ships, too. Are you ready to dress for the evening, Captain?"
"The very opposite. Mm, I suppose I'll try and find my voice, otherwise."
Because he's been so demure telling Jopson how he feels about his work so far, be it shutting doors in his face or pulling him down into a cot with him. Hm. He sips some warm water, and then slides the cup to Jopson, indicating he'd like him to drink some, too. Warm up a little. Even if he does take time for himself later, he can take some time now, too, for just a moment.
"I could have done flags to communicate," he says, about Jopson trailing behind on a dinghy. "Send you baskets of dinner and darning—"
Crozier's hilarious. (No.)
"I like you better here. Relentless and meticulous and all. And I suppose I am, though I've been enjoying keeping you overlong."
"Baskets of dinner and darning? I would be flattered, sir, as always."
A small smile, and when the cup comes his way he takes a long drink from it. He can already tell Crozier won't finish it and he can't help but chase the honey and citrus, always pleased by such a simple thing. The night Crozier stood watch, Ross teased him for it - the little pot of honey. Promised to have more sent to him, on the condition he took it for himself instead of giving it over to Crozier or anyone else.
A pleasant night. One made up of tangled limbs and whispers. A pang, suddenly - would this cabin were a canvas tent, instead.
"And there is no such thing as overlong. At the very least let me see you put to bed. I can always pull the chair in for a little while after."
They know it fits, even if it's a little cramped. He doesn't want to say goodbye, doesn't want to leave Crozier in his berth and return to his own, what feels like worlds apart on the ship. He rises and starts to the berth where it's warmer, the coal pans doing something to keep the air warm as well as the man's bed. A tighter fit, but an easier place to see the man undressed in the cold of the cabin.
Wherever the man ends up, Thomas doesn't wait to start - reaching for the collar of his vest and shirtsleeves.
"It was so quiet ashore, I near forgot how lively Terror is each night."
In the berth, in his socks, Crozier thinks about Jamie; all the times they've said goodbye, all the letters they've passed that they've burned after. He thinks of the sketch Jopson gave him (tucked in his journal, along with pressed flowers from his closest sister, and faded opera ticket stubs from a paramour no longer living). Surreal to be so aware of his own happiness. Parting and distance are prices paid for it, and he can afford it. More than worth the cost.
Happy, comfortable, but still there's a measure of reluctance in his body language even as he stands still and permits Jopson to begin undressing him. Something else he's had to learn to endure with dignity, and something he pitched in with ashore. All the quicker to get everyone tucked into bed. It must be obvious why he feels hesitation, but in case Jopson is not actually telepathic—
"It was a welcome change of pace, and I will miss it."
He is already missing it, and is in no hurry to let the night catch up with them now that it's over. Not maudlin about it, like anything else he'll just be getting on with it, but what harm is there lingering? He lets one hand rest at Jopson's side; as usual, not restricting his movement, just touching him lightly.
Fondly, he adds, "Back in our noisy house with our sizeable family."
They've shared this routine on the ship for some time now and yet tonight, undoing buttons and such on Crozier's clothing feels wrong. Strange how quickly something can be replaced, but the tent was full of warmth and comfort, a closeness that can't quite be replicated here. They can't tuck in together, wrap around one another and call it safety if anyone notices.
"I will miss it, too," he murmurs, gently taking the man's shirtsleeves off of him, any underclothes to help keep him warm while they traveled from shore to ship. He takes some time with his, touches more gentle than the methodical precision from before all of this. The hand on his side will be a fixture of these moments, Jopson warming and relaxing under the touch, just enough to afford Crozier a soft smile that does something to light up his eyes.
"But here we are, back to paperwork and our very noisy, very messy family. I'm certain we'll be back in full running order by dinner tomorrow. Well, assuming the men don't drink themselves silly tonight. They were beginning a toast to Mount Erebus when I left them last."
Jopson leaves the man's trousers for a moment, if only to bridge the gap between nude and cold. The nightshirt is something he'd given a great deal of thought to when preparing the captain's evening attire. He unfolds it, disregards some of the wrinkles in the fabric - it's been slept in, pulled and tugged. He carefully reaches to place it over the man's head, helping guide his arms.
(Another fond memory - Ross struggling with the arm hole of his night shirt, the way he spoke to him with a quiet seriousness, a trust. Odd, to miss a man he wouldn't have before all of this - to know even a portion of Crozier's yearning).
"I wanted to return this to you."
Jopson, straight faced, but there's no denying the fabric has his scent on it.
Very noisy, very messy. Crozier occasionally wonders if Jopson really enjoys his position, and then will be reminded at how passionately he abhors disorder. If he were busy being a lieutenant he might go mad not having time to put things to rights as he sees fit. Ross had said that about him, that he found a steward who did not seem to be jockeying for a higher position, and didn't seem like he'd be pressing Crozier for recommendations, trying to leave on some other venture before they even set off on this one. And he supposes that's true.
Still—
"You could be toasting, too. They like you and you're welcome, I know that much."
Apart, the both of them, but differently. This line of conversation fades from his mind, though, when he realizes what shirt he's being put into. Unlike Jopson to put him into something that's not been recently laundered. Quick work of the mystery. It nearly catches his breath.
Nightshirt on, Crozier just looks at him for a moment.
When he moves, it's without comment. One hand pulls Jopson closer, a firm grip on the bite of his waist, the other holding the back of his head. He kisses him, firm and deep, claiming, almost too hard. Held back from crossing the line of almost by a painful kind of affection, one that demands fulfillment, and protection, and a rush of feeling that's as erotic as it is tender.
Thomas could join the men in the belly of the ship raising mugs and laughing, singing ridiculous songs and listening to men tell their wild traveling tales. He could. But duty and desire bring him here, instead - the satisfaction of a job well done the lure at first, but now it is the man before him in all ways.
He smooths the fabric of the shirt over Crozier's chest but isn't allowed another moment as he's pulled in by his waist. The fit of Crozier's hand in the dip of his waist and the way he moves him with ease cuts something permanent into the back of his brain, a switch flipped that may not restore itself. But his own hands stumble for purchase, one on the side of the man's neck, the other fisting into the fabric at his side.
The kiss rocks him, makes the foundation underfoot feel weak and fragile, makes the ache of yearning he felt upon leaving shore today hurt doubly worse. Would this were a tent of canvas... but it isn't. It's the captain's berth and he's kissing him and Thomas groans into the intensity of the kiss, relentlessly leaning into it, hearing Ross in the back of his mind you make him happy.
"I do not know what strange magics that slab of ice held," he says quiet and breathless against Crozier's mouth. "But I am glad we shared it, sir. The three of us."
If only it could be their eternity, their forever. They wouldn't be kissing in this berth, for one, both of them doing a miserable job of saying goodnight.
He wants to eat that groan out of Thomas' mouth, taste it, feel the indent of the backs of his teeth on his tongue. Things he can do, that he does, and he stays close enough to feel the young man's mouth moving against his when they break and he speaks. Another kiss for an answer, first.
"No magic," he promises him in a low, rough murmur. "Just honest wanting."
As rare as magic, perhaps. When Crozier kisses him yet again it's gentler, more mindful of not doing something as ludicrous as bruise his mouth. Jopson is probably intelligent enough to figure out the depth of his approval of this lewd move without him cracking teeth against his. He pets his hair, runs fingernails against his scalp, pets his tongue with his own. If he could keep him here tucked away indefinitely, he might just.
The hand at his middle slides back, becoming an arm held around him, their bodies pressed flush. Crozier strokes his ear with his thumb.
"The pain of parting is an old friend. It must be. To make an enemy of it is to go mad."
Jopson moves into him, accepting the closeness, the press of the arm around his back. It reminds him again of the tent and the way they lay tangled and tired together each evening. Here in the small space of the berth it has the same effect, the raw intimacy of it. Being held by another man, strong and sturdy, like any lovers might in the streets of London.
He chases the taste of Crozier's tongue against his own, licking hot and deep into his mouth, as though somehow he could chase breath there and they would never need to return to reality for air. Instead it's nails in his hair, a thumb on his ear, the flush of their bodies. Honest wanting, of course that's what they had. It was the root of it - but something about that time ashore will always feel like a fantasy. An impossible moment stolen out of time, or a storybook.
"I've been told I can be too sentimental at times," he murmurs, sheepish. He'd been told often as a boy that he wore his heart stitched on his sleeve - that he had to button up, toughen up. Some of the men on the ship might laugh at the thought that Jopson could be too soft, too sentimental, too gentle. No, most of the men have seen his looks in passing when he's taking stock of the cleanliness of stocks and stores, or the common areas on the ship.
"But I've no plans to go mad. No more mad than I already am I suppose, for choosing to Steward on a ship in the middle of the arctic."
He chases another kiss, sweet and wanting. "This nightshirt... it's simply a promise, Captain. That magic or not, the wanting has stayed the course."
Jopson fits against him like he's meant to be there. Feels good enough to lose himself in, even just holding him close and pressing their mouths together. He should think The only thing that would improve it is Jamie here too, but that's not strictly true; that was good, too, but one thing isn't better or worse than the other. Special, so dear, and differently important, differently good.
It's a little bit like that vulnerable thing being pierced again, when Thomas gave him his drawing.
"You're just right," he tells him, in between accepting those sweet kisses, which don't so much taste like honey as just Thomas. "Just as you are."
Not too sentimental. And Francis would tell him, probably, having little patience for genuine flightiness. Not too sentimental, not too rigid. He is himself, with all his oddities, and Francis likes that about him. Magic and all. No wonder he likes the stories that go along with the constellation.
"Your promise makes it difficult to imagine heading to sleep." A gentle squeeze around him, a bit playful, but a bit honest, too. "How am I to send you away, wrapped up in you like this?"
"I've ushered you off to bed early, so there's time," he murmurs, a little coy. A master planner in all things, but selfish in his own right. It means there's time before they part, before they hurry off to their berths and await the day. They will need to sleep, of course - these playful moments can't be the picture of their every evening together even if a small part of him wishes it could.
He's here to do a job, of course. They both are, and to impede that in any way would be foolish. Their time is limited, too - this ship will sail back to England's shores and this will be a maritime memory.
He tilts his head, pressing his mouth against the line of Crozier's jaw, until he may nose at his ear, a kiss dropped to the shell.
"I will have the shirt washed tomorrow, but I rather like that you're wearing it now, sir," he murmurs, voice low and a little rough. "I hope it pleases you."
A tip of his head back to meet Crozier's eyes, to bump their noses together. He should go - he should finish dressing the man and tuck him into his berth and go sleep off the heat of their time ashore. Return to who they were before, even if he knows it's impossible. Crozier will go to bed smelling like him, overwhelmed by it perhaps, and that will sustain Jopson for a good, long while.
Ah, calculated. A clever boy— respectful, too, of their duties and Crozier's loyalty to them. It makes him feel flattered, and it makes him appreciate Jopson's professionalism. Because what other word is there for it, even when this is the subject matter?
If they were both younger, stewards or midships, one or the other, they could fumble in closets and holds and not worry at all about the comfort of resting together, too energetic to be troubled. But he finds that he prefers this, even if it's bittersweet. The mismatched edges are like interlocking puzzle pieces.
"It does."
Small touches, bumping together. Crozier kisses him again, and continues to do so; slow and thorough, with no further petting or grabbing. They don't have the luxury of carrying on right now, with so much to do now that they're back on board, but they can use those minutes made from Jopson crafting his scheduling just so. The drawback, though, is also one of Jopson's making, so his steward better not complain too much when Crozier prevents him from helping him undress any further.
"Another night for that." He gives him a look. "You were too successful in pleasing me. Now go on."
They could kiss all evening and Jopson would be content with it - sweet and lazy things, leaning into one another and letting the time pass them. He finds he enjoys kissing the Captain, the soft little things in puffs of silence, the brush of noses and the soft and fleeting touches. The arm around his waist is everything, gluing them together in a way that he hopes to commit to memory.
This ship will set sail for England, eventually, and these are the moments he wishes to hold onto.
Crozier knows him well, though, for he does reach for the trousers he's left the man in, whether out of desire or professionalism, it's hard to say. He can only offer the older man a smile, a soft nod of his head.
"Ah, yes, of course, sir."
It takes a moment to disentangle himself but he does, and turns in the small space to draw back Crozier's bedclothes, to check the hot pans for the last dregs of their warmth - he opts to leave them. Once he's sure all things are in place he gives a small nod.
"Good night, Captain. I'll see to you in the morning."
He turns, but there's the softest brush of fingers against the man's, knuckles to knuckles, before he steps into the great cabin. He tidies up his kettle and cup, tucks all the chairs back into their place, turns out any lamps, and shuts the door behind him.
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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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A small smile, though he doesn't look up from his work, taking his time removing each sock and rubbing warmth back into Crozier's feet and ankles. He'd be detailed, of course, before, but he wouldn't have taken this time - thumbs seeking out the tense points in his Achilles tendon, through the arch of his foot. The next foot is much the same, careful working of tired muscles and tendons until every layer is peeled away.
Always focused on his work he rises, careful to gently shrug Crozier's touch away so that he may fetch the warming socks from the other room. He returns moments later, settling back down on a knee to begin pulling them on. The wool has been warmed on the hot pans, to help chase away some of the chill of the air.
"I'm happy as well. It... it was unexpected, but I am glad for it. It also means I can be more meticulous in my care for you as well, sir."
Jopson smiles up at him, releasing his foot finally. A tiny part of him wants to simply lean and rest his head in this man's lap, soak in his warmth and the quiet of the great cabin. Let his eyes close and take it all in. Instead, he squeezes the man's knee and returns to his seat.
"Or... ah, relentless, I believe you called it. Not meticulous."
A word that has a hint of a sting to it as much as it does fondness.
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"You don't like 'relentless'?"
A query as he contemplates the idea of being cared for meticulously. (Relentlessly.) He was minded well enough as a child, but never spoiled or attended to with more attention than was necessary. With so many children it was only sensible that the parenting was a split duty between the older ones, and that each were expected to be self-sufficient as soon as possible. He has never lived with a servant, and has only ever availed himself of the basics in any boarding houses. Dropping off laundry, saying thank-you for supper. It brings to mind the kind of care that some men expect of their wives, but even that, he struggles to conceptualize. Attempting to imagine Sophia putting warm socks on him doesn't work at all.
"I mean it only fondly. There is strength to you."
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Relentless feels like something that never stops and in a way, it's certainly how he works, how he thinks. No doubt that other Stewards would think him strange for all he's willing to do and the many things he keeps careful tabs on. He enjoys the puzzle of it, enjoys keeping busy, providing care for his captain above anything else. Especially now that he can show his care more openly, that he can give way to the softer side of that very same dogged determination.
"Or the day it is, I trust you will tell me, sir."
He smiles, reaches for the kettle he's left to pour Crozier more warm water. If he doesn't drink it, no terrible loss as it will go cold and be of fine use in the morning.
"The strength is a must in this work, I'm afraid. There is no telling what I would be up to had I not won you over in the end with all this. I might while away my hours thinking of names like Eustace for a volcano. Or perhaps worse. I suppose I might be rowing behind both of the ships, too. Are you ready to dress for the evening, Captain?"
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Because he's been so demure telling Jopson how he feels about his work so far, be it shutting doors in his face or pulling him down into a cot with him. Hm. He sips some warm water, and then slides the cup to Jopson, indicating he'd like him to drink some, too. Warm up a little. Even if he does take time for himself later, he can take some time now, too, for just a moment.
"I could have done flags to communicate," he says, about Jopson trailing behind on a dinghy. "Send you baskets of dinner and darning—"
Crozier's hilarious. (No.)
"I like you better here. Relentless and meticulous and all. And I suppose I am, though I've been enjoying keeping you overlong."
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A small smile, and when the cup comes his way he takes a long drink from it. He can already tell Crozier won't finish it and he can't help but chase the honey and citrus, always pleased by such a simple thing. The night Crozier stood watch, Ross teased him for it - the little pot of honey. Promised to have more sent to him, on the condition he took it for himself instead of giving it over to Crozier or anyone else.
A pleasant night. One made up of tangled limbs and whispers. A pang, suddenly - would this cabin were a canvas tent, instead.
"And there is no such thing as overlong. At the very least let me see you put to bed. I can always pull the chair in for a little while after."
They know it fits, even if it's a little cramped. He doesn't want to say goodbye, doesn't want to leave Crozier in his berth and return to his own, what feels like worlds apart on the ship. He rises and starts to the berth where it's warmer, the coal pans doing something to keep the air warm as well as the man's bed. A tighter fit, but an easier place to see the man undressed in the cold of the cabin.
Wherever the man ends up, Thomas doesn't wait to start - reaching for the collar of his vest and shirtsleeves.
"It was so quiet ashore, I near forgot how lively Terror is each night."
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Happy, comfortable, but still there's a measure of reluctance in his body language even as he stands still and permits Jopson to begin undressing him. Something else he's had to learn to endure with dignity, and something he pitched in with ashore. All the quicker to get everyone tucked into bed. It must be obvious why he feels hesitation, but in case Jopson is not actually telepathic—
"It was a welcome change of pace, and I will miss it."
He is already missing it, and is in no hurry to let the night catch up with them now that it's over. Not maudlin about it, like anything else he'll just be getting on with it, but what harm is there lingering? He lets one hand rest at Jopson's side; as usual, not restricting his movement, just touching him lightly.
Fondly, he adds, "Back in our noisy house with our sizeable family."
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"I will miss it, too," he murmurs, gently taking the man's shirtsleeves off of him, any underclothes to help keep him warm while they traveled from shore to ship. He takes some time with his, touches more gentle than the methodical precision from before all of this. The hand on his side will be a fixture of these moments, Jopson warming and relaxing under the touch, just enough to afford Crozier a soft smile that does something to light up his eyes.
"But here we are, back to paperwork and our very noisy, very messy family. I'm certain we'll be back in full running order by dinner tomorrow. Well, assuming the men don't drink themselves silly tonight. They were beginning a toast to Mount Erebus when I left them last."
Jopson leaves the man's trousers for a moment, if only to bridge the gap between nude and cold. The nightshirt is something he'd given a great deal of thought to when preparing the captain's evening attire. He unfolds it, disregards some of the wrinkles in the fabric - it's been slept in, pulled and tugged. He carefully reaches to place it over the man's head, helping guide his arms.
(Another fond memory - Ross struggling with the arm hole of his night shirt, the way he spoke to him with a quiet seriousness, a trust. Odd, to miss a man he wouldn't have before all of this - to know even a portion of Crozier's yearning).
"I wanted to return this to you."
Jopson, straight faced, but there's no denying the fabric has his scent on it.
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Still—
"You could be toasting, too. They like you and you're welcome, I know that much."
Apart, the both of them, but differently. This line of conversation fades from his mind, though, when he realizes what shirt he's being put into. Unlike Jopson to put him into something that's not been recently laundered. Quick work of the mystery. It nearly catches his breath.
Nightshirt on, Crozier just looks at him for a moment.
When he moves, it's without comment. One hand pulls Jopson closer, a firm grip on the bite of his waist, the other holding the back of his head. He kisses him, firm and deep, claiming, almost too hard. Held back from crossing the line of almost by a painful kind of affection, one that demands fulfillment, and protection, and a rush of feeling that's as erotic as it is tender.
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He smooths the fabric of the shirt over Crozier's chest but isn't allowed another moment as he's pulled in by his waist. The fit of Crozier's hand in the dip of his waist and the way he moves him with ease cuts something permanent into the back of his brain, a switch flipped that may not restore itself. But his own hands stumble for purchase, one on the side of the man's neck, the other fisting into the fabric at his side.
The kiss rocks him, makes the foundation underfoot feel weak and fragile, makes the ache of yearning he felt upon leaving shore today hurt doubly worse. Would this were a tent of canvas... but it isn't. It's the captain's berth and he's kissing him and Thomas groans into the intensity of the kiss, relentlessly leaning into it, hearing Ross in the back of his mind you make him happy.
"I do not know what strange magics that slab of ice held," he says quiet and breathless against Crozier's mouth. "But I am glad we shared it, sir. The three of us."
If only it could be their eternity, their forever. They wouldn't be kissing in this berth, for one, both of them doing a miserable job of saying goodnight.
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"No magic," he promises him in a low, rough murmur. "Just honest wanting."
As rare as magic, perhaps. When Crozier kisses him yet again it's gentler, more mindful of not doing something as ludicrous as bruise his mouth. Jopson is probably intelligent enough to figure out the depth of his approval of this lewd move without him cracking teeth against his. He pets his hair, runs fingernails against his scalp, pets his tongue with his own. If he could keep him here tucked away indefinitely, he might just.
The hand at his middle slides back, becoming an arm held around him, their bodies pressed flush. Crozier strokes his ear with his thumb.
"The pain of parting is an old friend. It must be. To make an enemy of it is to go mad."
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He chases the taste of Crozier's tongue against his own, licking hot and deep into his mouth, as though somehow he could chase breath there and they would never need to return to reality for air. Instead it's nails in his hair, a thumb on his ear, the flush of their bodies. Honest wanting, of course that's what they had. It was the root of it - but something about that time ashore will always feel like a fantasy. An impossible moment stolen out of time, or a storybook.
"I've been told I can be too sentimental at times," he murmurs, sheepish. He'd been told often as a boy that he wore his heart stitched on his sleeve - that he had to button up, toughen up. Some of the men on the ship might laugh at the thought that Jopson could be too soft, too sentimental, too gentle. No, most of the men have seen his looks in passing when he's taking stock of the cleanliness of stocks and stores, or the common areas on the ship.
"But I've no plans to go mad. No more mad than I already am I suppose, for choosing to Steward on a ship in the middle of the arctic."
He chases another kiss, sweet and wanting. "This nightshirt... it's simply a promise, Captain. That magic or not, the wanting has stayed the course."
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It's a little bit like that vulnerable thing being pierced again, when Thomas gave him his drawing.
"You're just right," he tells him, in between accepting those sweet kisses, which don't so much taste like honey as just Thomas. "Just as you are."
Not too sentimental. And Francis would tell him, probably, having little patience for genuine flightiness. Not too sentimental, not too rigid. He is himself, with all his oddities, and Francis likes that about him. Magic and all. No wonder he likes the stories that go along with the constellation.
"Your promise makes it difficult to imagine heading to sleep." A gentle squeeze around him, a bit playful, but a bit honest, too. "How am I to send you away, wrapped up in you like this?"
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He's here to do a job, of course. They both are, and to impede that in any way would be foolish. Their time is limited, too - this ship will sail back to England's shores and this will be a maritime memory.
He tilts his head, pressing his mouth against the line of Crozier's jaw, until he may nose at his ear, a kiss dropped to the shell.
"I will have the shirt washed tomorrow, but I rather like that you're wearing it now, sir," he murmurs, voice low and a little rough. "I hope it pleases you."
A tip of his head back to meet Crozier's eyes, to bump their noses together. He should go - he should finish dressing the man and tuck him into his berth and go sleep off the heat of their time ashore. Return to who they were before, even if he knows it's impossible. Crozier will go to bed smelling like him, overwhelmed by it perhaps, and that will sustain Jopson for a good, long while.
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If they were both younger, stewards or midships, one or the other, they could fumble in closets and holds and not worry at all about the comfort of resting together, too energetic to be troubled. But he finds that he prefers this, even if it's bittersweet. The mismatched edges are like interlocking puzzle pieces.
"It does."
Small touches, bumping together. Crozier kisses him again, and continues to do so; slow and thorough, with no further petting or grabbing. They don't have the luxury of carrying on right now, with so much to do now that they're back on board, but they can use those minutes made from Jopson crafting his scheduling just so. The drawback, though, is also one of Jopson's making, so his steward better not complain too much when Crozier prevents him from helping him undress any further.
"Another night for that." He gives him a look. "You were too successful in pleasing me. Now go on."
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This ship will set sail for England, eventually, and these are the moments he wishes to hold onto.
Crozier knows him well, though, for he does reach for the trousers he's left the man in, whether out of desire or professionalism, it's hard to say. He can only offer the older man a smile, a soft nod of his head.
"Ah, yes, of course, sir."
It takes a moment to disentangle himself but he does, and turns in the small space to draw back Crozier's bedclothes, to check the hot pans for the last dregs of their warmth - he opts to leave them. Once he's sure all things are in place he gives a small nod.
"Good night, Captain. I'll see to you in the morning."
He turns, but there's the softest brush of fingers against the man's, knuckles to knuckles, before he steps into the great cabin. He tidies up his kettle and cup, tucks all the chairs back into their place, turns out any lamps, and shuts the door behind him.