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Captain Fitzjames is there, when Jopson steps out from Crozier's cabin. A patient, expectant smile plays at the edges of his lips, and the creak of the door is the only sound as Jopson tugs it closed.
"I'm sorry, Captain," Jopson says, without a hint of sincerity. "If you've come to see Captain Crozier, he's already quite unconscious. If you wish to leave him a message, I would be happy to provide a pen—"
Fitzjames stops him there. "No need, Mr Jopson," he interrupts, gently, all politeness and courtesy. "It is you I wish to speak with, about our intrepid captain's health. Would you spare me a moment?"
There is nobody else in the corridor, likely nobody else even awake except for the watch—Crozier had kept himself up late, pouring over maps and drinks until Jopson finally convinced him to turn in. And yet, they play their game anyway, in case they are overheard by some fluke. They both enjoy it, in some way, this facade of rank and file, when they know what is coming next. The thrill of it is unparalleled.
"Of course, sir," Jopson responds dutifully. "I would host you in my cabin, if it is not too plain for a man of your authority." He gestures to the side, as if Fitzjames does not know full well where his sleeping quarters are.
Fitzjames nods, his smile growing larger; he reminds Jopson of a feline creature, drawing near to pouncing upon its prey. "It will serve just fine, Jopson. Lead on."
A captain's steward is afforded some privileges, by virtue of his station, and a proper door is one of them. Jopson has never been so grateful as in these encounters, when the door is slid shut, barring out the rest of the ship just enough to allow a moment of indulgence. The pretense drops at the exact second that it is closed, and Erebus' captain is on Jopson in a moment, teeth scraping over the sensitive flesh of his neck and drawing a choked gasp from his throat.
"I intend," Fitzjames growls, fumbling with Jopson's collar to leave marks where they will not be seen, "to play the part of our dear captain, tonight, because I wish to ravish you, after all of those looks you gave me in the wardroom." It is a dangerous game to play, and both of them know it well. It's fortunate that they have gotten so good at it. "Are you content with that, Jopson?"
"Yes," Jopson gasps, threading his fingers loosely through Fitzjames' locks. There is no resemblance between Fitzjames and the object of Jopson's desires, aside from their rank, but Jopson has a capable imagination. He knows how to accept Fitzjames as a poor replacement for his true desire, as Fitzjames accepts him in return.
It is poor luck that has led to them both foolishly desiring a man whose heart resides with a woman in England; it is good fortune that they have been able to find some comfort in each other. They are content with that much.
Fitzjames takes Jopson to bed, marking his affections on his body with every touch of teeth and tongue, and Jopson does not feel guilty for picturing another man in his place. "Francis," is the name that spills from Jopson's lips, and it is expected, now. "Thomas," is what Fitzjames gives him in return, and the accent is wrong, but it is enough. It is better than being alone, and aching for affections he will never receive.
They do not speak of their envy, of how they senselessly despise Miss Cracroft. Nor do they speak of how they hate no longer, of how it is only an excuse, now, to fall into each other's arms. They cannot put a name to it, this thing that has blossomed between them out of a sinful arrangement.
"Thomas."
"James."
Perhaps there will come a day when they refer to each other as such, without the dark cloud of an imaginary partner hanging over them. But it is enough, for now. Jopson takes what he can get, and Fitzjames is happy to give it.
And Jopson has not dreamed of Crozier in a month.