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.
Captain sounds so different on Jopson's mouth than anyone else's. Captain and Sir. They sound like affectionate pet names, so different than how he says it for anyone else. Perhaps this is some imagining of his, addled on the high of a new entanglement— but surely he'd noticed it before, too. It's not new, the way his ears are primed to hear Jopson's voice on an entirely individual frequency when he calls to him.
On the bench with him, Crozier sits angled towards the other man. He smiles, lopsided and honest, at that request. There was no exertion in their slow-paced dance, but he nevertheless feels flushed from it. Not too cheeky, and to match it, he slides his hand over Jopson's thigh as he leans in.
"Come here, sweet boy."
Whatever they have left of the hour, they can spend trading kisses. Not so much that it becomes obvious what they've been doing, but perhaps enough that it can take the edge off the desire to crawl into his skin and taste something deeper.
The hand on his thigh feels as though it burns, the same intensity as an iron in the fires in the belly of the ship. Spreads heat under his skin, making it all the more apparent that he, too, has come away from dancing a little flushed. It's a happy, giddy feeling, and whatever time they have left he plans to spend in the perfect hum of it all.
Sweet boy, Crozier says and he likes the way it sounds on his tongue, much like the way he says his name in the throes of something more passionate. It feels personal, intimate, and he nods a little dumbly when beckoned.
Likely the man only meant for him to lean in so he'd be nearer to kiss, but there's room and time for something different. He takes the hand from his thigh, lacing their fingers and stands just enough that he can bully himself between Crozier's knees, and carefully set his weight down on one leg.
Last time he crawled into the man's lap it was for something different altogether, which does spark something low in his belly, but he doesn't indulge in that. Instead, he leans in to kiss the man again, deep and slow, all the while tugging the man's arm round his waist.
"I'm not hurting you, am I, sir?" His weight on one leg, even if Jopson still has his feet on the floor, pressing into the boards with socked feet to take some of the pressure. What would it be like to sit here, press the man back on the bench and simply stretch out alongside him, as close as he can get without slipping beneath his skin.
Oh, warmth as easy as anything sweeps through him, makes him feel caught up in the moment. They are toeing close to the line, now, of messing about when they should be getting back to real life, but if he cuts them off, when's the next time they'll be able to take advantage of? The weather could turn, they could be at all hands all hours for days on end, any second.
"Not at all," he assures him, but even as he does, Crozier is shifting his weight and moving his hands to adjust the younger man. His voice pitches a bit lower, dragged there by keen interest: "Get comfortable properly if you're going to be about it."
A knee on either side of his thighs on the bench, weight in his lap. Come here, sweet boy, but through touch this time. He slides his hands around to help anchor him, his hips, his rear. He looks up at him, thinks for a moment of the luxury of trust in Jopson to have latched the cabin door, and kisses him.
That he should think of Jopson's comfort at all sends a rush of warmth through his blood. Something Crozier does often, but here in the fleeting hours of the evening, it holds more weight. Careful about how he climbs onto the man's lap, he kneels over him on the bench until his knee caps bump the wooden wall behind, placing him squarely across the man's thighs.
He settles his weight there, pleased by the feeling of hands on his hips, his rear. It takes the sweet haze of their dancing romance and turns the temperature up on it, simmering. Mapping Crozier's chest up to his throat, he leans into the kiss with a low hum, arms wrapping around the man's neck.
Jopson could kiss him for hours if he was permitted, drowning himself in the taste of the man on his tongue, the heat of it, the sounds of Crozier's breathing or the beating of his heart. Everything. Never has he felt more greedy than in moments like these, under the press of Crozier's hands and mouth, feeling the urge to take, take, take.
"The door is locked, Captain," he says in a brief parting, words mumbled against Crozier's jaw.
At the same time he has Jopson held tight to him, he's pinned down. Who's in charge, here? Does it matter? He squeezes his behind, feeling the curve of him, muscle and sinew even beneath the thick fabric of his uniform trousers. His touch is proprietary and sensual, all for the enjoyment of the contact, and for making Jopson know how wanted he is.
Crozier nudges his steward's cheekbone with his nose, presses a kiss there.
"I know it is," he murmurs. "Because you're the one here with me. I don't need to check it."
Jopson, Thomas, whose attention and care are as sharp as his aim. His sweet boy, who he thinks has deeper waters in him yet undiscovered. A very alluring prospect, to an explorer. A kiss on his jaw, the side of his mouth, and then a proper one again, deep and claiming and nearly a mess for how purely indulgent it is. Chasing just the feeling of it, the connection, without any thought towards propriety.
To be trusted implicitly makes the blood in his veins quicken more than the hands at his behind, though the pleasant squeeze of strong hands brings with it a few more degrees of heat. He wishes he could feel them against his skin, trying to remember that frenzied night in the captain's berth, or the tangle of their bodies beneath the blankets and furs in the tent.
There's no holding back in the kiss, Jopson meeting it with a hunger that's been carefully controlled, contained. Doesn't matter that it's messy, he half prefers it that way, and leans in for a second one, more open-mouthed and reckless. The Captain will away to bed after this and Jopson will head back up on deck to make it seem like the flush in his lips is from the cold and not their commander.
He rolls his hips just enough to apply pressure, arch back into the man's hands then back down again, all lazy and slow. He pets Crozier's chest when he parts from their kiss, fingers sliding up the line of his throat, to tip his chin and make the captain meet his eye. He thumbs over a wet spot at the corner of Crozier's mouth.
"I could kiss you until you fall asleep, sir," he huffs softly, amused, leaning down to brush a chase kiss to the same corner he'd touched before, letting his tongue swipe the wet from his skin. "Would you like that?"
Crozier shifts up into the way Jopson moves against him; there's not much space for it, and even though the younger man is the one with any leverage, he's hampered by the modest depth of the bench. Still. He wants to hold him more firmly, feel his body against his more fully. If there was space (there is space, a thought pointedly reminds him, a thought voiced by a far younger more reckless Francis Crozier, you have the whole fucking floor), he'd push him down and peel his clothes off. But there is also not time, he reminds himself, who has learned all these bloody lessons already.
"What incentive would I have to fall asleep, then?" he asks against Jopson's mouth, chases that teasing tongue with a faux-bite, playful, heated. But his hands remain where they are, clutched heavy against his steward's middle. Perhaps threatening the waistband of his trousers, but mostly staying put. Currently in negotiations with himself over reining this in.
As if he wouldn't like it. Be reasonable, kiddo.
"I'll lose the run of myself if you don't go. As much as I would keep you 'til morning."
Thomas pets Crozier's hair back from his face, leaning in against him so their chests are as flush as can be given their position. It's nice being this close, looking down at the man and pressing playful kisses back and forth between them. The soft nip of the man's teeth make him laugh softly against Crozier's mouth, kissing him sweetly after.
"You're incredibly handsome, Captain," he says softly, bumping their noses together, kissing him again, as fleeting as it is teasing. "But I suppose you're right."
A late night, no time, even if he knows he could please him in the time they have left. This is enough, though, the heated petting, the kisses, the way they're seated. He doesn't move just yet, soaking up the warmth and feel of him, the hands heavy and firm at his waist.
"My apologies, sir," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss him once more, deeply, slowly, a languid tangle of tongues, uncaring if they make a mess of it. He's not genuinely sorry this time - an improvement. A sigh after. He strokes Crozier's hair back from his face with both hands, cradling his face between his palms after. "Let me ready you for sleep. And no, sir, I mean nothing else by that. It is my duty to see you comfortably prepared for bed, Captain."
He laughs, a breathless thing — What does that have to do with losing control of himself! — but moreover: "I should turn to stone hearing such a thing from a young man who looks the way you do."
Does Jopson not realize how stunningly beautiful he is? Perhaps not. He isn't in a position to be flattered as the Handsomest Man in the Navy! like Ross is, not a public figure, but if he says he's never been propositioned on the street bold as day, Crozier will call him a liar. Not that Crozier thinks himself ugly in comparison (and it wouldn't matter, he has pulled plenty of men and women before no matter how uncharitably some may rate him), but facts are what they are, and Jopson has the kind of well-arranged features that one normally finds on ancient statues of gods and heroes.
Which would be a bit much to say, and sound dull and awkward in his blunt voice, so he doesn't. But he thinks it, in general and while they kiss again, expressing a mutual ache for more he can bloody taste.
"And it's my duty to send you away after, aye?" Hmph. He leans up for a kiss, nearly lifting Jopson with him, arms around his middle. "I think you get the better end of the arrangement in that regard."
Jopson just has to follow the order, not find the strength to give it.
But, alas. Professionalism. Crozier's first love is the sea, and all that. Up they get, first to straighten clothes, and fetch boots.
Leaving will always leave him wanting - but duty calls and reality waits for them outside a locked door. So he straightens his own clothes, gets into his own boots. Thankfully able to put Crozier's away to his berth all things considered. Easy as anything to fall back into their paces - tidying up from dinner, readying things to take away, then to Crozier.
Crozier who has held him and kissed him and says he looks a way that must be flattering. He's had a few run-ins of course, girls peering into the shop when he was a teenager, giggling behind hands, some adults asking when he's to be wed, whatnot. He's never paid it much mind. But here, on the lilting Irish tongue, it truly means something.
"I will assist you tonight," he says as he pulls out the man's night clothes, working first of course on Crozier's coat, shirtsleeves and such. He can undress the man with his eyes closed and redress him much the same and not miss a single button. "I will see you tucked into bed and dismiss myself as though you'd given me the order earlier, sir. You will be relieved of any responsibility this way."
A smile, the shirt held up for the man to weave his arms into so he can pull it on him. There's a lingering of hands on either side of the man's neck when the shirt comes down - a soft stroke of a thumb over his pulse.
"Thank you, sir. For your trust."
A saying about a simple door's lock has done him in. And his hands drop away just like that, smoothing out sleeves.
"And the dance. It was a very lovely evening, sir."
On Jopson's heels into the room, he puts away some correspondence into this drawer or that ledger, and when his steward undresses him, he is only a little handsy. Testing that assertion, his promise of accepting all responsibility. Not too much. Just enough to make him smile, he hopes.
He slides his nightshirt on, and his palms find Jopson's chest, As though he can feel his heartbeat there, through his vest. Your boy, Jamie called him. Is he? Feels that way, here. His boy who needs to eat dinner still, and so, Francis must stop his testing. Looking after him is far more important than fooling around, as a man, and as a commander, of course his well-being is paramount above all.
"Thank you. For making it possible."
Can't trust a man who isn't worthy. He reaches up, thumbs at Thomas' chin.
A couple of days pass in relative peace - no terrible weather save for a dry, bitterly cold front that fills their sails just enough and keeps them drifting toward the Islands. The men enjoy calm seas and a little more time belowdecks warming up and spending time together. Some men even practice their dances, which leaves everyone in lighter spirits (and sore toes).
For the first time on this journey, Jopson is late to his usual attendance. A fiction book loaned to him by one of the more affluent officers draws him in - a story about a madman and a creature. He eats throughout and only recognizes the time when the mess begins to quiet as men go back to their tasks. The book tucked quickly into the pocket of his coat, he fumbles it on and arranges for Crozier's supper.
When he arrives at the great cabin, he knocks with an urgency that doesn't match the task at hand but comes in a little flustered all the same.
"Captain, my apologies. I did not mean to keep you waiting, but your food is hot and fresh, sir, I made certain of it."
Cloche removed, plate set, cutlery passed to him and a cloth napkin folded neatly to one side, drink poured. A foolish mistake - his face goes ruddy, betrays his embarrassment.
Crozier is at the table, half set for meetings, half for the work he's doing, annotating depth maps. It is not so late that Jopson would be considered off schedule, not really, but it's out of character. Seeing his steward flustered is a bit sweet, but also mildly concerning.
"All's well?" Tiniest frown, though it's clearly an expression of concern. "I don't mind waiting, I do mind you being sick over the side without saying so."
Or something? Eyebrows, expectant. Well, lad, what was it?
In the meantime, he shuffles papers around to put them out of the way. Truth be told he'd have gone on writing for a while without noticing the delay, finding himself so often these days marking time by Jopson's appearances. The young man keeps a very regular schedule.
“Captain, again I apologize. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
The papers and work get shuffled to the side, Jopson even taking up the task to neatly organize them and set them at the opposite end of the table to avoid any mishaps.
The book weighs heavy in his pocket suddenly. What a thing to draw him from his work. Sloppy. He’ll not read at dinner again - save it for the evenings even if he itches to know what comes next.
“I joined the men for dinner - it’s a stew I like particularly well and prefer it hot. I happened to be reading and lost my sense of time. It will not happen again, sir.”
The plate set before Crozier is a little nicer than what the rest eat - more protein, the finer ingredients. But in a little dish alongside the meal is some of the stew. It’s tinned food, but the cook often adds to it and there’s something to a hot meal in the arctic.
That and it reminds him of home, his mother’s cooking. Simple but hearty.
"I've got the bell if it were a dire emergency," he says, sounding amused. It's not that he's a lax commander, but Jopson's version of late is any other man's 'heartbeat away around the corner', and he's earned enough grace moments anyhow. And he does use the steward's bell, on occasion; usually just for service during officer dinners, but there have been haphazard moments of near-disaster as well. Ice samples sliding around. The bird incident.
But dinner for himself: he shall survive.
"What are you reading?"
He notes the stew, and Jopson's praise for it. Just tinned. Immediately he thinks of the kind of stew he ate most often as a child; kid and mutton and hardy root vegetables, cooked slow on a cauldron that had sat in some ancestor or relative's house since before the English arrived. His mother loved every modern advancement of kitchen technology, but scorned the convenience of the cooking pot. It was the ancient globe of a thing or nothing. What an odd place for his thoughts to go— do Jopson's go somewhere similar? They must. No one maintains such a fondness for such a simple thing without more senses than just taste being involved.
(Would Jopson like— no, nobody gives a damn about Irish stew. He tells his head to shut up.)
"Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. It's excellent."
Thomas withdraws the book and sets it on the table for the man to see. Foolish, foolish, foolish that he got swept up in a story and forgot his duty to the man before him. He glances about the room, turns to tidy up a few things left askew from the captain's meetings. A few papers here, a turned chair there, righting everything as it should be.
"Ah - sorry, sir. Have you read the book? I understand it's been published for some time."
To the papers on the table - he organizes them, gives them a more thorough tidying and begins to place all of the things back at Crozier's desk. It's a way to work off the nerves and worry for being late, especially if he keeps moving around and finding things to do. A restless boy - his mother would say, pinch his cheek and send him back to his father to help work.
His days would be spent helping starch fabrics or picking up supplies from other vendors. Eventually he learned some tailoring himself, watchin his father with a hawk's precision until he was given the opportunity to try. The hem of a sleeve, first. And now here he is, standing before the commander of this vessel, ready to serve.
Would his father be proud of him? He doesn't know.
"Would you like anything else to drink with your meal, sir?"
It's excellent? Well, now he's doubly curious, wondering why Jopson thinks so. Crozier communicates mostly in eyebrow movements as he begins dinner. Observing his steward moving around like a bird, checking this and that. A cat while he's waiting, content in the shadows and quiet enough to need a bell.
"Whiskey if there's anything worth itself left in there," it's bloody cold lately. "And tea for yourself if you aren't in a hurry to your next task. I've not read it, no, but I've heard more than one peer at the Astronomical Society work oneself into near apoplexy over the scientific impossibilities of it. Which seems to me to be missing the point of reading a novel, but of course I wouldn't dream of telling anyone his business."
Bit of humor, roasting the gentry.
"I'm sure being penned by a woman has nothing to do with the ire. It's that one, isn't it?"
Thomas nods, hums in understanding and the next stop in his flitting about is indeed for the man's whiskey. There's enough left to pour a finger into the glass, and he empties the last dregs along with it. Not much more. Setting the glass in front of the man, he leans a hip against the table, thoughtful.
"I was surprised to find anyone on a ship willing to read a novel penned by a woman, but it's an extraordinary tale so far. But I'm not a scientist or any such person, so perhaps the more intelligent nature of it is lost on me, sir."
Tea. An order of sorts, and so he takes to preparing himself a cuppa, but doesn't allow the indulgences from the previous night. No, after being so late to bring the captain his meal, he's not deserving. There's a nagging, though, that makes him think of Ross who would absolutely insist on the honey at the very least. And just as he's going to walk away, he adds a spoonful.
"But it is that very same, yes. Mrs Mary Shelley. Bold of her to publish. Lieutenant Philips tells me her husband even wrote a review of her work to encourage the public to read it. It's quite different from anything I've read before, sir."
Tea collected, he wanders back toward the table. He opts not to sit - running around out in the cold and losing himself in the book means he's not stopped overlong to do much of anything for himself, and standing will keep the warmth in his blood.
Sailors are funny about women — and not in the other funny way sodomites are — finding them ominous and bad luck; novels and journals published by women making them onto a vessel is a new phenomenon, and some see that as an extension of that bad luck, in addition to all the ordinary ways men hate them. Crozier doesn't share in this superstition, and doesn't have much time for the enforcement of a woman's allegedly rightful place, but—
"You won't be surprised to hear I've no eye for the art of it." A smidge apologetic, for not having read Frankenstein, or indeed having anything that's captured Jopson's imagination in his library. It interests him to know that Phillips has a more creative mind. Maybe there are novels on Erebus they can swap with, Jamie's always had a better head for that sort of thing.
He leans back, looks at him. Maybe a bit funny, this, staring up at him. What are you doing all the way up there. (Having difficult bending your back, kiddo? Impending inquiry, holding off for now.)
"If any particular passages stand out to you, though." He'd be happy to hear them, and Jopson's opinions. "Perhaps I can learn some poetic insight."
Thomas knows too well that he's meant to be reading more technical, factual things. Most of the men who read on board put their noses into books that expand upon their skills for the ship, whether that's knots or stars or mechanics or navigation. Plenty of knowledge of the shelves in the great cabin, and yet his days of ordering and neatly lining the books up has never made a title jump out at him.
There's the book they're reading together - on the naming of stars and their myths, but it too is historical, factual. It makes sense, for the man Crozier is, and he enjoys it all the same. Learning things he'd not first discover himself, for one, but also seeing the older man light up when adding in a comment or a story here and there. It's worth every moment.
He takes a drink of his tea and pauses, considering what he would read from the book, and finds himself going a little red. Perhaps it's the heat of the drink, is all - but to be late over a book, then talk at length about it, then to read it? He makes a note that he needs to get good sleep tonight - reset his mind, start tomorrow fresh and clear-eyed.
"Ah. Well. If you'd like me to, sir."
He sets the tea down after another sip and takes up the book. Perhaps the story is poorly written and he doesn't have the experience or knowledge to know any better. Perhaps Crozier will hear it and laugh at the triviality of it. Strange, to feel self conscious over something so small.
But he thumbs through some of the pages he's read and comes upon a passage. He takes his time with it, but even in the reading the story takes him up and he ends up reading a little more aloud than he'd meant and he comes to a stop, looking up at the man, a little sheepish.
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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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On the bench with him, Crozier sits angled towards the other man. He smiles, lopsided and honest, at that request. There was no exertion in their slow-paced dance, but he nevertheless feels flushed from it. Not too cheeky, and to match it, he slides his hand over Jopson's thigh as he leans in.
"Come here, sweet boy."
Whatever they have left of the hour, they can spend trading kisses. Not so much that it becomes obvious what they've been doing, but perhaps enough that it can take the edge off the desire to crawl into his skin and taste something deeper.
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Sweet boy, Crozier says and he likes the way it sounds on his tongue, much like the way he says his name in the throes of something more passionate. It feels personal, intimate, and he nods a little dumbly when beckoned.
Likely the man only meant for him to lean in so he'd be nearer to kiss, but there's room and time for something different. He takes the hand from his thigh, lacing their fingers and stands just enough that he can bully himself between Crozier's knees, and carefully set his weight down on one leg.
Last time he crawled into the man's lap it was for something different altogether, which does spark something low in his belly, but he doesn't indulge in that. Instead, he leans in to kiss the man again, deep and slow, all the while tugging the man's arm round his waist.
"I'm not hurting you, am I, sir?" His weight on one leg, even if Jopson still has his feet on the floor, pressing into the boards with socked feet to take some of the pressure. What would it be like to sit here, press the man back on the bench and simply stretch out alongside him, as close as he can get without slipping beneath his skin.
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"Not at all," he assures him, but even as he does, Crozier is shifting his weight and moving his hands to adjust the younger man. His voice pitches a bit lower, dragged there by keen interest: "Get comfortable properly if you're going to be about it."
A knee on either side of his thighs on the bench, weight in his lap. Come here, sweet boy, but through touch this time. He slides his hands around to help anchor him, his hips, his rear. He looks up at him, thinks for a moment of the luxury of trust in Jopson to have latched the cabin door, and kisses him.
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That he should think of Jopson's comfort at all sends a rush of warmth through his blood. Something Crozier does often, but here in the fleeting hours of the evening, it holds more weight. Careful about how he climbs onto the man's lap, he kneels over him on the bench until his knee caps bump the wooden wall behind, placing him squarely across the man's thighs.
He settles his weight there, pleased by the feeling of hands on his hips, his rear. It takes the sweet haze of their dancing romance and turns the temperature up on it, simmering. Mapping Crozier's chest up to his throat, he leans into the kiss with a low hum, arms wrapping around the man's neck.
Jopson could kiss him for hours if he was permitted, drowning himself in the taste of the man on his tongue, the heat of it, the sounds of Crozier's breathing or the beating of his heart. Everything. Never has he felt more greedy than in moments like these, under the press of Crozier's hands and mouth, feeling the urge to take, take, take.
"The door is locked, Captain," he says in a brief parting, words mumbled against Crozier's jaw.
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Crozier nudges his steward's cheekbone with his nose, presses a kiss there.
"I know it is," he murmurs. "Because you're the one here with me. I don't need to check it."
Jopson, Thomas, whose attention and care are as sharp as his aim. His sweet boy, who he thinks has deeper waters in him yet undiscovered. A very alluring prospect, to an explorer. A kiss on his jaw, the side of his mouth, and then a proper one again, deep and claiming and nearly a mess for how purely indulgent it is. Chasing just the feeling of it, the connection, without any thought towards propriety.
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To be trusted implicitly makes the blood in his veins quicken more than the hands at his behind, though the pleasant squeeze of strong hands brings with it a few more degrees of heat. He wishes he could feel them against his skin, trying to remember that frenzied night in the captain's berth, or the tangle of their bodies beneath the blankets and furs in the tent.
There's no holding back in the kiss, Jopson meeting it with a hunger that's been carefully controlled, contained. Doesn't matter that it's messy, he half prefers it that way, and leans in for a second one, more open-mouthed and reckless. The Captain will away to bed after this and Jopson will head back up on deck to make it seem like the flush in his lips is from the cold and not their commander.
He rolls his hips just enough to apply pressure, arch back into the man's hands then back down again, all lazy and slow. He pets Crozier's chest when he parts from their kiss, fingers sliding up the line of his throat, to tip his chin and make the captain meet his eye. He thumbs over a wet spot at the corner of Crozier's mouth.
"I could kiss you until you fall asleep, sir," he huffs softly, amused, leaning down to brush a chase kiss to the same corner he'd touched before, letting his tongue swipe the wet from his skin. "Would you like that?"
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"What incentive would I have to fall asleep, then?" he asks against Jopson's mouth, chases that teasing tongue with a faux-bite, playful, heated. But his hands remain where they are, clutched heavy against his steward's middle. Perhaps threatening the waistband of his trousers, but mostly staying put. Currently in negotiations with himself over reining this in.
As if he wouldn't like it. Be reasonable, kiddo.
"I'll lose the run of myself if you don't go. As much as I would keep you 'til morning."
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"You're incredibly handsome, Captain," he says softly, bumping their noses together, kissing him again, as fleeting as it is teasing. "But I suppose you're right."
A late night, no time, even if he knows he could please him in the time they have left. This is enough, though, the heated petting, the kisses, the way they're seated. He doesn't move just yet, soaking up the warmth and feel of him, the hands heavy and firm at his waist.
"My apologies, sir," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss him once more, deeply, slowly, a languid tangle of tongues, uncaring if they make a mess of it. He's not genuinely sorry this time - an improvement. A sigh after. He strokes Crozier's hair back from his face with both hands, cradling his face between his palms after. "Let me ready you for sleep. And no, sir, I mean nothing else by that. It is my duty to see you comfortably prepared for bed, Captain."
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Does Jopson not realize how stunningly beautiful he is? Perhaps not. He isn't in a position to be flattered as the Handsomest Man in the Navy! like Ross is, not a public figure, but if he says he's never been propositioned on the street bold as day, Crozier will call him a liar. Not that Crozier thinks himself ugly in comparison (and it wouldn't matter, he has pulled plenty of men and women before no matter how uncharitably some may rate him), but facts are what they are, and Jopson has the kind of well-arranged features that one normally finds on ancient statues of gods and heroes.
Which would be a bit much to say, and sound dull and awkward in his blunt voice, so he doesn't. But he thinks it, in general and while they kiss again, expressing a mutual ache for more he can bloody taste.
"And it's my duty to send you away after, aye?" Hmph. He leans up for a kiss, nearly lifting Jopson with him, arms around his middle. "I think you get the better end of the arrangement in that regard."
Jopson just has to follow the order, not find the strength to give it.
But, alas. Professionalism. Crozier's first love is the sea, and all that. Up they get, first to straighten clothes, and fetch boots.
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Crozier who has held him and kissed him and says he looks a way that must be flattering. He's had a few run-ins of course, girls peering into the shop when he was a teenager, giggling behind hands, some adults asking when he's to be wed, whatnot. He's never paid it much mind. But here, on the lilting Irish tongue, it truly means something.
"I will assist you tonight," he says as he pulls out the man's night clothes, working first of course on Crozier's coat, shirtsleeves and such. He can undress the man with his eyes closed and redress him much the same and not miss a single button. "I will see you tucked into bed and dismiss myself as though you'd given me the order earlier, sir. You will be relieved of any responsibility this way."
A smile, the shirt held up for the man to weave his arms into so he can pull it on him. There's a lingering of hands on either side of the man's neck when the shirt comes down - a soft stroke of a thumb over his pulse.
"Thank you, sir. For your trust."
A saying about a simple door's lock has done him in. And his hands drop away just like that, smoothing out sleeves.
"And the dance. It was a very lovely evening, sir."
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He slides his nightshirt on, and his palms find Jopson's chest, As though he can feel his heartbeat there, through his vest. Your boy, Jamie called him. Is he? Feels that way, here. His boy who needs to eat dinner still, and so, Francis must stop his testing. Looking after him is far more important than fooling around, as a man, and as a commander, of course his well-being is paramount above all.
"Thank you. For making it possible."
Can't trust a man who isn't worthy. He reaches up, thumbs at Thomas' chin.
"Rest well."
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For the first time on this journey, Jopson is late to his usual attendance. A fiction book loaned to him by one of the more affluent officers draws him in - a story about a madman and a creature. He eats throughout and only recognizes the time when the mess begins to quiet as men go back to their tasks. The book tucked quickly into the pocket of his coat, he fumbles it on and arranges for Crozier's supper.
When he arrives at the great cabin, he knocks with an urgency that doesn't match the task at hand but comes in a little flustered all the same.
"Captain, my apologies. I did not mean to keep you waiting, but your food is hot and fresh, sir, I made certain of it."
Cloche removed, plate set, cutlery passed to him and a cloth napkin folded neatly to one side, drink poured. A foolish mistake - his face goes ruddy, betrays his embarrassment.
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"All's well?" Tiniest frown, though it's clearly an expression of concern. "I don't mind waiting, I do mind you being sick over the side without saying so."
Or something? Eyebrows, expectant. Well, lad, what was it?
In the meantime, he shuffles papers around to put them out of the way. Truth be told he'd have gone on writing for a while without noticing the delay, finding himself so often these days marking time by Jopson's appearances. The young man keeps a very regular schedule.
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The papers and work get shuffled to the side, Jopson even taking up the task to neatly organize them and set them at the opposite end of the table to avoid any mishaps.
The book weighs heavy in his pocket suddenly. What a thing to draw him from his work. Sloppy. He’ll not read at dinner again - save it for the evenings even if he itches to know what comes next.
“I joined the men for dinner - it’s a stew I like particularly well and prefer it hot. I happened to be reading and lost my sense of time. It will not happen again, sir.”
The plate set before Crozier is a little nicer than what the rest eat - more protein, the finer ingredients. But in a little dish alongside the meal is some of the stew. It’s tinned food, but the cook often adds to it and there’s something to a hot meal in the arctic.
That and it reminds him of home, his mother’s cooking. Simple but hearty.
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But dinner for himself: he shall survive.
"What are you reading?"
He notes the stew, and Jopson's praise for it. Just tinned. Immediately he thinks of the kind of stew he ate most often as a child; kid and mutton and hardy root vegetables, cooked slow on a cauldron that had sat in some ancestor or relative's house since before the English arrived. His mother loved every modern advancement of kitchen technology, but scorned the convenience of the cooking pot. It was the ancient globe of a thing or nothing. What an odd place for his thoughts to go— do Jopson's go somewhere similar? They must. No one maintains such a fondness for such a simple thing without more senses than just taste being involved.
(Would Jopson like— no, nobody gives a damn about Irish stew. He tells his head to shut up.)
Alright, alright, he'll sit and eat.
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Thomas withdraws the book and sets it on the table for the man to see. Foolish, foolish, foolish that he got swept up in a story and forgot his duty to the man before him. He glances about the room, turns to tidy up a few things left askew from the captain's meetings. A few papers here, a turned chair there, righting everything as it should be.
"Ah - sorry, sir. Have you read the book? I understand it's been published for some time."
To the papers on the table - he organizes them, gives them a more thorough tidying and begins to place all of the things back at Crozier's desk. It's a way to work off the nerves and worry for being late, especially if he keeps moving around and finding things to do. A restless boy - his mother would say, pinch his cheek and send him back to his father to help work.
His days would be spent helping starch fabrics or picking up supplies from other vendors. Eventually he learned some tailoring himself, watchin his father with a hawk's precision until he was given the opportunity to try. The hem of a sleeve, first. And now here he is, standing before the commander of this vessel, ready to serve.
Would his father be proud of him? He doesn't know.
"Would you like anything else to drink with your meal, sir?"
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"Whiskey if there's anything worth itself left in there," it's bloody cold lately. "And tea for yourself if you aren't in a hurry to your next task. I've not read it, no, but I've heard more than one peer at the Astronomical Society work oneself into near apoplexy over the scientific impossibilities of it. Which seems to me to be missing the point of reading a novel, but of course I wouldn't dream of telling anyone his business."
Bit of humor, roasting the gentry.
"I'm sure being penned by a woman has nothing to do with the ire. It's that one, isn't it?"
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"I was surprised to find anyone on a ship willing to read a novel penned by a woman, but it's an extraordinary tale so far. But I'm not a scientist or any such person, so perhaps the more intelligent nature of it is lost on me, sir."
Tea. An order of sorts, and so he takes to preparing himself a cuppa, but doesn't allow the indulgences from the previous night. No, after being so late to bring the captain his meal, he's not deserving. There's a nagging, though, that makes him think of Ross who would absolutely insist on the honey at the very least. And just as he's going to walk away, he adds a spoonful.
"But it is that very same, yes. Mrs Mary Shelley. Bold of her to publish. Lieutenant Philips tells me her husband even wrote a review of her work to encourage the public to read it. It's quite different from anything I've read before, sir."
Tea collected, he wanders back toward the table. He opts not to sit - running around out in the cold and losing himself in the book means he's not stopped overlong to do much of anything for himself, and standing will keep the warmth in his blood.
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"You won't be surprised to hear I've no eye for the art of it." A smidge apologetic, for not having read Frankenstein, or indeed having anything that's captured Jopson's imagination in his library. It interests him to know that Phillips has a more creative mind. Maybe there are novels on Erebus they can swap with, Jamie's always had a better head for that sort of thing.
He leans back, looks at him. Maybe a bit funny, this, staring up at him. What are you doing all the way up there. (Having difficult bending your back, kiddo? Impending inquiry, holding off for now.)
"If any particular passages stand out to you, though." He'd be happy to hear them, and Jopson's opinions. "Perhaps I can learn some poetic insight."
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There's the book they're reading together - on the naming of stars and their myths, but it too is historical, factual. It makes sense, for the man Crozier is, and he enjoys it all the same. Learning things he'd not first discover himself, for one, but also seeing the older man light up when adding in a comment or a story here and there. It's worth every moment.
He takes a drink of his tea and pauses, considering what he would read from the book, and finds himself going a little red. Perhaps it's the heat of the drink, is all - but to be late over a book, then talk at length about it, then to read it? He makes a note that he needs to get good sleep tonight - reset his mind, start tomorrow fresh and clear-eyed.
"Ah. Well. If you'd like me to, sir."
He sets the tea down after another sip and takes up the book. Perhaps the story is poorly written and he doesn't have the experience or knowledge to know any better. Perhaps Crozier will hear it and laugh at the triviality of it. Strange, to feel self conscious over something so small.
But he thumbs through some of the pages he's read and comes upon a passage. He takes his time with it, but even in the reading the story takes him up and he ends up reading a little more aloud than he'd meant and he comes to a stop, looking up at the man, a little sheepish.
"I just find it enjoyable, is all, sir."
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