#jopson: *is good at his job* Irving: ''iS iT BeCAuSE yOURE GAY???'' Jopson: (a bi aroace) ''le What(tm)''

[majorxmaggiexboy]

&& hold the nail (for the hammer stroke) || (1/?) a Jopving episode

source: the terror amc centric character: John Irving relationships: pre John Irving/Thomas Jopson  chapter warning/tags: Escalates Quickly, those Victorians and their damn ankles, light canon-typical internalized homophobia from Irving, excessive use of “John” and “Jopson” bc i couldn’t be bothered to avoid repetition overall heads-up: Some toxic behavior from Irving, truly obnoxious thought process from Irving, canon-typical homophobia, vaguely questionable relationship dynamic but we gotta trust Jop’s judgement on this one lads he knows what he’s about additional tags: aroace!Jopson, Irving’s Gay Panic, mutual appreciation for Miss Jacko, Irving’s Gay Panic gets an uno reverse card in chapter 2, Jopson has the patience of a literal saint but he also has standards, Irving astral projecting to avoid taking accountability for the Gay, Crozier lowkey keeping an eye on the situation, Irving going from “awww” to “Oh god. Oh no” in the space of a single paragraph.

additional heads-up: i ship hard but i have genuinely no idea how romance or any of that even works so i’m literally just throwing darts with my eyes closed here.

summary: When a misunderstanding creates tension between himself and Lieutenant Irving, Jopson’s attempt to restore harmony leads to a different understanding entirely.

It happens like this:

John comes in from the cold, into the slightly less cold. He’s grumbling to himself, and doesn’t notice the captain’s steward until the man’s polite greeting almost makes him jump out of his skin. 

Jopson is too professional to look more than a little amused, but there’s humor in his eyes, and John gives a short laugh in spite of himself. 

They are not friends, but they’ve always been amiable enough. John can respect a man who works hard, and few if any can rival Jopson’s dedication to the captain. He’s a pleasant sort of person, steady and generally cheerful; John’s never heard a word of complaint from him, even when the expedition’s events would warrant it. Their rare conversations are simple, but enjoyable.

Reliably, Jopson soon notices the source of John’s own complaints. 

“Snagged on a nail,” John replies to the questioning look. Indeed, concerned look. Jopson is looking at the tear in the leg of John’s trouser as if it’s a minor wound. He huffs in irritation. “I’ll have to ask Gibson to-”

“-I can do it, sir,” Jopson interrupts, with a gesture toward the coat on his lap. “I’ve needle and thread already to hand, it wouldn’t take a minute.

Truth be told, John would rather be stabbed than speak to the other steward any more than absolutely necessary after their last interaction, and in any case he is aware of the quality of Jopson’s stitching. He readily agrees. 

Jopson smiles again and sets his other work neatly aside, rises and motions for John to take the vacated chair. 

While John settles with an appreciative sigh, more tired than he’d realized, Jopson deftly threads a needle, grinning softly over the spool. “Miss Jacko stole this earlier,” he says, “Had to bribe her with a spare button to get it back.”

“Perhaps she wanted to join in your sewing,” the thought amuses John, and pulls a laugh from Jopson. 

“I wonder if she could,” the steward muses. He takes a knee before John, grimacing briefly before bending to inspect the damage. “She has the hands for it. She could make a career in small mending.”

The notion is wonderfully absurd. He may have to sketch it, later, a capuchin seamstress-in-training, mischievous but astute under the gentle tutelage of a black cat with curiously clever paws. 

On the note of clever paws, the occasional feather-light pull at the fabric of his trouser leg brings John’s attention back to the ones currently making good on their promise of quick work. 

Jopson’s head is bowed, but John still catches the occasional glimpse of his face - not quite frowning in concentration, but very much focused. He is, John knows, one to give every task complete attention, even something so simple as this. The stitching is finer than strictly required, meant to be all but invisible in addition to holding well. The garment will be, rather than simply repaired, nearly like new. Something like fondness grips him. He opens his mouth, meaning to express gratitude he already knows the steward will call unneeded.

And then Jopson’s hands brush close enough as he fiddles with the lower part of the tear, lifting the cuff minutely for access, that Irving notes the mild pressure of it and, for a moment, thinks he can feel the warmth of those hands even with his boots in the way. Fondness dissipates in an instant. 

Oblivious, Jopson continues his stitching. He gives the fabric an experimental tug at the end and nods, satisfied. He spares Irving a quick glance, brushes back stray hair. “There we are, sir,” he smiles, “Good as new.”

Lieutenant Irving is not sure at what point he began clutching the sides of the chair he’s trapped in, but he suspects he’ll be removing splinters from his hands for weeks. He doesn’t meet the steward’s gaze, instead staring a spot on the opposite wall until the man ducks again, brushing against Irving as he uses his teeth to snip the thread. 

Irving’s vision burns white.

He’s on his feet so quickly his head spins. The Steward is saying something, alarmed, but it falls on deaf ears. Which are surely red as blood if the heat of them is any indication. 

Mortified, Irving flees from the room, paying no regard to the baffled man on the floor. 

He does not stop walking until he reaches his own bunk, slamming the door behind him. He thinks of the Hold, of Gibson and of that slithering serpent of a caulker’s mate, and of his father and of hell and no, it will not do. He would never-

Irving stops his frantic pacing. He would never. Such notions would not spring to mind unprovoked, and if provoked he can hardly be at fault.

(What notions, he hardly knows, and does not dare to interrogate. They are evil things, wicked things, they must be smothered quickly, not taken out and examined closely)

But what was the provocation? He had not supposed the captain’s mild-mannered steward to be the sort...but then he had not suspected the filthy caulker’s mate, either. Had it not been the steward’s suggestion, at any rate? And he supposes it makes sense, for one of a servile nature...

(He strangles the thought before it finishes its first breath.)

It makes sense, loathe as he is to accept it. It is troublesome. 

Despite being directly affronted in this case, he finds he cannot reach quite the same state of anger as he’d felt toward Mr. Hickey. Mainly, it is a sense of disdain that falls upon him and weights down his shoulders.

The captain, he thinks, would be horrified. 

He will not reveal this anymore than he did poor Mr. Gibson’s torment. Not for the steward’s own sake but because Captain Crozier has enough on his mind, and is terribly fond of the man. Self-preservation, too, is a factor. It would not do to be tarnished in the Captain’s view. 

He wants to be more furious than he is, particularly because the steward was close enough to being a friend. Friendly, at least, and had always seemed so good and upright. He must be more careful in his choice of acquaintances. If he must admire a dedicated steward, let it be Captain Fitzjames’ Mister Bridgens. There is a man who is above reproach. 

John shudders, his course of action decided: To take none. 

Instead, he will keep the matter quiet, and will pray for the wayward souls aboard this wretched vessel. Perhaps they are not beyond help, though he certainly won’t be the one to do so. 

His prayers do little to set his mind at ease, but that is his cross to bear, and his soul is somewhat more settled. For his nerves, he resolves to take out his sketchbook and work until his hands stop shaking. 

Later, he leaves his cabin, having composed himself and set the incident aside. He resumes his duties with a quiet spirit. 

The sketchbook is left atop his desk, open to a worthy likeness of Miss Jacko furtively clutching a needle and thread.