singillatim | Be always on the watch, and pray that you may be able to escape all that is about to happen

Glacially slow at times when it comes to actually expressing himself outwardly to match how he's feeling inwardly, the feelings of wanting more than only this are there, he just — needs to bridge the gap from what he's thinking to speaking.

He may also be feeling something he hasn't felt in a very, very long while, which is not only longing for more closeness, more...everything with him, but mild frustration and fussiness at being so close and yet so far. There would be a potentially easy fix for that if he used his words, but. But they've moved beyond it, at least for now, and he's genuinely thrilled, as he always is, with anything that Thomas shares with him about his life. A little space from each other while they work on the tasks at hand — perfect, yes, this will be fine. Clear his head.

"No, that one's dreadfully lacking from my collection of my Thomas Jopson tales, so now's the perfect time to share," he encourages with an easy smile. "I want to hear everything."

"I was just a boy then," he says, a laugh in his tone as he moves through his preparations. "But there was a time when the two ships lost each other in the black night. I will never get used to it. The darkness that comes at sea in the night. There is nothing on those cloudy eves but yourself and God. You can hear the voices and breathing of the men around you, but there's something so isolating about it.

"We crashed into each other, you see," he explains, firming up the pemmican. "The two ships. I thought that we would all be lost in the black ink of the icy waters. But - we managed to stay upright. There were repairs to be done, and I thought I might be better off hiding under the hammock, but - Crozier never faltered. Not once. He guided us through."

It's not often the Doctor has known or seen such darkness himself. Most times, in even the blackest oblivion, there's the smallest of lights. But he can imagine, and he has seen on rarer occasions.

"I don't doubt that for a moment about him," the Doctor smiles briefly at the mention of Crozier. "I know it goes without saying it's the duty of a Captain to do exactly that, but not all manage it, or manage it well. I'm glad you had him, and vice versa, of course." He thinks anyone should be so lucky to have Thomas Jopson there at their side. "How long did it take to repair?"

Thomas smiles into his work, shifting his feet slightly as he finishes and starts to clean.

"I don't remember, if you can believe it. I was simply too happy to be alive and to see someplace new. Antarctica was - unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was cold and vast and empty but also - so lively. It was so long ago, I don't think on the smaller parts of it any longer."

"It would be," he smiles warmly over his shoulder for a moment before he finishes up salting the fish, quickly cleaning his hands, making sure the broth is divvied up between the jars.

"How did it feel? After the ships were righted and repaired and you could — look out in this new place, stretched on and on. Happy to be alive, yes, but how did it feel inside when you took a breath and you looked all around? I like hearing you talk about it."

Thomas isn't much of a storyteller, but he is a man who delights in dreams like these. He smiles to himself, thinking wistfully on that moment.

"The world...grew a little bigger for me and smaller, at the same time. There were vast oceans and sights that only a handful of people had seen, but there is was, a poor boy from London, with nothing to my name save for that moment. I could feel it there, in my hands."

He pauses by the table, watching the window.

Thomas watches the window and as the Doctor listens to him, he thinks for a moment about — coming closer. Perhaps wrapping an arm around his waist, perhaps kissing his shoulder. He's just managed to say that he loves him, he can't figure why such an easy gesture would be something he has to really think about, but he does. As much as he wants it. He feels so close to him, listening to him relay some of his memories.

"There's nothing like that feeling, that first time," he smiles tenderly.

It's starting to snow outside; Thomas can see the flakes of snow clinging to the window in the fading light of the kitchen.

"No, there isn't," he agrees and turns back around to face him. "You should stay tonight," he tells him, which might be abrupt had he not seen the snowflakes on the glass.

He doesn't expect it, that sudden feeling that clutches at him when Thomas turns back around. It's not that he doesn't feel so much for him all the time, it's only that — something else grips him for a moment, something more, a want. When he looks at him, and his face is framed by the dimming light, and he's — beautiful.

The Doctor is staring, and he catches himself, busying his hands with nothing at all, just a distraction. Oh, right, yes, he forgot to actually respond!

"— I will," he smiles. It's possible he's blushing a little, which is why he quickly turns his head, adjusting his bowtie. "I'll stay," he adds over his shoulder.

There it is again. That feeling, that face that he knows so well. Or thought he did. He stares at him a moment too long, reaching over to link his arm, and reaches up to adjust his bowtie back to where it had been before.

Thomas likes it like that.

"With me?" he wonders, though he doesn't quite know what he's asking. Not yet.

He doesn't quite know either, but the answer is a swift and easy one for him nonetheless, and he smiles tenderly when Thomas is close enough again.

"Well...yes! Yes, of course with you. I always want that," he blurts out without much thought, without getting in his own way about it.

"Do you?" he challenges, looking up to him with great curiosity. "Because sometimes you seem like you'd rather fly away out that window." He says it with fondness and joy and love, of course, but truth all the same.

He's not wrong about that. Sometimes he has wanted that, though...not because of Thomas at all.

"That's — what I've often done, yes," he starts, slowly, searching for the words. Often meaning nearly always. "What I have done." Running, running away. "Someone told me that's not really living, though, it's just existing."

His eyebrows raise at that. "Oh? Did they?" he wonders idly, trying not to be flustered by the mere fact that he had said something that the Doctor had taken so close to heart. Something that he remembered.

Thomas Jopson doesn't last. He doesn't have anything except what he can do for people.

It's disorienting to have this.

He's taken very much close to heart from his Thomas. In the Doctor's mind, his historical inability to actually hold onto and let himself have what he wants doesn't stop him from still feeling it and wanting those things all the same. He just — hasn't. He doesn't.

He's trying, though. Trying to change.

"Yes, they've said quite a few clever things, actually. I'm trying to listen now. So — yes, I want to stay with you."

Thomas is closer to him now, so close that he's already afraid that he's going to chill the air too badly. Fortunately, the stove gives off enough heat to warm the room considerably, and so when he steps closer to him, he's happy.

"I hope that you continue to listen to them," he mutters. "If it means that you won't leave."

Thomas hooks an arm around the Doctor's neck and kisses him again.

He's grown used to that coldness enough now to be ready for it, and there's something extra thrilling about the warmth from the stove and that slight chill when they kiss, the way it balances and contrasts.

He murmurs something like an affirmation, a yes against Thomas' lips, but he's too caught up in the kissing part to say much more. For a moment, he runs his fingers through Thomas' hair as they press closer together.

Thomas keeps him close, not thinking of anything else aside from this right here, this moment in time and space. "This way," he breathes against his lips, taking his hand and trying to guide him back towards the living room, towards the fireplace, where they have more room and less possibility of knocking down jars to watch them shatter.

He doesn't remember the last time he was so easily distractible by — well, anything like this at all. Closeness. Affection. Fondness. Love. Enough that thinking is less important than just being and feeling. So he's led, quite easily and happily. There's a feeling of...contentment in him, with everything they've said between them tonight. There's more, of course, so much more he's feeling inside, but this is perfect.

"You're quite persuasive," he makes a dumb joke while they move to settle in the living room. Of course, what else was he going to do but follow him?

"Mm, I have kept my Captain alive for many years through gentle persuasion," he reminds the Doctor, pulling away so he can sit on the couch. "It is one of my many skills."

He raises his arm, holds out a hand for him. "Sit with me," he mutters. "Sit and we can talk here by the fire."

Thomas isn't very keen on simply "talking," though. He's already imagining wrapping his arms around him again.

For as much as the Doctor can talk and talk endlessly, he finds that at least for now, he wants far more to just be close to Thomas. As close as possible. And the words and the talking matter less — for once — than just being near him.

"Many skills," he's quick to agree. Normally he might tease about not letting it go to his head, but when it comes to Thomas, he can only be sincerely besotted. "One quite noteworthy one among many, in fact, but which has me already thinking of doing it again." Kissing. He means kissing. But he does sit close, and he does tug his hand briefly to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

"Allow me." Thomas gives him a brief reprieve, just for a moment, and then he kisses him again there on the couch where he can't get away. Where neither of them can get away. He's happy here right by the fire, though he does glance nervously over at it to make sure the fire is high enough.

"Are you comfortable, sir?" he mutters, running his hands down the Doctor's arms.

He's well past thinking that kisses are quite lovely, but meant for others and not for him. He's shifted, instead, to thinking this is the sort of thing he's been keeping himself away from for far too long, for...some protection from pain and hurt, and loss. All the things that can't ever really be avoided, but love — that can be held onto, instead. And he wants to.

As they kiss and the question is asked, he takes an honest assessment as he sinks back against the cushions. He doesn't feel fidgety, he feels content. "Thanks to you, yes." He smiles and leans in to briefly kiss him again. "Now, the cushions help, of course, but mainly it's you, Thomas."

He scoffs, sitting up taller even as the Doctor does the opposite. "You give me too much credit," he mutters. "You aren't cold?"

It's not a new question, but nor is it something he's comfortable assuming any longer. It serves no purpose for him to fret, and he's come to trust that the Doctor will care for himself when it comes to these things.

"It's always cold here," he says so nonchalantly, but he knows that's not what Thomas is really asking. "But the fire is warm and some things are more important."

He's not trying to be or sound wilfully stubborn. To him, that shock of cold is like jumping into cold water at first, and the body adjusts. And after long moments of touch, perhaps, it will get more unpleasant, but he adjusts and he wants to touch him longer.

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