singillatim | (closed)

"Christ, no," he snorts softly. "I could take magnetic measurements or sail, but these are all new skills. As lowly as an Irishman in my position was, I was still an officer. Pampered, a steward of my own to shave my face, bring me my meals, mend my clothes. I knew the basics of survival but nothing as practical as all this."

It isn't that Raju wasn't interested before, but when Francis mentions his service Raju seems a lot more alert about it. He straightens a little, eyes focused suddenly—

But it's turned into a good day, better than he's expected for what feels like a long time, and what he decides to do is tease.

"You don't even shave yourselves?" The alert interest on Raju's face is creasing up into amusement. "There's not someone to dress command up in their uniforms for them too, is there?"

"Oh, I probably shouldn't tell you," Crozier laughs, very happily willing to poke fun at himself and his fellow officers. "I was less dependent than most, but yes, our stewards helped us into our dress uniforms. I'd forget my coat and -"

It occurs to him that Raju might not realize his former steward is here

"Thomas Jopson was my steward in Antarctica, and then on that last expedition. He hated when I started shaving my own beard."

The thought of what Francis calls 'that last expedition' has an unsettling echo to it, impossible not to be aware that the man they're talking about is dead, and isn't. But it's only an echo, here and now, and Raju doesn't allow his thoughts to linger on it.

Raju shakes his head and runs his hand over his own beard instead, kept meticulously trimmed even now. The idea of anyone enjoying that job is an odd one. Not the shaving itself, but everything else about it. "He didn't help you dress every day? Your shirt, your socks, your drawers—"

Raju's smile grows, definitely laughing at Francis again. He'd known there'd been some kind of pampering expected in the higher ranks, but hadn't known the extent of it. It's probably similar enough between the navy and the old army officers, isn't it? It's that mental image he's laughing at more than the man in front of him, but Francis isn't going to get away without a little teasing about it, either.

“Lord, no!”

He laughs loudly, mirth mixing with relief. Now Raju knows his former steward is here, and he doesn’t seem to judge. “Lord, no, I dressed myself. Jopson brought my tea and told me the news aboard the ship I may have missed, and I dressed.”

Sure, Jopson shaved the pilling on his wool waistcoats or picked off stray threads, but he just didn’t want his captain looking like the drunken mess he actually was. Turmoil on the inside needn’t show on the out.

“I’ve known commanders who insist their stewards put on their socks and boots and comb their hair for them.”

"That does answer some questions," Raju says, amused. "I've had inspections from men who clearly had no idea what they were trying to tell us to fix. They should have had their stewards inspecting us instead. At least you knew how to put on your own shoes."

Raju's amusement is lingering but he looks Francis over now, the state of his hair and beard, looking thoughtful. "And to shave yourself. Did you ever want to start doing that here? Or trimming, at least, there's not enough soap around for much of anything. I can bring my comb and scissors next time I come by."

At the mention of his (admittedly) unruly hair, he pauses and brings his hands up to touch his beard. He can't remember the last time he's even thought about tidying his hair.

It was the fashion to be clean-shaved in England, and with the Netsilik the opposite was true. It's cold, the beard was warm, he just assumed --

"Do I really look so terrible?" he chuckles.

"For the middle of nowhere? No." Raju grins brightly for a moment, happy to fit a 'yes' into that no so he can keep teasing Francis. It's true of everyone in this place, and Raju as well — there's only so much that can be done without the right creams or soaps and clothes that have to be either overwashed or scavenged in whatever state their previous owner left them — but habits are habits, and Raju tries.

"You could use a trim, neaten the edges a little. But I don't think anyone's looking here the way they would have at home. Or on a ship, I suppose."

"And the only ladies to impress are far, far too young or..." What's the right word to describe some of the women here? "Frightening."

He prods at the stew and then the fire, still wearing a smile despite the self-deprecation. "If you feel like trimming my hair and beard I wouldn't say no. Just...don't tell Jopson."

'Frightening' is a good word for it, and it makes Raju laugh. "I wouldn't want to step on his toes," Raju says, looking over to watch whatever Francis is doing with the food. "But I don't mind sharing my tools with someone who knows how to use them."

Raju looks from the food to Francis' untrimmed beard, studies him and thinks about the implication that the man's former steward would want to take up those duties again, if Francis would let him. He thinks about what Francis said, what it is that he's afraid of, the reasons he'd been hiding away.

Raju isn't much good at holding back. Not when he doesn't have to be. But it's something he's been told he's terrible at, so sometimes he remembers to try it anyway. "If you'd like to have him by let me know," he says, casually with a small, warm smile. "Then I can leave them here."

“It’s a kind offer, but…”

Ah, it’s complicated. The social hierarchy they’d left behind, the stunted and rigid officer-commander relationships, the fact that Jopson had died thinking he’d abandoned him.

“I don’t want him to get in the habit of caring for me. He doesn’t need to.” He’s not Crozier’s steward, he’s a leader in his own right.

It’s another reason he’s hidden himself away in an ice house since arrival. His entire presence is emotional baggage for those men.

Raju nods, studying him. It's an odd thing to listen to. All the personal problems Raju's dealt with are something different: how to talk to the right person in the right place in the right way, requests from people like Akhtar — people who hadn't been worth one one-hundredth of Akhtar — to help them get the attention of this woman or that one. If it were himself saying these things about someone who cared for him, someone back home, he would know exactly why it had to be done, and it isn't something he'd hear from anyone else.

It isn't the first time that something Francis said has reminded him of himself. So maybe Raju should trust his judgement.

"You've certainly gotten better at it." Raju lets a little smile creep back onto his face, glancing pointedly at the top of Francis' head. "Except for that hair. But I guess no one's perfect."

He laughs under his breath, glad that seems to be the end of that line of thought. Thomas Jopson already spent far too much of his young life devoted to an old man; he doesn’t need to continue in this second go-around. “What about your hair? I suppose you keep it oiled and perfumed?”

This time it’s only half of a joke. Compared to his man-of-the-mountaintop look, Raju is downright put together most days.

"Trimmed," Raju clarifies pointedly, eyebrows raised, and turns his head this way and that to point to different parts of his head, since Francis clearly needs the lesson. "See the back here? And the front? It doesn't look the way it used to when I had more to use, but it stays out of my eyes this way. You'd be amazed what a comb, some scissors, and a spare mirror can do, hm?"

And it stays off the back of his neck too, which at home had been a relief in the heat and here keeps bare the places that the wind creeps over, ice tickling down the back of the blanket even when he tries to wrap it high— but it looks neat, is the important thing. His hair might not look as kept in place as it used to without any pomade but it looks freshly trimmed, and nevermind the breeze.

"You can get the same effect with a beard too, you know, no matter what it looks like now." Raju taps his fingers on the table, not thinking to hold back his grin, or to bother looking like he's not implying something.

Crozier may be an officer, but he was a sailor first and with a sailor’s sense of humor. He looks back to Raju and dryly raises his hand to give him the good ol’ two-fingered salute.

Then it’s on to plating! He just has the one bowl for now, so he dishes out the stew for company and keeps the remains in the pot for himself.

“The beard’s a forgiving thing. Hides the ugliness of the lower face,” he says, equally as deadpan as before, handing him a cup of melt water while he sips from a canteen. “Distracting too. Why do you think Methuselah has one, mn? Keeps people from asking complicated questions.”

The gesture makes Raju duck his head, laughing a full, delighted laugh again. "What," he asks, setting a hand absently on the bowl and taking a drink of the water. "Like where your chin stops and your neck starts? You could shave properly and they wouldn't have to ask at all."

"I have a particularly horrifying neck," he says matter-of-factly. He basks in the laughter as he takes a taste of some of the cooked arrowroot and wild carrot from a crooked fork. "And I used to live in an ice hut!"

"That's no excuse!" he grins, and it's good. All of this is good. If he's going to start eating more meat again, he's glad that it's like this, instead of whatever it would have been alone. "You can use scissors in a hut!"

He's started to gesture with the spoon and stops himself before anything can fall out, putting it in his mouth before he can think too much about it. His expression goes distant, grin fading a little, but it's back in the next moment as he gestures with the spoon again, now safely emptied. "Besides, there's no one to see your neck in an ice hut, horrifying or otherwise. That's even less of an excuse."

“You’re arguing that I need to be presentable, but who would I need to be presentable for? The army of adolescents that live in town?”

His humor may be dry, but there’s no missing the delight in his eyes. He’s having his first good meal since his arrival.

“Is it any good?” He nods towards Raju’s bowl.

“Mhm.” Raju smiles. Sharing a meal with food dug up by the man’s own hands, eating it out of what’s clearly the only bowl and spoon that Francis owns, Raju would say that no matter what it tastes like. And his palate has gotten broad enough to eat even tasteless food without minding. But he means it. He looks down at the stew thoughtfully.

“It’s my first time with meat in a while,” he decides to say, shrugging. “You hunted this yourself? You mentioned traps, I think.”

"More like gathered," he says, quietly pleased that he's able to provide for him. He seems sincere, and whether it tastes good or not - and it doesn't taste horrible - it's nutritious.

"I've set up a few traps to catch what I can. It's enough to sustain me, and the extra I try to give away. Is it suitable, the meat?"

"Mhm." It's an enthusiastic noise and Raju smiles, a little surprised at how warmly the noise comes out, how easily. Raju's eaten English food, after all, and Francis' cooking is certainly better than that. But it would sound like an insult if he said it that way out loud. The bar is low. But it isn't the taste that makes it suitable here and now, anyway. "Keeps the scurvy away, you said? Is meat the only thing that does that?"

The bar is very low, especially for a man who's been eating blood soup and frozen seal fat with the Netsilik. He's enjoying the cooked food himself, getting to do things with plants for the first time in so, so long.

"No, but the fresh meat helps. Meat and anything that grows, that's what keeps scurvy away. Are you...are you worried?"

"No," he says through his next mouthful of food and shakes his head, swallowing with a smile. "But you mentioned it, and I want to learn. When did you start cooking? It's hard to imagine a man who's got someone else to shave his face and find his drawers for him every morning in front of a fire with a pot of stew."

He chuckles quietly. “So little faith in me. Men in the Discovery Service have to learn how to survive on their own. James - my oldest friend - and I camped in a hut for a week to chart magnetic patterns in the Arctic. We had no choice but to cook for ourselves.”

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