Chapter Text
Thomas Jopson prides himself on providing for his Captain without needing to be asked.
His body naturally wakes a solid hour before Francis Crozier stirs in the morning, so he’s ready long before Crozier is even lucid enough to call for him. He recognizes the crease in Crozier’s brow that signals the start of a headache and fetches a cold compress by the time the pain becomes inconvenient. He knows precisely how Crozier takes his tea: over-steeped to the point of black bitterness. (As odd as it feels to “ruin” a pot of Fortnum and Mason, in Jopson’s opinion, he does it every time.) He knows when Crozier is lightly buzzed with drink and when he’s about to be ill with it.
The night after Sir John Franklin dismisses Captain Crozier’s proposed plan to sail for King William Land, Crozier does not quite drink himself to the latter extreme. But drink, he does—nursing whisky after whisky at the table in his quarters. Even in this state, Jopson loves him. When Crozier gets this despondent, though, there’s not much to be done. Jopson can only be available (that is to say, awake and within earshot) should his Captain require him.
The men of the crew often tease Jopson lightheartedly to his face when he declines to join them for cards in the evenings. Behind his back, some call him a bootlicker, and worse.
On this night, when Crozier eventually calls for him, Jopson has come dangerously close to dozing off on the edge of his cabin bed. After he blinks his usual alertness back into himself, he hurriedly crosses the short distance between his door and Crozier’s. He is surprised by the sight of Crozier standing, face towards one of the windows overlooking the near-frozen Arctic sea. Currently not much to look at since darkness fell hours before. “Captain,” Jopson says, alerting Crozier to his arrival.
Crozier does not turn around. “Jopson. I am afraid I’ve made a mess of things.”
The steward is puzzled at first, until he notices what he’d initially failed to see in the dim light of the room: the shattered glass on the table, wood flecked with blood.
“I had a…moment,” Crozier says. There’s no need to clarify. A moment of anger. Rage, even. Jopson has witnessed many of his Captain’s storms, and even once found himself on the receiving end. Strange that the breaking of the glass hadn’t alerted him while Crozier’s voice had.
(Well. All things considered, perhaps it isn’t especially strange.)
As steward, Jopson’s first instinct ought to be tidying the mess. Instead, he closes an appropriate level of distance between himself and the Captain. “Are you hurt?”
Crozier sheepishly lifts his right palm, revealing a thin (but long) cut. The dark blood seeps out as if the slit is weeping. Jopson exhales. “I shall get Dr. McDonald.”
“No! No. It’s not as serious as all that.” Try as he might to hide his intoxication, Crozier’s words slur together. “There’s no need to wake anyone else.”
“Allow me to look at it, then, at least.” Jopson moves closer, his hand extended. “Sir.”
The hint of a smile flickers over Crozier’s face as he concedes the injured hand to his steward. Jopson guides him over to the nearest oil lamp, inspecting the cut for any tiny shards of glass. The blood glistens in the light. Jopson is no surgeon, of course, but the cut appears to be superficial, and he can’t see any residual glass pieces. Without thinking, he takes the end of his left sleeve in his teeth and tears off a strip of fabric. It’s a foolish, impulsive action, since this is one of a mere three shirts Jopson has with him on this expedition. Rather improper, also.
It doesn’t matter. He places the wad of cotton in Crozier’s hand, guiding the Captain to close his fingers around it. “Hold that a minute, sir. The bleeding should slow.” He glances back to the turmoil on the table. “I will find a rag to take care of that. Then I’ll help you to your bed…if you wish. I suspect it’s been a long day for you, Captain.”
As he moves to walk away, Crozier’s free hand catches Jopson by the wrist. “Thomas. Wait.”
His chest tightens at the way Crozier’s voice fits around his first name. It isn’t unheard of, but it’s not typical, either. That, combined with the breathless desperation in his tone, stops Jopson before he can take a full step.
He turns back to meet his Captain’s eyes. Crozier is giving him a look he doesn’t recognize. “Sir?”
The silence that follows can’t be more than fifteen seconds. It may as well be an hour. When Crozier loosens his grip around the makeshift bandage, Jopson could swear he sees the bloodied fabric fall to the floor in slow motion. The only sound is the creak of the ship’s hull and a deep breath that could have come from either of them.
Suddenly, Crozier uses both hands to take Jopson by the shoulders and push him into the nearest wall, the minor injury apparently forgotten. His touch isn’t gentle by any means, nor is it violent or angry. It’s something else.
Hungry. That’s the only descriptor Jopson can think of, and it’s certainly a feeling he’s experienced in presence of his Captain. Crozier makes him feel many things, most of which Jopson can bear. But the complete and utter want is the most painful and the hardest to hide. It’s not something he ever imagined Crozier would return, even when drunk. For Jopson’s part, he wishes he had the strength to say “no,” or, at least, “not like this.” But when Crozier presses his body against him, he finds himself willing to take whatever that man is willing to give. Before Jopson can register what’s happening, Crozier has captured his mouth in a messy, filthy kiss—more tongue and teeth than lips. He tastes of smoke and cloves as well as alcohol. At first, Jopson simply allows it to happen, as if waiting for Crozier to come to his senses and pull away. When he doesn’t, Jopson throws his arms around his Captain’s neck and returns the kiss with equal ferocity. Crozier ruts against him in response.
“Christ, Thomas,” he says on an exhale, moving his mouth to the side of Jopson’s neck. He’s unmistakably hard, and Jopson feels his own arousal grow with every push and grunt. The steward shifts ever so slightly, inching his thigh into the space between Crozier’s legs, which elicits another moan.
“I’ve got you, Captain,” whispers Jopson, sliding his left hand to the back of Crozier’s head. He closes his eyes, silently urging him to take what he needs. Jopson has played this role for men before and has had them play it in return (one happened to be an older Irishman he took behind a pub in Houndsditch in 1844). He never did mind being a stand-in for someone else, since the trysts were only filling a void for him, too, but this is different. He doesn’t want to think that Crozier is imagining someone else against the wall, desperate to please him.
Crozier’s fingertips dig into Jopson’s arms as he comes, quietly, shuddering through the release. So vulnerable and human. Jopson wonders how many have seen his Captain like this and abruptly dismisses the thought.
Although he knows better, he’d like to pretend this is just for him.
Crozier rests his forehead against Jopson’s shoulder and for moment, neither man moves or speaks. The weight of what just happened settles over them, along with the knowledge they’ve both crossed a line. There will be no going back from this. It must be a pathetic scene—and who is more pathetic, between them? Jopson could almost laugh.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
As it turns out, Crozier is the one to laugh. “Me? Damn it, Jopson,” he mutters, although there’s no venom in his words. “I hope you’ll forgive me in the morning.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Captain,” says Jopson. It’s a pretty lie, and one he’s happy to tell. “Allow me to clean you up and get you to your cabin. I’ll take care of the glass. It will be gone when you wake up.”
“Aye. Thank you, Jopson.”
In the morning, it’s as if nothing happened. They’re back to their roles as Captain and steward, clearly separated by rank. That’s to be expected. Jopson is not completely naive to the various ways men keep themselves sane on these voyages. It just so happens that he, up until now, has only ever given in to his desires while on land. Not due to fear of discovery (though there is also that). It’s just that he always told himself he can’t afford the distraction. He has his job to consider, and if he’s honest, it’s been more than a job for a long time. Jopson doesn’t know precisely when duty and love became entwined for him, and he’s never tried especially hard to figure it out. For most men, it’s not about love at all. It’s simply less monotonous than taking oneself in hand during any rare, brief instances of privacy.
Likely that’s all it was for Captain Crozier.
Well, what did you expect? That the two of you would become lovers?
Jopson feels used. But that’s what he’s meant for….to be of use.
He cannot right the wrong he’s already done, but perhaps he can atone for leaving his family for the Antarctic voyage in the wake of his mother’s injury. At the time, he had told himself it was more prudent to leave—to unburden his parents of their eldest child. On the Ross expedition, he knew he could start to make something of himself. He had no hope of doing that as a London peasant. But there was an aspect selfishness in that decision as well.
The guilt of abandoning his family and leaving his mother to fall into the addiction that eventually took her life still eats at him. It doesn’t matter that he’d been there when she had tried to get clean, washing vomit from her bedding multiple times a day. He believes he could have prevented her from becoming dependent on laudanum in the first place.
(Jopson’s father certainly believes that, too. He blames Jopson almost as much as Jopson blames himself.)
Perhaps he could have saved her. Perhaps not. He’ll never know. After she died, the house Jopson grew up in stopped feeling like home. Much to his father’s chagrin, he jumped at the chance for another polar journey. Maybe that was another mistake.
He’d once again told himself it was for the best. Now he wonders if he simply wanted to punish himself by breaking his own heart. Fool that he is, Jopson has fallen in love with one of the most miserable men he’s ever known. A man with an addiction almost as debilitating as the one suffered by Jopson’s mother.
So, yes, Jopson feels used. But there are worse feelings.
If he can’t be loved by Crozier, he can at least be useful to him.
A long winter follows. Jopson tries not to think much of the fact that Crozier seeks him out again, and again, and again. He does not keep count. He does not savour every little sound his Captain makes at his touch. He does not, in a twisted way, enjoy it.
Each time, Crozier has been drinking. He apologizes after the fact.
Each morning after, neither of them acknowledge what’s taken place.
One night in mid-February, Jopson is seated on the Captain’s desk with Crozier standing in the space between his open legs. It’s an impossibly small nook that smells of ink and paper (perhaps because the ink bottle has fallen to the floor at this point). Both of the men’s lips are pink and swollen from rough kisses, but the drink has rendered Crozier flaccid, and it’s the first time Jopson can’t see him through to completion. Murmured apologies come sooner than usual. Before Crozier can retreat in shame, Jopson does something that, up until now, he hasn’t had the courage to do—he reaches for his Captain.
“Stay,” he says. The request comes out quiet and hoarse. “Touch me, Captain. Please.”
He’s never dared to ask for it before, unsure if it’s something Crozier would be willing to give. Mostly he gets by taking care of his own needs or simply ignoring them. That suits him fine. He doesn’t feel Crozier owes him reciprocity, but—God—he wants him.
Crozier pauses and looks down at where Jopson has caught him by his jacket sleeve. Bashful and braced for rejection, Jopson releases him.
But Crozier stays. As if testing the waters, he presses his right hand over where Jopson’s cock is straining against his trousers. He’s nervous, Jopson realizes. Could it be that he’s never tried to return the favour because he was—what?—afraid? His movements are slow, now, as he works to undo Jopson’s buttons, almost like he is giving him the chance to change his mind. Funny, that. The Captain doesn’t have a history of asking for permission.
Something about the measured, uncertain movements is…erotic. For a second, Jopson doesn’t remember how to breathe. He only knows that waiting for this feels like he could die.
Trousers and undergarments both finally undone, Crozier lifts his gaze. Jopson blushes and nods. He can only hope he doesn’t look as fucking desperate as he feels.
This is apparently the confirmation his Captain needed. Crozier maintains eye contact as he spits in his own palm before taking Jopson’s cock in his hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Jesus Christ almighty,” hisses Jopson, stupidly aroused.
He quickly finds himself quieted by Crozier’s mouth on his again. Good thing, for more reasons than one. Not only does it cover Jopson’s moans, it also stops him from saying something foolish and true in the heat of the moment, such as, God, how I love you. Jopson cups Crozier’s face in his hands like he’s cradling something precious. He runs a thumb along his jawbone and wishes he never had to come up for air.
If his mind could form any other coherent thoughts, he’d be embarrassed by how soon he finds himself teetering over the edge. The dozens of times he has imagined this have not prepared him for the reality of Crozier stroking him, coaxing him to come undone.
He finishes with a whimper into Crozier’s mouth. When they break apart, Jopson can only exhale “Captain,” as if saying a prayer.
Crozier responds by planting a kiss on his temple and, without a word, he leaves.
Meanwhile, it takes Jopson a solid five minutes before he feels steady enough to stand.
That last kiss nags at Jopson.
It was the sort of kiss a man gives a sweetheart. A wife, even. While he’s not deluded enough to believe the Captain feels such sentiments towards him, he does wonder…what if? Crozier cares for him in some way—that much is plain. At least as much as he cares for any of his men. Possibly more (though surely not by much, Jopson chides himself). It would be a hell of a lot easier not to dwell on it if things went on as usual. But after that night, something shifts, and Crozier distances himself.
Days turn into weeks. He dismisses Jopson earlier in the evening than he once did. Confines himself to his cabin to drink. It’s pure fucking agony, especially since Jopson now knows what it means to have him, albeit in an imperfect way. It takes every ounce of self-preservation Jopson has to stop himself asking if he did anything wrong. If he were any more pitiful, he’d be a dog, begging for a second of Crozier’s affection.
Actually, he muses, Neptune has it better than me. The Captain addresses him far more frequently these days.
Jopson hopes Crozier’s spirits will lift with the arrival of spring. It would be easier to accept Crozier no longer takes comfort in him if it seemed he no longer needed it. This doesn’t prove to be the case, however. The obvious lack of thaw around the ship seems to make it worse.
As time passes, the drinking increases in both frequency and in volume. Jopson thinks he might rather go overboard than watch his Captain gradually fill himself with poison. If only he could love Crozier enough to make up for how much the man clearly loathes himself.
In June, Jopson hears a rumour, and he has no choice but to confront the Captain directly.
He runs through the conversation in mind several times over. What he would say, how Crozier would argue, and how he’d ultimately get his Captain to see reason.
He has a whole script mapped out. Respectful, but firm. Convincing. When he finally decides to begin, however, only two words manage to slip out.
“Don’t go.”