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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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.