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.
Jopson is pleasant to listen to. He has a voice in a lower register, but he speaks so carefully and gently; Crozier tries the tinned stew first (good, and still warm) while he listens to him, content to eat and sip his drink while his steward goes on. The dialogue writing is like a letter, he catches on rather quickly, which is interesting. Might make it all a bit easier for him to get through, if he were so inclined.
It does take a while, but he doesn't interrupt him. Clearly, Jopson likes it, is moved by it, even if being moved is just being entertained. Gives him something to think about concerning his paramour, the things he finds interesting about the make-believe characters. His own imagination is rarely so tempted, even with the stories of Greek gods that have lent their names to the stars and tides. They could be saints, or apostles, it's all the same.
(The lightest almost-laugh at I expected this reception, imagining the creature very put-out.)
He smiles at him when he winds down, encouraging against that sheepish expression.
"I can tell." Soft, supportive. Crozier asked him to read, and he read, he has no complaints. "A battle between God and Adam might have made me more taken with the Bible, come to think of it. Because that's so often how it is in mortal life, isn't it. We want to break free, but he want our creator's grace, too. Father, king."
Closing the book, he sets it back on the table in exchange for his tea, enjoying the warmth the novel has left behind in his chest, but choosing the tangible warmth of the cup instead. He sips at it slowly, savoring the sweet hit of honey on the back of his tongue. Spoiled by it, really - he'll have to be sure to have his tea plain again on the regular. A steward shouldn't take part in some of the captain's comforts, no matter how lenient the captain.
He listens to Crozier, astounded by the connections he makes - the meaning he's caught behind the narrative. Jopson thinks of those things sometimes when he reads, but hearing it out loud from the older man makes him smile just a little.
"We always want acceptance, even if the hand we're reaching for isn't always a kind one. I enjoy her writing, the voice she gives to these characters. I look forward to finding out what happens next."
The book will remain in his berth after this - only to be read at night by candle light. At the very least it will last him longer that way. He places his cup back on the table and goes about preparing the man's berth for sleep, setting out his bed clothes, putting coals in the hot pans to warm the blankets. A simple routine, but one he's fond of. Even before they became engaged in... whatever it is they're engaged in, he'd always found this an intimate, soft time with a man who otherwise must be strong and stone-faced and leaderly. Here he can be a man with a title, sure, but just a man all the same.
"Is the Whiskey to your liking, sir? There is another brew I can bring up in the morning to replace, or one of the same. I believe the other may have more bite - offer more warmth for these cold evenings."
Likely with more spices, perhaps - something rich and warm left in the barrels. As he tidies the desk he stretches a little, the skin of his back dry and tight. So close to healing and always a step back.
(It's probably the forbidden Catholic vibes of his upbringing letting him see those parallels so obviously, don't think too hard about being astounded, Jopson!!)
"Let me know what you think as you get further on," he requests. "I expect I'll parse it better through your filter."
Might get lost thinking about the electricity, otherwise.
He tracks Jopson, watchful, just about done with his meal by now. Settled in his mind about his plans, assured that his steward has already eaten. Perhaps he does have more tasks to do, perhaps he would like to go back into his berth and read. But Crozier is going to lean on inappropriate use of authority because he wants to. God versus Adam, well, England and the Admiralty have cast him out, and left him as God here on his own ship.
Bit dramatic.
"I'm happy to trust your judgment on the drink, or at least, our supplies." He finishes it off, speaking of it. "In a hard swerve, now— Dr Robertson mentioned you haven't been in, and has thus concluded you are resolved of any troubles. Which is perhaps the case," it is not, he can tell, "but I did have him leave some salve with me, for my hands or my heels, I forgot which excuse I gave."
Ah. Jopson will always marvel at the way his captain hones in on the smallest of details. How he has the foresight to plan for such things and make it seem effortless, mundane. A salve for his hands or heels - both, most likely, and something the doctor would give without question. But that he was brought up in their conversation - the state of his absence and back - makes him pause.
“Returning to the ship after our time away has left me busier than I anticipated.”
True in some regards but he knows the heart of it. Forgoing his own needs when he can make do is always easier than inconveniencing the crew and disrupting routine any more than he has to.
“It… it is mostly resolved, yes. The colder snap has made it quite dry the longer I’m up on deck but it isn’t anything to worry you, sir. I’d much rather use the salve for both your hands and heels. You spend more time above decks that I do.”
Missing the point or dodging it? The faint flush of his cheeks speaks to the images that rushed through his mind at the mention of the salve. Nothing compared to almond oil and sweat and fire smoke and -
"You'd much rather do a lot of things," he says, light, a tone of And we all want our own castle from beans. But there's a clear fondness in his expression. Busted, kiddo. Not taking care of himself while looking after everyone else (but especially his captain). At least he took some time to read today, and now: the rest. "I am perfectly fine and will pass inspection. I am not convinced you will, but yes, it will ease my mind. If not, you understand the punishment—"
And with that, he points to his berth, indicating that he will be applying salve to his back, not unlike they have done before two times
(three times, once on the ice, in the tent, a thin and flimsy excuse to touch him and fuck his cock between his thighs and make him climax all over Jamie's hands)
Fondness and lightness, it doesn't change the ruddy color of his cheeks, the way his skin heats at both being caught and at the thought of the man's hands on him again. So he does as he's told, steps into the berth. It is warmer in here, better insulated than the great cabin, but it helps he's also warming the bed for the man.
Coat, waistcoat, shirtsleeves. All of it goes one by one until he's standing in the man's berth bare. The marks on his back are nearly healed, but one or two have gone red, irritated and dry from the chill air and the coarse fabric of his shirtsleeves. Not the finest quality, certainly, and not when he's running around all day below and above, from sweating to freezing. They've scabbed over by now, but they do still ache and itch.
"It truly is nearly healed, sir. The bruising is gone - the cold out on the ice simply irritated a few of the older sores but a few days more and they will be nothing."
Jopson stripping down is a sight, even though it's to show him the dregs of an injury. It makes Crozier wish he had another drink, just so he can sit back and admire him while coasting on alcohol— but no, he doesn't want to miss anything, doesn't want to dull anything. He removes his own coat, and pulls his shirtsleeves to his elbows.
He steps in behind him, and first simply rests his hands on the young man's shoulders while he performs a visual inspection. Momentarily visiting that day again, watching Jopson, holding his gaze. He still doesn't want to see him hurt, but the intensity of it has a power to catch his breath, even in memory.
"Well on your way," he agrees, about it being nearly healed. "And so there's no reason to sabotage your progress through neglect."
The other men who were punished have friends to aid them, and the surgeon's attention. Worse injuries require more involved recoveries, but Crozier has confidence that they will see it through well. The only reason that Dr Robertson isn't nagging Jopson is that his flogging wasn't so bad in comparison to the others. Still. Crozier presses his thumbs into the joints of his shoulders, and then sweeps his hands gently over his back, just touching him. Taking stock. Seeing if anything feels hot, but mostly, simply enjoying the contact. He maps the tightest, driest parts, notes where it's scabbed, and he warms his skin through touch and friction.
A closer step. His hands touch his sides, anointing him there, too, and after a few moments, slip forward. He loosens Jopson's trousers, just the top button. Enough to let them sag on his waist, so that he can make sure no bruising his hiding where he can't see.
Crozier has masterful hands and knows well how to use them. Thumbs pressing tense points in his shoulders, the fingers along the skin of his back. His eyes flutter closed, simply taking in the sensation like he'd had to in the dark, where he could barely see Jamie's face but could feel even the tiniest brush of fabric or skin against his. Slow breaths in and out, in an attempt to control his body's reaction to the touches.
His stomach does a little leap when the man's fingers slide down his thighs, the muscles tensing and relaxing in a breath of a moment. Masterful, really. His trousers sag at his waist, sliding enough that they sit at the rise of his hips.
"I had no intention of being neglectful," he murmurs, eyes opening so he can peer over his shoulder at the man. He shouldn't - his Captain is observing and checking over his back. Distractions could pull him away from it, and yet he can already feel the simmering need to feel the man's hands on him again.
"But it won't happen again, sir."
Even if there's a darker part of him that wants to provoke a moment like this, to find some reason to be punished when he otherwise wouldn't. He'd gotten too swept up in maintaining order and his duties to properly care for himself - this much was an honest mistake. But the inklings of something a little more underhanded have taken root all the same.
"It heals far faster than a whipping," he muses, no doubt as Crozier's fingers graze over an old scar along the way.
An inspection shouldn't take this long, he has no genuine need to continue to roam his touch like he's doing. Except for the enjoyment of it. Which, he decides, is plenty good enough; he presses down gently on a scabbed over part, the safest watch to relieve any itching. Makes a mental note to bundle him up in one of his own shirts later— not luxurious things, he aims for the cross-section of longevity and comfort which excludes a vast wardrobe of silky garments, but softer than the one Jopson's been wearing.
"A fact I am glad for, as I'd hate to do without you."
His spine, his hipbones. Red marks from the dry, cold air.
"And you have plans to continue to behave, correct?"
Inviting more punishment would be inconvenient. And, for some reason, instead of waiting for Jopson to respond so they might volley banter back and forth over it (poor behavior would aggravate Crozier, even as a part of him finds the idea of punishing him for it alluring), he leans in and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.
Chaste at first. He ducks enough to touch his mouth to some of the more angry-looking patches, though. A warm tongue against scar tissue. Hands hold his hips, keep him steady.
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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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It does take a while, but he doesn't interrupt him. Clearly, Jopson likes it, is moved by it, even if being moved is just being entertained. Gives him something to think about concerning his paramour, the things he finds interesting about the make-believe characters. His own imagination is rarely so tempted, even with the stories of Greek gods that have lent their names to the stars and tides. They could be saints, or apostles, it's all the same.
(The lightest almost-laugh at I expected this reception, imagining the creature very put-out.)
He smiles at him when he winds down, encouraging against that sheepish expression.
"I can tell." Soft, supportive. Crozier asked him to read, and he read, he has no complaints. "A battle between God and Adam might have made me more taken with the Bible, come to think of it. Because that's so often how it is in mortal life, isn't it. We want to break free, but he want our creator's grace, too. Father, king."
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He listens to Crozier, astounded by the connections he makes - the meaning he's caught behind the narrative. Jopson thinks of those things sometimes when he reads, but hearing it out loud from the older man makes him smile just a little.
"We always want acceptance, even if the hand we're reaching for isn't always a kind one. I enjoy her writing, the voice she gives to these characters. I look forward to finding out what happens next."
The book will remain in his berth after this - only to be read at night by candle light. At the very least it will last him longer that way. He places his cup back on the table and goes about preparing the man's berth for sleep, setting out his bed clothes, putting coals in the hot pans to warm the blankets. A simple routine, but one he's fond of. Even before they became engaged in... whatever it is they're engaged in, he'd always found this an intimate, soft time with a man who otherwise must be strong and stone-faced and leaderly. Here he can be a man with a title, sure, but just a man all the same.
"Is the Whiskey to your liking, sir? There is another brew I can bring up in the morning to replace, or one of the same. I believe the other may have more bite - offer more warmth for these cold evenings."
Likely with more spices, perhaps - something rich and warm left in the barrels. As he tidies the desk he stretches a little, the skin of his back dry and tight. So close to healing and always a step back.
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"Let me know what you think as you get further on," he requests. "I expect I'll parse it better through your filter."
Might get lost thinking about the electricity, otherwise.
He tracks Jopson, watchful, just about done with his meal by now. Settled in his mind about his plans, assured that his steward has already eaten. Perhaps he does have more tasks to do, perhaps he would like to go back into his berth and read. But Crozier is going to lean on inappropriate use of authority because he wants to. God versus Adam, well, England and the Admiralty have cast him out, and left him as God here on his own ship.
Bit dramatic.
"I'm happy to trust your judgment on the drink, or at least, our supplies." He finishes it off, speaking of it. "In a hard swerve, now— Dr Robertson mentioned you haven't been in, and has thus concluded you are resolved of any troubles. Which is perhaps the case," it is not, he can tell, "but I did have him leave some salve with me, for my hands or my heels, I forgot which excuse I gave."
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“Returning to the ship after our time away has left me busier than I anticipated.”
True in some regards but he knows the heart of it. Forgoing his own needs when he can make do is always easier than inconveniencing the crew and disrupting routine any more than he has to.
“It… it is mostly resolved, yes. The colder snap has made it quite dry the longer I’m up on deck but it isn’t anything to worry you, sir. I’d much rather use the salve for both your hands and heels. You spend more time above decks that I do.”
Missing the point or dodging it? The faint flush of his cheeks speaks to the images that rushed through his mind at the mention of the salve. Nothing compared to almond oil and sweat and fire smoke and -
“I can show you if it will ease your mind.”
Jopson, please.
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"You'd much rather do a lot of things," he says, light, a tone of And we all want our own castle from beans. But there's a clear fondness in his expression. Busted, kiddo. Not taking care of himself while looking after everyone else (but especially his captain). At least he took some time to read today, and now: the rest. "I am perfectly fine and will pass inspection. I am not convinced you will, but yes, it will ease my mind. If not, you understand the punishment—"
And with that, he points to his berth, indicating that he will be applying salve to his back, not unlike they have done before two times
(three times, once on the ice, in the tent, a thin and flimsy excuse to touch him and fuck his cock between his thighs and make him climax all over Jamie's hands)
before.
"It'll be warmer in there as well."
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Fondness and lightness, it doesn't change the ruddy color of his cheeks, the way his skin heats at both being caught and at the thought of the man's hands on him again. So he does as he's told, steps into the berth. It is warmer in here, better insulated than the great cabin, but it helps he's also warming the bed for the man.
Coat, waistcoat, shirtsleeves. All of it goes one by one until he's standing in the man's berth bare. The marks on his back are nearly healed, but one or two have gone red, irritated and dry from the chill air and the coarse fabric of his shirtsleeves. Not the finest quality, certainly, and not when he's running around all day below and above, from sweating to freezing. They've scabbed over by now, but they do still ache and itch.
"It truly is nearly healed, sir. The bruising is gone - the cold out on the ice simply irritated a few of the older sores but a few days more and they will be nothing."
Embarrassing, really.
"I'm at your disposal, Captain."
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He steps in behind him, and first simply rests his hands on the young man's shoulders while he performs a visual inspection. Momentarily visiting that day again, watching Jopson, holding his gaze. He still doesn't want to see him hurt, but the intensity of it has a power to catch his breath, even in memory.
"Well on your way," he agrees, about it being nearly healed. "And so there's no reason to sabotage your progress through neglect."
The other men who were punished have friends to aid them, and the surgeon's attention. Worse injuries require more involved recoveries, but Crozier has confidence that they will see it through well. The only reason that Dr Robertson isn't nagging Jopson is that his flogging wasn't so bad in comparison to the others. Still. Crozier presses his thumbs into the joints of his shoulders, and then sweeps his hands gently over his back, just touching him. Taking stock. Seeing if anything feels hot, but mostly, simply enjoying the contact. He maps the tightest, driest parts, notes where it's scabbed, and he warms his skin through touch and friction.
A closer step. His hands touch his sides, anointing him there, too, and after a few moments, slip forward. He loosens Jopson's trousers, just the top button. Enough to let them sag on his waist, so that he can make sure no bruising his hiding where he can't see.
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His stomach does a little leap when the man's fingers slide down his thighs, the muscles tensing and relaxing in a breath of a moment. Masterful, really. His trousers sag at his waist, sliding enough that they sit at the rise of his hips.
"I had no intention of being neglectful," he murmurs, eyes opening so he can peer over his shoulder at the man. He shouldn't - his Captain is observing and checking over his back. Distractions could pull him away from it, and yet he can already feel the simmering need to feel the man's hands on him again.
"But it won't happen again, sir."
Even if there's a darker part of him that wants to provoke a moment like this, to find some reason to be punished when he otherwise wouldn't. He'd gotten too swept up in maintaining order and his duties to properly care for himself - this much was an honest mistake. But the inklings of something a little more underhanded have taken root all the same.
"It heals far faster than a whipping," he muses, no doubt as Crozier's fingers graze over an old scar along the way.
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"A fact I am glad for, as I'd hate to do without you."
His spine, his hipbones. Red marks from the dry, cold air.
"And you have plans to continue to behave, correct?"
Inviting more punishment would be inconvenient. And, for some reason, instead of waiting for Jopson to respond so they might volley banter back and forth over it (poor behavior would aggravate Crozier, even as a part of him finds the idea of punishing him for it alluring), he leans in and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.
Chaste at first. He ducks enough to touch his mouth to some of the more angry-looking patches, though. A warm tongue against scar tissue. Hands hold his hips, keep him steady.
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