Work Text:
For the past three weeks, Billy's had more time to himself than he has for all his years aboard The Terror.
He hadn't thought, scrubbing filth from his bedsheets with hard fingers and anger clamping his jaw shut, that it wouldn't be a blessing.
His spare moments are no longer reserved for Cornelius, not that he ever deserved them, and there are now so many more of them on hand.
His duties have been reduced by near a third, since what happened. Though perhaps that is generous, given how undemanding Irving was compared to the others. He asks only the bare minimum now, and would have even less, if he thought it might not be noticed.
And now his hands are simply idle, curving in his lap, and giving him entirely too much time to think.
His mother, long since in the ground, used to say it was best to mind what you prayed for. He had never thought he'd agree with her, beyond knowing as she did, that he was hell-bound. Though perhaps not on the why.
She'd have been in Irving's ear, pouring poison and Bible verses when Billy had been spinning his web, delicate as he was with his stitching, standing for the first time uncomfortably in the Lieutenant’s cabin. He'd near been able to see her there, out of the corner of his eye, as he implicated Cornelius and extricated himself.
Lying is a sin, William, she'd hiss and so were most things Billy liked, bad for him as they were.
He'd been back inside Irving's cabin since of course, and it was near the same as the others, but it had felt different since then. Colder. And tinged with that scent that trailed Jopson, something that felt both natural and bottled, fresh and preserved.
He'd asked, more than once, what it was he used. It couldn’t be natural.
Jopson had feigned innocence, big doll eyes held open wide. As if Billy was a posh idiot that would fall for it, like all the men they served.
It had been knee crawling on glass agony to ask, roundabout, for a hand with Irving, too scared of the kiss of the cat and the sneering that would follow and worse, to hold onto dignity.
Another mark against Cornelius, another reason to remember not to seek him out, no matter how empty his body felt.
Jopson had demurred at first, as if he felt he ought to, and then stepped in, perfect lips pursed with something he couldn't parse. Smugness or disdain or pointed annoyance. God forbid it was pity.
Billy might murder pity.
But it wasn't camaraderie either. Not that Billy would know, never having felt it.
He'd hoped, as he always did, maybe this time.
They were much the same, after all. Jopson with his sanded down accent and his carefully fanned coal black eyelashes, clever hands and carefully tailored trousers, rounded over his arse. Inviting, and discrete. To the right kind of man. The kind that looked.
And acted, instead of white-knuckling his Scriptures.
He'd been spurned, gently, at the outset of their voyage when he had tested the waters with the other steward.
Not that he had really been wanting that from Jopson, a man he could tell shared his tastes not in the way Cornelius did but in the role Billy preferred.
That there was no way a Captain as addled with drink and his own melancholy could hope to bugger him in. So soft it was likely years since he’d been hard.
Jopson had to be wanting. The only thing that might have made him angrier than pity, then, in his gaze and attention to the Lieutenant might be lust. Because he’d never admit it, least of all to Billy.
It was maddening, in every sense, that Jopson didn't even acknowledge the chance he was holding, even if it was in so tightly wound a man as Irving.
He'd dressed the man, knew exactly what was tucked into his intimates, packed tightly just to fit.
Not worth it, large as it was, to risk the man it was attached to. It was sized to a rocket, and as dangerous.
Billy knew the type well too, as he did Jopson's.
The man oved his Bible, and hated it, and was like as not to beat a man with it. At war with his desires, and looking for a man to get caught in his hands to purge it, so he could clasp them in prayer and be forgiven.
Lingered his gaze on the men at work, lip bitten near through, fists held tight. A strong man, in body. Brittle in the soul, and all the more attached to the Gospels for it. There was blood there, no matter how you played it: before, after or during. Or all of them.
And then there Jopson, with his trim little waist, slipping quiet and servile past the door Irving held open for him. Like a proper lady had come to call.
The Lieutenant had only done that once for Billy, both their hearts pounding in their throats, arm raised to let him in and scare him in the same measure.
What was it that Jopson felt? What that what he liked?
It was not like Billy could ask, the stitch sewn shut over the chance. On both their ends.
There was a moment Billy might have warned him, might have made the comment, men like them, of their type and their rank, would have. Should have. But Billy hadn't.
Vindictive, maybe, or simply bitter. Disappointed and jaded. Still cleaning off the places where Cornelius had rubbed off. Certainly not jealous.
It was not that.
But Jopson would have to be a fool to not make the calculus, and for all the things he was, infuriatingly he was not stupid, or cock-dumb.
Maybe a man who liked to be daubed about, to love and hate men in equal measure, like the pain and the pleasure as one. Maybe he and Irving were well matched. Maybe not.
Because Jopson was manipulative, for certain, and he might have made another calculus. Tallied an acceptable loss, a bearable indignity for a greater gain and a little death.
After all, Billy had seen the smiles he drew from the coldest of men and the graces it brought him. Seen too, the tucked away illustration Irving had made for him, something in blue, propped upon his wall. The allowances afforded, the way they seemed to really look at him. The pride that hung on him like a cape.
And it goeth before the fall.
Jopson also overreached, that much was clear. To everyone. Clearly he thought he could actually be one of them, despite the fact that his ear still bore the dimple of a ring, and back a patchwork of scars Billy had spied through a gap in the wood walling off his berth. The little picture had been looking too.
Knowledge was always useful.
He needed to be able to read men, for his own protection. Like Irving, who was an easy man to overstep with. Volatile and unpredictable.
Even Cornelius had read him wrong.
Misread Billy, too, but that was a given.
Just the memory of their last conversation made his blood boil, skin too hot and tight under his clothes. The things he believed…
Yes, Jopson would overstep. He was sure of it.
A look, a word, a single blink too far. Too close to being wanting. A man like Irving knew wanting well.
And hated it.
He'd lash out, strong, slam Jopson into that little table Billy always caught the hard edge of his hip on, stinging. Bend him forward, knock the air out of him, fill his pretty blue eyes with tears.
Part of Billy grinned at that.
Part… he brushed the thought aside.
It would be a lesson, and for Billy too. Information.
Maybe Jopson would walk away, step hitching, with a new drawing as his due. Could be he had earned the first on his knees, dark hair disheleved. Darning maybe, at first. Or just walking slowly, that uniform tight, a small smile to catch the Lieutenant’s eye. He was clever.
So maybe he'd be clever. The way so few men like them were. He’d have to be careful, and he’d have to be lucky.
And Billy hated it, but Jopson was both. In spades.
Maybe he'd get those long fingers into Irving's tight drawers first, the pressure just right to steal his breath and his thoughts away, lead him round by the prick.
Make him panting, make him stupid, eyes blown wide and dark.
Take what he wanted, seal his favor and his silence.
And likely get cracked across the face for it, take a fist to the ribs.
Irving had big hands, strong, suited for a climber and rower. The kind that leave bad bruises, if not broken bones.
But it would be more of the latter than the former.
And not just because of Jopson’s pretty face.
The Captain might wonder, and as much as Billy knew Jopson hoarded cosmetics he would not share, there was not enough paint and powder there to cover that. Even the burn of an open-handed slap would linger.
But there were many other things Jopson could hide underneath his linens and layers, he could hide much. That Billy knew well, like the scrape of beard burn on his thighs and bites on the low hard ridges of his shoulders.
His skin was clear and unblemished now.
It stung.
He wasn't sure how long it had been, as he sat and thought and no one called for him, when somewhere on the ship, wooden and creaking, a door slid open. And then shut.
The footsteps were too quiet to follow, wherever they went.
And in their ringing silence, Billy could hear the rocking back of heels, and knew Cornelius was lurking around somewhere near. He knew the sound.
He smoothed his hands out, made fists, and then turned to his darning.
He did not have that much time to waste, after all.