Good, that Jopson can't see him from this angle. (He'd have to turn his head, try to.) Because it's now that Crozier looks surprised, and how absurd, to have remained so stone-faced during the punishment only to be malleable now. To hear him speak so openly is rare, and so he listens.
A civilian being lashed doesn't bring the same camaraderie as it does between those enlisted. Always just a little apart. He imagines Jopson, lacking even the benefit of a sailor's training, and he thinks he understands. His own introduction to this life was so different— practically a child still, not trying to escape poverty but invisibility. He wanted to live. See something, anything, beyond the house, and the same green hills, and his mother forgetting if he was Hugh, Francis, or Graham. They were not wealthy, but it was a big house and well-kept, and no one went hungry. But it was still a shock. Another big house, floating, going from world to world, and failings ruthlessly judged and hammered into place.
Jopson's foot knocks his.
"I know."
It won't. His steward is too clever for that. He nudges his foot forward, a loop of contact, hand on his shoulders, toe to heel.
Another little while before he says anything. Mulling it over.
"Your empathy is a mark of honor, as a man. As a human at all. Far ahead of plenty. Maybe even most." His hand rubs over the base of the younger man's neck. He may still be buggering Chambers. Who knows. "Bad luck that this situation was a mess for all involved."
Crozier can't apologize for having punishments doled out. Not on the boy, not on Jopson. It simply isn't a realm, as a commanding officer, as the acting captain on the ship, he can afford to step into. Not even here in the privacy of his own cabin. Not even in his own mind. If he has the capacity to be sorry about it, he doesn't allow himself to acknowledge it. Any shake in confidence can lead to ruin, he knows damn well.
"Chambers may find solace in brotherhood after this," he muses. "And in that solace there is strength. If not, I wish for no man to be made permanently unwell over being unsuited for the work. I will speak to Ross about it, when we next winter on the island."
Jopson feels foolish for letting his mouth run, for exposing just how vulnerable the last two days have left him. It wouldn't be hard to serve a cruel Captain, to tend to war mongers and brutish politicians. It's the isolation that gets at him worst - losing the companionship of the man serves, trapped in his own thoughts. A dangerous cycle when there is nothing to mark the difference in days, weeks, months, than the passing of the sun overhead.
His shoulders relax under Crozier's hands, letting out a low, shaken sigh when one travels to the base of his neck. It's good the man can't see his face, or the way his eyes flutter closed, the way he soaks up the attention, warmth returning beneath his skin, a little life coming back into his eyes. But by the grace of God his back hurts.
"He handled himself well, I've no doubt they'll rally to him now."
The men will turn to the aid of most who have been lashed - not so openly where commanders and officers might see, but in small gestures. Jopson knows there will be little waiting for him. He's on a different step, and usually alone. For now, though, he has this - the Captain's care.
Quiet again, mind churning, thoughts bouncing around, the urge to say everything now he feels so terribly raw, but the stubborn care of a steward, not wishing to add to a burden that he's already done in. He'd like to ask about the naturalist, about the things Crozier's sky box of trinkets has revealed, or what they intend to look for next they have open, clear skies. That would mean admitting he eavesdrops, that he sometimes pauses when filling one of the naturalist's glasses to peer at the drawing he works on.
"I've kept you up, sir. My apologies."
He doesn't move yet. He knows doing so will hurt beyond measure, the cold cloths warmed now by his angry, inflamed skin.
Wounds heal. Broken bones mend strong. Scar tissue, like the kind on Jopson's back, earned for perceived weakness, is thicker than what was there before. The crew will knit closer, they will work better together; what is sacrificed is more space between command and them. But that's how it should be. A steward walks a high-wire strung between decks. Between the community of the crew, and the island of command. Crozier reckons he'll have a few more spotters, after this. Not enough to even out the number of those who are indifferent, or those who look at him with suspicion over his access to the officers and freedom from hard labor, but some.
A hammock on Racer, to his own berth on Terror. He must have done well, or at least not done offensively. Or perhaps Ross picked his name out of a hat.
However it happened, Francis is glad for it.
"Oh? You strong-armed me into this?" He thumbs a slope of muscle where neck joins shoulder. "Sneaky of you. Just sit for a while, Jopson."
Don't make me order you. (Don't make me forget that saying You looked beautiful, while it was happening would be madness.)
The hand stays, as though it alone can prevent any escape. Crozier leaves it until a gentle touch confirms the strips have all begun to match the temperature of Jopson's body, and then, carefully, he peels one off. Just one.
"Here—" a lean into view, as he stretches to take the pillow (so neatly tucked) from his bed. He hands it to Jopson before he rights himself. Not done yet. The one strip is replaced with another from the bowl, still freezing cold from the melted ice. He is careful about laying it down, and then swapping out the next, and the next.
"Not too long," the commander muses. "Or it'll go raw. But some minutes still, I think."
"Shall I tell you the steps I took to strong-arm you then, Captain?"
A weak joke, but he could make one of it. A map of his wrong doings that have otherwise made the Captain sit him down here, tend to his injuries. But the threat is there all the same - don't make me order you. He doesn't even have to say it. (Though part of him wishes he would).
The thumb skirting muscle has him sighing faintly, uncontrolled, the touch tender and so unfamiliar. The Captain's bare skin against his own - that's a tightrope he's wanted to walk for some time, but would never, ever put voice to it. The Captain has his own prospects, certainly, and yet he can't get the look of the man's eyes out of his mind. The hazel mixed with the coldness of a man giving punishment, the hazel burning enough that he could almost imagine the hand hitting him instead of the straps.
The pillow is a welcome surprise, one he takes with a near bashful dip of his head, using it to bolster himself against the back of the chair, sinking his head sideways upon it, arms tucked carefully underneath. It smells of him - sweat and musk and the rich spice he uses to freshen up the man's linens every so often.
He jumps a little with every new application, the cold cloths a shock at first, but relaxing again after the last one is placed.
"Thank you," he murmurs, quiet and with the air of fatigue on the end. Poor sleep last night, all the stress from the day, the lashing - if it weren't for the welts on his back he's sure he'd nod off quickly, and deeply.
"I'll gather a clean case for your pillow and a nightcap for you when we're through. But still some minutes, yes."
Crozier's hands are steady and careful; the contrast between how rough they look and feel, work-worn and strong, and the delicate precision he's capable of, writing long formal letters and calibrating intricate navigation devices, on tactile display. He's not as good at attending to another person as Jopson, so deft with his needlework, his grooming, the expert slip of fingers over his face for shaving (what an adjustment that's been, coaxed into it like a bear taking treats from a zookeeper) but he doesn't apologize. He thinks the younger man likes it anyway.
His touch lands here and there on Jopson's back, making sure the cloth is adhered. He presses a dry towel against the small of his back, wiping away freezing runoff that threatens the waistband of his trousers. He rubs his hands together, chasing the worst of the chill off, before placing them on the steward's biceps, then slides then up to the caps of his shoulders. Carefully rubs, thinks about where his own joints get the most sore through repetitive motion and anxious tension.
Thinks about how that pillowcase is going nowhere, actually.
"When we're through, you're going right to bed."
Good luck arguing.
"I won't have another boy in, I'll just leave any mess for you to sort in the morning. Maybe make one on purpose just to amuse you, since I know you look for extra things to put to rights. See if you can guess which disorderly pen arrangement was my absentmindedness and which I tipped over willfully."
The hands skate over his arms and shoulders and he can’t control the way the hair at his arms at the nape of his neck stand at end. His eyes flutter closed entirely, letting the man make work of his tense muscles. Particularly sore now after the lashings, the way he’d pressed his weight into his arms to keep from reacting, from showing the pain.
“And if I refuse? Will you carry me there yourself, Captain? At the very least allow me to make you a warm brew to help you rest.”
There’s a lazy, almost casual tone to his voice as the fatigue sets in, his accent a little thicker, voice a semitone deeper.
He’s not had anyone touch him like this in ages, not with such care. Admittedly there have been a few little flyaway moments with a deck hand or even a ships boy but not since Racer. Not since he met Captain Crozier, who haunts his dreams and makes miserable work for his own hand when he’s alone at night. Now he has this for reference. Hands rough from work at sea, a callus on the side of his right middle finger where the quill presses. He’s washed these hands, trimmed his nails, and so much more but to feel them like this?
He has to stop thinking about it - his blood has begun to turn a touch too warm and will betray him before too long.
He sits up a little, just enough to try and turn to look at the older man.
“Wait, Sorry. Do you often willfully make messes for me to chase after, sir?”
Not really a question; there's a lilt of implied teasing. On an edge, they are. Really, Jopson, going to refuse an order after being punished so harshly? But ah, here's his captain, comforting him after. A reward on the heels of a beating. He thinks of the way they'd been staring at each other. He wants to lay his hands on his back without any cold water or linen between his palms and the abused skin and feel the heat. He doesn't.
Eyebrows go up when Jopson looks at him. The picture of innocence.
(Just once, when he didn't have his longer coat on, to see him bend at the middle. Harmless.)
"You can make me hot water with juiced lemon," he says, instead of answering about messes, "if you have some too."
Sitting together here, sharing not-quite-tea. That sounds alright.
"But still. In some minutes."
Until the cloth pieces rise to his body temperature again. Crozier shifts one hand higher, fingers pressing into where tendons hold the head and neck together, and Jopson's dark hair.
The rush of warmth to his cheeks when he's praised for behaving well feels utterly obscene. He takes great pride in his work, in being the most diligent and thoughtful and organized, but this? Coming from Crozier himself? He thinks again of the way the strap felt on his back, and knowing now what the man's hands feel like on bare skin, imagine it to be that instead.
He should get up, make a fuss, leave. Draw the lines so he doesn't feel tempted to arch into the press of fingers at his neck, so he can dispel the heat from his face and the giddy beginnings of a racing heart sending that heat southerly.
The sigh that escapes him as the man's fingers press into tight muscle and slide into his hair is something he can't contain. With it comes a rounding of his shoulders, a drop of his head, his body relaxing into the pillow he's putting much of his weight into now.
"Mm. Hot water with juiced lemon. Perhaps some ginger as well?"
Things he uses sparingly, but a treat when the time comes. This feels like one such moment. Another sigh, his body relaxing fully into the chair.
A heady thing, to know how much Jopson will endure. How much he was willing to endure, having already experienced a real, proper lashing, if Crozier found it necessary. Would he have stayed so silent, held his gaze so diligently, if it had been the whip? ... No, he doesn't actually want to know the answer to that. He has no taste for blood, and he hopes Jopson is right: he hopes it doesn't happen again.
If they are ever to revisit this scenario, he would prefer it to be with Jopson over his knees, as—
Mm, well, some propriety should be observed. He hadn't told his steward to lie down on the bed for a reason. Let his thoughts run off with that one after Jopson's tucked away into his own berth, no witnesses except whatever powers observe minds from the heavens. (So: none.)
"If you sit until I'm satisfied with the color back here."
He rubs small circles with his thumb, close to behind Jopson's ear. Encroaching past what's an actual massage, he's transparently just touching him now. But he can see his steward melt, see the faint blush on his cheekbones.
What else is he to say to his Captain? To sit in this chair for the remainder of their journey would be nothing short of an honor if it's what the Captain ordered. Just as he would haven taken the whip or worse should Crozier have commanded it. Some might think it restrictive, the way he devotes his every moment to the man behind him and this ship, but he's chosen it. One of the few things he can choose about this life. The job is a necessity, but this - he'd happily sail another decade in the bitter cold of unknown worlds if he was asked.
The nature of the massage changes but the outcome is very much the same - a quiet hum of approval as that strong, deliberate hand works its way up. He tilts his head into the touch subtly, encouraging more pressure, welcoming in. What would it feel like if the Captain grabbed him now, fingers twisted in his hair or around the nape of his neck?
For the love of the Holy Ghost itself he has to stop thinking of that just now.
"I'm like to fall asleep here Captain if you keep at it," quiet, a little teasing in as much as he can considering the low and sleepy timbre of this words. "My eyes may be too heavy to be trusted with a kettle boil before too long."
Hardly true. He could perform his duties in his sleep if he had to - and he would.
Pushing at the boundaries. One hand at Jopson's bare shoulder still, the other continues on, up onto the curve of his skull, fingers spread out in his hair. Nearly petting him. He imagines getting a grip on it, and gently but firmly pulling him off the chair onto the floor. Would he give him the same look, wide-eyed and adoring?
"So this is what it takes to get my way with you."
Arguing and stubbornness hadn't worked. Shutting the door in his face hadn't worked. No matter how he tried, polite, then with increasing bluntness, his steward remained steadfast in his determination to do his job to its fullest. No half measures, no resigning himself to busywork and laundry and leaving Crozier to his own tidiness. It turns out Jopson is the quiet but relentless river and Crozier, bloody stone that he is, became worn down under the rushing of it.
Until now, and lo and behold, his first assertion — you're going right to bed — may come true after all.
"Mm, it is an excellent persuader, Captain," he mumbles against his forearm, splayed out in the chair with nowhere else to go. But does he mean the hand in his hair? The hand on his shoulder? The lashes? Difficult to tell, but Crozier could ask for anything and he would see to it that he received it. The temptation to lean back into the press of fingers and palm, to stretch across the man's lap, to sit at his feet and put his head against one thigh -
The strips of cloth on his back have gone warm, it's easy to tell, but he says nothing, only lets out a long, slow sigh. The hand in his hair will be the stuff of his late nights and dreams now, no doubt. Soon he'll be made to get up, he's sure of it. Make the hot water with lemon and ginger, serve it in a pristine and expensive china cup. Funny the things they do when out at sea, where money means little against the waves.
He fights it, the heavy pull of relaxation and sleep, but not all men can wage war against their own bodies. His is worn thin, adrenaline used up and drained. He mumbles something, though it's near unintelligible for the way fatigue pulls at him. Sounds something like you'll always have your way with me captain, all mush-mouthed and muffled into a pillow, lulled by gentle hands and gentler care. He goes quiet shortly after, his breathing beginning to slow and even out, the man nodding off, face and arms nestled together against the pillow while Crozier's hand sifts into his hair.
No surprise. Stress steals energy even more than labor, and adding onto it pain, it's a wonder Jopson made it to this hour at all. No doubt the others who were punished are fast asleep in their hammocks, or desperately wishing they were while in sickbay instead. Crozier keeps pace for a while, gently petting him, though he knows he won't ever reach a point where he's had his fill. Best to stop and begin to tidy up, and eventually, carefully coax the young man into bed.
He's got experience with this. A packed house with a dozen siblings, and then decades of living in cramped quarters, and a highly illegal affair with his fellow officer. With any luck, Jopson will experience the transition as a barely-there dream, and Francis will be able to lull him back to sleep once he's laid down. The sheet he drapes over him is soft (laundered by Jopson himself), and he's slow and careful about the blankets, which he knows may cause discomfort with their weight, but it'll be too devastatingly cold without them.
And now here he is, a captain with his berth occupied.
He could just sleep on the floor, but he's too far on the lapsed side of things to engage in self-flagellation. There's an empty bed in a private room, and so goes there, simple as.
(Early up, he only catches Dr Robertson in transition — All's well — Aye — The embarrassment got him more than the strap I think — Nothing serious on the rest — and is perfectly capable of looking after himself to get ready for the day.)
First bell. He closes the door behind him, not pointedly loud, but not timidly, either. That's enough of a lie-in, any longer and the schedule will threaten to run together, and also he thinks Jopson might work himself into an episode.
"Lad." Near the bed. He leans with an arm on the ledge above, his other hand gently touching his steward's shoulder. "Up with ye."
It’s true that the transition from the chair to the bed is one he won’t remember. Likely for the best, considering the sleepy way he’d all but leaned his head into Crozier’s shoulder as he stood up and attempted to get into the bed. But once down, he fell quickly back into an easeful sleep.
He sleeps deeply, and by the time Crozier leans over him he’s not much moved since he was put down the night before. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep, Jopson sleeps soundly, unaware of the door and the ship coming to life above decks. The touch and the voice feel like a dream, like something he wants to lean into like he had the night before, except -
The night before. It isn’t night. There’s light, there’s sound, the smell of coals and fired wood. A knee jerk reaction he startles awake, sitting up with such a fury that he forgets the lashes altogether. At least until the pain of his sore, tightened flesh. It takes the breath out of him, dried out over the night from the cool air, but still fresh and raw. He winces, face wrenched up in pain.
“Captain,” quickly, panicked, a little breathless. “My apologies. I - I’ve never -“
Then and only then he realizes he’s not in his own berth. That the bed he’s in smells of rich spice, sweat, sea spray. He knows these quarters as well as his own- and he scrambles up out of the bed, hissing again at the pain burning down his back.
“I’ll make your tea immediately,” he scrubs at his face, starts looking for his shirt and jacket. Yesterday’s clothes. How unseemly. “Terribly sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
Captain voice. Probably startling, given the circumstances, but he wants to halt the potential spiral immediately. Once he's sure Jopson has settled and is looking at him—
"I made the choice to leave you be and I'm satisfied with it. The matter is closed. Proceeding with the day, you're to see the Doctor first thing for a salve of arnica on your back, and then be about your regular work."
That's that. His expression and tone clearly convey there will be no arguing, no fussing, or else he is going to be unhappy. Helpfully, however, he has already found Jopson's clothes for him, and he holds up the first discarded layer.
"You'll have to rate my performance," he says, as soon as he's managed to convince his steward to accept the aid into his shirtsleeves, which no doubt feels awful. And he will stand there like he's cornered a badger until Jopson cooperates, so. Pick your battles, kiddo.
One more thing, before he leaves. But he's going to see him dressed first, so that he can depart at once if it lands poorly.
Crozier halts him with the ease and confidence of a Captain. One syllable and he’s frozen in place, wide eyes blinking up to him for a moment before his body relaxes, before he takes a careful and proper stance to show his respect and attention.
And gentler, in a far more collected (albeit a little sheepish) tone: “My apologies. I’ve my wits about me now, sir.”
The shirtsleeves break some of that resolve - face twisting at the pain and discomfort of dry and tight injuries alighting down his back as he slips into them with assistance. It has to be far better than those who suffered the straps or whips alongside him - he’s had excellent care. That he’s being aided again by the Captain is something else altogether to worry about. Another burden on the man’s shoulders, even if this one seems to be taken by choice.
“Fortunately you do not seem to be a strangers to shirtsleeves, sir. Your skill is not lost in its disuse.”
A meager attempt at good humors as he smooths the front, carefully tucks it into his wrinkled trousers. What a mess he looks. Waistcoat next, then jacket, each layer bringing with it a new and special sort of pain. The knowledge he’ll have to take all the layers off again to be seen by the doctor is harrowing, but an order is an order.
“Thank you, sir.” Quiet, but grateful - the light back in his eyes. For helping, for caring, for all of it.
An impressive resolve as he dresses, and the discomfort is just cost of doing business; Crozier can't let him walk down to sickbay without his clothes on, and won't be calling Robertson up for special treatment. A punishment it was, and a punishment it continues to be, even with this interference. The mission will tolerate no wasters, not even for an afternoon, and that includes those who bed down behind the mast.
Gratifying, to hear that. Thank you, sir. Not that he hasn't heard it countless times, but Jopson has degrees of meaning in his voice, and in his eyes. Crozier takes it seriously, when it asks to be.
There they stand. Francis lifts his hands to the young man's shoulders — not unlike the night before, but turned about — and looks at him. Serious but not grave. Taking the measure of him. After a moment, he mimics something else: knuckles at his chin, a touch that's too intimate, but that Jopson (Thomas, he reminds himself; bloody Englishmen, but at least he's not another James) has allowed before.
"I must be careful," he says, "about this sort of thing. Not all commanders are, I know."
But he is, and will be. He tips his steward's chin, strokes his thumb over a part of his jaw, feeling the start of stubble.
"In this, you and you alone have the final say. Think on it for a few days. If you answer me before then I won't hear it. You have to decide if you hate me for how much your back hurts, first."
Jopson fusses with his jacket, doing up buttons and picking a loose thread. It startles him when the captain lays hands upon his shoulders, wide eyes blinking up at him beneath lashes at first until he straightens at the seriousness etched into the man’s face. Always a serious man, Crozier, carrying himself with a confidence fit only for a commander and captain such as he is. But he knows the looks - the minute details in the crease of his brow or the turn of his mouth. Knows what line he stands behind based solely on the set of his shoulders when he speaks.
He blushes, a faint thing that mimics the evening before. He could answer now - could spill everything he’s bitten back for months and months now, but tamps it down. Listens, even if the giddy thing knocking about behind his ribs wants otherwise.
“I will give you my answer in a few days’ time,” he repeats, letting the man touch his jaw, his chin. “But forgive me, sir. I must admit it’s impossible for me to hate you for a punishment I earned honest.”
A slip of something less formal, more the man from a poor little apartment in London.
“The pain is merely temporary, after all, but it will not sour a thing. I am above all else honored all the same that I am your steward, sir.”
Honest, open warmth in his face, an adoration making the grey of his eyes shine. He reaches briefly to curl fingers around the man’s wrist, squeezing, intimate in the way his thumb swipes over his pulse point.
But it’s covered, this sweet gesture, as he tugs Crozier’s hand down, adjusts his cuff with a soft huff.
“The whole of the ship will know I did not dress you,” a soft but affectionate complaint. A smoothing of hands ofer the man’s lapel, then fussing with his collar. “But you made a valiant effort, sir. I’ll away to the doctor and return with your breakfast. Or tea at the very least.”
A few days, but he hopes the work of his hands may give a hint of his leanings.
Jopson is lovely, and handsome at once; masculine lines decorated with soft, painterly features. Crozier appreciates how put together he keeps himself, how closely shaved, how meticulously groomed, but he would like to see him shaken loose, too. Only a little like the tightly leashed exertion while being strapped— what would he looks like, flushed and shaking, without a need to contain himself?
Perhaps he'll find out. Jopson seems so certain, but he hasn't woken up in his own berth after accidentally rolling onto his back yet. (Speaking of his own berth, Crozier has left it with the sheets done up properly, inspection-tight good enough for any captain he's served under, but will it pass Jopson's? Hm.) He hasn't navigated his place in the crew after that display. He deserves time to think about it. Sit with it.
He palms over his steward's chest, as though checking his buttons. But the weight of it, and the expression on his face, hopefully silently communicates his appreciation. Not sure if he's ever made anyone feel honored.
"Your diligence is above and beyond," Crozier tells him, fond. "You could put a shine on the roughest stone."
A few days. Crozier removes his hands and steps aside, giving him implied permission to leave. At least his steward coming in and out of the captain's quarters is nothing remarkable; a regular occurrence, and perhaps Jopson looks unkempt today because he was beaten the night before. The world continues to turn, the ship continues to sail. They each have plenty to do.
They have plenty to do, indeed, but Jopson spends much of the day remembering the thumb at the edge of his jaw or the weight of a hand on his chest, his neck, in his hair. Ignores it to get his back looked at, the salve sticky, the smell strong, but it helps. He continues about his day, checking off the long, invisible list he keeps in his mind - supplies, laundry, cleaning, lunch, dinner, and so on. When it's time to retire for the night, he pauses when looking at his own bed. The sheets neatly tucked in, the pillow smoothed out, the quilt folded at the foot of the little bed. Not his work, but close. Militantly orderly in the way the sheets are turned down, waiting for him.
The sheets smell of Crozier, the pillow case of sweat and musk and spice. He slept in his bunk and gave him the Captain's room instead? He buries his face in against it, breathes deep, hears Crozier's words in his head: I must be careful. When he lets his own hand wander in spite of his fatigue, he imagines it to be the Captain's hand.
A couple of days pass without incident. A few of the men look at him differently, clap him on the arm and encourage him to sit with them. Some brotherhood and camaraderie built where it hadn't been before. Of course Crozier would be right. Even young Mr Chambers seems bolstered by some of the older seamen who have faced punishment for unruly nights.
The afternoon brings a nice ray of sun into the window of Crozier's cabin and he crosses to open the curtains, welcoming it, using the light to better assist hemming one of Crozier's newer shirtsleeves, the tail too long and ill-fitting. The light helps, but it's also warm despite it all, and he feels much like a coy housecat finding a comfortable place to relax.
"I did not appreciate your misplacement of the ink wells, sir," he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other as he starts up another set of stitches. "The bottom of the bookshelf isn't where they're meant to be and I'll be polite and not inquire how they made it there in the first place."
Little things out of place here and there, perhaps from the time lost but a day or so ago though he's beginning to suspect foul play.
"Captain Ross must have though I was mad for my running around when he requested use of one and I had to scour the room like a lost dog on the streets."
Not actually offended - far more teasing than anything. He's quite content where he is, actually.
Jamie visiting Terror is a delight, and they talk for hours; he thinks their lieutenants must be exhausted of listening to them yammer, half of it aborted sentences and cryptic exchanges as they know each other's minds so well. A dozen maps, of the shoreline being uncovered, of the stars, of magnetic patterns. Energized by the perpetual pastel day of the pole, they are in the great cabin, then on deck, then in the cabin, and on deck, and in the cabin for ages.
He is sure — has been sure for weeks now — that his steward noticed. That it's part of why he's felt able to tease him the way he does, and in turn, respond to the way Francis teases him. It's cheeky, very on the line of his professed I must be careful, to set Jopson up to have to grope for something on hands and knees in front of him and Ross, but he finds himself empty of guilt. A bit thrilling, actually. Particularly when Jamie asks him when they're alone, How's your boy getting you on, sorry, how are you both getting on, and Francis has to threaten to put a gag in his mouth, though of course that just makes him laugh, bright and brilliant like a bell.
Some humor, too, when he finds out discipline has been just as lively on Erebus. It's going to be a maddening push the whole time over these long years, he thinks, but he likes it. Doldrums kill men. Better to be alight, aflame, kinetic.
"He thought you were as sharp-eyed as any crow in the nest," Crozier says. Working on the log book, for now, Ross and his seconds packed away back on the other ship. Comfortable with just the two of them left, and the door closed. "Finding it as you did. Probably one of the mates tucked a stray one there when the boards were being mopped."
Sure.
"You were listening close about some of the figures, I noticed. Would you care to join us tomorrow when the light's lowest? It may be dull, fiddling with all the weights and lines in the water, but the demonstration makes sense of it, I believe."
Speaking of the light, Jopson looks beautiful there, haloed by it. An enjoyable thing to observe, simple in its pleasure.
The little pot of ink made its way there with some purpose, though the idea that one of the mates tucked it away is nonsense. Particularly when Jopson minds the cleaning of this place like a hawk, and with clear instruction to boot. He raises brows at Crozier, a hint of I know you're up to something in all of it, but it's light. It's been a lovely day tending to Captain Ross and Crozier both - the air in the room warmer and lighter whenever the man comes round. He's seen and heard plenty in his time working with the men, and knew enough even in the beginning to buffet the door against any intruders.
Crozier laughs, bright and open, and there's nothing left to think or discuss. His captain is happy - brilliantly so - when Ross is around, and so in turn he's happy as well. He could sit here in the sun sewing and tending to the tidiness of the room for the rest of his days, talking like this, like the sea isn't roaring outside, like they're on solid ground, far, far from the troubles of England.
"Mm?" A blink, he looks up. "I apologize, sir, I don't mean to eavesdrop when you have guests. I rarely understand what you and the others discuss as it is, but - ah. Yes, I'd like to see it."
The things the men in this room dream up and discover will always seem utterly magical. The way some of the men draw the world around them, the way they twist numbers to make the skies make sense, and now this - weights and lines and other tools to uncover even more. He feels a bit silly, mending shirtsleeves when they unveil truths about their seas and their lands.
"Do you have any books on the subject?"
Magnetism. The sea. The sky. The heavens. Whatever it is they're digging into. He will never be an officer, a commander, a captain, a scientist, a skygazer - nor should he be, he was never meant to be. But to understand something that fills Crozier's eyes with wonder and excitement, to watch all of the men at the table chatter excitedly - it might be nice to understand a sliver of it.
A snort, for the storyteller accusation. They both know Crozier detests telling stories, especially his own; they seem alike in this way. Happy to be private, live now, without ghosts manifesting while they're still here.
"You aren't eavesdropping." Crozier makes to stand, putting away his pen nib. "Even if you were on the other side of the door, you wouldn't be."
Because it's his job to listen, but really, he's in the room, and the notion of stewards (or any servant) having to go deaf and blind while their employers (never their betters) go about their business is lunacy. He supposes he'd understand going elsewhere mentally, daydreaming, during a miserable job, but he can't imagine it out of Thomas Jopson.
A small, real smile, for the accepted invitation. Happy about it. And happy to pick out a book for him, too. Erebus has a more impressive library, in terms of numbers of variety of subjects, between the naturalist's collection and the options for pleasure-reading for the crew. But they have a fine one on Terror, too, and the bookshelf in the great cabin holds a number of miserably dry educational tomes. He considers, but quickly— a notion already, and so he finds it quick enough. Star navigation, because it offers a solid introduction to the concepts that build magnetic theory. The way the Earth moves, and the way the Moon and the Sun pull the tides, and the mapping of it all.
"I started hereabouts," he says of the book, moving to join his steward on the bench along the windows. "Granted it's not riveting prose."
"I do my best to stay out of matters that don't involve me, to middling success, sir."
A small smile, but he watches the man move about the cabin, along the shelves of books. Something about Crozier demands attention - perhaps the line of his shoulders, his posture, the air of him. He's impossible to ignore and even now he forgets his sewing work, watching him travel the lines of books. Forgets it further when the man joins him on the bench in the sun - this close the blond looks like strings of burnished gold.
He sets the shirtsleeves aside, careful to tuck the needle into a pin cushion, and reaches for the book. Flipping through its pages, testing the feel of them. In far, far better shape than his worn and tired Dickens.
"It caught your interest didn't it? It can't be terribly dull, then." Another little tease, pleased and bolstered by the Captain's attention. "The only book I have is a Dickens - Pickwick Papers. I'll say anything would be a refreshing read. You likely saw it when you were in my berth. It looks like nothing more than worn sheafs of paper. This is luxurious in comparison."
A glance down to the book, the fine hardbacked cover, the delicate ink on the pages. A very neat, orderly little thing - nothing at all like the little ha'penny serials he would buy when he was younger when his father would shoo him off to have a little bit of fun. Simpler times, certainly.
When you were in my berth. Caught, and that too is pleasing, to be so aware of each other, and find no objection.
"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
Edited (minor wording change to sound more sailory ) 2025-10-31 04:21 (UTC)
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A civilian being lashed doesn't bring the same camaraderie as it does between those enlisted. Always just a little apart. He imagines Jopson, lacking even the benefit of a sailor's training, and he thinks he understands. His own introduction to this life was so different— practically a child still, not trying to escape poverty but invisibility. He wanted to live. See something, anything, beyond the house, and the same green hills, and his mother forgetting if he was Hugh, Francis, or Graham. They were not wealthy, but it was a big house and well-kept, and no one went hungry. But it was still a shock. Another big house, floating, going from world to world, and failings ruthlessly judged and hammered into place.
Jopson's foot knocks his.
"I know."
It won't. His steward is too clever for that. He nudges his foot forward, a loop of contact, hand on his shoulders, toe to heel.
Another little while before he says anything. Mulling it over.
"Your empathy is a mark of honor, as a man. As a human at all. Far ahead of plenty. Maybe even most." His hand rubs over the base of the younger man's neck. He may still be buggering Chambers. Who knows. "Bad luck that this situation was a mess for all involved."
Crozier can't apologize for having punishments doled out. Not on the boy, not on Jopson. It simply isn't a realm, as a commanding officer, as the acting captain on the ship, he can afford to step into. Not even here in the privacy of his own cabin. Not even in his own mind. If he has the capacity to be sorry about it, he doesn't allow himself to acknowledge it. Any shake in confidence can lead to ruin, he knows damn well.
"Chambers may find solace in brotherhood after this," he muses. "And in that solace there is strength. If not, I wish for no man to be made permanently unwell over being unsuited for the work. I will speak to Ross about it, when we next winter on the island."
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His shoulders relax under Crozier's hands, letting out a low, shaken sigh when one travels to the base of his neck. It's good the man can't see his face, or the way his eyes flutter closed, the way he soaks up the attention, warmth returning beneath his skin, a little life coming back into his eyes. But by the grace of God his back hurts.
"He handled himself well, I've no doubt they'll rally to him now."
The men will turn to the aid of most who have been lashed - not so openly where commanders and officers might see, but in small gestures. Jopson knows there will be little waiting for him. He's on a different step, and usually alone. For now, though, he has this - the Captain's care.
Quiet again, mind churning, thoughts bouncing around, the urge to say everything now he feels so terribly raw, but the stubborn care of a steward, not wishing to add to a burden that he's already done in. He'd like to ask about the naturalist, about the things Crozier's sky box of trinkets has revealed, or what they intend to look for next they have open, clear skies. That would mean admitting he eavesdrops, that he sometimes pauses when filling one of the naturalist's glasses to peer at the drawing he works on.
"I've kept you up, sir. My apologies."
He doesn't move yet. He knows doing so will hurt beyond measure, the cold cloths warmed now by his angry, inflamed skin.
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A hammock on Racer, to his own berth on Terror. He must have done well, or at least not done offensively. Or perhaps Ross picked his name out of a hat.
However it happened, Francis is glad for it.
"Oh? You strong-armed me into this?" He thumbs a slope of muscle where neck joins shoulder. "Sneaky of you. Just sit for a while, Jopson."
Don't make me order you. (Don't make me forget that saying You looked beautiful, while it was happening would be madness.)
The hand stays, as though it alone can prevent any escape. Crozier leaves it until a gentle touch confirms the strips have all begun to match the temperature of Jopson's body, and then, carefully, he peels one off. Just one.
"Here—" a lean into view, as he stretches to take the pillow (so neatly tucked) from his bed. He hands it to Jopson before he rights himself. Not done yet. The one strip is replaced with another from the bowl, still freezing cold from the melted ice. He is careful about laying it down, and then swapping out the next, and the next.
"Not too long," the commander muses. "Or it'll go raw. But some minutes still, I think."
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A weak joke, but he could make one of it. A map of his wrong doings that have otherwise made the Captain sit him down here, tend to his injuries. But the threat is there all the same - don't make me order you. He doesn't even have to say it. (Though part of him wishes he would).
The thumb skirting muscle has him sighing faintly, uncontrolled, the touch tender and so unfamiliar. The Captain's bare skin against his own - that's a tightrope he's wanted to walk for some time, but would never, ever put voice to it. The Captain has his own prospects, certainly, and yet he can't get the look of the man's eyes out of his mind. The hazel mixed with the coldness of a man giving punishment, the hazel burning enough that he could almost imagine the hand hitting him instead of the straps.
The pillow is a welcome surprise, one he takes with a near bashful dip of his head, using it to bolster himself against the back of the chair, sinking his head sideways upon it, arms tucked carefully underneath. It smells of him - sweat and musk and the rich spice he uses to freshen up the man's linens every so often.
He jumps a little with every new application, the cold cloths a shock at first, but relaxing again after the last one is placed.
"Thank you," he murmurs, quiet and with the air of fatigue on the end. Poor sleep last night, all the stress from the day, the lashing - if it weren't for the welts on his back he's sure he'd nod off quickly, and deeply.
"I'll gather a clean case for your pillow and a nightcap for you when we're through. But still some minutes, yes."
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His touch lands here and there on Jopson's back, making sure the cloth is adhered. He presses a dry towel against the small of his back, wiping away freezing runoff that threatens the waistband of his trousers. He rubs his hands together, chasing the worst of the chill off, before placing them on the steward's biceps, then slides then up to the caps of his shoulders. Carefully rubs, thinks about where his own joints get the most sore through repetitive motion and anxious tension.
Thinks about how that pillowcase is going nowhere, actually.
"When we're through, you're going right to bed."
Good luck arguing.
"I won't have another boy in, I'll just leave any mess for you to sort in the morning. Maybe make one on purpose just to amuse you, since I know you look for extra things to put to rights. See if you can guess which disorderly pen arrangement was my absentmindedness and which I tipped over willfully."
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“And if I refuse? Will you carry me there yourself, Captain? At the very least allow me to make you a warm brew to help you rest.”
There’s a lazy, almost casual tone to his voice as the fatigue sets in, his accent a little thicker, voice a semitone deeper.
He’s not had anyone touch him like this in ages, not with such care. Admittedly there have been a few little flyaway moments with a deck hand or even a ships boy but not since Racer. Not since he met Captain Crozier, who haunts his dreams and makes miserable work for his own hand when he’s alone at night. Now he has this for reference. Hands rough from work at sea, a callus on the side of his right middle finger where the quill presses. He’s washed these hands, trimmed his nails, and so much more but to feel them like this?
He has to stop thinking about it - his blood has begun to turn a touch too warm and will betray him before too long.
He sits up a little, just enough to try and turn to look at the older man.
“Wait, Sorry. Do you often willfully make messes for me to chase after, sir?”
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Not really a question; there's a lilt of implied teasing. On an edge, they are. Really, Jopson, going to refuse an order after being punished so harshly? But ah, here's his captain, comforting him after. A reward on the heels of a beating. He thinks of the way they'd been staring at each other. He wants to lay his hands on his back without any cold water or linen between his palms and the abused skin and feel the heat. He doesn't.
Eyebrows go up when Jopson looks at him. The picture of innocence.
(Just once, when he didn't have his longer coat on, to see him bend at the middle. Harmless.)
"You can make me hot water with juiced lemon," he says, instead of answering about messes, "if you have some too."
Sitting together here, sharing not-quite-tea. That sounds alright.
"But still. In some minutes."
Until the cloth pieces rise to his body temperature again. Crozier shifts one hand higher, fingers pressing into where tendons hold the head and neck together, and Jopson's dark hair.
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He should get up, make a fuss, leave. Draw the lines so he doesn't feel tempted to arch into the press of fingers at his neck, so he can dispel the heat from his face and the giddy beginnings of a racing heart sending that heat southerly.
The sigh that escapes him as the man's fingers press into tight muscle and slide into his hair is something he can't contain. With it comes a rounding of his shoulders, a drop of his head, his body relaxing into the pillow he's putting much of his weight into now.
"Mm. Hot water with juiced lemon. Perhaps some ginger as well?"
Things he uses sparingly, but a treat when the time comes. This feels like one such moment. Another sigh, his body relaxing fully into the chair.
"I'll make enough for the both of us."
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If they are ever to revisit this scenario, he would prefer it to be with Jopson over his knees, as—
Mm, well, some propriety should be observed. He hadn't told his steward to lie down on the bed for a reason. Let his thoughts run off with that one after Jopson's tucked away into his own berth, no witnesses except whatever powers observe minds from the heavens. (So: none.)
"If you sit until I'm satisfied with the color back here."
He rubs small circles with his thumb, close to behind Jopson's ear. Encroaching past what's an actual massage, he's transparently just touching him now. But he can see his steward melt, see the faint blush on his cheekbones.
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What else is he to say to his Captain? To sit in this chair for the remainder of their journey would be nothing short of an honor if it's what the Captain ordered. Just as he would haven taken the whip or worse should Crozier have commanded it. Some might think it restrictive, the way he devotes his every moment to the man behind him and this ship, but he's chosen it. One of the few things he can choose about this life. The job is a necessity, but this - he'd happily sail another decade in the bitter cold of unknown worlds if he was asked.
The nature of the massage changes but the outcome is very much the same - a quiet hum of approval as that strong, deliberate hand works its way up. He tilts his head into the touch subtly, encouraging more pressure, welcoming in. What would it feel like if the Captain grabbed him now, fingers twisted in his hair or around the nape of his neck?
For the love of the Holy Ghost itself he has to stop thinking of that just now.
"I'm like to fall asleep here Captain if you keep at it," quiet, a little teasing in as much as he can considering the low and sleepy timbre of this words. "My eyes may be too heavy to be trusted with a kettle boil before too long."
Hardly true. He could perform his duties in his sleep if he had to - and he would.
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"So this is what it takes to get my way with you."
Arguing and stubbornness hadn't worked. Shutting the door in his face hadn't worked. No matter how he tried, polite, then with increasing bluntness, his steward remained steadfast in his determination to do his job to its fullest. No half measures, no resigning himself to busywork and laundry and leaving Crozier to his own tidiness. It turns out Jopson is the quiet but relentless river and Crozier, bloody stone that he is, became worn down under the rushing of it.
Until now, and lo and behold, his first assertion — you're going right to bed — may come true after all.
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The strips of cloth on his back have gone warm, it's easy to tell, but he says nothing, only lets out a long, slow sigh. The hand in his hair will be the stuff of his late nights and dreams now, no doubt. Soon he'll be made to get up, he's sure of it. Make the hot water with lemon and ginger, serve it in a pristine and expensive china cup. Funny the things they do when out at sea, where money means little against the waves.
He fights it, the heavy pull of relaxation and sleep, but not all men can wage war against their own bodies. His is worn thin, adrenaline used up and drained. He mumbles something, though it's near unintelligible for the way fatigue pulls at him. Sounds something like you'll always have your way with me captain, all mush-mouthed and muffled into a pillow, lulled by gentle hands and gentler care. He goes quiet shortly after, his breathing beginning to slow and even out, the man nodding off, face and arms nestled together against the pillow while Crozier's hand sifts into his hair.
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No surprise. Stress steals energy even more than labor, and adding onto it pain, it's a wonder Jopson made it to this hour at all. No doubt the others who were punished are fast asleep in their hammocks, or desperately wishing they were while in sickbay instead. Crozier keeps pace for a while, gently petting him, though he knows he won't ever reach a point where he's had his fill. Best to stop and begin to tidy up, and eventually, carefully coax the young man into bed.
He's got experience with this. A packed house with a dozen siblings, and then decades of living in cramped quarters, and a highly illegal affair with his fellow officer. With any luck, Jopson will experience the transition as a barely-there dream, and Francis will be able to lull him back to sleep once he's laid down. The sheet he drapes over him is soft (laundered by Jopson himself), and he's slow and careful about the blankets, which he knows may cause discomfort with their weight, but it'll be too devastatingly cold without them.
And now here he is, a captain with his berth occupied.
He could just sleep on the floor, but he's too far on the lapsed side of things to engage in self-flagellation. There's an empty bed in a private room, and so goes there, simple as.
(Early up, he only catches Dr Robertson in transition — All's well — Aye — The embarrassment got him more than the strap I think — Nothing serious on the rest — and is perfectly capable of looking after himself to get ready for the day.)
First bell. He closes the door behind him, not pointedly loud, but not timidly, either. That's enough of a lie-in, any longer and the schedule will threaten to run together, and also he thinks Jopson might work himself into an episode.
"Lad." Near the bed. He leans with an arm on the ledge above, his other hand gently touching his steward's shoulder. "Up with ye."
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He sleeps deeply, and by the time Crozier leans over him he’s not much moved since he was put down the night before. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep, Jopson sleeps soundly, unaware of the door and the ship coming to life above decks. The touch and the voice feel like a dream, like something he wants to lean into like he had the night before, except -
The night before. It isn’t night. There’s light, there’s sound, the smell of coals and fired wood. A knee jerk reaction he startles awake, sitting up with such a fury that he forgets the lashes altogether. At least until the pain of his sore, tightened flesh. It takes the breath out of him, dried out over the night from the cool air, but still fresh and raw. He winces, face wrenched up in pain.
“Captain,” quickly, panicked, a little breathless. “My apologies. I - I’ve never -“
Then and only then he realizes he’s not in his own berth. That the bed he’s in smells of rich spice, sweat, sea spray. He knows these quarters as well as his own- and he scrambles up out of the bed, hissing again at the pain burning down his back.
“I’ll make your tea immediately,” he scrubs at his face, starts looking for his shirt and jacket. Yesterday’s clothes. How unseemly. “Terribly sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me.”
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Captain voice. Probably startling, given the circumstances, but he wants to halt the potential spiral immediately. Once he's sure Jopson has settled and is looking at him—
"I made the choice to leave you be and I'm satisfied with it. The matter is closed. Proceeding with the day, you're to see the Doctor first thing for a salve of arnica on your back, and then be about your regular work."
That's that. His expression and tone clearly convey there will be no arguing, no fussing, or else he is going to be unhappy. Helpfully, however, he has already found Jopson's clothes for him, and he holds up the first discarded layer.
"You'll have to rate my performance," he says, as soon as he's managed to convince his steward to accept the aid into his shirtsleeves, which no doubt feels awful. And he will stand there like he's cornered a badger until Jopson cooperates, so. Pick your battles, kiddo.
One more thing, before he leaves. But he's going to see him dressed first, so that he can depart at once if it lands poorly.
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Crozier halts him with the ease and confidence of a Captain. One syllable and he’s frozen in place, wide eyes blinking up to him for a moment before his body relaxes, before he takes a careful and proper stance to show his respect and attention.
And gentler, in a far more collected (albeit a little sheepish) tone: “My apologies. I’ve my wits about me now, sir.”
The shirtsleeves break some of that resolve - face twisting at the pain and discomfort of dry and tight injuries alighting down his back as he slips into them with assistance. It has to be far better than those who suffered the straps or whips alongside him - he’s had excellent care. That he’s being aided again by the Captain is something else altogether to worry about. Another burden on the man’s shoulders, even if this one seems to be taken by choice.
“Fortunately you do not seem to be a strangers to shirtsleeves, sir. Your skill is not lost in its disuse.”
A meager attempt at good humors as he smooths the front, carefully tucks it into his wrinkled trousers. What a mess he looks. Waistcoat next, then jacket, each layer bringing with it a new and special sort of pain. The knowledge he’ll have to take all the layers off again to be seen by the doctor is harrowing, but an order is an order.
“Thank you, sir.” Quiet, but grateful - the light back in his eyes. For helping, for caring, for all of it.
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Gratifying, to hear that. Thank you, sir. Not that he hasn't heard it countless times, but Jopson has degrees of meaning in his voice, and in his eyes. Crozier takes it seriously, when it asks to be.
There they stand. Francis lifts his hands to the young man's shoulders — not unlike the night before, but turned about — and looks at him. Serious but not grave. Taking the measure of him. After a moment, he mimics something else: knuckles at his chin, a touch that's too intimate, but that Jopson (Thomas, he reminds himself; bloody Englishmen, but at least he's not another James) has allowed before.
"I must be careful," he says, "about this sort of thing. Not all commanders are, I know."
But he is, and will be. He tips his steward's chin, strokes his thumb over a part of his jaw, feeling the start of stubble.
"In this, you and you alone have the final say. Think on it for a few days. If you answer me before then I won't hear it. You have to decide if you hate me for how much your back hurts, first."
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He blushes, a faint thing that mimics the evening before. He could answer now - could spill everything he’s bitten back for months and months now, but tamps it down. Listens, even if the giddy thing knocking about behind his ribs wants otherwise.
“I will give you my answer in a few days’ time,” he repeats, letting the man touch his jaw, his chin. “But forgive me, sir. I must admit it’s impossible for me to hate you for a punishment I earned honest.”
A slip of something less formal, more the man from a poor little apartment in London.
“The pain is merely temporary, after all, but it will not sour a thing. I am above all else honored all the same that I am your steward, sir.”
Honest, open warmth in his face, an adoration making the grey of his eyes shine. He reaches briefly to curl fingers around the man’s wrist, squeezing, intimate in the way his thumb swipes over his pulse point.
But it’s covered, this sweet gesture, as he tugs Crozier’s hand down, adjusts his cuff with a soft huff.
“The whole of the ship will know I did not dress you,” a soft but affectionate complaint. A smoothing of hands ofer the man’s lapel, then fussing with his collar. “But you made a valiant effort, sir. I’ll away to the doctor and return with your breakfast. Or tea at the very least.”
A few days, but he hopes the work of his hands may give a hint of his leanings.
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Perhaps he'll find out. Jopson seems so certain, but he hasn't woken up in his own berth after accidentally rolling onto his back yet. (Speaking of his own berth, Crozier has left it with the sheets done up properly, inspection-tight good enough for any captain he's served under, but will it pass Jopson's? Hm.) He hasn't navigated his place in the crew after that display. He deserves time to think about it. Sit with it.
He palms over his steward's chest, as though checking his buttons. But the weight of it, and the expression on his face, hopefully silently communicates his appreciation. Not sure if he's ever made anyone feel honored.
"Your diligence is above and beyond," Crozier tells him, fond. "You could put a shine on the roughest stone."
A few days. Crozier removes his hands and steps aside, giving him implied permission to leave. At least his steward coming in and out of the captain's quarters is nothing remarkable; a regular occurrence, and perhaps Jopson looks unkempt today because he was beaten the night before. The world continues to turn, the ship continues to sail. They each have plenty to do.
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The sheets smell of Crozier, the pillow case of sweat and musk and spice. He slept in his bunk and gave him the Captain's room instead? He buries his face in against it, breathes deep, hears Crozier's words in his head: I must be careful. When he lets his own hand wander in spite of his fatigue, he imagines it to be the Captain's hand.
A couple of days pass without incident. A few of the men look at him differently, clap him on the arm and encourage him to sit with them. Some brotherhood and camaraderie built where it hadn't been before. Of course Crozier would be right. Even young Mr Chambers seems bolstered by some of the older seamen who have faced punishment for unruly nights.
The afternoon brings a nice ray of sun into the window of Crozier's cabin and he crosses to open the curtains, welcoming it, using the light to better assist hemming one of Crozier's newer shirtsleeves, the tail too long and ill-fitting. The light helps, but it's also warm despite it all, and he feels much like a coy housecat finding a comfortable place to relax.
"I did not appreciate your misplacement of the ink wells, sir," he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other as he starts up another set of stitches. "The bottom of the bookshelf isn't where they're meant to be and I'll be polite and not inquire how they made it there in the first place."
Little things out of place here and there, perhaps from the time lost but a day or so ago though he's beginning to suspect foul play.
"Captain Ross must have though I was mad for my running around when he requested use of one and I had to scour the room like a lost dog on the streets."
Not actually offended - far more teasing than anything. He's quite content where he is, actually.
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He is sure — has been sure for weeks now — that his steward noticed. That it's part of why he's felt able to tease him the way he does, and in turn, respond to the way Francis teases him. It's cheeky, very on the line of his professed I must be careful, to set Jopson up to have to grope for something on hands and knees in front of him and Ross, but he finds himself empty of guilt. A bit thrilling, actually. Particularly when Jamie asks him when they're alone, How's your boy getting you on, sorry, how are you both getting on, and Francis has to threaten to put a gag in his mouth, though of course that just makes him laugh, bright and brilliant like a bell.
Some humor, too, when he finds out discipline has been just as lively on Erebus. It's going to be a maddening push the whole time over these long years, he thinks, but he likes it. Doldrums kill men. Better to be alight, aflame, kinetic.
"He thought you were as sharp-eyed as any crow in the nest," Crozier says. Working on the log book, for now, Ross and his seconds packed away back on the other ship. Comfortable with just the two of them left, and the door closed. "Finding it as you did. Probably one of the mates tucked a stray one there when the boards were being mopped."
Sure.
"You were listening close about some of the figures, I noticed. Would you care to join us tomorrow when the light's lowest? It may be dull, fiddling with all the weights and lines in the water, but the demonstration makes sense of it, I believe."
Speaking of the light, Jopson looks beautiful there, haloed by it. An enjoyable thing to observe, simple in its pleasure.
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The little pot of ink made its way there with some purpose, though the idea that one of the mates tucked it away is nonsense. Particularly when Jopson minds the cleaning of this place like a hawk, and with clear instruction to boot. He raises brows at Crozier, a hint of I know you're up to something in all of it, but it's light. It's been a lovely day tending to Captain Ross and Crozier both - the air in the room warmer and lighter whenever the man comes round. He's seen and heard plenty in his time working with the men, and knew enough even in the beginning to buffet the door against any intruders.
Crozier laughs, bright and open, and there's nothing left to think or discuss. His captain is happy - brilliantly so - when Ross is around, and so in turn he's happy as well. He could sit here in the sun sewing and tending to the tidiness of the room for the rest of his days, talking like this, like the sea isn't roaring outside, like they're on solid ground, far, far from the troubles of England.
"Mm?" A blink, he looks up. "I apologize, sir, I don't mean to eavesdrop when you have guests. I rarely understand what you and the others discuss as it is, but - ah. Yes, I'd like to see it."
The things the men in this room dream up and discover will always seem utterly magical. The way some of the men draw the world around them, the way they twist numbers to make the skies make sense, and now this - weights and lines and other tools to uncover even more. He feels a bit silly, mending shirtsleeves when they unveil truths about their seas and their lands.
"Do you have any books on the subject?"
Magnetism. The sea. The sky. The heavens. Whatever it is they're digging into. He will never be an officer, a commander, a captain, a scientist, a skygazer - nor should he be, he was never meant to be. But to understand something that fills Crozier's eyes with wonder and excitement, to watch all of the men at the table chatter excitedly - it might be nice to understand a sliver of it.
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"You aren't eavesdropping." Crozier makes to stand, putting away his pen nib. "Even if you were on the other side of the door, you wouldn't be."
Because it's his job to listen, but really, he's in the room, and the notion of stewards (or any servant) having to go deaf and blind while their employers (never their betters) go about their business is lunacy. He supposes he'd understand going elsewhere mentally, daydreaming, during a miserable job, but he can't imagine it out of Thomas Jopson.
A small, real smile, for the accepted invitation. Happy about it. And happy to pick out a book for him, too. Erebus has a more impressive library, in terms of numbers of variety of subjects, between the naturalist's collection and the options for pleasure-reading for the crew. But they have a fine one on Terror, too, and the bookshelf in the great cabin holds a number of miserably dry educational tomes. He considers, but quickly— a notion already, and so he finds it quick enough. Star navigation, because it offers a solid introduction to the concepts that build magnetic theory. The way the Earth moves, and the way the Moon and the Sun pull the tides, and the mapping of it all.
"I started hereabouts," he says of the book, moving to join his steward on the bench along the windows. "Granted it's not riveting prose."
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A small smile, but he watches the man move about the cabin, along the shelves of books. Something about Crozier demands attention - perhaps the line of his shoulders, his posture, the air of him. He's impossible to ignore and even now he forgets his sewing work, watching him travel the lines of books. Forgets it further when the man joins him on the bench in the sun - this close the blond looks like strings of burnished gold.
He sets the shirtsleeves aside, careful to tuck the needle into a pin cushion, and reaches for the book. Flipping through its pages, testing the feel of them. In far, far better shape than his worn and tired Dickens.
"It caught your interest didn't it? It can't be terribly dull, then." Another little tease, pleased and bolstered by the Captain's attention. "The only book I have is a Dickens - Pickwick Papers. I'll say anything would be a refreshing read. You likely saw it when you were in my berth. It looks like nothing more than worn sheafs of paper. This is luxurious in comparison."
A glance down to the book, the fine hardbacked cover, the delicate ink on the pages. A very neat, orderly little thing - nothing at all like the little ha'penny serials he would buy when he was younger when his father would shoo him off to have a little bit of fun. Simpler times, certainly.
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"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
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i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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