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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"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.