Work Text:
If James Fitzjames were to be asked to name his own defining characteristic, he would laugh, and likely make a jest about his handsome jawline and gift for storytelling. If pressed, he would concede to name something more self-flattering, yet vague, such as his strategist's mind. However, James knows, quite clearly, the axis on which his entire concept of self turns—he is deeply, deeply skilled at poking his nose into places it does not belong.
It's led him well, thus far—saving Sir John Barrow's son from a scandal, of course, is the most notable example—and when one has a secret that would ruin one's life if it should ever be unearthed, one learns quickly to balance the scales by finding such weaknesses in others. It is not about blackmail—James would never stoop so low—but rather holding all of the cards in his own hand, rather than trusting them to be played correctly by others.
James knows, intimately, how to orient himself so that he will overhear things that he should not, flash a smile that's just wide enough to lower a superior's guard, and sweet-talk his way into places he should otherwise not be allowed. That is how he survives.
And so, of course, the matter of Thomas Jopson intrigues him.
James has met Francis Crozier, captain of the Terror, before, but not his steward. He had found him to be a terribly aggravating man, with nothing good to say on any topic, and a love of drink that bordered on obsession. His reputation had preceded him, though, which had dampened some of his sting, and his accomplishments had been decent, but he had not carried them well. On the whole, James had rather despised him, and his opinion hasn't changed.
And for this expedition, Francis had selected only one member of his crew—his steward, the very same that had gone with him and Sir James Ross to Antarctica. His steward! And James certainly doesn't suspect anything more than a brotherly bond between the two, but the dynamic makes him desperately curious to know what sort of man Mr Jopson is, that he has somehow earned the respect of such a difficult individual. He must mean a great deal to Francis, if he would be chosen above all others, despite simply being a serviceman.
In addition, if Jopson is truly some special spark of a man, then perhaps James would like to steal him for himself. He has been in Sir John's confidence, and it has only worsened his opinion of the other captain—Francis does not deserve nice things, and if he is allowed them, he will only ruin them. Perhaps, even, this poor Jopson fellow needs rescuing from the clutches of such a foul man, and James will be there, atop a horse and clad in shining armour.
Of course, this is all simply speculation running through James' mind during the first stretch of their journey. That is how long it takes before he is invited to dine on Terror, and is offered a chance to observe Jopson for himself. He does not make it overt, but that is the sole goal he has in mind as he greets Francis' lieutenants; it is Hodgson that he leans to as they enter the wardroom and asks, "Which is Jopson?"
Hodgson does not question why, and indicates the man who pulls out the seat at Sir John's right hand before Francis has even made his way around the table.
James immediately finds him pleasing to the eye. Jopson is young, but not boyish, and holds himself as a practised steward should, with perfect poise and confidence in his seamless invisibility. He looks to fancy himself more of an object than a man—a well-tailored and observant thing to serve at his captain's command as if is the most natural thing in the world. When he steps away from the table, the movement is entirely silent, and James is the only one that sees him.
James takes stock of the young man's features, then, as he is afforded a longer look by the eruption of a conversation that does not require his involvement. Not a single strand of Jopson's dark locks is astray, and his eyes—set masterfully into a fair, soft-edged face—are of a startlingly clear blue that pierces hawkishly into whatever he sets them upon. At the end of his sharp nose, to accent his maturity, his jawline and upper lip are dusted with a handsome hint of hair, and James absentmindedly wonders how it would feel to kiss the man.
It is that thought that cements his plan in full. Francis may have the service of this young, owlish man, as his steward, but James will steal his body, and his heart. It does not matter if there is no lechery between Jopson and his captain—the self-satisfaction of claiming something of Francis' for his own will be more than enough to fuel James' civility. He will make peace with Francis, and play the placating game, and then he will put Francis' steward on his knees, and choke him as he often wishes he could choke that miserable old sod who is supposed to be his equal.
James lets his attention almost entirely fade from Jopson when dinner is placed before them, but even with his focus elsewhere, he keeps the young man in the corner of his eye, studying him as if he were a naval chart. He weaves between elbows with ease, refilling drinks with care not to place himself in the centre of any conversation, and his expression remains passive even when the rest of the table is chuckling at a comedic remark that James has made. He reminds James of some sort of small bird, fluttering about to attend to the officers' needs—a messenger pigeon, perhaps, because he always, always returns back to Francis.
And as supper concludes, James does what he does best: he entertains, and observes. He tells the story of the Chinese sniper with practised gravitas, and when he reaches the pivotal moment, he curiously sweeps the room with his gaze—an excuse to add another point of reference to his mental notes filed under Thomas Jopson.
The three lieutenants and Sir John are all focused on James as he spins his tale, listening with polite attentiveness. Francis is only half looking at him, through his glass of whiskey, as he sighs into it and drinks. And Jopson is ignoring him completely. Jopson's gaze is subtly placed on Francis, where it has been all evening, and does not waver. Even when James indicates the size of the musket ball—a visual representation that ought to draw any curious eye—Jopson is immovable.
Jopson looks at Francis as if he is the world, and James hides his smile beneath a swig of Allsopp's. He has found his bait—far quicker than he thought he would—and he cannot help pitying the poor man. It is not obvious, but James knows well how to solve an incomplete puzzle, and lay an inescapable snare. And, if he has his way, Jopson will forget all about whatever futile infatuation he has for Francis, once he's been given what James has to offer.
When their business is finished, and James is standing to leave, he makes a teasing comment to Lieutenant Little that casually aligns him in just the right spot to obstruct Jopson's view of his captain. Then, he leverages that position to catch Jopson's eye, playful smile still on his lips, and holds his gaze just long enough to send the briefest confused tension sparking through Jopson's face.
James winks, but does not see Jopson's reaction—he has already turned away, following Sir John out to where their gig is waiting. He can only fondly imagine what sort of bafflement the steward must be nursing, that he should incite such behaviour from a ship's commander. He will allow Jopson to wrestle with it for some days, and then he will be back for another dinner, and he will begin weaving his seduction in earnest.
And if he fails, then the game will simply have been a temporary amusement. However, James does not play with losing hands, and Jopson has all the gleam of a treasure that simply begs to be stolen. In this, there is no question—he will have Jopson for himself, and Francis will never know what he is missing.