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.
Difficult to keep his hands to his sides with the man touching him like that. But he keeps his posture, stays still, letting his captain do whatever he may want. He wonders if it will always be so tender, so careful, or if one day they may do more than careful fumblings like this. A cheeky part of him wants to tempt the man, encourage him to move him, press him against a wall, the bed, the floor. Anything to feel the bite of Crozier's want and need.
"Yes, sir, I'll behave for you."
Saying it makes him a little dizzy but feeling the press of the man's fingers down his spine, his hips - he tries to anchor himself on the sensation.
"You will never have to do without me, Captain." Shameful how his voice goes a little rough, quiet. No matter what it is, he will stand by this man's side and more. He will take a million more lashings if it always brings them here, together. Which it's a very, very good thing the man holds his hips. The hot press of the man's tongue does something to his mind, his vision, everything.
He reaches a hand to touch the wall of the berth, steadying himself, and sighs quietly. It's difficult not to arch his back into the waiting furnace of Crozier's mouth, to encourage more. What must the man's mouth feel like on every part of him? Every inch of skin?
"That is better than any salve used yet, sir," he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back just slightly.
Has to grab his own collar (internally, proverbially) over that one. Perhaps Jopson might clean some half-pause, a harder grip on his sides, just for a moment. Negotiating with himself, trying to be at least somewhat of a gentleman even as he moves on to doing what he does a moment after, tasting the skin of his back like he can dredge up sense-memories of the lightning bolt that surged between them during the punishment itself. Like he can feel it on his tongue, carry the feel away to the back of his teeth, where it'll lay and ache.
He must wonder if the way Jopson has to steady himself is a performance. Surely it is. Fine, if so, it's tantalizing that he wants Crozier to think just this small thing is enough to leave him weak-kneed. In turn it threatens arousal in him, and he has to think Alright, get a bloody grip, Frank.
Another few moments of indulgence, and he leaves off with a rasp of very-nearly-teeth on Jopson's shoulder. His hands have drifted low on his hips, fingers tempting a touch below the waistband of his trousers.
"Not quite a curative I'm afraid," he says, and takes a moment to bump his nose against the younger man's hair. Crowding him, but not restraining him. "Go on, lay down."
It would be easier if it was all a coy act. He would be able to control himself far better than he can with the hot swipe of Crozier's tongue tracing scar tissue on his back. The almost hint of teeth makes his breath catch at the back of his throat, wanting more to go with the sneaking fingers at his hips. If he was another man he might grab the captain's hand, shove it between his thighs, make it clear that he did not need to be delicate nor gentle with him.
But he isn't that man, and even with the warm press of Crozier's body at his back, he's helpless. He presses his palms over the man's hands at his hips, however, encouraging the hint of more from earlier. He'll behave, like he promised.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, moves around the man to the bed there. He bends near in half to take his boots off first, his trousers sinking lower down his backside with how loose they are. Each buckle done and boot tossed aside, he looks over his shoulder at Crozier. Perhaps he shouldn't be so bold here, perhaps he should do as he's told - but there's a hint of something in his eye when he undoes a few more buttons, trousers falling to the floor.
"Sorry, sir, I don't wish to get grease and sea-spray on your bedclothes. I just washed and pressed them this afternoon."
Yes, that's the reason. He kneels on the bed to duck into it and stretches out on his stomach, leaving him in only his underclothes. A little confidence, a little tug on the proverbial leash - playful.
Jopson does all this, and when he looks back, Crozier doesn't play coy, either: he watches him with open appreciation, letting his steward see how much he likes it. How beautiful he thinks he is, how much the sight makes him want to do more than just look after his bruises.
Maybe he will do more. Jopson is in his bed now, nearly entirely bare.
"Suits just fine."
Except that he's not currently crawling in after him, pressed together head to toe. Crozier's got a goal, though, and so he'll keep to it. What he'll do to get there is remove his waistcoat, ostensibly to make it more comfortable to sit down (and not because he feels heat flushing him already). He picks up the glass container, moves his chair, and sits down beside Jopson along his berth. Unscrews the top of the jar, but then just holds it there in one hand, while he slides the other from the top of Jopson's spine all the way down. He sweeps over the curve of his rear, and below, a shapely thigh, the back of a knee, his half. Even his ankle, and over his heel. They have laid beside each other before, but only in the dark, only under blankets and furs. Seeing him like this is something else entirely.
... He'll get to the whole salve thing. In a minute. Acquainting himself with his steward's body, first.
To be made to lie in the Captain's bed and be petted by him is surely some fever dream. He relaxes into the bedcovers, rests his head on folded arms and looks back at Crozier, watching the movement but also admiring the look of him in just his shirtsleeves, relaxed and informal. He likes him best this way, shoulders a little more rounded, face warm, hands warmer.
The touch makes goosebumps prickle along his arms and he can't help the soft, pleased sigh.
"This may be the most curative thing yet," he says on the huff of a laugh, enjoying the way he's being touched, seen. It would be even better if he could do the same in return, if they were tangled in this berth together, touching and exploring by candle light. One day, perhaps.
For now he enjoys the touch, arches his back the tiniest bit to encourage pressure, more, anything. It's absolutely cheeky of him when he's the one who arrived late to his duties, who has not taken care of himself. But it brought him here, didn't it? Yes, the teacup will need to spill over one day when he serves it, pouring it everywhere, making an utter mess.
Crozier can't begrudge him a bit of cheekiness when he's the one who bid him to get into his bed, he's the one who's initiated each of these encounters instead of sending him to one of the surgeons. It thrills him, and he pets over where Jopson is arching up, rewarding him for the way he's showing himself off. When he draws his hand back up from exploring his other leg, his touch slides under the confines of his underthings, to where the curve of his ass meets his thigh. Very nearly invasive. Or just nostalgic for when he touched there (and deeper) last.
"That pleases me to know."
Does it ever. Feels his ego and makes him feel warm, just a little bit besotted, and furthermore aroused. He wonders if Jopson would hold still enough for him to use his mouth here, if he would be too embarrassed, or if he would endure it and have to muffle himself in the bedding.
These thoughts do not change the fact of all the dry, raw patches on his steward's back. Crozier pets higher, leaving his behind alone, though he does lean in to kiss the young man's shoulder. A small smile as he sits back up and begins to warm some salve between his hands.
"I've never considered myself easily distracted," he muses, "but alone with you for a minute or two and I'm losing all direction. We've a task to complete, here."
It takes every ounce of his self-control to prevent his hips from driving back, welcoming the man's hand to the curve of his ass or more - anything, really, that he'd like. Instead he lets out a slow breath, the sigh a shuddering thing as those tricksy fingers float up and away. However, the kiss earns Crozier a small, warm smile.
"We always complete the tasks we've deigned to take on, sir," he murmurs, a little cheeky but honest.
He watches the man work the salve between his hands, knowing it will be warm and sticky and pleasant the moment he touches him. Thomas can imagine the hands are Crozier's mouth, his tongue, exploring every part of him. He'd give this man anything he asked for - dangerous, really, but there's thrill to it. He trusts the captain above anything else, trusts him to be just dangerous enough.
"I will do my best to distract you only when there's time for it, never when it is inconvenient for you, sir."
No, he has every plan to distract him when it's unplanned, coax him out of his shell. Not that he wants to rile the captain up, but watching him get a little heated, a little aroused, a little anything other than professional makes warmth bloom behind his ribs and low in his belly.
If there weren't bruises to attend to, and the very real threat of his skin splitting with this weather, Crozier might allow himself to be very distracted. He could follow different tempting lines of thought, such as: could Jopson climax from just his fingers, pressed inside of him? How might he sound, writhing in his bunk?
But if he's going to bleed, it shouldn't be from neglect. And so his hands, warm and lightly sticky with sharp herbal-smelling ointment, make contact with that abused skin. Parts massage, parts just stroking him, shoulder to tailbone, imparting tender contact. He will seek out sore or tense spots, work into them as needed. He wants to get the salve to the point of being absorbed, and ... perhaps, then, he will ask Jopson to turn over.
"As ever, I must defer to your judgment," he says. It feels good to do this. To take care of him in some way, when Jopson focuses so much of his time on the reverse. Clearly it brings him fulfilment, and he's even expressed that he likes being able to care for him more now that they've become lovers— but Crozier likes it, too. Likes to look after people. Comrades, men under his command, and of course, paramours. Differently, that last one.
"Thank you for tonight, Thomas." Quieter, more thoughtful. "I enjoy hearing you read. Knowing what you like."
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no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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"Yes, sir, I'll behave for you."
Saying it makes him a little dizzy but feeling the press of the man's fingers down his spine, his hips - he tries to anchor himself on the sensation.
"You will never have to do without me, Captain." Shameful how his voice goes a little rough, quiet. No matter what it is, he will stand by this man's side and more. He will take a million more lashings if it always brings them here, together. Which it's a very, very good thing the man holds his hips. The hot press of the man's tongue does something to his mind, his vision, everything.
He reaches a hand to touch the wall of the berth, steadying himself, and sighs quietly. It's difficult not to arch his back into the waiting furnace of Crozier's mouth, to encourage more. What must the man's mouth feel like on every part of him? Every inch of skin?
"That is better than any salve used yet, sir," he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back just slightly.
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Has to grab his own collar (internally, proverbially) over that one. Perhaps Jopson might clean some half-pause, a harder grip on his sides, just for a moment. Negotiating with himself, trying to be at least somewhat of a gentleman even as he moves on to doing what he does a moment after, tasting the skin of his back like he can dredge up sense-memories of the lightning bolt that surged between them during the punishment itself. Like he can feel it on his tongue, carry the feel away to the back of his teeth, where it'll lay and ache.
He must wonder if the way Jopson has to steady himself is a performance. Surely it is. Fine, if so, it's tantalizing that he wants Crozier to think just this small thing is enough to leave him weak-kneed. In turn it threatens arousal in him, and he has to think Alright, get a bloody grip, Frank.
Another few moments of indulgence, and he leaves off with a rasp of very-nearly-teeth on Jopson's shoulder. His hands have drifted low on his hips, fingers tempting a touch below the waistband of his trousers.
"Not quite a curative I'm afraid," he says, and takes a moment to bump his nose against the younger man's hair. Crowding him, but not restraining him. "Go on, lay down."
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But he isn't that man, and even with the warm press of Crozier's body at his back, he's helpless. He presses his palms over the man's hands at his hips, however, encouraging the hint of more from earlier. He'll behave, like he promised.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, moves around the man to the bed there. He bends near in half to take his boots off first, his trousers sinking lower down his backside with how loose they are. Each buckle done and boot tossed aside, he looks over his shoulder at Crozier. Perhaps he shouldn't be so bold here, perhaps he should do as he's told - but there's a hint of something in his eye when he undoes a few more buttons, trousers falling to the floor.
"Sorry, sir, I don't wish to get grease and sea-spray on your bedclothes. I just washed and pressed them this afternoon."
Yes, that's the reason. He kneels on the bed to duck into it and stretches out on his stomach, leaving him in only his underclothes. A little confidence, a little tug on the proverbial leash - playful.
"Does this suit, Captain? Or should I move?"
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Maybe he will do more. Jopson is in his bed now, nearly entirely bare.
"Suits just fine."
Except that he's not currently crawling in after him, pressed together head to toe. Crozier's got a goal, though, and so he'll keep to it. What he'll do to get there is remove his waistcoat, ostensibly to make it more comfortable to sit down (and not because he feels heat flushing him already). He picks up the glass container, moves his chair, and sits down beside Jopson along his berth. Unscrews the top of the jar, but then just holds it there in one hand, while he slides the other from the top of Jopson's spine all the way down. He sweeps over the curve of his rear, and below, a shapely thigh, the back of a knee, his half. Even his ankle, and over his heel. They have laid beside each other before, but only in the dark, only under blankets and furs. Seeing him like this is something else entirely.
... He'll get to the whole salve thing. In a minute. Acquainting himself with his steward's body, first.
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The touch makes goosebumps prickle along his arms and he can't help the soft, pleased sigh.
"This may be the most curative thing yet," he says on the huff of a laugh, enjoying the way he's being touched, seen. It would be even better if he could do the same in return, if they were tangled in this berth together, touching and exploring by candle light. One day, perhaps.
For now he enjoys the touch, arches his back the tiniest bit to encourage pressure, more, anything. It's absolutely cheeky of him when he's the one who arrived late to his duties, who has not taken care of himself. But it brought him here, didn't it? Yes, the teacup will need to spill over one day when he serves it, pouring it everywhere, making an utter mess.
"I enjoy the way your hands feel, sir."
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"That pleases me to know."
Does it ever. Feels his ego and makes him feel warm, just a little bit besotted, and furthermore aroused. He wonders if Jopson would hold still enough for him to use his mouth here, if he would be too embarrassed, or if he would endure it and have to muffle himself in the bedding.
These thoughts do not change the fact of all the dry, raw patches on his steward's back. Crozier pets higher, leaving his behind alone, though he does lean in to kiss the young man's shoulder. A small smile as he sits back up and begins to warm some salve between his hands.
"I've never considered myself easily distracted," he muses, "but alone with you for a minute or two and I'm losing all direction. We've a task to complete, here."
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"We always complete the tasks we've deigned to take on, sir," he murmurs, a little cheeky but honest.
He watches the man work the salve between his hands, knowing it will be warm and sticky and pleasant the moment he touches him. Thomas can imagine the hands are Crozier's mouth, his tongue, exploring every part of him. He'd give this man anything he asked for - dangerous, really, but there's thrill to it. He trusts the captain above anything else, trusts him to be just dangerous enough.
"I will do my best to distract you only when there's time for it, never when it is inconvenient for you, sir."
No, he has every plan to distract him when it's unplanned, coax him out of his shell. Not that he wants to rile the captain up, but watching him get a little heated, a little aroused, a little anything other than professional makes warmth bloom behind his ribs and low in his belly.
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But if he's going to bleed, it shouldn't be from neglect. And so his hands, warm and lightly sticky with sharp herbal-smelling ointment, make contact with that abused skin. Parts massage, parts just stroking him, shoulder to tailbone, imparting tender contact. He will seek out sore or tense spots, work into them as needed. He wants to get the salve to the point of being absorbed, and ... perhaps, then, he will ask Jopson to turn over.
"As ever, I must defer to your judgment," he says. It feels good to do this. To take care of him in some way, when Jopson focuses so much of his time on the reverse. Clearly it brings him fulfilment, and he's even expressed that he likes being able to care for him more now that they've become lovers— but Crozier likes it, too. Likes to look after people. Comrades, men under his command, and of course, paramours. Differently, that last one.
"Thank you for tonight, Thomas." Quieter, more thoughtful. "I enjoy hearing you read. Knowing what you like."
Fiction, homely stew. ... Being a bit cheeky.
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