// @thomas-jopson
The exhaustion of the night has caught up with him, and his greatcoat on his shoulders feels as if it is puling him down. He shucks it as he walks, his arms tangling in the fabric and almost setting his ribs on fire. He needs to sit down. He needs to. He needs to.
When he finally reaches his room, he tosses his coat onto the bed, following it himself to almost collapse onto the small berth. The movement sends a shock wave of pain through his body, and he gasps. He buries his face in his hands, taking gulping, gasping breaths, heart pounding all the while.
His fingers tug at his cravat, trying to loosen it so he can take in more air, but panic makes his fingers clumsy and the frustration and raw anxiety leaves tears pooling in his eyes. It finally comes loose, and he tosses it to the side, and for all that he can hardly hold back his tears and the way he doubles over, gasping for air, he fights to keep himself quiet. It would not do for the men to hear their acting Captain shatter.
Once the door is shut, Ned shucks off his waistcoat with a hiss of pain, toeing off his boots one by one. The trousers go next, and then he is left only in his shirt and stockings. Wrenching the shirt off is more than a little painful, and the wrench of his arms sets his chest and back afire. Once his arms are free of the garment, he tosses it onto his bunk with the rest, and leans back against the wall, panting with effort.
Edward can see himself in the mirror, lamplight illuminating his bare flesh, and for the first time in the night he sees the mottled skin of his chest, turned black and blue and purple with bruises from the way the creature tossed him across the deck like a ragdoll. It looks something awful, and he turns slightly to examine his back, hissing at even the slight contortion of his body.
For a moment, his vision goes white with a lance of pain, and he has to catch himself on the small washbasin. He leans over it, the hunch of his back both relieving and painful in different ways. He does not quite trust himself to uncurl.
He toes the socks off one by one as he catches his breath above the basin. afraid that bending over would just make the pain worse. In the mirror, he can see himself, unkempt hair and muttonchops framing eyes red and exhausted- though how much of it was the lack of sleep and the exertion of the long night and how much of it was from his earlier tears, he couldn't tell. He straightens slightly, and reluctantly lets go of the edge of the basin, and tugs open his drawers for fresh clothes. The long shirt goes on first, and as he lifts his arms above his head once more to pull it down onto himself, his vision goes static, and he practically stumbles into sitting position on the bed, his vision returning to him terrifyingly slow as the blood rushes back into his head.
One - One moment, he pants, feeling utterly embarrassed for keeping Jopson waiting while he is doing something which is not even his job.
*he smiles to the air and speaks towards the door*
No worries, Lieutenant Little, sir.
*it really isnt a worry. hes seen crozier stumble with putting his socks on for more than thirty or so minutes whilst insisting he can do it on his own*
*to his dismay, he is human and therefore he has some trouble waiting on someone. So he hums a tune. Schubert. his husband to be’s favorite.*
The quiet tune focuses his mind somewhat, but his body throbs, and frustrated tears spring once again to his eyes. He's so tired. The only thing which keeps him from giving up and lying back onto the bed is that he is being waited upon, and he sighs sharply as he sets himself back to his task, his limbs feeling weighty as lead weights.
Once by one he struggles to tug on his stockings, and wrestling on his trousers in a sitting position is nearly as difficult and painful. He has to take several breaks as he goes, and every time he has to fight back tears. Finally, he tugs on a waistcoat and begins to button it, his chest heaving with the exertion as he tries to get his body back in order, pulling himself back together with each button.
By the time he is done, he has regained some of his composure, though as he stands to bring Jopson his previous clothes, he keeps one hand on the wall, in case his vision goes dark again. It is a smart move, and he manages to keep himself fully upright. As he pulls the door back open, he tries not to care that he hasn't bothered to retie his cravat.
*he takes the heap without sparing a lingering glance towards the lieutenant’s current state*
Right.
…
…You had something you wished to say, sir?
Ned stands in the doorway with a hand on the frame, and he blinks stupidly at Jopson. Did he? He wracks his mind, but nothing pressing comes to the forefront of his exhausted mind.
...Thank you.
It seems like the right thing to say, as he inclines his head slightly towards the laundry. He tries to think of anything else.
I'm sorry.
He's not quite sure what he's apologizing for, but it's probably something.
It’s quite alright, sir.
So long as no Admiralty is involved.
*he has moments ashamedly where he wishes he had never strayed from orders and pursued a relationship looked down upon by many*
*the attention is too much to bear for him simply acting as himself*
Ned tilts his head to one side, before his mind catches up to Jopson's words.
I won't say anything.
It's quiet and exhausted, though sure in a way not much Edward has said tonight has been. He's looking directly at Jopson, eyes soft and tired.
