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There was no quiver in Jopson's fingers as he brought a new bottle of whiskey to Crozier's waiting hand. He was a practised steward and an experienced seaman, at this point; it wasn't his place to allow emotions into his work, even after the heavy blows of losing Lieutenant Gore and Sir John in such quick succession. His duty was to tend to Crozier's needs, and his own were far below on the list of priority. Thus, his hands were steady, and his breaths even.
Crozier, in contrast, was run ragged. "Thank you, Jopson," he croaked, and he refilled his glass without a moment of hesitation. "Bugger it all…" Crozier groaned, and knocked back the entire drink in one go, before filling it once more. "Lock the door, would you, Jopson? We need to talk."
Jopson dipped his head and did as he was bid; when he turned back from the door, he started, slowly, "Sir… you may not wish to converse while in your cups, as it were—"
Crozier cut him off, sharply. "No," he snapped. "No, Jopson, I refuse to have this conversation while I'm sober, so get over here and sit down." He pointed to the chair facing the other side of his desk, expectantly.
Jopson held his tongue and hesitantly seated himself. He was hardly ever afforded this privilege, except in dire circumstances, and so he was deeply fearful of what was to come next. He didn't think that he had transgressed at all recently, and he was in good health, so it was more likely to be about Crozier. Jopson eyed the whiskey bottle sourly, as if he could cause it to vanish with only his mind.
"You are aware," Crozier began, gruffly, "that a bear has been attacking our men, and most recently took Sir John from us. And you are also aware of the senior officer's suspicion that it is not an ordinary bear." He refused to look at Jopson; his eyes were only on his whiskey.
Jopson nodded. "Yes, sir." It was a redundancy, because Crozier had only been stating facts, but he still felt obliged to confirm it.
"It's not," Crozier told him, with a long sigh. "It's not an ordinary bear. And I ask what I'm about to tell you never leaves this room, that you never speak it again to anyone, even on your deathbed. Is that understood, Jopson?"
"It is, sir." Jopson folded his hands neatly in his lap to hide how they had begun to shake. He feared the worst, and if something were to happen to Crozier, now, he wasn't sure that he'd be able to bear it.
"Good." Crozier paused to take a drink, then fixed Jopson with an even stare. "The bear… I am the bear, Jopson."
Jopson opened his mouth to respond before Crozier's words had properly set in, and found himself at a loss. He hesitated, trying to find some logical explanation for Crozier's illogical claim, before letting his jaw snap shut. Crozier was still pinning him beneath a steely gaze, and Jopson hadn't a clue what he was supposed to say. Eventually, he safely settled on, "I beg your pardon, sir?"
"A family curse," Crozier grumbled, with a shake of his head. "You're a bright lad, Jopson—surely you've heard of werewolves?" Despite the question, he didn't give Jopson a chance to respond, and forded ahead brutishly. "Absurd, I know, but there's more truth in it than most people think. And I have been so careful—" Crozier's voice dipped down, close to a growl, and for a moment, Jopson believed his tale entirely. "But being stuck in this damn ice is fraying my self-control, Jopson, and now Sir John and a number of other good men are dead."
For several seconds, Jopson struggled to compose himself. "Sir," he finally said, his voice laced with trepidation, "I know you may feel responsible for Sir John and Lieutenant Gore, as a captain, but I struggle to believe that you could—"
"Dammit, Jopson!" Crozier slammed his hand on the desk, and Jopson fell silent. His breathing was rapid, and his knuckles were white with the force of his grip. "I know I'm asking you to believe something impossible, but you're the most observant man I've ever met. I'm certain you've noticed things that you can't explain—for God's sake, you cleaned Sir John's blood from my hands, and asked nothing of where it came from."
Jopson swallowed, thickly. "Sir, when I first began as your steward, you informed me that you suffer from a condition of the skin, causing it to tear easily when your sleep is unrestful."
Crozier raised an eyebrow, his expression incredulous. "And you believed that?" he questioned. "All these years, you believed that? Even when you found not a single scratch on my person after these unrestful nights?"
"It wasn't my place to question it, sir," Jopson admitted. "I concluded that you must suffer from a more serious and unspeakable affliction, and you wished not to jeopardize your authority by allowing anyone knowledge of your potential poorness of health."
Despite everything, a small smile played at the edges of Crozier's lips. "Well, I suppose you can take pride in knowing that you weren't incorrect. And, if you're fearing the worst, I can assure you that prior to this it was only animal's blood. My own, usually, so the claims of my accidental self-injury weren't entirely incorrect, either." He sighed, long and tired. "Lycanthropy is what a doctor would call it—inquire to any of our medical men if you continue to doubt its existence after this conversation. But, I ask you to suspend your disbelief temporarily, and indulge me this, please, Jopson."
"Of course, sir." Jopson nodded respectfully. The more he considered it, the more he was obliged to admit that the idea wasn't as far outside of the realm of reason as he had initially thought, especially taking into account what Crozier had said of the inaccuracy of folklore. "You are the bear."
"Thank you." Crozier deflated, slightly, and took a sip of his drink. "I am a threat to this expedition, Jopson. This beast of mine is spurred on by any strength of emotion—positive or negative, it doesn't matter—and it… accumulates, over time, until I have to let it free. Like a cup, filling until it overflows. This… this jeopardy, this absolute mortal peril we're facing in this awful place, makes that cup smaller every single day."
Crozier's voice was deadly serious as he met Jopson's eye. "If this is allowed to continue, the beast will attack more and more often, until you are all dead, and I am gone. I hate to ask you to assist me with something like this, Jopson, but I can't do it myself, and I can't be permitted to live any longer, not in my state."
"You… you would ask me to euthanize you, sir?" Jopson questioned, aghast. He had heard Crozier's words plainly, but refused to disregard the possibility that he had gravely misunderstood.
Crozier pitched another long-suffering sigh, and finished his glass of whiskey. "I would." His gaze dropped. "You can claim that the bear attacked us, and you shot me by mistake. Nobody could fault you that. I would do it myself, but only that the beast won't allow it."
Jopson chose his next words carefully, still horrified by what Crozier was suggesting to him. "Captain," he said, firmly. "I will not disobey you, if this is what you order me to do. However, I must ask if there is any other way to resolve this, without relieving the expedition of another captain. You have, by your own admission, ably dealt with your condition for many long years—if you can think of any alternative at all, no matter how impossible, I will do my best to aid you in it, sir."
Crozier hesitated, and Jopson could tell by the way he ran his tongue over his teeth that there was another way, but he despised to propose it. Jopson simply waited, placidly stewing in the knowledge that there was no order Crozier could give that he wouldn't obey. If it were necessary, he'd even catalogue the most disposable men on both ships, and routinely draw one out alone for Crozier to devour when he could no longer contain himself. Unfortunately, Jopson was certain that Crozier would rather die than engage in such behaviours, and there would be no convincing him that his life was worth the sacrifice of any other man.
"There is," Crozier began, slowly, "one other way, but while I loathe to ask you what I already have, the alternative is something I cannot ask of you, Jopson."
"You do not have to ask, sir," Jopson told him, evenly. "If you enlighten me, I will happily volunteer myself, and entirely of my own volition. There is nothing that I would not do for you, Captain—if the only way to satiate your beast was to cut off my own tongue and feed it to you, in this very moment, my only delay would be in trying to find a suitable tool with which to sever it."
Momentarily, Crozier seemed to choke on his own spit, before gathering himself. "Jopson," he stressed, voice fraught once more with disbelief. "I could not— Christ alive, it's nothing like that, I assure you. I wouldn't— Good Lord, Jopson."
"Then, sir, please excuse my asking"—Jopson leaned forward in his chair, ever so slightly—"why do you hesitate? If I would gladly perform such an act for you, and your need is nothing as extreme as that, then simply state it, and it shall be done." There was part of him that quite nearly wanted it, to sustain Crozier's beast of his own flesh and blood, but the only thing that prevented him from that desire was that it would inevitably end in his death, and then Crozier would suffer once more, and without Jopson to tend to him. Ridding Crozier of his care was a cruelty he would never stoop to if there were any other choice.
In the silence that followed, Crozier poured himself yet another glass of whiskey, and drank half of it before his eyes came anywhere near looking at Jopson again. When they finally did, they were dark, yet resigned. "The beast," he started to explain, "acts on primal—base—instincts. So far, it has reacted in fear and anger, because I have felt fear and anger, and especially with Sir John and the hunting party, it thought itself threatened. In its mind, it was only acting in self-defence."
When Crozier paused again, Jopson told him, "Nobody could fault the instincts of a scared animal, sir."
Crozier visibly winced. "I suppose not," he conceded. "But it makes me ashamed, the awareness I have, and yet the lack of control." He buried his face in his glass once more, and Jopson couldn't help the rising concern in his chest for his captain's reliance on drink. "In any case, if the beast were presented with a man that didn't… provoke it, it may… good Christ, Jopson, it might satisfy a different kind of hunger, and I have reason to believe that it would placate it as much as violence would." He studied Jopson only out of the corners of his eyes, his discomfort clear in his expression.
"I understand, sir." For, indeed, Jopson did—he had tended to animals before, in his youth, and was familiar with how they swung between two extremes. One had to be careful, when keeping a wild beast, not to incur its wrath, but not to incite its mating instincts, either. They could be easily confused, that way. "You refer to the beast's innate desire to copulate, do you not, sir?"
Crozier flinched again, as if Jopson's words had injured him. "You have both the long and short of it, Jopson. Do you understand, now, why I would rather you took me out behind the ship and shot me like a lame mutt?" His voice dipped to a growl, and Jopson suppressed a shudder.
"Even if you were sufficiently… enthusiastic, the beast does not know caution, or courtesy. It's likely that you—or anybody else that attempted to help me in this manner—would end up seriously hurt, or worse." Jopson caught how Crozier's clarification was hastily added; it brought him some pleasure to know his proposition was being considered, even unwillingly. "It's not a permanent fix, either—it would be an ongoing commitment, and I can't allow… it wouldn't be right, do you understand? This beast is my cross to bear, and to inflict it on someone else, indefinitely… I assure you that death is my preferred option."
Jopson took a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again. "The beast may be your responsibility, sir," he said, carefully, "but you are my responsibility. It would be dereliction of duty if I did not try to aid you in shouldering your burdens. If you forgive my use of your own words, sir, you have already been indefinitely inflicted on me in more ways than one." He very deliberately flicked his eyes to the whiskey bottles, and Crozier sighed. "I have made a commitment to you, and if that commitment is now to include the care of a desperate, scared animal that does not know any better, it changes nothing."
"You…" Crozier continued to stare at Jopson once more. "You would allow this. Even knowing that you would be putting yourself at risk. You would allow me to— to defile you—"
"Excuse me, Captain." Jopson was very determinedly not getting irritated—he fully understood Crozier's resistance, but wished that he would simply accept what Jopson offered him. "If the choice is between a potential risk to my physical wellbeing, and your certain death, it should be an easy decision to make. Even if the worst occurs, which you don't seem confident that it will, the expedition will have only lost a steward, and not her most experienced captain."
"You are not," Crozier protested, "only a steward, not to me." But he hung his head nonetheless, submitting finally to the logical option. "Fine. But you're going to take my pistol, in case you need to defend yourself, and you're going to swear to me that you won't deliberately jeopardize yourself for my benefit. Understood, Jopson?"
Jopson nodded, succinctly, relief flooding his body like a breath of fresh spring air. "Understood, sir. Thank you."
At his thanks, Crozier appeared deeply discomforted. "Don't. You have no idea what I—what it will do to you." He paused, regarding the whiskey bottle with a guarded expression. "Have we any other engagements tonight, Jopson?" he asked, and he reached to pour another glass.
"No, sir," Jopson answered, and to his surprise, Crozier pushed the drink in his direction. "Sir?"
"It's the least I can do," Crozier muttered. "Drink up, lad. You'll need it." He stood, then, and turned away from Jopson as if he could no longer bear his steward's presence. "Be ready in half an hour. Dress warmly."
Obediently, Jopson downed the whiskey in a single swallow, fighting not to retch as it burned its way down his throat. "Yes, sir," he croaked, and that was the last they spoke to each other before Jopson fled the cabin, an unusual heat in his drawers.
By some miracle, the night was mild. Unfortunately, 'mild' in that Arctic hellscape was still far colder than Jopson was accustomed to, and even bundled up as Crozier had directed, he was shivering. But, their trek across the ice was enough to begin to warm Jopson's bones, and by the time that Crozier ordered him to halt, sweat had pooled underneath his muffler and was dampening his shirt.
In comparison, Crozier was dressed only in his ordinary uniform, despite Jopson's protests. A half-mile journey away from Terror while insufficiently dressed posed its own risks, he'd argued, but Crozier had insisted that he'd rather not have to spend any significant amount of time undressing himself, and Jopson decided not to comment further and waste any more moonlight.
"This ought to be enough," Crozier declared, his eyes falling past Jopson onto the faint lights of the ice-locked ships. "We shouldn't garner any unwanted attention here, unless I— unless the beast is enraged." Then, he met Jopson's gaze, and hesitated. "You don't have to do this."
"I know, sir," Jopson responded, truthfully. "I want to do this." Crozier's pistol sat heavy against his breast, inside his overcoat, and Jopson swore he could feel its cold metal chilling him even through the layers. He had already decided that he would not draw it, no matter what occurred. He licked his lips, and attempted to not seem eager. "How am I… how am I to attract the creature, sir?"
"On all fours," Crozier croaked, his voice tinged with regret and guilt and other terrible emotions that Jopson wished he could simply brush away with a tender hand. "Head down. Bowed. Let it… let it see your neck."
Jopson, already assuming the position, paused, awkwardly looking back at Crozier through his legs. "If you wish it to see my neck," he questioned, "then should I not be on my back, to show it my stomach as well? I know in some animals—"
"No," Crozier answered, sharply, and Jopson fell silent. "I… I don't want you to see it. It's bad enough that you've convinced me to do this; let me preserve my dignity, won't you, for God's sake, Jopson?" His nostrils flared, and in the silence of the scene, Jopson heard his next breath come heavy. "Head. Down."
Jopson obeyed, not knowing how to express the idea that he wanted to see, and so submitting to Crozier's orders instead. He didn't hear Crozier speak again—for several long moments, he only heard hot, panting breaths and the sounds of Crozier shedding his clothes, until the peace was shattered by a pained groan.
Every nerve in Jopson's body was agonized with the urge to rush to his captain's side and tend to his pain, but he knew that it would only scare the beast, once it awoke. Crozier groaned again, and through Jopson's small window of vision he had without moving, he witnessed the flesh of Crozier's bare feet split, claws tearing mercilessly through his flesh, and Crozier's ensuing howl of pain made Jopson wince. He understood, then, why Crozier had undressed prior to letting the beast free.
It felt like an eternity of enduring Crozier's suffering before the beast's paws slid back over the ice, and its front paws slammed down a mere foot from Jopson's boots. With a sense of panic rising in his chest, Jopson hurriedly reached to undo the over-layer of his trousers, but he was not faster than the beast. It growled, low and resonant, and Jopson's very blood froze as it suddenly lunged towards him.
Massive, solid paws landed on Jopson's shoulders, shoving him down into the snow and pinning him there. Jopson wheezed, the breath shaken from his lungs, and despite the terror flooding his veins, he found his prick to be stiff and throbbing where it was trapped in his smallclothes. He didn't dare move; it would be barely an effort for the beast to unseam him with a single claw, and devour him much the way it had devoured the others.
But the creature just rumbled, in a manner that seemed more curious and cautious than threatening, and Jopson forced himself to relax. Its breath was warm on the back of his neck as it sniffed him, and it dragged its nose down the curve of his spine to complete its thorough investigation. Jopson shuddered when its muzzle found his tailbone, just above his covered arse; he gritted his teeth and decided to risk a movement, for both of their sakes.
As slowly and carefully as he could, yet without delay, Jopson tugged down his trousers and his smalls, wincing as the bitter air contacted an unseen expanse of bare skin. His prick twitched obscenely, and a deep thrill rushed through his body; the beast reacted to his action only by quizzically sliding its nose against his arsehole, and Jopson knew exactly what it would find there. Crozier hadn't instructed him to prepare himself, and he'd only had thirty minutes, but he'd done his best to ease the creature's passage, in the hopes of minimizing the chances of injury that Crozier had been worried about.
A snort of hot breath rolled over Jopson's hole, and he ground his teeth together, fighting with himself as every instinct screamed at him to fire Crozier's pistol and run. He had to stop thinking of it as an it, he decided—even in another form, and with only rudimentary intelligence, the creature above him was still his captain. Part of him, likely crazed by adrenaline and lust, even wondered if Crozier recognized him. Perhaps not his face, but his smell, maybe, and that was why he had been handled with comparative gentleness… until Jopson acknowledged that these were the thoughts of a steward whose devotion ran embarrassingly deeper than duty and had very little experience with lycanthropy, and he ought not to dwell on them.
Dimly, Jopson wondered who had decided that Crozier's condition ought to be labelled as such, when he was clearly a bear and not a wolf. He supposed that ursithropy didn't exactly roll off the tongue as well, but the misnomer irked him, for some strange reason.
That train of thought was then abruptly stolen from him as Crozier repositioned himself, sheltering Jopson from the elements with his unnaturally broad, hulking form, and laying his muzzle to Jopson's neck once more. Jopson felt as if he'd been covered in a bear-skin blanket and weighted down, but Crozier seemed to be taking care not to crush him. Then, at long last, Jopson felt the blunt head of Crozier's cock press against his arse, and he couldn't stop himself from gasping.
It was proportional, and Jopson supposed it made sense that a supernatural bear several times larger than a natural one would also be sporting a much larger instrument. Nonetheless, it was a shock to his system—especially when Crozier barely gave him a moment to conceptualize its size before he was shoving it in. He growled, with a furor that Jopson was only able to reconcile as possessive, and Jopson was consumed with ecstasy and pain so unyielding that his vision momentarily gave up on him.
Crozier cared nothing for Jopson's comfort, in this state; he fed him inch after inch of his backbreaking shaft over seconds that stretched on into minutes, with little huffs that gave Jopson the impression that he was annoyed at how long it was taking. Almost as if his instincts were urging him to go faster, but something else was holding him back. Unbidden, a swell of affection rushed to his heart, and Jopson struggled to push it down once more, even as pain sparked up into the rest of his body and he couldn't prevent pained sounds from escaping his lips.
The press of Crozier's monstrous length into him was excruciating on its own, but Jopson was then forced to contend with his body begging for more, faster, even if Crozier had to snap him in half to do so. In a moment of weakness, he might have begged, if only Crozier could understand his language in his altered form; that was the only thing that kept him from speaking.
Though, Jopson was far from silent. He had stopped trying to minimize his presence, now that it seemed he was in no danger, and whimpered with every twitch and shove of Crozier's cock inside of him. His eyes burned, and by the time several more moments had elapsed, he was sobbing freely, his arms folded on the icy ground so that he could bury his face in them and keep his tears from freezing to his skin.
When Crozier could finally push no further, he halted, and Jopson let out a wail of simultaneous pleasure and agony; the pressure on his prostate was unimaginable, and he thought that he could have spent from it alone if Crozier had seen fit to simply stay as they were. Every inch of Jopson's body felt strained, as if he were being slowly undone from the inside, not unlike how the ice pushed ever-steadily against Terror's hull. In a moment where his cheeks were dry, Jopson lifted his head and nearly fainted from the amount of blood that rushed to his prick; his stomach was distended, and obviously so, with the size of his captain buried inside him.
Jopson dropped his head back to his arms as another involuntary sob wracked his body. This was it for him—he was never going to be able to serve Crozier again without thinking of this, of how he'd been taken and split open on the ice, and it would be some absolute miracle of professionalism if he managed to hide it. At the very least, Crozier wouldn't be left wanting for someone to satisfy his bestial needs.
And then Crozier moved.
Jopson screamed, sparing no thought to being heard as the sound was ripped from his chest; the drag of Crozier's prick as he pulled back was heady and maddening, and when he pushed back in… Jopson didn't simply see stars, he saw the moon and sun and God in Heaven, and wailed his voice raw in the same instance. Breathing was a conscious effort, and thinking was impossible—there was only Crozier, the warmth of his body and the musky stench of his fur smothering all other experiences of the world.
The pain was inescapable. It didn't stop, nor did it lessen, as Crozier worked himself up to a vicious pace, but Jopson found himself growing numb to it. Neither did his arousal fade—in fact, Jopson swore it only intensified with his suffering. And though Crozier was clumsy and animalistic in this form, he was large enough that every thrust not only connected with his prostate, but assaulted it, as if it were simply a tool for Crozier's own pleasure.
And through Jopson's weeping, the agony and the ecstasy in one, and the ravaging of his arse by his very own captain, he swore he heard Crozier snarl, "Mine."
Jopson let out a shattered gasp as he suddenly spent himself, and he was hoarse and exhausted but too shocked to leave the word unacknowledged. "Captain," he wheezed, and the word quickly became a broken moan, drawn out from between parched lips. "Captain— are you— do you— can you—"
Are you there? Do you recognize me? Can you understand me?
Jopson finished none of his questions, and thereby received no answer. He could only whimper, and scream, and sob as he allowed Crozier to use his wrecked and defiled body. Jopson's energy waned with every passing moment, and so his reactions were slowly dulled, fading to weak, dry heaves and helpless groans as he wondered how long it would take for Crozier to find in Jopson his satisfaction.
It was then, quietly and unceremoniously, that Jopson simply fell into unconsciousness; his body and mind could endure the abuse no longer, and the adrenaline gave way easily to pure, unhindered exhaustion. His last waking thought was of Crozier, and how deeply Jopson detested to worry him.
The pillow beneath Jopson's head was too soft to be his own, and when that thought had fully sunk into his mind, his eyes flew open, agitated and confused. He cried out, involuntarily, but his throat was too sore to manage anything more than a weak, "Ah," and he winced at the pain that it caused him. He blinked several times before he was able to conceptualize where he was; he had never seen the captain's sleeping quarters from such an angle before, and this revelation failed to explain to him why he was seeing them from it now.
"Jopson." He turned his head to chase the familiar Irish brogue before his mind had even finished processing his name, and Jopson's stomach twisted as he found Crozier seated next to his berth, his expression contorted into one of overwhelming concern. The captain looked half-mad with it, his shirt half-unbuttoned and his hair tousled in entirely the wrong direction; the creases in his clothes alone made Jopson desperate to leap from Crozier's bed and dress him in garments more becoming of his station. "Jopson? Drink this."
Crozier pressed a glass of water into Jopson's hand, and held him steady as he drank it. Jopson felt shamed by the treatment, but he could feel himself trembling like a leaf—he only wished that it was a doctor holding him so tenderly, and not the captain, whose affections were an impossibility that Jopson did not even pursue in dreams. He choked it down as best he could, willing his heart to stop its infernal hurried beating at the simple touch of Crozier's rough, calloused hands against his own—even with all his time spent in a wardroom, Crozier had workman's hands—and did not yearn for their return when Crozier put the water aside.
"Captain," Jopson started, hesitantly, "what happened?" He figured that was the safest question—Crozier could tell him as much or as little as he wished, that way, and Jopson would not seem in any way desperate nor ungrateful for the situation he'd found himself in.
Crozier hesitated for a long, tense moment, and Jopson was struck with a distinct sense of deja vu. "How much do you remember, Jopson?" he asked, gingerly, before quickly following it up with, "About last night, I mean. The ice… and the bear."
Jopson's confusion lasted only a second more; it all came flooding back, then, and he gasped, "There— there was no bear, sir."
Crozier's brow furrowed, and he said again, "Jopson…"
"There was no bear," Jopson insisted, and every movement was a struggle, but he managed a wry smile. "As far as I'm concerned, sir, I was attending to your needs, as is my job, and the fact that you, in that moment, held the appearance of a bear, is, frankly, secondary."
Crozier inhaled, sharply. "You passed out," he told him, with some indignance. "You swore to me that you would shoot if it became too much, and then you put my pistol where you couldn't reach it and let me violate you until you fell unconscious!"
Jopson fumbled for something appropriate to say; it wasn't often that he was on the receiving end of his captain's temper, and especially not over his own wellbeing. At a loss, he managed to breath out, "Because I enjoyed it, sir."
Crozier jerked back as if he'd been slapped, staring at Jopson with abject horror. Jopson felt as if someone were walking over his grave. "Don't lie to me," he snapped, with all the fury of a man scorned. "Do not say these things to me if you don't mean them, Jopson. I hurt you, and don't deny it, because I've seen all the damage myself."
"Just bruises, sir." Jopson wiggled his fingers and toes experimentally, finding himself sore but not significantly injured in any way. "All superficial aches and pains. The sort I've never really minded waking up with in the morning, if the night was worth it, and I certainly hope that it was—to you, sir. In the matter of your… self-control, I mean."
"Unfortunately, yes, I believe it was successful," Crozier admitted, through gritted teeth, "at the expense of your health, as I suspected. You have bought us time, Jopson, but when I feel this hunger again, I will not allow you to—"
Jopson could not endure Crozier's stubborn self-sacrifice any longer; he would justify it to himself as the pain and unconsciousness addling his brain, but in truth, it was only desire that drove him to grasp Crozier's collar and draw him near. Jopson kissed him, hard, hoping to convey through his actions what Crozier refused to believe in his words. When Crozier tugged back, Jopson let him go, but not before digging his teeth into the captain's lower lip, intent on proving his point.
Crozier stared at him, bewildered, as he brought a hand to touch his reddened lip. "Pleasure," Jopson croaked, "and pain, Captain. I would rather them together than apart, and that is what you gave me. You hurt me, yes, but I implore you—no, I beg you, sir, to acknowledge with it the most thrilling ecstasy of my life." He dropped his voice to a murmur, desperate and pleading for Crozier to understand. "You hurt me, sir, and that is the truth," he repeated, "but I did not lie when I said that I enjoyed it."
Lowering his hand, Crozier met Jopson's eyes. "You," he said, breathlessly, "are a very unique steward, Jopson. And I don't know what I've done to deserve you, but it must've been good."
Jopson flashed him a humble smile. "Thank you, sir. Am I to understand that our arrangement will be ongoing, then?"
For a moment, it seemed as if Crozier would refuse to answer; he stood up, and made to leave the room, before Jopson's words caught him, and he paused with a sigh. "Yes," he answered, simply. "We'll… we'll talk more of it when you're on your feet again. For now, rest yourself here, and I'll tend to myself." At Jopson's noise of protest, Crozier added, "I can dress myself, Jopson, I'm not an invalid. You, on the other hand, are taking the day off. Captain's orders."
Jopson sighed, and slumped back heavily against Crozier's pillows. "Yes, sir," he responded, dutifully.
Neither of them mentioned the kiss.