Jopson takes his lead with Crozier and though it looks like he's focusing on the dance (he is, mostly), he's listening to the way Crozier tells his stories, soaking up all the new tales this merriment is bringing about. It's pleasant being attached to one another like this in public, that in his mind he can pretend it is an open and normal thing to dance with another man. On the sea, the rules change - but not quite so obviously. Not in the open.
There's the slightest curl of his fingers into Crozier's side when they begin to part. No, he won't reward the stewards - but no reason the officers need punishing for their oversight. He has plenty in mind for those men to do before it's time for all officers to bed down.
"Even doctors must enjoy themselves, lieutenant," Lyall, Robertson's assistant chimes in, and Kay gives him a good natured elbow to the arm. McMurdo laughs even louder, and in true kinship, dramatically bows to his fellow Scotsman and away they go, to Lyall's dismay.
Thomas settles into pace with Phillips, a man he's spoken to on the fringes of the ship. A quiet, kind man who does not speak up often but when he does, it carries weight. They speak about books more often than not, Jopson shoveling food into his mouth as Phillips carefully picks at his own.
As they swap positions, Jopson as the lady's part and Phillips in the lead, they talk amongst themselves.
"I've a Dickens if you'd like to borrow it, Lieutnenant, though it's in terrible shape. Unless you're still married to your books on strategies and navigations? Or - no, it was something to do with trapping techniques, wasn't it?"
"I read more than just military texts, Mr Jopson," Phillips gives him a look, but Jopson misses it - looking down at his feet as they move, wary to step on anyone's toes more than is necessary. He misses the way Phillips observes him up close - the fan of his dark lashes, the line of his nose, the bow of his mouth - and looks away on a laugh just as Jopson tips his head back up.
One of the mates cuts in when he sees the pair are doing more talking than dancing and cutting up, which puts Jopson off to the side to watch. Well, to work - he sets out glasses on the misplaced table pours cool water for the lot. Heavens knows he won't pour spirits for this lot.
"You are a master of all things it seems, Captain," he muses to the man when he's also allowed a break from the footwork. He offers him one of the glasses.
Phillips is handsome. Going grey early in a way that only makes him look distinguished, bright green eyes, Roman nose. Could do far worse for a clandestine romance aboard a ship; Crozier notices, but only because he's the sort to notice such things. Good luck, lad, he thinks, and finds he means it. Regardless of the fact that he's not about to pull himself out of the running.
(He should, probably. But how could he?)
Water gratefully accepted. Getting warm in the cabin with the lot of them moving about.
"It's why I got the job, of course."
Can't have a party out on the ice without commanders to lead dances, or something to that affect. He's content to stand back with Jopson, occasionally offering pointers — at one point stopping a pair and fixing their posture for them. Dr Robertson requests his assistance in an example, and they make a fine couple moving back and forth to demonstrate a switch between leads. There is still debate among the men about whether or not this has any practical application anywhere on land, and if it would actually impress a woman or not. You would look very thoughtful and adventurous versus You would look like a ponce.
Time and bells catch up to them. Dispersal begins. Lyall bemoans the state of the cabin and apologizes to Jopson, the last to leave (to Phillips' mild consternation at the door), helping put the table back to rights. Crozier has to chase Kay down to sort out scheduling, then get a shock at the temperature above deck on rounds, but the end of the day calls, and soon.
The time and the bells always stand in their way, but what ship would they be without it. The officers go about their duties, Crozier following, and Jopson sets to making right the great cabin. Not without help, however. It's rare he wields what authority he has over the other stewards aboard, but the state of the room and their convenient disappearance won't do.
When they don't immediately report following the festivities, he makes his way belowdecks, gathering them all.
"I'm afraid that your attendance to other tasks has left the great cabin in disarray and your officers' needs neglected. Fortunately I was able to attend both the captain and your charges without your presence, and they were none the wiser."
He says it with the warmth and easy relief of someone solving a problem last minute, but the other stewards straighten under his attention - rarely, so rarely, does Jopson make so blatant a mark of their faults. Each officer is different and requires different attentions, but this? Unacceptable.
The great cabin takes an hour to tidy and put back to rights, and another hour to have the floors scrubbed clean by hand, and yet a third hour to be polished. He sets one on cleaning the windows as well, shining anything of metal in the room - it is meant to be remarkable and impressive this room.
The bells call for dinner and Jopson sends them all, and stands as they make their apologies. He apologizes to Phillips, that he won't have time to spare at the meal today - and takes the captain's food and slips away. There are whispers through the meal of Jopson's kind but eerie punishment, meted out with a calm and level head, but the disappointment felt in magnitudes. It doesn't go unnoticed that even managing the cleanliness of the cabin and the other stewards, none of his own tasks have gone without care. Laundry is done, inventory marked and checked, schedules made and announced - a force to be reckoned with.
In the great cabin, Jopson refills Crozier's glass midway through the meal.
"If you see anything out of sorts sir, I hope you'll tell me. I've checked over everything twice, but I've no doubt there's something askew."
Crozier must be getting old, feeling appreciation flutter over Jopson wielding very effective authority over tidying. Stewardship is far more than chasing him down for shaving— even if Crozier had never bent to being comfortable with the more personal attention, he'd be pleased with such a man in charge of running the house, so to speak. He hasn't forgotten how good he is at his job, but their recent dalliances have put it out of focus. It's nice to admire it in the foreground.
Only a little damp from the weather above. He'll be out early in the morning, keeping an eye on things as they go. A captain has the privilege of staying below and letting the men handle it, but it's never been his preferred method of command. (Never been, as though he's had some grand career of captaincy before this, and not just responsibilities piled on him due to mismanagement from other officers. But it feels consistent, it feels as though he's been at this for ages, and it's only the title that's changed.)
"It might look cleaner than when I first stepped aboard," he admits, looking up at him. "Should I have boots on at all?"
"You're the Captain, sir, you may have boots anywhere you'd like."
Jopson circles to pour himself a hot cuppa, indulging with a heaping dollop of honey and even cream. Not one to waste such fine things but for once, he genuinely wants it. He thinks of Ross, snaking arms around his waist beneath his shirt in the dark, dragging him in and insisting he should enjoy himself sometimes. Jopson wonders if he'd be proud of this small victory.
He settles into his usual seat (strange, that this is routine now), drinking from his cup, a pleased smile on his face after. All the work today has made the last of the bruises ache, but the tea soothes it. He'll sleep well tonight.
"You're an excellent dancer, sir," he says into his cup, keeping it perched high so the steam and the sweet scent warms him. A busy day, but one that's left him feeling quite satisfied, and it shows in the occasional approving glance around the great cabin.
"I'm afraid you won't find dancing among my skills on any of my letters of introduction."
Pleasing, to see Jopson at ease. It feels like a victory, even though he strongly suspects much of it a spiritual exhaustion from socializing. He's come to understand how much the younger man values the quiet, out of the way nature of his job. But even then, he feels comfortable enough to make his wildly indulgent tea and sit with him without being prompted, and so: good.
Crozier just gives him a look. He may be the captain, but they both know who's running the grounds, as it were. He would not like to be gently scolded for scuffing new polish.
"Oh, we can change that with enough practice. One of those every other afternoon?"
—Obviously just messing with him, a teasing smile to go with it.
"Thank you for your good humor. You put a number of would-be wallflowers to rights by leading through example, though they'd never admit it." A beat, then: "Have you eaten?"
Time for Jopson to shoot the captain a look - have one of those little events every other afternoon and he might well throw himself overboard. Or become a steward for hire at their next port. He sips his tea, comes out on the other end of it smiling sweetly.
"Of course, sir, if I am to be nothing else, a good example is certainly the first on the list. It seemed that most of the men enjoyed themselves."
Another indulgent drink of his tea, pleased the deeper he gets into the cup as the sugar and honey that did not dissolve has drifted to the bottom. Crozier speaks of food and he blinks, a little thoughtful at first.
"No, sir, but I usually eat dinner after both you and the men have eaten. It's quieter - and I admit sometimes I take my meal to my berth."
To write down tasks and make lists, sometimes to read, but it's almost always working. "I'm quite alright, Captain. Dessert first tonight, is all," a little sheepish gesture to the cup.
His introverted steward. It's sweet; he wonders if Jopson would have survived in a workhouse somewhere, and feels a pang of gratitude that he's made it here into the navy. Better money, infinitely less miserable, as long as one can stand the danger and graft.
"I'm aware." Easy enough. Crozier doesn't critique his eating habits — as long as he doesn't starve himself (foreshadowing is a literary device) — but he notices, as he notices plenty. Far less able to devote time to lurking and taking mental notes, but a captain must stay informed about how his crewmen operate. Jopson included. "But I thought I might impose on your time more tonight, if you don't mind."
And so he wouldn't want him to go hungry, if indeed he doesn't mind. Which he is of course free to (mind). Crozier will never require him to play along.
A hint of a flush in his cheeks - of course the captain knows some of his habits. He sees more than most expect and Jopson knows that best. It's easier to enjoy his meal when he has the time to sit down, and that is most often dinner, after everyone's had their fill.
For now, there's the tea and the good company. He had plenty for the afternoon meal, anyway.
Cradling the cup in his hands, savoring the warmth, he smiles.
"I don't mind," he nods, turning a little in his chair to face the man a little more, body language open and relaxed in a way that he usually isn't. It's easier since returning from the ice and the tent, a barrier dropped between them that he didn't have a name for.
"I could fetch the book, if you'd like to read? After the activities today I'd wager we'll have a slow rising crew in the morning, so I've a little more time still."
Crozier accepts what he's told, opting not to badger him like somebody's mum over eating supper. Having a reactive schedule on a ship seems like a double-edged sword, to him— able to pick and choose moments for oneself a boon, having moments interrupted a pain. And so he won't begrudge Jopson the free bits.
"Let's, then." He nods, encouraging Jopson to get it. While he does, Crozier gets up to fetch himself a cup of tea, mostly just hot water and whatever's left in the vessel, bravely resisting the temptation to dump in a dash of whiskey. Weather's a bit suspicious, the ship is moving about, and he'd like to stay awake.
It is theater to say he isn't finished eating yet, a few forkfuls left that he's deliberately delaying so that they might sit together and read for a while. They can switch off, and he'll take over to let Jopson enjoy his tea when he's done with dinner. Crozier reads easily, doesn't stumble much, though his holidays to make commentary on this or that leave him a middling orator at best.
Jopson enjoys their time like this, reading and passing the book back and forth. He enjoys Crozier's commentary most of all regardless of how many pages they cover when he's the one orating. Each of the stories and factoids tell him more about the man sitting near him, reveals a small part of him that others might not see, and he holds that preciously close to his chest.
When Crozier finishes his meal and takes up the reading again, it's his turn to stand and take up the plate and cutlery, setting it near the kettle to take away later. He does refill Crozier's teacup though before returning to the table to listen. Beneath the table he nudges his leg against the man's, seeking out the contact and the warmth.
"I'm beginning to think there isn't a book in this ship you haven't read, sir. Each one we pick you even know the things they omitted, or you read between the lines in a way I couldn't."
Not a complaint - more admiration than anything else. The tea has made him warm and relaxed, resting his chin in his hand and listening to the man tell his tales.
"Is that how you learned to dance, Captain? From books?"
Connected, just at one point of contact. A comfortable thing.
Hm, well.
"I have eight sisters," he demures. Casual lore drop of something that sounds alarming, and is actually even more alarming than that. "I could dance before I joined up. Not all that well, mind, but Jamie and his silver spoon upbringing sorted me out there."
Parry's mad bashes, yes, but they were young sailors together, laughing with their peers in moments like the one in here, and they were friends besides, who spent time together on leave. He had to fit in with the young Ross scion's set, as Jamie would settle for nothing less than bringing him along (or sneaking out a window to be brought along somewhere else).
"And I thought my three siblings made for a busy house," he muses into his cup, though he absolutely soaks up every little detail he can get. Eight siblings in a well-to-do home, then taken under Jamie's wing and affection. It makes sense and it points to who the man sitting before him now is. He wonders what it might have been liking meeting Francis and Jamie when they were still young, wily men.
"I've danced with my sisters a time or two but they were small enough to stand on my feet, so I don't know that it was truly dancing. More walking around awkwardly than anything else, sir."
Sarah, Mary, Henry John. All three of them back home hopefully living with some comfort off of his naval salary. It isn't a tremendous amount, but so long as the younger ones can have sweets occasionally and Mary can buy the new shoes she loves in the old cobbler's shop on the corner, then that's all that matters. Next port, he'll write them.
"Which is nearly as well as I did here. Though I wager I was better off than Lieutenant Kay." Then, softer, "It was nice, the dancing and all. With you, sir."
"I was eleventh of thirteen," Crozier tells him, wry. Eight sisters, Jopson can do the math on brothers. "'Bless her', some would say."
Personally, he thinks having thirteen children sounds like hell, and to this day doesn't know how all of her insides didn't fall out long before she had him. But his mother outlived his father in the end, despite having done all the brutal bits. Spent her last years being pampered in the house she populated and ran like matron, playing with cats and a surprisingly modest number of grandchildren, well earned. He should have gone back to see her while she was doing it, and not just to sign papers over her headstone. But sailing against the turning of the Earth does not send one back in time. He's checked.
Feels like ages ago now. You're the oldest, aren't you. Three younger ones. Big brother Thomas.
He sits forward, a playful look to him—
"It was nice. And if you think you did so modestly, why don't we have another round? Boots off, I'd rather contrive some other way to see you bend over tomorrow than polishing floors."
A filthy flirtation, but he delivers it so lightly that it almost sounds innocent.
Thirteen. So much about the man before him makes sense, thinking about it - nearly the youngest, but surrounded by people, perhaps a noisy home. No wonder he feels at home on a ship made up of close quarters and camaraderie and duty. A home that size had to be much the same, he thinks.
He sputters, surprised, at Crozier's filthy joke, face going warm and he laughs at himself once he manages to swallow the last mouthful of his tea.
"If you wish to see me bent over, sir, I can find many creative ways to achieve that."
Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. A spill on the table, something that requires him stretching out over it to clean it. Innocent enough, but a display for Crozier to enjoy. (He has to banish the thought, clear his throat - no sense in getting so heated when they're only going to dance).
"But very well, Captain. Boots off."
And in a mirror of before he drops from his seat, this time to both knees. He sits back on his feet and begins to take his time removing the man's boots for him, drawing it out in a playful way - two can play at that game. One off, then another before he rises to his feet and moves to place the boots over by the man's desk. Perfect spot, then, for him to bend at the waist to begin undoing the clasps on his own, but also provide the man an open view of his backside.
A bright laugh, the kind only Jamie and Thomas seem to be able to bring out of him. As much for the eroticism as the banter. Creative ways! He'll look forward to it.
Surprise follows it, when Jopson kneels down. It nearly makes his breath catch, the picture of it so perfectly bawdy, submissive servitude offered with an edge that's the opposite. He helps by bracing so his boots come off easier, and hooks one foot around Jopson's folded leg while he pulls on the other. His hand lingers when his steward removes himself to put his shoes aside, a ghost of a touch on his shoulder, down his elbow, hm.
When Jopson turns back around, he'll see Crozier righting his head before standing, making it deliberately obvious that he'd been staring.
Both up, he extends his hands, a waiting position.
"Can you lead without stepping on my toes?"
A teasing dare.
"We can get you warmed up before going backwards."
It takes every ounce of control to refrain from crossing the distance and kissing the laugh right from Crozier's mouth, to taste it on his own tongue and savor it. The sound of it makes his chest fill with warmth, swell with something he still doesn't name. He'd like to hear that laugh over and over again, find ways to draw it out on even their darkest days at sea.
Instead they're here - teasing little touches, the turn of a head and the feeling of eyes on him. Crozier has a way about him that makes his blood burn and make him feel seen at the same time. Both filthy and tender wrapped up in one. Like the tent, like before in this very room, the berth.
Jopson takes Crozier's hand, stepping into place in the dance but closer than they were during the lessons. He presses a hand to the man's side, smoothing over it before he finds a comfortable place for it to rest. The dance could be forgotten for a kiss, but the dance makes his stomach flip, a little flutter of excitement. It's impossibly romantic, dancing in socked feet in the great cabin, and he wonders if he's fallen asleep at the the supper table instead.
"Only if you follow without stepping on mine," he murmurs. "Shall we, sir?"
He starts with the first steps, slower than the dance might be with music, but taking his time, making this moment last. Unlike the proper form for the dance, he links their fingers, squeezing gently.
Woolen socks, freshly polished wood. The texture of the planks and the weight of the garments mean no one's in danger of going sliding about unless one of them tries very hard to do it. Francis sways back, confident, deliberately leading from the follow position just so Thomas isn't lost to start with.
Linked fingers, Thomas' hand on his side, and Francis lets his own other hand skirt closer to the younger man's chest than his shoulder. His thumb threatens where the notch in his clavicle is, hidden beneath his clothes. They get to move slower, stand closer. Francis lets himself just enjoy it, watches the other man's face, delights in the way he moves and how nice it is to just hold onto each other.
It's not at all like Jamie teaching him how to do it. A different thing, entirely theirs.
"See," he says quietly. "You're much better than Kay."
Jopson follows, even in the lead, grateful for the confident start. It’s nice, taking this slower, savoring the way they can press closer and dance as though they might in a ballroom, were things different. In this cabin the world can be nearly anything they wish - not quite the quiet freedom of the tent - but precious and important all the same.
Once he’s more confident in his movements, the hand at Crozier’s side slides to his back, beckoning the man ever closer. That he’s better than Kay earns both a sort of pleased smile and a self deprecating laugh.
“You’re only saying that because I showed you my backside, sir.”
But the praise will always liven him - make him bloom a little even under a gray, arctic sky. Each step meticulous, footwork so precise until his body starts to find the rhythm of it, until he can fully meet Crozier’s eye without hesitantly looking down every few seconds.
“I will improve by the time you schedule the next lessons. Assist the men. I will do everything in my power to be sure the festivities are a success, sir.”
So romantic, the dance - and yet he speaks of work.
"Kay showing me backside wouldn't improve my opinion," he muses. "I haven't been looking."
For a dozen reasons, but the purpose of saying so now is to flatter Jopson; Crozier is only waiting to inappropriately admire him, and ignoring all others. He tucks closer, and shifts a bit, carefully guiding him in how to do a spin out, as if they were to swap partners. But they just walk around each other, hands clasped, and draw back together.
"Oh, we only need alcohol for that." He steps in, leading this time, holding Thomas as close as he was held before, and this time instead of having their hands held aloft, he brings them in, holding them against his chest. Tucked into each other. "But I know that you will support me in any endeavor with your full attention. It'll be a loud and boisterous day, but there will be this, too."
Getting to dance with each other, and in their world's version of public.
Alcohol and good spirits will be the only thing the celebration takes to make for a good evening. Seamen, for all the complex work they do, are very easy to please after a long journey out in the cold. That aside, he laughs softly when they spin back together, flexing his fingers against the man's chest.
"This, too."
Dancing where everyone can see, even if they don't know the way Thomas' heart beats faster when Crozier regards him like this, flirting and flattering. He leans his head forward, touching their foreheads together as he moves into the follower's position, finding it a little easier now that he's better acclimated to the dance.
"May I kiss you, Captain?"
Because he wants to, up close like this, but it might make him falter in his steps. Distracted, romanced, all of it going to his head as he bumps their noses together. "Then I will ask no more and we can dance the rest of the evening."
Leading, he takes care not to trip them up, and to make sure he's the one holding their balance when the ship leans. It would be better to be doing this on land, in a parlor with a crackling fire and the curtains drawn, able to bump into a settee or onto soft rugs on the floor. But that life is not for them— as men who seek companionship with other men, and as sailors. In those respects this is a luxury, and something neither of them would ever be afforded without Francis' rank and post here on Terror.
She is a tough, proud, discreet ship. Holding all of their secrets safe within her, willing to take them to the bottom of the sea before a betrayal. A better lover than most people ever could be, and one who will cradle them as best she can the whole way out into the cold and dark, and back home again.
Thomas deserves that care. He is impossibly sweet, and Francis is very happy he can share the spoils of his privileged position with him. He never imagined himself here; he wonders if Thomas ever did.
"You may," he tells him, and flexes their fingers where they're linked, affectionate. So charmed to be asked. "And you may ask me anything, as much as you like."
As a boy he dreamed of a more comfortable life the moment he put his head into books and serials, imagining a home with grand carpets and furniture and a heart that never ran cold. As he's gotten older, however, he's seen them for what they are - simple dreams, pleasantries and fantasies. They provide some little joy, really, but he's come to find his place in the lot he's given. An eldest brother. A tailor's assistant. A dutiful son. A steward on a ship.
It makes a small taste of the otherworldly like this to please him, to call on the whimsy of that younger boy who imagined far bigger and better things. Funny, though - Thomas Jopson the man wouldn't want fancy ballrooms or homes. The ship, even with its bitter cold and harsh conditions, has been the nearest thing to a dream he's ever imagined.
Crozier is an excellent seaman and dancer, Jopson laughing a little when the ship sways and nearly takes his own footing away and the older man holds him steady. An excellent captain. Even more excellent a man.
"May I have that in writing, Captain?" A murmur, playful, in the small distance between them. Like he might ask if what they were doing could happen in the public eye, where they could whisper and keep secrets and kiss when they pleased.
He removes his hand from Crozier's shoulder to touch the man's cheek, meeting his eyes in the quiet intimacy of this moment before he leans in and kisses him. Soft, sweet - a chaste thing, really, until he noses in for a second and lets the gentle scrape of his teeth catch the man's bottom lip as he pulls away.
"My word is better than any of that," he promises him.
And it is a promise, he realizes. Even if this ends like a fire dimming in the hearth when the expedition has come to a close, and Thomas goes on with his life. As he should— even if he's a committed sodomite, unlike he and Jamie who have the luxury of choice, he can find someone close to his own age with whom to weather life with. A girl who doesn't want for intimacy to look after a home while he's at sea, or a young man to split the cost of boarding with, forever confirmed bachelors to the outside world's eyes.
No matter how it goes: if Thomas asks something of him, he will do his best to see to it. Be it a kiss here, or some other momentous thing. He cannot imagine going back and not extending a hand at any opportunity where it might be needed. Or wanted.
(It would be wonderful to be wanted, wouldn't it.)
The kiss threatens to melt him. He tastes his own lips after, and leans in to touch their foreheads together. A brief rest there, before they move again. Slow, steady, with the occasional playful turn; he lets them swap again, encouraging Jopson to lead. It can't go on forever, perhaps they end on the bench along the window, perhaps they have to part for the rest of the evening. He doesn't want to keep his steward from supper all night. No matter how it settles, he kisses him again before they part.
Time stands still around them as they dance, pressed close and moving around the great cabin. A playful turn here, a snort when they round to a part of the room they haven't been before. All of it isolated, the world outside quiet, and he can do nothing but focus on Francis Crozier. No matter where they go after this, when the ship has docked and the expedition over - this moment will feed his soul for a long, long time.
He doesn't want the dancing to end. Doesn't want anything about this nearness and affection to end, even when the ship docks however long from now. Not ready to leave, Jopson guides them to the bench as their dancing slows, coming to an easy, natural end. Easy to lean into the kiss, to prolong this moment as long as he can until they part.
There's a brief fumbling of hands, smoothing palms over Crozier's jacket, his chest, wanting to keep contact even as he sits on the bench, hands falling, reaching for the captain's.
"Will you kiss me again, Captain?" Perhaps too cheeky in the soft afterglow of their dancing. "Or at the very least, sit with me?"
Anything to hold onto this moment a little longer, to sate the warm thing he knows is happiness, and the hunger that lies beneath it.
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There's the slightest curl of his fingers into Crozier's side when they begin to part. No, he won't reward the stewards - but no reason the officers need punishing for their oversight. He has plenty in mind for those men to do before it's time for all officers to bed down.
"Even doctors must enjoy themselves, lieutenant," Lyall, Robertson's assistant chimes in, and Kay gives him a good natured elbow to the arm. McMurdo laughs even louder, and in true kinship, dramatically bows to his fellow Scotsman and away they go, to Lyall's dismay.
Thomas settles into pace with Phillips, a man he's spoken to on the fringes of the ship. A quiet, kind man who does not speak up often but when he does, it carries weight. They speak about books more often than not, Jopson shoveling food into his mouth as Phillips carefully picks at his own.
As they swap positions, Jopson as the lady's part and Phillips in the lead, they talk amongst themselves.
"I've a Dickens if you'd like to borrow it, Lieutnenant, though it's in terrible shape. Unless you're still married to your books on strategies and navigations? Or - no, it was something to do with trapping techniques, wasn't it?"
"I read more than just military texts, Mr Jopson," Phillips gives him a look, but Jopson misses it - looking down at his feet as they move, wary to step on anyone's toes more than is necessary. He misses the way Phillips observes him up close - the fan of his dark lashes, the line of his nose, the bow of his mouth - and looks away on a laugh just as Jopson tips his head back up.
One of the mates cuts in when he sees the pair are doing more talking than dancing and cutting up, which puts Jopson off to the side to watch. Well, to work - he sets out glasses on the misplaced table pours cool water for the lot. Heavens knows he won't pour spirits for this lot.
"You are a master of all things it seems, Captain," he muses to the man when he's also allowed a break from the footwork. He offers him one of the glasses.
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(He should, probably. But how could he?)
Water gratefully accepted. Getting warm in the cabin with the lot of them moving about.
"It's why I got the job, of course."
Can't have a party out on the ice without commanders to lead dances, or something to that affect. He's content to stand back with Jopson, occasionally offering pointers — at one point stopping a pair and fixing their posture for them. Dr Robertson requests his assistance in an example, and they make a fine couple moving back and forth to demonstrate a switch between leads. There is still debate among the men about whether or not this has any practical application anywhere on land, and if it would actually impress a woman or not. You would look very thoughtful and adventurous versus You would look like a ponce.
Time and bells catch up to them. Dispersal begins. Lyall bemoans the state of the cabin and apologizes to Jopson, the last to leave (to Phillips' mild consternation at the door), helping put the table back to rights. Crozier has to chase Kay down to sort out scheduling, then get a shock at the temperature above deck on rounds, but the end of the day calls, and soon.
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When they don't immediately report following the festivities, he makes his way belowdecks, gathering them all.
"I'm afraid that your attendance to other tasks has left the great cabin in disarray and your officers' needs neglected. Fortunately I was able to attend both the captain and your charges without your presence, and they were none the wiser."
He says it with the warmth and easy relief of someone solving a problem last minute, but the other stewards straighten under his attention - rarely, so rarely, does Jopson make so blatant a mark of their faults. Each officer is different and requires different attentions, but this? Unacceptable.
The great cabin takes an hour to tidy and put back to rights, and another hour to have the floors scrubbed clean by hand, and yet a third hour to be polished. He sets one on cleaning the windows as well, shining anything of metal in the room - it is meant to be remarkable and impressive this room.
The bells call for dinner and Jopson sends them all, and stands as they make their apologies. He apologizes to Phillips, that he won't have time to spare at the meal today - and takes the captain's food and slips away. There are whispers through the meal of Jopson's kind but eerie punishment, meted out with a calm and level head, but the disappointment felt in magnitudes. It doesn't go unnoticed that even managing the cleanliness of the cabin and the other stewards, none of his own tasks have gone without care. Laundry is done, inventory marked and checked, schedules made and announced - a force to be reckoned with.
In the great cabin, Jopson refills Crozier's glass midway through the meal.
"If you see anything out of sorts sir, I hope you'll tell me. I've checked over everything twice, but I've no doubt there's something askew."
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Only a little damp from the weather above. He'll be out early in the morning, keeping an eye on things as they go. A captain has the privilege of staying below and letting the men handle it, but it's never been his preferred method of command. (Never been, as though he's had some grand career of captaincy before this, and not just responsibilities piled on him due to mismanagement from other officers. But it feels consistent, it feels as though he's been at this for ages, and it's only the title that's changed.)
"It might look cleaner than when I first stepped aboard," he admits, looking up at him. "Should I have boots on at all?"
Looks (and smells) like they bloody polished it.
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Jopson circles to pour himself a hot cuppa, indulging with a heaping dollop of honey and even cream. Not one to waste such fine things but for once, he genuinely wants it. He thinks of Ross, snaking arms around his waist beneath his shirt in the dark, dragging him in and insisting he should enjoy himself sometimes. Jopson wonders if he'd be proud of this small victory.
He settles into his usual seat (strange, that this is routine now), drinking from his cup, a pleased smile on his face after. All the work today has made the last of the bruises ache, but the tea soothes it. He'll sleep well tonight.
"You're an excellent dancer, sir," he says into his cup, keeping it perched high so the steam and the sweet scent warms him. A busy day, but one that's left him feeling quite satisfied, and it shows in the occasional approving glance around the great cabin.
"I'm afraid you won't find dancing among my skills on any of my letters of introduction."
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Crozier just gives him a look. He may be the captain, but they both know who's running the grounds, as it were. He would not like to be gently scolded for scuffing new polish.
"Oh, we can change that with enough practice. One of those every other afternoon?"
—Obviously just messing with him, a teasing smile to go with it.
"Thank you for your good humor. You put a number of would-be wallflowers to rights by leading through example, though they'd never admit it." A beat, then: "Have you eaten?"
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"Of course, sir, if I am to be nothing else, a good example is certainly the first on the list. It seemed that most of the men enjoyed themselves."
Another indulgent drink of his tea, pleased the deeper he gets into the cup as the sugar and honey that did not dissolve has drifted to the bottom. Crozier speaks of food and he blinks, a little thoughtful at first.
"No, sir, but I usually eat dinner after both you and the men have eaten. It's quieter - and I admit sometimes I take my meal to my berth."
To write down tasks and make lists, sometimes to read, but it's almost always working. "I'm quite alright, Captain. Dessert first tonight, is all," a little sheepish gesture to the cup.
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"I'm aware." Easy enough. Crozier doesn't critique his eating habits — as long as he doesn't starve himself (foreshadowing is a literary device) — but he notices, as he notices plenty. Far less able to devote time to lurking and taking mental notes, but a captain must stay informed about how his crewmen operate. Jopson included. "But I thought I might impose on your time more tonight, if you don't mind."
And so he wouldn't want him to go hungry, if indeed he doesn't mind. Which he is of course free to (mind). Crozier will never require him to play along.
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For now, there's the tea and the good company. He had plenty for the afternoon meal, anyway.
Cradling the cup in his hands, savoring the warmth, he smiles.
"I don't mind," he nods, turning a little in his chair to face the man a little more, body language open and relaxed in a way that he usually isn't. It's easier since returning from the ice and the tent, a barrier dropped between them that he didn't have a name for.
"I could fetch the book, if you'd like to read? After the activities today I'd wager we'll have a slow rising crew in the morning, so I've a little more time still."
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"Let's, then." He nods, encouraging Jopson to get it. While he does, Crozier gets up to fetch himself a cup of tea, mostly just hot water and whatever's left in the vessel, bravely resisting the temptation to dump in a dash of whiskey. Weather's a bit suspicious, the ship is moving about, and he'd like to stay awake.
It is theater to say he isn't finished eating yet, a few forkfuls left that he's deliberately delaying so that they might sit together and read for a while. They can switch off, and he'll take over to let Jopson enjoy his tea when he's done with dinner. Crozier reads easily, doesn't stumble much, though his holidays to make commentary on this or that leave him a middling orator at best.
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When Crozier finishes his meal and takes up the reading again, it's his turn to stand and take up the plate and cutlery, setting it near the kettle to take away later. He does refill Crozier's teacup though before returning to the table to listen. Beneath the table he nudges his leg against the man's, seeking out the contact and the warmth.
"I'm beginning to think there isn't a book in this ship you haven't read, sir. Each one we pick you even know the things they omitted, or you read between the lines in a way I couldn't."
Not a complaint - more admiration than anything else. The tea has made him warm and relaxed, resting his chin in his hand and listening to the man tell his tales.
"Is that how you learned to dance, Captain? From books?"
A tease, shown in the pull of a grin on his lips.
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Hm, well.
"I have eight sisters," he demures. Casual lore drop of something that sounds alarming, and is actually even more alarming than that. "I could dance before I joined up. Not all that well, mind, but Jamie and his silver spoon upbringing sorted me out there."
Parry's mad bashes, yes, but they were young sailors together, laughing with their peers in moments like the one in here, and they were friends besides, who spent time together on leave. He had to fit in with the young Ross scion's set, as Jamie would settle for nothing less than bringing him along (or sneaking out a window to be brought along somewhere else).
"You didn't do half badly."
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"I've danced with my sisters a time or two but they were small enough to stand on my feet, so I don't know that it was truly dancing. More walking around awkwardly than anything else, sir."
Sarah, Mary, Henry John. All three of them back home hopefully living with some comfort off of his naval salary. It isn't a tremendous amount, but so long as the younger ones can have sweets occasionally and Mary can buy the new shoes she loves in the old cobbler's shop on the corner, then that's all that matters. Next port, he'll write them.
"Which is nearly as well as I did here. Though I wager I was better off than Lieutenant Kay." Then, softer, "It was nice, the dancing and all. With you, sir."
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Personally, he thinks having thirteen children sounds like hell, and to this day doesn't know how all of her insides didn't fall out long before she had him. But his mother outlived his father in the end, despite having done all the brutal bits. Spent her last years being pampered in the house she populated and ran like matron, playing with cats and a surprisingly modest number of grandchildren, well earned. He should have gone back to see her while she was doing it, and not just to sign papers over her headstone. But sailing against the turning of the Earth does not send one back in time. He's checked.
Feels like ages ago now. You're the oldest, aren't you. Three younger ones. Big brother Thomas.
He sits forward, a playful look to him—
"It was nice. And if you think you did so modestly, why don't we have another round? Boots off, I'd rather contrive some other way to see you bend over tomorrow than polishing floors."
A filthy flirtation, but he delivers it so lightly that it almost sounds innocent.
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He sputters, surprised, at Crozier's filthy joke, face going warm and he laughs at himself once he manages to swallow the last mouthful of his tea.
"If you wish to see me bent over, sir, I can find many creative ways to achieve that."
Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. A spill on the table, something that requires him stretching out over it to clean it. Innocent enough, but a display for Crozier to enjoy. (He has to banish the thought, clear his throat - no sense in getting so heated when they're only going to dance).
"But very well, Captain. Boots off."
And in a mirror of before he drops from his seat, this time to both knees. He sits back on his feet and begins to take his time removing the man's boots for him, drawing it out in a playful way - two can play at that game. One off, then another before he rises to his feet and moves to place the boots over by the man's desk. Perfect spot, then, for him to bend at the waist to begin undoing the clasps on his own, but also provide the man an open view of his backside.
"What part am I to dance first?"
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Surprise follows it, when Jopson kneels down. It nearly makes his breath catch, the picture of it so perfectly bawdy, submissive servitude offered with an edge that's the opposite. He helps by bracing so his boots come off easier, and hooks one foot around Jopson's folded leg while he pulls on the other. His hand lingers when his steward removes himself to put his shoes aside, a ghost of a touch on his shoulder, down his elbow, hm.
When Jopson turns back around, he'll see Crozier righting his head before standing, making it deliberately obvious that he'd been staring.
Both up, he extends his hands, a waiting position.
"Can you lead without stepping on my toes?"
A teasing dare.
"We can get you warmed up before going backwards."
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Instead they're here - teasing little touches, the turn of a head and the feeling of eyes on him. Crozier has a way about him that makes his blood burn and make him feel seen at the same time. Both filthy and tender wrapped up in one. Like the tent, like before in this very room, the berth.
Jopson takes Crozier's hand, stepping into place in the dance but closer than they were during the lessons. He presses a hand to the man's side, smoothing over it before he finds a comfortable place for it to rest. The dance could be forgotten for a kiss, but the dance makes his stomach flip, a little flutter of excitement. It's impossibly romantic, dancing in socked feet in the great cabin, and he wonders if he's fallen asleep at the the supper table instead.
"Only if you follow without stepping on mine," he murmurs. "Shall we, sir?"
He starts with the first steps, slower than the dance might be with music, but taking his time, making this moment last. Unlike the proper form for the dance, he links their fingers, squeezing gently.
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Woolen socks, freshly polished wood. The texture of the planks and the weight of the garments mean no one's in danger of going sliding about unless one of them tries very hard to do it. Francis sways back, confident, deliberately leading from the follow position just so Thomas isn't lost to start with.
Linked fingers, Thomas' hand on his side, and Francis lets his own other hand skirt closer to the younger man's chest than his shoulder. His thumb threatens where the notch in his clavicle is, hidden beneath his clothes. They get to move slower, stand closer. Francis lets himself just enjoy it, watches the other man's face, delights in the way he moves and how nice it is to just hold onto each other.
It's not at all like Jamie teaching him how to do it. A different thing, entirely theirs.
"See," he says quietly. "You're much better than Kay."
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Once he’s more confident in his movements, the hand at Crozier’s side slides to his back, beckoning the man ever closer. That he’s better than Kay earns both a sort of pleased smile and a self deprecating laugh.
“You’re only saying that because I showed you my backside, sir.”
But the praise will always liven him - make him bloom a little even under a gray, arctic sky. Each step meticulous, footwork so precise until his body starts to find the rhythm of it, until he can fully meet Crozier’s eye without hesitantly looking down every few seconds.
“I will improve by the time you schedule the next lessons. Assist the men. I will do everything in my power to be sure the festivities are a success, sir.”
So romantic, the dance - and yet he speaks of work.
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For a dozen reasons, but the purpose of saying so now is to flatter Jopson; Crozier is only waiting to inappropriately admire him, and ignoring all others. He tucks closer, and shifts a bit, carefully guiding him in how to do a spin out, as if they were to swap partners. But they just walk around each other, hands clasped, and draw back together.
"Oh, we only need alcohol for that." He steps in, leading this time, holding Thomas as close as he was held before, and this time instead of having their hands held aloft, he brings them in, holding them against his chest. Tucked into each other. "But I know that you will support me in any endeavor with your full attention. It'll be a loud and boisterous day, but there will be this, too."
Getting to dance with each other, and in their world's version of public.
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"This, too."
Dancing where everyone can see, even if they don't know the way Thomas' heart beats faster when Crozier regards him like this, flirting and flattering. He leans his head forward, touching their foreheads together as he moves into the follower's position, finding it a little easier now that he's better acclimated to the dance.
"May I kiss you, Captain?"
Because he wants to, up close like this, but it might make him falter in his steps. Distracted, romanced, all of it going to his head as he bumps their noses together. "Then I will ask no more and we can dance the rest of the evening."
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She is a tough, proud, discreet ship. Holding all of their secrets safe within her, willing to take them to the bottom of the sea before a betrayal. A better lover than most people ever could be, and one who will cradle them as best she can the whole way out into the cold and dark, and back home again.
Thomas deserves that care. He is impossibly sweet, and Francis is very happy he can share the spoils of his privileged position with him. He never imagined himself here; he wonders if Thomas ever did.
"You may," he tells him, and flexes their fingers where they're linked, affectionate. So charmed to be asked. "And you may ask me anything, as much as you like."
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It makes a small taste of the otherworldly like this to please him, to call on the whimsy of that younger boy who imagined far bigger and better things. Funny, though - Thomas Jopson the man wouldn't want fancy ballrooms or homes. The ship, even with its bitter cold and harsh conditions, has been the nearest thing to a dream he's ever imagined.
Crozier is an excellent seaman and dancer, Jopson laughing a little when the ship sways and nearly takes his own footing away and the older man holds him steady. An excellent captain. Even more excellent a man.
"May I have that in writing, Captain?" A murmur, playful, in the small distance between them. Like he might ask if what they were doing could happen in the public eye, where they could whisper and keep secrets and kiss when they pleased.
He removes his hand from Crozier's shoulder to touch the man's cheek, meeting his eyes in the quiet intimacy of this moment before he leans in and kisses him. Soft, sweet - a chaste thing, really, until he noses in for a second and lets the gentle scrape of his teeth catch the man's bottom lip as he pulls away.
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And it is a promise, he realizes. Even if this ends like a fire dimming in the hearth when the expedition has come to a close, and Thomas goes on with his life. As he should— even if he's a committed sodomite, unlike he and Jamie who have the luxury of choice, he can find someone close to his own age with whom to weather life with. A girl who doesn't want for intimacy to look after a home while he's at sea, or a young man to split the cost of boarding with, forever confirmed bachelors to the outside world's eyes.
No matter how it goes: if Thomas asks something of him, he will do his best to see to it. Be it a kiss here, or some other momentous thing. He cannot imagine going back and not extending a hand at any opportunity where it might be needed. Or wanted.
(It would be wonderful to be wanted, wouldn't it.)
The kiss threatens to melt him. He tastes his own lips after, and leans in to touch their foreheads together. A brief rest there, before they move again. Slow, steady, with the occasional playful turn; he lets them swap again, encouraging Jopson to lead. It can't go on forever, perhaps they end on the bench along the window, perhaps they have to part for the rest of the evening. He doesn't want to keep his steward from supper all night. No matter how it settles, he kisses him again before they part.
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He doesn't want the dancing to end. Doesn't want anything about this nearness and affection to end, even when the ship docks however long from now. Not ready to leave, Jopson guides them to the bench as their dancing slows, coming to an easy, natural end. Easy to lean into the kiss, to prolong this moment as long as he can until they part.
There's a brief fumbling of hands, smoothing palms over Crozier's jacket, his chest, wanting to keep contact even as he sits on the bench, hands falling, reaching for the captain's.
"Will you kiss me again, Captain?" Perhaps too cheeky in the soft afterglow of their dancing. "Or at the very least, sit with me?"
Anything to hold onto this moment a little longer, to sate the warm thing he knows is happiness, and the hunger that lies beneath it.
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