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He orders you – not unkindly, far from it – to be at ease the very moment he pulls the flap to the side and enters the tent. He knows you too well: you’ve already raised yourself on one elbow and it takes more of your strength than it did yesterday.
Were you not bedridden with scurvy you would never let yourself be seen by him in your current state. Thinking about what has become of you, who have always kept a silent but great pride in the neatness of your person makes the shame you feel over your appearance race with the illness in eating you up from the inside. On Terror, you never left your cabin without a shave in the morning, not even during the fortnight of anguish that was the captain sobering up. Part of your job was to keep up appearances, after all. It was only natural that some of them were meant for the captain.
With the untidiness you’re momentarily in, even the instinctive motion of tucking your long-overgrown fringe behind your ear as you lie back down appears piteous. You’re sporting a beard, goddammit.
[did you truly have to raise yourself out of the dirt only to fall right back into it?]
Habits of a time when there was a place for vanity worth nothing at the brink of known and unknown. You make yourself promise you shan’t make a fool of yourself. Not in front of him.
Still, as your captain seats himself at your bedside, stepstool in one hand, onto which he places the bowl of melted ice he brought in, you can’t help but ask the same question you already have posed him a hundred, a thousand times before. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
Fervently, you hope for a reply in the affirmative; an opportunity to show your captain you’re still capable enough to be entrusted with tasks. You could mend his clothes if only someone were kind enough to provide you with a needle and thread, polish the buttons on his coat, comb his hair, show him there’s still some life left in you. That he still can have use of you–
[that you are not a burden]
–but you’re not yet feverish enough to hallucinate him holding anything but a rag he then dips into the water.
“Yes,” he replies slowly, and your hopes, or what is left of them, shatter at once. This is far from the tone he uses when giving orders. He looks at you with akin to something bearing scaring similarity to sorrow and you have half the mind to assure him you are alright, it’s just the dim light of the candle that makes you seem to be worse than you truly are. “You can lie there, not feeling well while I try and cheer you up by telling you the story of the time anyone ever let me ride a cow.”
It hurts both to speak and to smile but you’re not about to let this small detail hinder you from doing them for his sake. You tell him you know the story, so he sees that you listened to his tales during your voyages together, that you haven’t forgotten any of them. You could recite them to him if he asked you to. Every small detail you picked up about your captain is imprinted in your memory. They have become one of your few sources of comfort – if you remember, it means you haven’t yet lost your mind.
He’s unbuttoning your undershirt and you can’t take your eyes off his face. A few months ago, you would have given anything for physical contact beyond friendly pats on the shoulder. You were a bit of something to look at, in proper clothes, clean, with a functioning body. Muscles that did not ache at the smallest movement, muscles that could serve, provide, pleasure.
Only God knows how many of his duties your captain must put aside for this visit of which you are not worthy, but his touch is gentle as he tugs your shirt out of the way and begins cleaning you up as if you were something precious and delicate and it feels–
“Forgive me, sir,” you wheeze miserably when the tears welling up in your eyes finally overflow. “I’m fine, it’s just–”
[–it’s just that you might not be here by tomorrow morning, that maybe you will have to leave your captain behind against your will in this godforsaken place with no one to care for him the way you can–]
His hands stop at once. “Am I hurting you?”
Hurriedly, you assure him he’s not.
He wipes your tears away with the least dirty corner of the rag. You are overcome with the need to shut your eyes close. You can’t do with this much tenderness, you’re undeserving, selfishly exploiting your captain’s noble nature. Should he decide he’s had enough of your woe and walks out, if he leaves you alone in this tent way too large for one moribund to shiver and fret over the howl of the wind you will most likely not make it until morning but at least it will be with the phantom sensation of his hand on you, which is far from satisfying, but here and now it suffices.
Your worries turn out to be preposterous: he stays, of course he does. He buttons up your shirt once he’s done bathing you and tucks you in, smoothing out the blanket. There’s a moment when his fingertips brush against the uncovered skin of your neck, a short-lived, accidental touch – enough to break your carefully built self-control and capture his hands in your own.
“Thank you, captain,” you breathe the words onto the back of his hand before guiding them to your lips, kissing his knuckles. You can only hope the blood on your lips won’t leave a stain on his skin. The last thing you want is to dirty him.
Instead of pulling away as soon as you let go of him, he allows you to press your face into his palm, thumb caressing your cheekbone, drawing circles, constellations. “Jopson, oh dear boy,” he breathes, shaking, watery-eyed.
Unlike you, he keeps his composure. You cannot find it in yourself to be surprised – for as long as you have had the luck of knowing him, Captain Crozier was a steadfast spirit, a leader you follow not out of duty because you trust him to lead you to safety. He’s strong, so very strong, he’s going to save those still on their feet.
You put your life into his hands while being wholly aware of the dangers a polar expedition may contain and feel no regret over it. Your weakness is hardly something he can be accounted for.
//
When James Clark Ross and the crew of HMS Enterprise find the camp, you’re way too weak to walk on your own, so Crozier carries you in his arms.
//
You do not remember much about the first few days of your journey back to England, it’s but an unending fever dream. During those rare moments of consciousness, your perception remains limited to what matters the most: your captain’s presence. Every single time you rouse you can tell he’s there with you by the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth he radiates. The latter nearly burns at your wrist, where Crozier touches you when there’s no one else in the cabin, feeling for your pulse. It is also he who feeds you blackcurrant mush and broccoli soup and makes you drink an ungodly amount of freshly pressed lemon juice: you recognise his touch on your throat as he’s helping you swallow when you’re still weak as a hatchling.
Much later, you learn that he indeed volunteered to share a bunk with you, claiming it’s the least he can do to lighten the workload of the three surgeons on board and it is not against the Articles, nor it is improper for a Captain and a Lieutenant to occupy the same space in times of need – besides, the number of officers Enterprise accommodates for the time being is higher than the number of rooms suited to accommodate them.
The real reason concerns him and you alone.
//
Once, weeks later, when you’re taking a stroll on the deck, following doctor’s orders to regain the mobility in your wounded leg, Captain Ross approaches you, asking about your well-being. The conversation is entirely polite until the moment he mentions Crozier being terribly fond of you. Knowing well you neither can nor should speak in your superior’s name, you lower your gaze and nod in lieu of an answer.
“Consider yourself lucky, Mister Jopson, for having his appreciation. A rare gift, it is.”
You couldn’t agree with him more.
//
While it did not happen overnight, you learned to appreciate the small steps leading to the domesticity you live in today. The court-martial was an ugly case, with the Admiralty trying to put all the blame on Crozier, who fought back just as fiercely as he had fought for his crew’s life ice-trapped and on the march – and eventually got acquitted. Before announcing his early retirement, however, he ensured Stephan Goldner shall never sell another of his tins to the Royal Navy. Your promotion being withdrawn came as anything but a surprise and you thought nothing of it: you have no wish to command. Or to sail ever again.
After having followed Crozier to the two poles of Earth it is only natural for you to join and continue to serve him as a valet in the tiny Hertfordshire cottage he purchases from his savings. Under no circumstances would you decline the offer, so when he brings up the topic of your salary, you just shrug your shoulders very ungentlemanly and say, “It is of no importance to me, sir; pay me as much as you see fit.”
“Jopson, my entire fortune would not be enough if I wanted to pay you in accordance with your worth,” he sighs, shaking his head, “but I give you my word you will be taken care of well. It is the very least you deserve.”
You make sure every day he knows the extent of your gratefulness.
//
At some point, that unacknowledged, swept-under-the-carpet yet beyond-doubt mutual attraction grows into something that cannot be ignored any more.
No one has ever told you about how terrifying it is to confess your love to someone. You have long since made your peace with a lifetime to be spent yearning after the man who’s not meant to be yours. Sometimes it’s still difficult to believe he loves you back. Sometimes you fear you’re still on King William Land, and all of this is just a cruel dream you could wake up from at any moment.
//
A harrowing nightmare tortures you time after time: you crawl towards Crozier on a long table mounded with succulence and savour. He’s sitting at the other end, an insurmountable distance in your weakened, starving state but you pay no regard to hunger [it’s not like you could chew any of the roasted meat without risking losing a tooth or two], you push the plates off the table without sparing them a second thought. They matter not. Nothing does, honestly, except for Crozier, but he’s conversing with someone invisible. He seems to be absorbed in it entirely. You call out for him, a desperate, pitiful attempt to draw his attention to yourself. The lack of success must be your fault, so you try harder, you shout, reach out, order your body not to fail you, not now, not before feeling his skin on yours one last time [because you’re greedy and him being the last thing you see is not enough, you want to take your last breath with your head resting in his lap while he tells you another story you could never get tired of hearing—]
Usually, this is when you snap awake, this is when Francis coaxes you back to the waking world with gentle words and a strong embrace.
“It’s all right, you’re fine, love,” he croons. “My dear Thomas. You are safe.”
You share a bed now and use each other’s Christian name. Nothing has changed where it matters, yet everything is new. You run the household, help Francis shave and dress; you serve him at the table but share the meals as equals. Initially, he worries about your acts of service being rooted in a false belief that you owe him this, but he believes you when you explain to him the reason behind keeping these old habits.
“I adore you, so I want to take care of you in every way I can,” you murmur into the crook of his neck one evening, half-asleep. “Please don’t take it away from me. Let me keep this.”
The matter was settled with that simple please. “Far be it from me to cause you even the slightest unhappiness,” Francis says, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I gladly take all you have to give.”
[besides, you know that the extensive amount of fruit in your diet is not a coincidence, neither are the clothes in your closet designed to keep you always warm, nor the expensive ointments for the wound on your leg. your beloved turns out to be resourceful when it comes to reciprocation.]
//
On sunlight-drenched summer days you revel in spending the afternoon sprawled out on the softest comforter you can spare from the bedroom, with Francis hand-feeding you cherries and strawberries only to lick the juices off your lips a moment later. You’re dressed only in shirtsleeves and breeches, foregoing even socks and shoes. Francis has freckles on the bridge of his nose. He’s a warm, solid weight above and beside you, one whose nearness you seek not only in your conscious moments but also in your sleep: your bed might be large enough to comfortably accommodate three grown men and you still drift off and wake pressed together from head to toe.
“I think I had been loving you long since before I knew what love is,” you tell him, because there is no place for secrets between you, and it’s something he has every right to know, “but I only realised I wanted to be wholly yours in that dark, miserable sick tent.”
His free hand, the one that’s not sticky from the berries, stills in your hair [which nowadays has silvery strands in it, a parting gift from the Arctic. You cannot fathom why but Francis adores them]. He’s been massaging your scalp with clever fingertips, similar to the way one pets the head of a spoiled housecat. Not that you mind, however, you resent the thought of being a common feline. Graceful they are, you have already been appointed as the captain’s mongoose.
“Now you are mine, my dear,” Francis says eventually, savouring the words like he would do with fine wine if he still drank. “And I have every intention to keep you this way. As long as you’ll have me.”
Yes.
Now you are.
Until the very end.