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It feels to Edward as though eternity has come and gone since he last saw the steward, when he finally happens upon him in the Great Cabin. This is, of course, simply not true: he saw Thomas Jopson only this morning, when Captain Crozier bade he enter to bemoan Terror’s state over breakfast, if he were going to go on about it at such length. “It does not do to have you complaining at the door, when you could complain around a mouthful of tea,” Crozier had proclaimed, sounding rather more jovial than has been his habit since Edward first met him. There is, as always, much to be done aboard Terror. Even ice-locked as they are, duties pile up - they are not so desperately idle as to come up with tasks to keep the men distracted, even. And so, it is entirely understandable that, given how little their duties overlap, he might not have had a moment of privacy with Jopson. In fact, even if their duties did overlap considerably, Edward would not be within his rights to accost the poor man, to make demands on his time.
Coincidence, that is all which now finds them alone together for the first time in weeks. Snapping at coincidence’s heels, however, are doubts and tangents of debates Edward has had with himself, over and over until even a man with a firm grasp of reality might grow mad from these constant repetitions. Edward had no such claim to begin with, has not felt like himself since Sir John first announced they would be wintering at Beechey, perhaps not since he bade his sister goodbye at Greenhithe.
(He has not always been such a man of worry, he assumes. He has to assume this, or else extend belated apologies to all who knew him before he made himself aware of such a detrimental of flaw of character.)
This morning, Jopson had already been busily preparing a cup of tea at Crozier’s barked suggestion, just as Edward likes, as if the steward knew he were going to say yes before Edward did - but then, that takes no special sort of talent, to suppose a man on an ice-locked ship might wish for something to warm his bones.
Now, there is no Captain Crozier to keep his eyes from wandering too obviously. There is only a charmingly startled Jopson, who hides his surprise quite well. Lesser stewards might have spilled the soup, all that attests to Edward having caught Jopson off guard is a slight splash, one that comes nowhere near to the edge of the pot. Not even Jopson’s face suffers some aberration of expression, he is as cheerfully composed as always, appearing almost regal, to Edward.
Permission to do just what you would.
Edward is not certain at all that Jopson knew what he implied when he said as much, but how can he prescribe so little common sense to a man he considers one of the most sensible on board Terror ? If he respects Jopson’s soundness of mind in every other regard, surely he must accept that the man knew what thoughts he put into Edward’s mind when he said as much?
Would a man do such a thing, if he did not mean it?
Jopson is not disingenuous, has never given him that impression. He is as upright as they come, in her Majesty's Royal Navy.
If Edward has interpreted his words correctly, it must then follow that Jopson means for Edward to make good on what he has promised with his eyes a thousand times over, had the man cared to look for something in them.
Perhaps he did not think - perhaps he still thinks too highly of Edward to suppose him capable of fantasies so sordid. Perhaps Jopson had supposed they merely spoke of his rather tedious quirk of tapping out rhythms to melodies bouncing around in his mind. Perhaps the man supposed Edward to only be conscious of literal meaning.
That must be it.
(Even as he thinks it, Edward cannot believe it, not truly. His mind is granted no peace from such reflections, yet reflect he must. He has never been so far from decisive, sometimes thinks he will never be fit for command now, if he cannot settle his mind on so private a matter, even.)
“Is that for tonight, then?”
“Mister Diggle tells me it is something of a novelty,” retorts Jopson, setting the ornate pot down on the table before he goes about fixing the lock that has fallen over his eye. “I'm sure it will be unlike anything you've tasted so far. Do you require something of me, Lieutenant?”
“Only the warmth of the cabin, Mister Jopson,” Edward assures him, concerned that the man is prone to overwork himself, should he keep going above and beyond duty to give Edward a small measure of comfort he hardly deserves. To show as much, he removes his gloves, tries flexing his hands, but to little avail. His fingers are painfully tight, his joints red and inflamed - in some places, the skin has begun to peel away in flakes, his little finger has gone perpetually white for a week now, he must manually work the blood into it every night - it is just as well that he keeps his hands employed in this innocent manner, lest he grow tempted to put them to a more sinister use.
(It is not as though he does not abuse himself regularly enough, anyway. But he should certainly run the risk of absolutely overdoing it, were it not for these mortal limitations. Perhaps the cold is god-sent after all, perhaps Sir John has the right of it.)
Face thoughtful, Jopson steps closer. His hands are warm - no, hot, is what they are, pleasantly so - when they enclose his. Thoughtfulness swiftly gives way to frowning at the first touch. “This ought not to be so extreme, with the gloves in employ.”
Edward can hardly hear him, so dazed is he at the sudden contact. Distantly, he is aware that Jopson has continued talking to him in soft tones, but all that reaches him is the gentle touch of hand to hand, skin against skin. It is quite restorative - and is not this what he has imagined for himself all too often? A variation of this, at a theater, at a home, where they are perhaps over-warm on occasion instead of perpetually on the verge of frostbite? Jopson’s hand in his, his eyes on Jopson while Jopson watches, rapt, where music is made magic by virtue of some master?
“--Lieutenant Little?”
“I’m the worst kind of sorry, Mister Jopson.” Edward snaps his head up to look into those expectant eyes, so much like an ocean that the man must have long grown tired of the comparison, one probably repeated so often that it would be enough to put even the best of men off poetry. He ought to withdraw his hands; doesn’t. “What were you saying?”
“Only that perhaps one of the doctors ought to have a look at your hands.”
“Perhaps,” rasps Edward.
Jopson has not dropped his hands. Quite the opposite, in fact. If Edward is not entirely mistaken, the man is rubbing his hands, returning a semblance of feeling into digits that have felt disembodied for too long. Edward returns to feeling properly himself in increments.
“That’s quite good,” says he, for lack of anything else to contribute to their conversation. It is a good deal more pleasant than when he does it to himself. He ought to regret that by way of offering this service, Jopson has forever transfigured this act into one of indulgence, but he cannot bring himself to. Not when the contact made is heavenly.
Permission to do just what you would.
Would he draw away, were Edward to touch a hand to his cheek?
From the cold still lingering on him, perhaps.
But from disgust?
Edward cannot rule it out. He does not dare. Hope is a fickle thing, as likely to disappoint as satisfy.
Jopson gives him no response, but there is a pleased tilt to his lips, the beginnings of a smile. He is aware that he is keeping the man from his work, that, in fact, he may even be somewhat selfishly adding to the poor steward’s workload, but the sensation of being touched after so many months now with only himself for company - such a familiar touch, too - is simply overpowering. Touch me some more, he wants to say, let me touch you, wherever you like. I'd like nothing better.
Steps drawing near alert him first, before Jopson takes note. “Watch out now,” he whispers, and softly withdraws his hands, steps back to a respectable distance. It occurs belatedly to his addled mind what had been obvious to his body, that withdrawing in such a manner might be what finally taints their previous position with impropriety, that there had been nothing shameful in it before Edward’s retreat had made it so, that by implying they had better not be caught standing so close, Edward has by some extent admitted that they had been too close, indeed.
(Some nights, Edward can hardly believe that he once considered himself a smart man, that his tutors thought him erudite, that some impressed Latin teacher had told his father Edward would make a fine rhetorician, if he thought to take that path. Edward had applied himself to speeches more out of necessity than inclination, but determination had won him some merit in the field, then. Where has all that gone now, where is the coherence his thoughts once possessed? Where is the measured reason that made for smooth sailing throughout his examination, that had Captain Barclay shake his had with admiration, that won him his first posting with the renowned man?)
“If you need to warm your fingers, Edward,” grunts Crozier after he has watched him rub his hands together quite uselessly and blow on them once or twice, “You might as well do it on the soup pot. It will have gone cold anyway by the time Sir John crosses to Terror, he’s been delayed by Commander Fitzjames' pressing need for...something.”
Crozier turns to Jopson: “I’m afraid you’re going to have to run to Mister Diggle to reheat it, no matter what. Shame to waste the coal, eh?”
“It’s no trouble, Sir.”
+
Edward’s eyes track his movement, habitually. Jopson’s frame is elegant, his shoulders always squared, his posture never slouched. In moments of more shameful disposition, Edward wonders at what point Jopson might slump, what might induce him to collapse, breathless with pleasure. What might Edward have to do? Certainly even Jopson must have a breaking point, yes? Would he be so upright until the very end, so erect --
But these are thoughts that do not bode well, hang what might have been said.
Permission to do just what you would.
Those accursed words! How they taunt him, how they tease him at night with what he cannot have, what he has begun to crave more than a breath of fresh air, more than life itself.
What is a man to make of words such as that? Is there meaning to them that Edward overlooks, deliberately or unconsciously?
He is not brave, cannot dare hope that Jopson might have meant those words, dare not interpret them merely to suit his own desires. That would be presumptuous beyond measure - Edward takes care not to presume regularly. It is his training he relies on to guide him more than his instincts, and those more than his increasingly addled thoughts.
Edward watches - perhaps he watches a bit more openly now, given the words which have been said.
That is all he does - all he can do in good conscience.
If he is to do what he would, he must make certain his advances will be welcome. There cannot be room for doubt, he could not take it --
His thoughts should not deviate in such directions, but he can help it even less now than he could weeks ago, when Jopson had not yet spoken the words that are certain to damn him.
(At night, he presses a hand over a mouth expelling only ragged breaths, lest George approach him in concern over his budding chest infection, or something equally ludicrous, with overly mirthful eyes and perhaps a wink thrown in for good measure, so as to make sure even Edward could not mistake his jest for sincerity.)
+
“Hm,” announces Doctor MacDonald, inspecting his hands thoroughly, with all the seriousness one might wish a good doctor to possess. The man had come up earlier to dinner than usual. Edward happened to drop in shortly thereafter, had shown the good doctor his hands, and had only garnered puzzlement for his troubles. “Most unusual,” observes the doctor. He cannot suppose that to be encouraging.
“Have you any of these lesions elsewhere?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“I have but a small looking glass,” explains Edward, gruffly. “For my morning toilette. I cannot speak truthfully to the state of my back, for example, but I have not noticed them where I may see them.”
“Let us have a look, then,” encourages Doctor MacDonald. “I’ll make a fine looking glass, polished as I am for our reputedly special dinner tonight.”
“Here?” Edward asks, unnerved. Heavens, Jopson has been in and out of the cabin for the past five minutes, dreadfully busy, flitting about, gone before Edward can fix him with a glance. How upsetting it would be, to find oneself suddenly confronted with a naked man in one’s undisputed domain! He could not impose on the poor man thus.
“Well, why ever not? Are not we all sensible men, altogether? We have time to spare--”
Jopson enters, bearing more cutlery and whatever else he requires to set the table to his exacting standards. “Anything for you, Doctor? There is some brandy set aside, for tonight.”
“That’s alright, thank you, Jopson,” declines MacDonald. “I’ll wait for the captain.”
He turns to Edward once more. “I should like to have a look at you, but I won’t embarrass you here if modesty hinders you. Come see me at your earliest convenience.”
+
Dinner has come and gone, conversation has ebbed and flowed, carried mostly by George and John, as well as some unexpected anecdotes courtesy of the usually taciturn Doctor Peddie. Edward is not at watch tonight, and so he uses the considerable light in the cabin for his reading, rather than beating a hasty retreat to his berth. George is on watch, anyway - the hand organ sits abandoned in the corner, and in George’s absence John favours perusal of the Good Book, rather than dreadful music. Edward can be thankful for that, if nothing else. John did tell him only recently to count his blessings - perhaps he would be glad to hear Edward has taken his advice to heart.
He almost makes the observation to his friend. He would, if he did not think John might take it for mockery. In a way, Edward supposes it would be. They are diametrically opposed when it comes to faith, after all, and so Edward usually gives the subject as wide a berth as he may. John finds plenty of other things to speak of, in any case, though how the man reconciles his frequent carnal exploits with absolution, Edward cannot quite comprehend. That the man is not perpetually in crisis seems unlikely, and yet John never gives the appearance of it. Does he thrum beneath a somber demeanour, as Edward does?
“I think I’ll turn in,” announces John, quite suddenly, as he pushes away from the table. Edward watches him idly, one eyebrow raised in quiet concern at his frantic state. “Do you know, Edward, it’s so hard to get a decent sleep in the ice even on a good mattress, I wonder how I used to pass hours conked out in a hammock as a Midshipman.”
He grunts an affirmative, one John is likely to interpret as such, anyway. Most days he is too exhausted to keep himself awake, but on the rare nights he is not, his mind races and races and will not calm itself, whether he indulges or seeks to repress. The ice does strange things to one’s mind, no man can deny it. “You might ask Doctor MacDonald for something, I hear he cultivates an admirable stock.”
“Oh - no, no,” John smiles, brilliantly. “I feel a good sleep coming on. Tired to the bones, me. I’ll do just fine, tonight.”
He pauses, pouting. “Until I have to stand Middle Watch, that is.”
“Right you are, John,” Edward watches him go, puzzled but swiftly becoming less so the longer John is out of sight, soon his eyelids grow heavy--
A noise startles him.
He must have dozed off, because he wakes - feeling wretchedly sore in too many places - to the clinking of glass, to Jopson clearing the table of evidence that brandy had been imbibed rather generously tonight.
“Sorry to wake you, Sir,” Jopson’s voice is soft. “I thought I could manage this more quietly.”
“It’s not a room for sleeping.”
That answer is nonsensical at best. Where is his head, by God?
Jopson regards him a while longer, to all appearance uncaring that Edward sounds like he possesses no higher brain function than breathing.
“You’ve some ink, Sir,” he says, at last. “Upon your cheek. It must have spilled when sleep overcame you.”
“Christ,” mutters Edward, his knuckles coming away a deep blue when he wipes where Jopson indicates with his pinky. The annotations he had been making on the open book are smudged, half the page is ruined.
(It is of little concern, he has no fondness for Bonaparte, had picked the biography up in London more out of spite and morbid curiosity rather than genuine interest, but still, it does not do to waste ink. But then, neither does crying over what has passed.)
“Sir, you’ll ruin your coat,” warns Jopson, handkerchief at the ready. “Allow me--”
Edward goes very still under his hands, does not allow his eyes to linger on the way Jopson props his hip on the table, the way one hand comes to steady Edward’s chin as the other dabs at his face with the cloth. The image painted thus is burned into his mind nonetheless, one he is certain to revisit again and again. How any man can be so artlessly appealing, Edward shall never comprehend. He is certain that even at his most determined, he could not appear to such an advantage. Exhausted and still heavy with sleep gained and then lost, his eyes flutter closed against his will, he leans into the touch. A little indulgence that, in a moment of weakness, Edward allows himself.
(He will turn it over in his mind tomorrow, will suffer agonies over it when he has had some rest.)
Jopson does not draw away.
A gnawing feeling in Edward’s chest resurfaces, one that wonders if Jopson fears he might offend Edward, were he to openly show distaste on his features. He has tortured himself with that idea whenever he thinks he comes dangerously close to something like resolve; resolve to act upon what has been festering inside his chest, what has taken root and smothered anything else that might have once lived there. It is not merely desire, he thinks. Edward has known desire all his life, has slaked it to his heart’s content by coin or coincidence. This fondness, this need to keep Jopson close, to draw around the man and shield him from harm: this is all new to Edward. It is what his mother told him to expect to feel for a lady wife, in the future, when he was young and asked what drew her to his Papa. How disappointed she would be, were he to confess this to her!
The question remains, however: Would Jopson make his distaste known? Would he feel secure in the knowledge that Edward would be gracious in defeat? Can he have so certain an impression of Edward’s character, when they have hardly spoken about more than a handful of trivialities?
Edward is no gambling man - he does not often take chances, that is not his way.
(He has scarcely ever had to, prefers not to even bet on the horses his family breeds specifically for that purpose.)
“You must think me quite ridiculous,” he manages to say, at last, when silence has draped a warm blanket over the cabin, has settled around his shoulders in comfort rather than with the oppressive weight he battles, alone in his room.
Jopson pauses for only a beat, continues clearing away ink as though he merely needed to draw breath. “Why do you say that, Sir?”
“It seems that if I am not barrelling into you on the regular, I must find other ways of embarrassing myself. Look at the state of me.”
“Your mind has been otherwise occupied,” Jopson soothes, protective, understanding, perfect.
He can say that again. Wait--
“There is always a great burden on a lieutenant’s shoulders, I imagine. And these are extenuating circumstances, at best.”
Edward’s eyes open quite suddenly, though reluctantly so: confronted with Jopson’s proximity, he is very near overwhelmed.
“Has Doctor MacDonald given you anything for your hands?” Jopson takes one of the aforementioned appendages into both of his, works the cloth over the knuckles with care, utterly focused on the task quite literally at hand.
“A salve, yes,” Edward admits, his eyelids growing heavy once more, even as he beholds so stimulating a sight, his mind wishes to flee into darkness, wishes to look at him a while longer; he contradicts himself overly much, that is nothing new now. “Lanolin, I think.”
The noise Jopson makes seems closer to a pleased hum than anything else.
“As it happens, Lieutenant,” he continues, voice unbothered, “You may put yourself at ease. I do not think you ridiculous as all that.”
He puts Edward’s hand down, lifts his gaze to look at him.
“No?” Edward wonders, privately mourning the loss of contact.
“Quite the opposite.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he rushes to say, means it, truly. “I think quite highly of you, Mister Jopson.”
That is an admission, plain as anything Edward can muster the bravery for. He has never much made use of his words when it came to the negotiation of such matters. How does he make his state of mind plain to Jopson without running the risk of disgust? Ridicule he could take, a polite rejection, most probably. Disgust would shatter him.
He is unlikely to receive disgust, but the chance is not as close to nilch as he should like it to be.
“I am likewise glad to hear it,” Jopson smiles. Oh, those eyes! Those damned eyes, alight with mischief and a secret knowledge of something Edward cannot begin to fathom. There is a promise of them, a promise Edward could deceive himself into believing, one that reflects many of the things he wants-- But then, if it is but a reflection of Edward, if it stems not from Jopson's own desires, what good is it?
“Had you ever--”
No.
He cannot ask so directly. Will not. Curses himself for a fool, scrambles for something else to say.
Jopson waits patiently for him to continue, eyes expectant. Edward dares suppose the man looks hopeful, even. “That Bach piece which nigh drove me to madness some weeks ago, I meant to ask,” Edward continues, clearing his throat. “How did you come to hear it, that you knew it so intimately?”
“Excepting your personal rendition, Sir?”
Edward flushes, chuckles nervously, but nods. Jopson leans back against the table, the whole movement appearing incredibly poised. His arms are crossed, his eyes look far away, fond. “My sister was once employed to care for an elderly lady of middling standing, before she married. She happened to be a good woman as well as a decent employer, and allowed my sister to practise with her sheet music.”
“Did she play well?”
“Astoundingly so,” confirms Thomas. “She possessed far more talent for it than I ever did. You’ve a sister as well, I hear, Sir?”
Jopson collects these tidbits, Edward sometimes notices; little bylines muttered at dinner when pressed, remembered astoundingly well, preserved with care. More than once, Edward has wondered if this spectacular power of recollection is exclusive to him, or if perhaps Jopson has a growing biography of John and George, as well. Certainly of Captain Crozier, but then that might be considered his job. For his part, Edward is always eager to know more of Jopson, but hardly ever brazen enough to ask outright.
“Yes,” Edward nods, “Nellie, darling thing. Rather more talented than I am at a great many things. Perhaps that is the way of sisters.”
“Perhaps,” agrees Jopson with a smile.
“You might have seen her, in fact,” continues Edward, unwilling to allow the conversation to end here, not when they are so at ease with one another, at present. “She came to see me off at Greenhithe - fair of hair, rather tall for a woman, thin as a rail despite our governess’ attempts to fatten her up.”
Maybe he should not speak of Nellie thus, only these are the exact words she had used to describe herself in her letters. Might she mind? Jopson laughs quietly to himself, shakes his head as if berating himself.
“Bearing a green dress to match the jumper you sometimes wear, I think I recall.”
“Just so - why do you laugh?”
“Forgive me, Sir. She has not your colouring in the slightest, though I see now that may have been the sea's work - you must have been quite pale as a boy. I took her for your wife.”
Edward blushes. Jopson is slightly red in the face as well, now.
“I--- no, Mister Jopson, I am not--- I am unmarried.”
Jopson’s eyebrows rise.
“I thought you must be married, Sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
“Why?”
A rather pointed look follows, but before Jopson can say his bit, the bell chimes, and Jopson must be off to attend to Captain Crozier. “Leave it,” Edward pleads, when Jopson attempts to gather the brandy glasses. “I’ve kept you from work long enough, I know how to clean up after myself.”
Jopson nods his thanks, then smoothly disappears, footsteps quiet as a mouse.
+
I thought you must be married .
Why?
What about Edward’s comportment had made Jopson so certain of a wife back in England?
He has not the opportunity to ask, for weeks he cannot find a moment of privacy with the man - he is not bold enough to seek him out when he might, wearily contents himself with waiting for another opportunity to fall into his lap, lest he incur suspicion that might place an innocent party at risk. He stays longer in the great cabin than he was wont to before he had the notion that he should like to steal more of Jopson’s time, to John’s great delight and his own constant contemplation if a chance of conversation with Jopson is truly worth this.
Certainly he has spent many more nights at whist with George, John and Blanky than he used to.
(“We’d ask Doctor Peddie, sometimes, but he’s a sorry player,” George explains one night. “Aha! Rubber for me, I should think.” Edward thinks that perhaps Doctor Peddie is simply tired of indulging a game that has been twenty years out of fashion.)
It is such a point of contention in his mind, that when finally he does find himself alone with Jopson once more, he wastes no time on bashfulness, on beating around the bush of what he wants to say. He is forthright: “You believed me to be married?”
From inside the Captain’s storeroom, he hears Jopson’s movements come to a halt, abruptly. Edward’s hands are full of delicacies the Captain is of a mind to share as they celebrate the turning of the year.
Those blue eyes are hesitant when they once more come into view. “Yeah.”
“Might I ask what gave you the impression?”
Jopson dawdles, clearly uncomfortable. Edward did not intend that, is on the brink of saying something soothing, when Jopson finally does voice his thoughts, more boldly than expected.
“It is only that you never spoke up when it came to the topic of certain earthly delights after dinner, ashamed as I am to have taken note of it, whereas your fellow officers--”
Edward recognizes when he is being lied to. He does not wish to push overly much, but at the very least this merits some teasing.
“Lieutenant Irving has a wife, do you know that?” Edward leans forward to whisper, the idea of gossip lending his voice a conspiratorial air. “Or, a fiancée, at the very least. It seems to me a wife is never an impediment to such tales, when a man wishes to tell them.”
Jopson looks at him. Edward draws dangerously close to losing himself in those depths.
“Then perhaps I must have supposed that only loyalty to a wife would impede a man such as yourself from taking what you might otherwise plainly desire,” retorts Jopson, bolder still. Edward is not displeased with this development; he wants Jopson to feel free to speak to him of anything at all, anything which interests him. What does he care for insubordination, where Jopson is concerned? He does not cast his eyes away from Edward. “If indeed one thought you were keen to share such tales, otherwise. Respect for someone beloved might rein in an otherwise loose tongue.”
“Any other man might take my silence to be due to natural reticence I have been told I possess in spades. But not you, Mister Jopson - You supposed I must have a wife!”
“Coupled with the tenderness of your sister’s goodbye, the idea appeared reasonable to me,” maintains Jopson. "Until I knew her for your sister, that is. Now, of course, it appears rather unfounded, but surely you understand my suspicions?"
“Have you perhaps considered that I have no such stories to tell?” Edward grins, delighted by the glint which appears in Jopson’s eyes at the easy rapport. “And that I am not so good at fabricating something that would not expose me for a liar in an instant?”
He cannot be imagining the laugh he hears now, clear though it is kept in low tones, it is too novel, too unlike anything he has heard from Jopson before tonight. “I apologize most sincerely for my assumptions, then, Sir, if you should prefer people to imagine you shy, rather than respectably married, that is what I shall do in the future.”
“Anything but assumed matrimony, I beg,” Edward snorts.
“I shall not make the same mistake twice.”
“Have you a woman, Mister Jopson?” The question slides out, springing from a keen desire to know this man, to hoard knowledge of him as he hoards precious music, though at present all things concerning Thomas Jopson are infinitely more dear than even his favourite pieces. “In England?”
“No,” retorts he, decidedly. “Once--” He corrects, clears his throat. “I was married once, but she has since gone to God.”
“I am deeply sorry for your loss.”
“She was my greatest friend,” agrees Jopson, appearing wistful. He returns into the storeroom, busying himself with work. Edward knows well when a conversation is over, and though he regrets the finality of it, he does not regret having learned something new of the steward. It is precious knowledge, he hopes to hold onto it.
+
He is on his way to his rooms, when he quite literally runs into Jopson. On his lips is already a quip, his tongue made clever by brandy, but Jopson beats him to it, possessing a mind still quicker than Edward's. “Barrelling into me again, Sir? I thought you might try something else for sake of novelty, tonight. A new year encourages a change of habit, does it not?”
But he does not withdraw, does not squirm away from the hands Edward placed upon his waist to steady him, nor from the alcohol he can no doubt smell on his breath.
“Happy new year, Mister Jopson,” rasps Edward.
“And many happy returns,” adds he, with a smile in his eyes. “Oh, but look at the state of you!” He tuts, hands flying immediately to right his cravat.
“George had some---there was some admittedly childish horseplay involved in tonight’s celebration, once you quit us,” Edward recalls with a fond chuckle. “I’m off to bed, you needn’t concern yourself with my state of dress, as it is soon to come off in its entirety.”
Jopson sucks his lower lip into his mouth, an endearing sight if ever there was one.
“Let’s suppose Mister Gibson is currently indisposed.”
“Hm,” huffs Edward, rather displeased with Gibson’s loose grasp on work ethic, then shakes his head decidedly. “I shall manage fine without him.”
It is the new year, after all. If Edward has been indulgent, he cannot find fault with any other man who chooses to be so.
“You might manage better with some help.”
Edward sighs. “I might,” he agrees, easily. His hands tighten on Jopson’s waist.
“But do you not feel quite overworked already, Mister Jopson?”
“Not unbearably,” retorts he. “I take pride in my service, you ought to know.”
“Rightly so,” nods Edward, feeling a pounding behind his forehead that promises woe, should the day break once more. “Very well, Mister Jopson, if you’re sure you can bear with me. I don’t wish to keep you from any outstanding duties.”
He is dimly aware of freeing Jopson, of stumbling towards his cabin, of the steward’s deft hands on his cravat. He ought to-- he ought to put a stop to this, lest he-- lest…
Is he imagining that gentle hand upon his bare neck, feeling out his pulse more than ridding him of cloth wound too tightly? When he opens his eyes, Jopson is looking up at him with such tenderness so as to undo him completely. Edward sighs, stumbles back against his cabin door, unconscious of pulling Jopson along with him, but obviously doing so, because soon thereafter he feels the man’s form, held loosely against him by Edward’s own traitorous arms.
“Your touch---” Edward begins the sentence, unsure how to continue it. He ought not to have drunk so much. In fact, he was sure he had not been at risk of it, until George reminded him that he possessed his own store of whiskey, one barely touched so far, and Edward had run off to retrieve three of his bottles, which he had shared rather ceremoniously with John and George both. In hindsight, that was in all likelihood the point of no return. “I have longed for your touch, Mister Jopson.”
Poor Jopson, to have run into Edward at such a point, when his control is in such tatters, when---
“You ought to leave me be,” whispers Edward. “You ought to--”
But Jopson’s hands are still on him, unbuttoning his coat one brass button at a time, his hands firm when he slips it over Edward’s shoulders. The thing would have fallen to the floor, were it not for Jopson’s considerable skill.
“The waistcoat as well, Sir?”
“It is dreadfully uncomfortable to sleep in it,” he rasps.
Jopson nods, beginning to ease these buttons out of their little holes as well, his hands steady where Edward feels his own tremble upon Jopson’s waist. He rubs his thumb back and forth, feels out what he can without loosening his grasp on propriety more than he already has. What is he holding on for? What is he holding on to, come to that? Has he not already bared himself? Has he not made plain his desires now? What is left to do, but for Jopson to decide he wants what Edward offers - the offer is no less genuine for being made so clumsily - or that he wants it not?
Edward does not notice that he has begun to stir below until Jopson’s fingers have brushed his shoulders again in the act of removing his waistcoat. Then it becomes impossible to ignore, fighting its way to the forefront of his mind, obscuring all thought of preserving a semblance of dignity.
“Is there anything else you require, Sir?”
Jopson’s hand trails over his chest, at last Edward thinks he understands the meaning in his eyes. That twinkle of understanding - he has discovered Edward, has seen his desires clear as day.
“Jopson---” he sighs, pulling at him again, pulling him into his arms, buries his face in the younger man’s neck. He had a taste of this on deck, weeks ago now, when a storm near ravaged them, had not allowed himself to linger then, had wanted to. He makes up for this now, savouring the way the man smells, thrilled when he feels Jopson’s hands slide up around his neck, pressing them closely together.
Too closely, in fact, because---
Jopson does not draw away when his thigh comes into contact with a mast not strictly accounted for in Terror’s build manual, but he does hesitate for a second, and the cause of his concern becomes evident embarrassingly fast.
“Sir---”
That tone cuts through the haze of Edward’s mind harshly.
He would not hear such hesitation from the man, cannot bear it, cannot---
“Christ,” Edward laments, throwing his head back against the door, arm slung over his eyes. “I apologize, I did not mean---”
“What did you mean, Sir?”
He glances at Jopson through his fingers. There is still kindness in his eyes, endless patience, nothing of the disgust Edward feared for so long. Incomprehension, yes. No disgust, none.
“I’m overdue for bed.”
“Unquestionably,” Jopson nods, brow quizzical.
Edward stumbles past him, embarrassed, flops down on bed, forces himself to lie still until he is certain Jopson has left.
+
What has he done? Jesus Christ, what has he done to poor Jopson? Edward wakes with vague memories of holding the man close to him, his groin stirs with remembrance, the rest of him is slow to follow. He behaved most ungallantly, that much ought to be abundantly clear, that is what cristallizes when at last, some memories return to him. Jopson asked for nothing of this sort of behavior. That brief moment of hesitation, and uncertainty flooded Edward like the second coming. Well, he has ample time for regret now, hasn't he?
“Mister Jopson,” he calls the man to a halt when he rushes past Edward some days later. “A moment of your time, please.”
“Anything I might do for you, Sir?”
He still uses that tone, still bears that spark in his eye. Edward mistook it, he gravely mistook it. Did not he? Can it still be, that Jopson wants this?
“Only hear me apologize for my comportment.” He sighs, rubbing a hand at his neck. “I was out of sorts, when you were so kind as to assist me.”
“Nothing so bad as that,” says Jopson, evenly. “I did not mind. Perhaps, the next time, you had better limit your indulgence of drink, if you will take the suggestion in good spirits.”
“I intend to,” Edward snorts. “If my head throbbing in admonishment were not enough, I should certainly take my poor showing to be more incentive than ever necessary.”
Jopson nods, glances at the laundry he carries.
“See to your work, please,” Edward clears his throat. “And thank you, for your help. You are a fine fellow, truly.”
“You might call on me to help you again, Sir,” Jopson’s eyes are heavy with that meaning which has been lost on Edward since the very first time he saw this gaze. As he steps past Edward, his knuckles brush the back of Edward’s hand. Barely there, a touch not intended to be noticed by anyone whose eyes might fall upon them, but unmistakable to Edward.
Perhaps, Edward realizes with profound shock, he must reassess the situation once again.
+
“Might I have your opinion on something, Mister Jopson?”
“Certainly,” Jopson pauses in the process of polishing one of Crozier’s fine whiskey glasses, ever busy, in all likelihood much too busy to indulge Edward thus, but indulge him he does, and with a kind look about his face as well.
Edward steps closer, fearing that he will be overheard, despite the state of the ship; nigh abandoned, at present. There is humdrum on the ice, the men have taken a ball out to compete at the behest of Sir John.
Jopson continues polishing, eyes following Edward’s approach, intrigued. After a quick, cautionary glance at the cabin door - closed - he focuses entirely on Edward.
“What is it?”
“Speak truthfully, I beg: If a superior officer were to approach you for a favour, would you feel free to decline?”
“That depends, Sir,” responds Jopson, voice giving nothing away.
Edward looks at him quite intently.
“On the officer and favour in question both, of course.”
“Right,” Edward nods. “Something has occurred to me, Mister Jopson.”
“And what is that?”
“Ridiculous as I have been, you surely cannot have failed to notice certain-” Edward coughs into his elbow, embarrassed- “habits of mine.”
“Habits, Sir?”
“That I have watched you,” he admits out loud, at last. In a manner, it is quite freeing. Come hell or high water, it is out now. “Perhaps more than is proper.”
“Oh, that,” Jopson smiles. “Yes, Sir, that I have noticed. Though might I commend you on having been passably circumspect in your attentions up until a few weeks ago?”
“Right,” frowns Edward, confused. “Good of you to say, thank you.”
“What has this to do with favours done to superior officers, I wonder?”
Edward stares at him.
“Surely you take my meaning.”
“Perhaps I do,” Jopson acknowledges, making a face that leads Edward to believe he is being teased. “But then, one might imagine I had made my own interest abundantly clear, since I first grew aware of yours, so perhaps we have no cause to talk of favours, per se, yeah?”
Their eyes hold for a long while, as Edward’s heart accelerates to hitherto unknown extremes. His thoughts race, all of him is thrilled, if--
“Perhaps not clear enough, then,” Jopson corrects himself. “You seem surprised, Sir.”
“I’ve laboured too long under doubts, you should know,” Edward admits. “I -- I did not truthfully expect my advances to be welcome.”
Jopson takes a step towards him, throws the cloth over his shoulder carelessly, disposes leisurely of the whiskey glass. “And what did you imagine my touch meant, I wonder?” He asks, reaching for Edward’s hand, swiftly leaving it behind to cup Edward’s elbow, travel up to his shoulder, his neck. “We have been close like this and more, still, Lieutenant. What else might my intent have been, if not--”
“Ah,” Edward blushes, berating himself. It is as though scales have fallen from his eyes. Really, when Jopson puts it like this, how could Edward have mistaken his meaning? But then, is it so unreasonable for him to have doubted? “I realize now that some weeks ago you reproached me for not acting upon what you have long since understood to be a mutual wish.”
“Perhaps.”
“I have been rather slow on the uptake, forgive me, I did not take your meaning, did not dare hope--” Edward sighs. “My mind is not what I feel it once was, if you will believe it. I am almost ashamed to admit it.”
“What is speed, compared to certainty?” Jopson shrugs. “You are certain now, are you not?”
“Somewhat,” Edward agrees. “My hands--”
“As of now, you still have done nothing with them, New Year’s Day excepted. I find that fact rather disappointing, I must admit.”
“I should like to give you the final say on the matter,” reveals Edward. “So that you might feel free in your choice.”
“You think entirely too well of me, Sir,” laughs Thomas, sliding a bold hand below Edward’s coat, dipping below his waistcoat, rubbing back and forth, unable to feel skin on skin but bringing memories of Edward’s cabin to the surface with a ferocity Edward is unlikely to forget in the coming weeks, months, years. “To suppose I should resist what you offer, on whatever moral ground you imagine me to hold. I’m not as virtuous as all that.”
Jopson smiles, his hand travels from the small of Edward’s back, up to his chest. He knows not what to say, is still half-convinced he has dreamed up this version of Jopson, this unexpected Giovanni--
"I apologize."
“We might find ourselves alone together soon, then, entirely by chance,” Jopson tells him, glancing up at Edward through his lashes. “You might need a shirt mended, and dear Mister Gibson might be indisposed.”
“Might he?” Edward asks, voice hoarse. “Might we ?”
“If you like,” laughs Jopson. “Now that you are certain of my enthusiasm.”
The situation requires no more words. Edward would not be able to express himself as he might wish, in any case, should he be called upon to do so. But he does cover Jopson’s hand, on his chest, meets his eyes, and attempts to convey all that he feels with a look.
“Well then,” Jopson says, appearing to understand his meaning, “You had better let me get back to work, Lieutenant, if you expect me to spare you some time at a later date. Much to do aboard Terror, you know.”