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Francis enters his cabin in a fury.
He’s furious at Sir John because the fool would rather risk all of their lives than send for a rescue party. As if mapping a passage this capricious—frozen for years at a time!—would ever actually prove useful to anyone. Francis checks himself at the threshold before he does something needlessly rash and childish like slamming his door or tracking quickly melting snow across the pristinely kept floor.
And of course, there’s the ice of it all. Francis is furious because he’s cold. They’re all cold. Men are losing toes, fingertips, ear lobes. It’s almost warming to be furious at God over the ice not melting. Not as warming as whiskey but better than the rankling nothing he’d gotten on Erebus. No drinks, no progress, no respect.
Francis is even furious at Jopson—because he isn’t here. Where the devil is he? Ordinarily, he’d be standing at the door, with a drink in hand, ready to take Francis’s coat and worry over any exposed skin for frostbite.
But the steward is nowhere in sight. Perhaps one of the officers had called him away for some task or other. The prospect is obscurely displeasing. Jopson is always ready and willing to be of use, but Francis does not like to imagine him undertaking more work than necessary.
The thought derails Francis from his fury. Jopson’s grown so pale lately. Francis makes a mental note to send the man to Dr. McDonald for a physical. He’s too young to have such dark circles under his eyes.
Francis sighs. He takes off his hat and boots and steps fully into the room, moving by the faint light from the passageway.
As Jopson had seen Francis off, he’d made promises of a warm bed and a cold drink. Francis tries not to let the disappointment at finding his room just as bleak and desolate as the wasteland around them weigh him down.
But it’s likely for the best. Setting aside the alarming rate he’s going through the whiskey stores, Jopson looks so tired lately.
While Francis may not have nearly as much power on the voyage as he’d like, he is still responsible for the wellbeing of his men. Jopson being tired is an easy enough fix. His only job, thankless and exhaustingly dull as it no doubt it, is to take care of Francis.
Besides, it isn’t as if Francis is some pampered child in need of a nursemaid to see him to bed. He can undress himself perfectly well. But still, it’s unusual.
Francis wants to believe Jopson has fallen asleep waiting for him to ring the bell rather than become caught up in work. Just the thought of Jopson curled up in his hammock warms Francis’s heart fractionally.
Francis sheds his coat and waistcoat with quick efficiency in spite of how long it’s been since he’s had to work the buttons himself. The thought brings a short-lived smile to his face.
Perhaps he could give Jopson the next few days off, in fact. But even with the best of intentions, Francis knows the steward would see it as a punishment for not being here to greet him.
It’s a puzzle—a sweet one—that Jopson cares so deeply for Francis and takes so much pride in his menial tasks.
Francis would need to give Jopson a specific thing to do instead or else the man would drive himself mad with worry. Loathe as Francis is to invite Gibson into his cabin, perhaps it would put Jopson more at ease. Then again, Jopson often complains—indirectly and delicately, of course—that Gibson’s work as a steward is lacking and sloppy. Francis smiles to himself again. Jopson is such a prideful little thing.
A whole day of rest might be out of the question, but Francis takes some comfort in the idea that if Jopson is not already asleep, finding the cabin darkened and himself in bed already, the younger man would at least have an easier go of things tonight.
Francis makes his way to his bed and deposits his gloves, coat, and hat there when he hears a soft but unmistakable sigh from just below him. Francis’s head jerks down; his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of the room.
The sigh came from Jopson. Francis’s first and only thought for a long while is: Ah. Well, there he is.
Perhaps he ought to be angry. Perhaps if it were a different steward. Perhaps if Francis were a different captain.
As it stands, the blustering fury has well and truly left Francis, and looking at Jopson’s sleeping face, it’s difficult to imagine ever conjuring such vitriol again.
I ought to join him, Francis thinks but quickly brushes past it—instead choosing to focus on the novelty of seeing the other man’s socks. Where are his shoes?
Had Jopson truly lain down to sleep in Francis’s bed deliberately? As peacefully as he seems to rest now, surely not. Jopson would never presume. Francis needs to figure out how this came to pass, though he hates himself for even considering waking the younger man.
“Jopson,” Francis speaks softly, not wanting to startle him. Jopson simply shifts, curling up a bit more. He’s lying with his head on Francis’s pillow but on top of the covers, which are still folded down tightly at every corner, though less crisply than Jopson’s usual work.
Francis wonders if he’s cold; Jopson’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows the way they often are when he is doing especially involved cleaning.
Francis runs a gentle hand up and down the exposed forearm and tries again. “Jopson?”
At last, his eyes blink open, looking lost and confused. “C-captain?”
“Aye, lad. It’s me.”
“Sir, I—!”
Jopson jolts upright. Without thinking, Francis places a hand on his chest and forces him back down. Jopson lets out a sweet little noise—one not unlike the distress call of a frightened cat.
Francis’s mood takes a sharp turn toward cheerfulness at the sound. Nothing can be so terribly wrong in a world where he would get to hear such a thing.
Any trace of rage or anxiety vanish instantly, leaving only a tender amusement as Jopson’s face grows pinker and more anxious as he realizes exactly where he is. Unable to resist, Francis chuckles and tweaks a burning ear.
“Sir?” Jopson’s eyes are wide and panicked, and his voice is small and shaky. It tugs at Francis’s heart.
“Shh. Just lie back.”
Jopson complies, but with a reluctance so obvious, Francis can see it even in the dark. He smiles reassuringly, but Jopson seems not to notice in the midst of the lather he’s working himself into.
Francis takes the opportunity to examine his steward’s face. He’s frightened—eyes jumping open and closed—not willing to meet Francis’s gaze but also wary of not knowing what he’s looking at. Teeth worry at the inside of his cheek. He’s pale and disoriented from being woken. Perhaps he thinks he’s dreaming.
“Are you quite well, Jopson? Shall I call for a doctor?” Francis aims for sincerity, but there’s a note of challenge in his voice that makes Jopson’s face twitch unhappily.
“No! I mean, yes, I’m well, sir, and no—”
Jopson tries to sit up again, but Francis pushes him back once more. This time he leaves his hand resting heavily on Jopson’s chest. He can feel his heart fluttering hard and fast. Panicky. Like a bird’s.
“Captain, I must insist—”
“Relax, son.”
It’s more suggestion than order, but Jopson falls silent nonetheless.
Jopson feels warm under Francis’s hand. Francis drags his hand down to the lowest rung of ribs and then up again to the base of Jopson’s throat. He swallows nervously. His hands bunch in the fabric of his trousers.
Francis can’t help but be amused at the display of fear. They’ve worked together for so long that Jopson has seen him at his best and worst. He can’t honestly think Francis is going to punish him. What would the Articles even suggest here? Is this a hanging offense?
Francis smirks, and he taps his finger up and down idly against a small patch of exposed skin on Jopson’s neck. It makes Jopson’s pulse quicken again, and he opens his mouth as if to speak but closes it without a word when Francis looks at him expectantly.
Francis’s free hand comes up to brush lightly against his cheek. He wonders—not for the first time—when Jopson finds the time to shave. Jopson stifles a shudder. Francis goes on petting him until the man finds the courage to meet his eye at last. In spite of the misery there, Francis cannot resist the urge to tease him further.
“I had no idea you were so exhausted, Jopson. You ought to have said—”
“I’m not, sir! I apologize sincerely, but there’s no excuse.”
Despite the levity of Francis’s reprimand, Jopson looks closer to tears than he has all evening. Francis feels Jopson try to rise again, so he pushes Jopson down further into the mattress. He lets out a quiet “oh” at the pressure that stops him completely. No longer merely a suggestion.
“I said, lie back. Shall I have to tie you down to make you stay still?”
Jopson says nothing. He looks up at Francis with an adorable uncertainty. Francis softens. His hand rubs a light circle, willing the heart beneath it to slow. Jopson lets out a shuddering breath, and some miniscule amount of tension leaves him. Francis smiles at the victory.
“You say that you’re well. How, then, did you come to be in my bed and not your hammock? Have you been stealing into my chambers this whole journey when you knew I was away?” Francis smiles at first to show he’s joking and then laughs outright at the horror on Jopson’s face.
“No, sir! Of course not, but I…” Jopson trails off. He clears his throat. He squirms under Francis’s hand but does not try to push back against the gentled pressure. Francis takes pity on the man and pulls his hand away.
“Again, I must offer my sincerest apologies, sir. I was changing the linens, and I sat down for a moment to straighten the pillows, and I don’t—I’m not sure what happened.”
“It’s quite all right, Jopson.”
The tantalizing blush returns. Francis notes with interest that it stretches down to the base of Jopson’s throat. He’d never noticed before because he’s never had the chance to see the man with his collar in such disarray. His cravat is loosened. Francis’s fingers itch to pull it away entirely. He suspects Jopson would let him, but he lets the impulse die. Perhaps some other night he’d have Jopson collapsing into his bed for a reason other than pure exhaustion, but for now, it’s clear the steward needs to rest.
Jopson is peering anxiously into Francis’s face again. How long he has been silent?
“Your meeting with Sir John went well, I hope?”
Francis frowns to be reminded of the irritating man. “Well enough.”
Jopson nods jerkily and drops his gaze, clearly still anticipating some imagined punishment. Francis sighs when it becomes apparent that even if he orders Jopson back to sleep the man would just twitch anxiously in the bed all night long.
“Sit up, then, if you please, Jopson.”
He does so immediately, swinging his feet to the floor, but he does not stand, waiting for further permission, bowing his head respectfully.
Francis considers him critically, and Jopson shrinks into himself as much as proper posture will permit him to. Francis pats him on the thigh in what he hopes is a reassuring way.
“Have you eaten tonight?” Francis turns away and walks to his desk to give the man time to right himself unseen.
“Ah, no, sir, I had planned to go to the forecastle after I finished—” Jopson’s voice fades miserably toward the end of the explanation, but Francis’s mind is elsewhere.
How long had Jopson been asleep in his bed? Perhaps since just after he’d set off for Erebus nearly four hours ago. The thought warms Francis. He turns back to face Jopson.
Francis notes that Jopson has, in the brief moment out of sight, somehow retied his cravat neatly, fixed his collar beneath it, rolled down his sleeves, and slid back into his shoes. His hair is still rumpled. Perhaps unfixably so without a comb. He reaches up to brush a strand off of his forehead but drops it when he notices Francis notice.
Jopson fidgets almost imperceptibly. Perhaps no one who knew him less well than Francis could see it. The way his ankles twitch up, his shoulders down, and his elbows out. The way his lip quivers.
Francis tries not to let his entertainment outmatch concern for the man’s wellbeing. The temptation to keep watching is sweet. He wonders what Jopson would do. Perhaps he’d stand there miserably trembling all night in penitence if left to his own devices. But, of course, Francis doesn’t want that.
“Go fetch yourself something, then, from the galley. Be quick about it.”
“Sir?”
“Well, I’d quite like to get to sleep at some point tonight.”
Confusion falls away at once, replaced by Jopson’s typical professional hauteur. He wears it well, but Francis misses the vulnerable anxiety.
“Shall I bring you anything, sir?”
Francis considers it, more to force Jopson to hold his eye longer than anything else. He doesn’t blink.
“Some tea.”
Jopson dips his head and ducks quickly out of the room.
A vague plan is taking shape in Francis’s mind. He readies the typical nightly toilette. Comb, washcloth, soap, basin. There’s still water from earlier left, though it’s gone cold enough to ice at the edges. Francis plunges in anyway. He washes his hands and face, finishes undressing himself, and slips into a nightshirt. He’s folding his clothes from the day when Jopson steps over the threshold.
“Sir!” Jopson sounds aghast. He rushes into the room without being invited, sets the platter he’s carrying down, and steps over, arms outstretched. Francis smiles at the presumption but does not hand anything over. He steps around Jopson and sets them in the dresser.
“I have no wish to run you ragged, my boy.”
Jopson tuts peevishly. Francis takes him in with a similar exasperation. “Did you eat already?”
Jopson walks away to the table to finish arranging the tea. “I ate while the tea brewed, sir.”
Francis follows him, frowning. “What did you have?”
Jopson pauses, correctly sensing displeasure and having no idea how to navigate himself free of it. The line of his shoulders tenses. “Mr. Diggle gave me some biscuits, sir.”
Francis sits. “Is that all?”
Jopson fidgets some more as he pours the tea. He does not answer or meet Francis’s eye. Stubborn little devil.
“You’ll have some tea, then.” Francis decides as he sinks into a chair.
“Sir?” Jopson looks at him then, confusion on his face again.
“Sit down, Jopson.”
Jopson nearly falls to the ground in his haste to obey the impatient command. His eyes are wide and so very blue as he settles into his seat. Surprise suits him.
Jopson is so unsure of himself that he makes no move to pour a second cup. Francis sets his own down and reaches for the pot, spurring Jopson into action. Their hands brush as Jopson tries to wordless wrangle it from him. Francis uses his free hand to smack the back of Jopson’s lightly.
Jopson lets out a quiet “eep”. Then, he flushes very prettily at the sound. He coughs to cover it even as Francis laughs openly at him.
“Sir?”
Francis ignores this and fills a plate with salt pork and bread. Jopson has brought quite a lot considering Francis had only asked for the tea, but all for the better. Jopson stares down at the plate he’s served with apprehension.
“Eat.”
He sets out to comply without much enthusiasm. Francis watches him. Jopson is overly fastidious in cutting the meat. Seconds turn to minutes, but he doesn’t eat.
“Jopson?”
Jopson looks up. The fork in his hand shakes dangerously. “Captain?”
Francis smiles, eyes glinting. “With all the time we spend together, one would think you’d not be so embarrassed to share my table.”
Jopson’s expression morphs into something very close to annoyance. He clears his throat. “It’s—I’m not embarrassed, sir.”
“No?” Francis raises an eyebrow. Jopson still has not taken a single bite.
“It’s just not proper, sir. For a steward.”
“Not proper for a steward to follow his captain’s orders? You must forgive me my impertinence at suggesting it.”
Jopson smiles but does not answer. He tears a ship’s biscuit apart and pops a piece into his mouth. Finally, the dam is broken, and he begins to eat in earnest. Francis watches him.
“Captain?”
“Hm?”
“You aren’t drinking.”
Francis indulges him and takes a long sip. The tea is nice enough that he can pretend there is no suggestion of more there. Jopson will, of course, pretend equally not to see the way his hands shake. For once, Francis does not wish to deaden himself to the things around him.
“I suppose I’m more tired than thirsty.”
“I’m keeping you up—!” Jopson is horrified again. His eyes are wide and troubled. Very cute.
“No, lad, I’m keeping myself up.” It’s more that he had been distracted by watching Jopson.
Jopson squirms under his gaze. “But why, sir? There’s no need.”
Francis takes another long sip before answering. “Perhaps just because I enjoy seeing you make yourself nervous.”
Jopson’s face betrays some hurt, and Francis feels a pang of guilt.
“It reminds me of when you first came to work for me. Still so anxious to please after all these years. As though you could ever fail to please me.”
Jopson drops his eyes to his plate with a faint smile. After a moment, he goes back to eating.
Francis watches Jopson and tries to put into words a thought he’s been toying with lately. He knows men often look down on stewards. On servants generally. The men on Terror respect Jopson only insofar as they consider him as belonging to the ship’s captain. He’d like to think Jopson knows he does not see him that way.
Little as he is inclined to give Fitzjames credit for anything, he at least treats Bridgens with respect and grace and inspires affectionate loyalty in him as a result. Sir John does not bother with anything above basic civility (if that) when it comes to anyone he viewed as below his station. But Francis shakes the thought of the tiresome men on Erebus from his mind in favor of the charming one in front of him.
“Why do you suppose captains have stewards?”
“Sir?” Jopson lifts his cup to his mouth and takes a sip of tea.
“It’s not as if we need them to dress us and warm our beds.”
Jopson colors and chokes. Francis laughs.
“There’s a certain utility to it, to be sure. Though as to why a ships boy cannot do laundry, I could never guess.”
Jopson just looks faintly bemused. He stops eating; there’s nothing left on his plate.
Francis goes on: “Servants imagine themselves invisible. Perhaps some men would like to pretend it’s true, but do you imagine I’m one of them? That every time you walk in, I pretend you aren’t there? Just as you see me, I see you.”
He means it kindly and hopes Jopson takes it as such, but Jopson seems not to know what to make of it at all.
“Sir, I’m—finished.”
“Are you?”
Jopson hesitates. Likely more because he’s not sure what Francis wants from him than because he’s still hungry. Francis looks to his tea, and Jopson dutifully swallows it down. If Francis watches this with an inappropriate, feverish interest, Jopson seems not to notice.
Francis stands and walks away from the table. “Right then. Bed.”
Jopson rises and—as Francis expected—pushes in both of their chairs, so Francis is standing ready when Jopson starts for the basin. Francis lays a hand on his arm to stop him when he begins to roll up his sleeves. The younger man tenses.
“If you want me to stop, tell me to stop, Jopson.” Francis steps closer so they are face to face. Jopson’s forehead brushes Francis’s cheek as he hastily looks down. “I’d like to take care of you.”
“Sir, you needn’t—”
Francis tilts Jopson’s chin up and looks in his eyes. Jopson looks up at him, seemingly still confused but less frightened now.
“Aye, but it would bring me great satisfaction to do this for you, son.”
Jopson shudders. “Sir…”
Francis is sure no man—not even Sir John—could begrudge him this.
“What do you say, hmm?”
“Just as you please, sir.”
Francis grins. Nerves aside, it’s complete license to proceed. If Jopson wants him to do as he pleases, well, how could he refuse?
Francis takes a step away, and Jopson sways like it’s his first day out to sea.
“Sit down, then.”
"Sir?”
Francis nods to the bed. When Jopson hesitates further, Francis spins him around, walks him backwards until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and shoves down on his shoulders.
Jopson exhales shakily and drops his gaze to the floor, and Francis begins to undress his neat, lovely young steward. Starting with his collar, Francis unfastens every button in his path and moves down without pulling anything from the man, having no desire to expose Jopson to the cold for longer than is strictly necessary.
But at length, everything hangs loosely, and satisfied, Francis sees fit to begin.
He dampens two washcloths in the frigid water with some displeasure but is unwilling to leave or send Jopson from the room for anything warmer. He soaps one rag. So be it.
Jopson squeaks when Francis grabs hold of his wrist. Their eyes meet briefly, and a blush spreads immediately across Jopson’s face. Fetching.
Francis smiles and proceeds. He washes the hand in his thoroughly—circling each joint of each finger, scrubbing gently beneath each nail, and tracing the lines on Jopson’s palm—first with the soaped cloth and then rinsing with the other. Every touch earns him a quiet noise of surprised pleasure.
When Jopson’s right hand is clean to the wrist and trembling, Francis releases it to seize a towel. He dries Jopson’s palm and leans down to press a kiss against it; Jopson’s breathing stops abruptly. Francis moves on to the fingers, sparing another quick brush of his lips to each knuckle. Once finished, he pulls Jopson’s arm up further as if to inspect his work. Jopson finally lets out the breath he’s been holding, and Francis takes the cue to press a less chaste kiss to Jopson’s wrist.
He gently lowers Jopson’s right arm to the bed, and with relish, he repeats the process on Jopson’s left side.
With both hands done, Francis takes a moment to consider his course of action. Jopson is sitting demurely. His cheeks are still pink, and Francis’s gaze wanders to his throat, remembering with keenness the glimpse of the skin he’d gotten earlier.
Francis removes the cravat entirely, and he pulls the collar of Jopson’s shirt further from his neck. Jopson’s neck is flushed just like before, and he swallows nervously. Francis turns back to the basin.
Discarding the washcloths in the water for the time being, Francis instead reaches for the comb. He plunges it into the cold water, hoping against hope Jopson will not feel it too strongly.
Jopson shivers when he makes contact. Whether from cold or a more pleasing sensation is unclear. Francis carefully combs Jopson’s hair back—if not to its usual standard perhaps—to a respectable enough level of order.
Francis sets the comb aside and turns his attention to cleaning Jopson’s lovely, blushing face. He trails the washcloth across the swell of Jopson’s cheek, the bow of his lips, the crease of his brow. Excessively gentle and slow. He wipes away the soap quickly, smiling at how Jopson has clenched his eyes and mouth closed almost painfully tight.
Francis drags a finger down Jopson’s cheek thoughtfully. Jopson shudders.
“Shall I shave you?”
Jopson makes a noncommittal noise. He seems reluctant to relax any part of his face enough to really speak.
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“Whatever you think, Captain.”
Francis considers it for a moment. “No. In the morning, we can sort each other out, hm?”
Francis proceeds with the washcloth down the column of Jopson’s neck, taking care to clean what he cannot see—from the nape of his neck up to his ears—and then Francis is cradling his head in his hands as he gazes down at him. Jopson’s blush deepens, and for a moment, they just look at each other.
Having run out of easily accessible skin, Francis pauses—turning away to rinse and soap the rags again—and considers his next step. He urges Jopson to stand, wordlessly lifting him to his feet by the elbows. Jopson startles slightly at the change and the sudden nearness of Francis’s smile, and he startles again as Francis begins pulling his arms from his sleeves.
Francis is tugging him more authoritatively than Jopson usually does in his place perhaps, but the man yields so willingly, so beautifully that it’s hard to resist. Harder still watching goosebumps erupt on his body and his pink flush spreading wherever Francis’s hands go.
Once Jopson is bare to the waist, his unfastened trousers slide away easily. Jopson steps obligingly out of them, and when he bends to remove his own socks, Francis allows it and steps away to hastily fold the discarded clothes and to procure clean dry socks and a spare nightshirt. He leaves Jopson standing with his eyes downcast.
When he turns back, Francis is alarmed to see tears streaming silently down Jopson’s face. Francis is at Jopson’s side again in an instant, but after dropping the clean clothes on the bed, he just hovers uncertainly—torn between his desire to take the man in his arms and his fear that this will only make the situation worse.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“Nothing! nothing, sir! I don’t—” Jopson breaks off into quiet sobs. He looks up at Francis beseechingly, evidently unable to explain himself.
Francis’s heart breaks. What have I done? Had Jopson not wanted—?
Jopson, however, seems to know—as he always does—what they both need. He reaches out and pulls Francis to him, burying his face in his chest. Francis’s arms encircle him automatically, and Jopson slumps against him with something like relief.
Francis realizes suddenly that—for all of his romantic notions of their seeing each other as equals—no one touches Jopson. That he never touches Jopson. Perhaps no one had in years. Francis cards a hand through his hair apologetically.
“Just a bit overwhelmed, sir,” Jopson whispers into his skin, as if reading his mind.
“You’re sure?”
Jopson whimpers. “Yes. Please, keep going. Please.”
Jopson releases him and faces away toward the bed, wiping at his tears impatiently.
Francis readjusts. From behind, he bathes Jopson’s shoulders—cursing the cold water anew as Jopson shivers and shakes under his hands—but there are no more tears at least. Francis cleans his arms, pressing lightly on the inside of his elbow.
Francis traces along his spine and shoulder blades. First with the washcloths and towel and then with his hand. Not leaving Jopson untouched for even a second. Francis whispers a soft apology for the cold as Jopson’s skin flushes impossibly pinker.
“It’s quite all right, sir.” Jopson sounds newly breathless and strangely hoarse. Curious.
Francis washes Jopson’s back down to the hip, hesitates briefly as Jopson tenses, then plunges on—lathering, rinsing, and drying thoroughly the plush skin of Jopson’s rear. Resisting the urge to linger, Francis squeezes him briefly through the towel. At the touch, Jopson’s knees buckle and then steady as he lets out a quiet moan.
“Still all right?” Amusement creeps back into Francis’s voice.
“Fine,” Jopson mutters, though his hands at his side are shaking again.
Francis steps away to wring the washcloths. He reaches for a hip and spins Jopson around. Ah. Lovely.
Jopson’s prick rests, swollen and flushed, against his stomach. Francis just looks down at it, pride flaring in his chest for having elicited such a beautiful reaction, but the moment Jopson opens his eyes, Francis is back to the business at hand—gliding the soaped rag across his chest in gentle, unhurried circles as if he hasn’t noticed the obvious. Francis strokes down Jopson’s side, despairing somewhat at the visibility of his ribs, but finding comfort in the undeniable vitality of his tremulous breathing, pounding heart, and hardened nipples.
After washing and drying down to Jopson’s hip bones, still carefully avoiding his erection, Francis kneels to wash Jopson’s lower half. Jopson lets out a strangled noise when Francis’s knees hit the floor.
Francis cocks an eyebrow up at him, and Jopson just looks away, shaking his head. Francis snickers but continues—drawing the soap and water first down one leg to the ankle and then up the other in reverse. He reaches around to scrub lightly at the back of Jopson’s knees, dries him briskly, and then stands and steps away to rinse the rags again. Jopson’s heavy breathing echoes in his ears until he turns back around.
There’s nothing left unwashed, except his exquisite, leaking prick. Francis pushes it forward, off of Jopson’s stomach. Jopson yips, hips jolting to prolong the contact.
“Ah, sir, I’m sorry—!” Francis laughs. But he just holds Jopson’s prick in hand as he goes back over the area on his stomach now stained with precome, cleaning quickly. He dips lower—to clean between Jopson’s legs, pressing firmly down the whole length, from the crease of his ass to his hardened, twitching bollocks—which earns him an agonized whimper and another aborted thrust. Jopson’s hands flutter above Francis’s shoulder for a moment before curling back behind his back in a very stiff, hard-earned parade rest.
Then, Francis wraps the washcloth around Jopson’s erection. In spite of the cold, Jopson moans and jerks forward like Francis has taken him in his mouth. And Francis wishes he could, but there’s still work to be done. Francis cleans his cock delicately, applying a maddeningly gentle pressure with his thumb to ensure each centimeter of skin is rubbed against the rough cloth. Jopson squeaks and squirms back and forth. Francis twists the rag around the head of Jopson’s prick once and then pulls it away entirely, drawing a gleaming translucent strand out of him. It breaks and lands on his thigh. Francis tuts and wipes it away before stepping away entirely, leaving Jopson to shiver and blush for a moment longer.
Soon enough, Francis returns with the towel and dries Jopson’s stomach perfunctorily. Then, he shoves Jopson backward. He topples over the edge of the bed with a gasp of surprise. Francis is between his legs before he stops bouncing.
“Sorry, lad.” Francis grins down at him. Jopson just looks up at him with a tortured expression, eyes blazing.
Francis bends and scoops up one leg in his hand by the ankle, Jopson gasps again at the touch or maybe the stretch, but Francis returns to bathing. He washes and dries Jopson’s feet. He takes in the man then: Lying flushed and trembling in his bed for the second time that night but now entirely bare and swollen with arousal. Satisfaction fills Francis. He tosses down the washcloths and towels carelessly.
He slides socks onto Jopson’s dry feet. Then, he holds out his hand, and Jopson stares at it lost. Francis laughs. He grabs Jopson by the elbows and hauls him upright again. He sways where he stands for a moment. Francis pulls a nightshirt over Jopson’s head with relish. He guides his arms through the sleeves and then smooths the fabric down, his hand coming to a rest oh so innocently on Jopson’s thigh.
Jopson lets out a slightly desperate sound. Francis pushes him back down onto the bed one last time. Francis bends down and kisses him deeply, trying to convey the depth of his affection—his gratitude. When he pulls away, Jopson is looking at him with something like awe in his eyes. He hopes the same is reflecting back to him. But if it isn’t, Francis can at least show him.
He pushes Jopson onto his side before bending to grab the used towel and lay down in front of his hips.
“A shame to undo all our hard work.” Francis whispers, and then, he slides into the bed behind Jopson.
He slides one his legs under the hem of the nightshirt—between Jopson’s—to prop him up more conveniently. And then, he rucks up the nightshirt to his chest. Jopson squeaks.
Francis slides a hand across Jopson’s hip, scraping gently at the skin. The other man hisses.
His hands clench into the blanket like he wants to reach for Francis, but the angle won’t allow it. Francis steals even closer to compensate. His skin thrills at the sensation. Does it feel just as good for Jopson?
Jopson rocks himself back, groaning weakly, and Francis hums happily. There’s a swelling beneath his own nightshirt he’d prefer to ignore for the time being. Tonight isn’t about him. With that in mind, he grabs ahold of Jopson’s arousal—still wet to the touch—and strokes it twice before stilling, just cupping him gently.
“Please!”
The begging is pretty—just like the lips and the man it comes from—but there’s no need for it.
“Hush, I’ve got you.”
Jopson huffs breathily into the pillow. His hips jerk forward with desperation; his whole body trembles and shakes. Francis does not do anything to slow him, but he privately mourns how quickly this will be over.
Then Jopson cranes his neck back to look at him: another unnecessary plea on his lips. Francis swoops in to kiss it away. Jopson parts his lips immediately, and Francis thrills at the taste of him, the gentle brush of their tongues.
Jopson moans into his mouth as Francis’s hand begins to stroke him again, matching the frantic pace he clearly desires. In no time at all, Jopson is coming. His hips flutter for a moment, and Francis gently tugs him through the crisis until Jopson melts into the mattress, eyes shut, face slack—seemingly asleep again at last. Francis wipes him clean and stands up to get rid of the towel.
Jopson doesn’t stir when he slides back into place behind him. Francis is struck by how much warmer the bed is with another person in it. Francis wonders if Jopson’s hammock is as cold and despairs at the thought. He curses every night they’ve ever spent apart. What a pointless waste!
Francis rubs his hands up and down Jopson’s body, as if to warm him and make up for all the cold nights spent apart, and Jopson moans appreciatively. His eyes blink open. Francis smiles at him. They share another long-drawn-out kiss. Francis pulls away only when it becomes absolutely necessary to breathe.
Jopson looks almost ready for something Francis would be happy enough to give him if he insists but has no plan to request. Instead, Francis shuts his eyes and nestles closer, pressing a kiss to Jopson’s shoulder, ignoring entirely the thrum of his own arousal.
“Sir?”
Francis snorts. Still the formalities. “Yes?”
“Shall I…? Could I…?”
His voice is hopeful, and while it’s sorely tempting, somehow, it’s less so than the prospect of seeing Jopson asleep in his bed again. Lord God, this journey has aged me, Francis thinks.
“Hm. Well, I’m often at my best in the morning.”
Something of an exaggeration but Jopson gets the message, and he settles down happily enough.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Francis lies awake for a while, just watching Jopson sleep. It’s a relief beyond words knowing that at least this one man is warm and safe tonight in Francis’s own arms.