#of course hes still crozier so hes doing all these things for jopson

[favouritefi]

What about Crozier adopting (?) Jopson as his first cat boy? You mentioned he thought it was weird to have a human-adjacent sleep on the floor, so he's not used to cat/dogboys?

crozier is irish and ireland doesnt have the same system of institutionalized cat/dogboy adoption that england does. honestly very few parts of the world do and the places that do have it were likely influenced by british imperialism. crozier didnt grow up with cat/dogboy companions and he didnt get invited to parties where officers brought their cat/dogboy companions along until well into adulthood. crozier's worked with cat/dogboys because he's been in the navy for most of his life, but being on watch with one is very different from living with one for the rest of your (now shared) lives. the intimate domesticity between a human officer and his cat/dogboy was not something he was prepared for. ive joked before that crozier missed the "mandatory catboy naval training session" but even if that was a thing he wouldve skipped it. he never bothered to learn the proper customs and behaviours between a human officer and his catboy because he never wanted a catboy and a part of him hoped he could somehow convince the admiralty to grant him an exception, but then jopson shows up and hes lovely and perfect and greatly improves croziers life by simply being in it. jopson is the reason why crozier stopped drinking in his 30s and why he retired from the navy after returning to england and why he wanted to live - to survive the arctic and return home with jopson. their relationship in this au is literally this meme:

[dravenscroft]

So my wife and I are working on a long fic that's a Terror modern AU set in a secondary school. My wife is a teacher and has experienced The Horrors of crappy schools being taken over by academy trusts and becoming weirdly corporate firsthand. We're like 50k into it and it'll probably be like 60k? I think? Anyway we're uploading it on my Ao3 soon but here's a brief rundown of some of the highlights:

Crozier is the new joint head of school, he's been moved there against his will to work alongside Fitzjames, the 'Head of Data', which Crozier thinks isn't a real job.

Franklin is the Executive Head but he's NEVER at the school, he's always busy at head office and has no idea what chaos goes down.

Fitzjames used to be a drama teacher until he got promoted up. He hasn't taught in years and so Crozier has zero respect for him...at first.

Little is the exhausted head of English and he is regularly being verbally abused by the children. He is having a Bad Time.

Hodgson is the music teacher. Irving is the art teacher.

Collins is the maths teacher...he has had a sniffle since the start of the year...he is maybe over medicating with Lemsip and cough medicine in an effort to keep coming to work.

Goodsir is the bright-eyed NQT biology teacher. He is still full of wonder and hope. Oh, to see the UK education system 'with eyes as an NQT...'

Stanley is the head of science. He is not full of wonder and hope. Obviously.

Blanky is the geography teacher who has been there since forever and doesn't take any shit. He's beloved by the kids but they also rightly fear him because he will tell them what for if they misbehave. He also has NO concept of professional corporate speak in emails. He will tell it like it is.

...Oh yeah, there's emails in there too. It's partly epistolary.

Jopson is the highly competent office worker for the school reception. He WILL find a way to schedule the unscheduleable, he WILL handle any difficult parent that comes his way, and he WILL answer every email in a timely fashion.

He works alongside Billy of course, who doesn't want to be there, except maybe for the gossip.

Bridgens takes on the work of several as is normal in a terrible school...he's librarian, and the first-aider, and a TA, along with his husband Peglar who is also a TA.

Tozer is the disillusioned P.E teacher who USED to enjoy his job until Heather left and took another job on the other side of the country and the Academy (Admiralty Trust) took over...now he hates his job and is totally checked out.

And then of course there's Hickey...a problematic parent who has made bringing down Crozier and the school his primary goal. It was very hard to imagine Hickey with a kid but we came to the decision that his daughter was born when he and the girl's mother were like 15, a one-time fling before he figured out his sexuality, and he has Regretted It Ever Since because good GOD this man doesn't want to be a father. He only has her on weekends and isn't in contact with her mother at all. He WANTED to run off to Hawaii like in canon but then his kid's mother said she'd chase him to the ends of the earth for child maintenance if he did. He is NOT a good father, this troubled, angry teenage girl lives off takeaway and pot noodles and they mostly just try to avoid each other when she's at his scummy little flat. HOWEVER, because Hickey is all about his ego, when there are Issues with his daughter at school Hickey takes it as a slight against HIM, and makes revenge his goal.

His daughter also features, she's a 'managed move' student who was nearly expelled from her last school for bringing in a knife. She's very troubled and terrorises the teachers (she's referred to as 'a little terror' in one of the emails...) but she also ends up bonding a little with Crozier, who tries his hardest to turn things around for her. It's just too bad her father wants to cause Problems rather than do anything to ACTUALLY help her.

Anyway yeah. It's mostly comedic but with a few serious issues tackled (like the obvious neglect this girl experiences, for one) - it's mostly been a way for my teacher wife to rant about Academy schools and just the general failings of the UK school system lmao. There is Social Commentary involved.

Anyway it's Coming Soon.

[cashmere-caveman]

read a post about there being next to no record abt the historic edward little again (we dont even know what he looked like!!!) and now im thinking a lot about how he died in uniform again.

hes far from the only character to die in uniform (the marines die in uniform! franklin dies in uniform!) and he isn't even the only lieutenant to do so (gore, under his slops, was in uniform; fairholme, too presumably; irving famously wore his coat that hickey steals later; george wore something that used to be his uniform when he got eaten but imo atp he did not wear it as A Uniform anymore that were just the clothes that he had on if that makes sense) but at the end, he is the only one where i still felt that it was an active choice to wear it.

almost everyone else sheds their layers along the way or turns into something else, but ned starts in uniform and he stays in uniform and that's it.

fitzjames famously sheds his vanity and dies in his shirtsleeves, without any of the pomp and pizzazz of his uniform.

jopson, another character who is to me really connected with a certain mindset of holding up appearances, dies in his shirtsleeves, believing himself abandoned by the very person that was his reason to even wear a uniform at all.

goodsir as a doctor/assistant surgeon doesn't really have a uniform in quite the same sense as many others but when he dresses himself before his suicide it is not as an affirmation of his role, or at least not a positive one. he has sworn to do no harm, but he was forced to do it anyway and now he will add a final evil to his toll of sins in the hopes to balance the scales at least somewhat and for that to work, he must wear his outfit as always. he ends up with all pretenses stripped bare anyway.

tozer, a man so proud of his uniform in the beginning, again, dies in his shirtsleeves, no rank left, betrayed by someone who had convinced him to give up everything and yet! reduced to nothing but an ordinary man, he tries again where before he had given up. he cooperates, he coordinates, he even calls crozier captain again, he tries very hard to do the right thing in what looks like a no win scenario from the get go!! and he fails, of course, but he tried.

almost everyone else also ends up either dressed down (bridgens, armitage, dundy, des voeux etc) or somehow transformed (blanky, to some extend silna with her patched and bloody furs) or in hickeys case, both (iconic underwear & greatcoat combo). little never changes. he sometimes has a little scarf, theres the bandage for his headwound for a bit, he sometimes wears the full parade uniform with epaulettes and sometimes just the regular one, there are at least two different uniform hats and ofc you can tell that he loses weight by the way his shape chages under all that wool but he is always. in. uniform.

and maybe this is just my mind making up dots to connect but i think he might even be the last character that crozier ever gives an order to in his official function as a captain (in the tuunbaq seduction/boss fight scene he has been stripped of his rank, at least according to e.c.).

before his final scene, all we get is little arguing over the orders they are given, and how to interpret them. and he is still wearing his uniform!!! wait hold on im not gonna check but maybe he might only wear a jumper in the tent where dundy lauches his soft mutiny actually, so maybe this whole post is crumbling like a domino line but!!! ignoring this. moving on. (even if it is a jumper i remember him wearing sth dark blue aka Uniform Colour so im claiming it doesnt even matter bc spiritually that hypothetical jumper still is a uniform. im not going to let anything like "accuracy" and "real details" fuck up my post smh 🙄. im joking. however! Moving On as i said) (edit: i rewatched the scene and it IS his uniform actually, just v rumpled. going insane btw)

he doesnt even dress up for carnivale! the only other characters that are not in costume are jopson and crozier and they were literally too busy keeping crozier from dying to even begin thinking about joining the communal arts and crafts session! little is atp the acting no2 of the expedition so u might say he was busy but fitzjames has the overall command and still finds time to have a little gender moment in private and the imperialism-approved version of it for the Big Crowd!! (u could ofc argue that fitzy Always has time for a gender moment and who would i be to argue but my point is: i have no doubt that man was fucking busy preparing carnivale & beginning to prepare the walkout and there still was time to Express Some Character!! so how come ned didn't do anything?)

the one other scene we get where we can catch a small glimpse of characters out of their element before it all unravels (pre tuunbaq attack on the camp) is the scene at night when morfin gets shot. it shows lots of characters in various states of undress (silna big blanket burrito i love you) that allows us to see them differently, like their costumes at carnivale did, but in an entirely opposite direction. while carnivale was about putting on masks, this scene is about taking them off. and it drives me insane because i know that little must be there. he is somewhere in the crowd when morfin gets shot but so far i havent been able to make him out and i need to know what he is wearing so bad. it is actually for science (my own curiosity) ! i really need to know. and i cant help but feel that maybe it is intentional that he is just ~somewhere~ instead of In Front of the Fucking Camera because, well. that would be just ned little, wouldnt it? and we dont even know who that is.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Two short chapters combined for you today, each more gut-wrenching than the last!

Chapter Fifty-Five: Goodsir

Goodsir's first few days in the Mutineer Camp have not been pleasant, needless to say. He begins describing Hickey as The Devil and the other men as an "Infernal Legion" celebrating with a "Feast of Human Flesh" after the confrontation with Crozier.

There are a few familiar and unexpected faces within that 'infernal legion' including Billy Orren, John Morfin, and Billy Gibson, all very much still living so far. Interestingly, several of the Mutineers are still actively resisting the descent into cannibalism - Morfin and Hodgson most notably - but Goodsir suspects they won't be able to hold out much longer - "the smell of Roasting Human Flesh is Horribly Enticing".

Just like the main party, the Mutineers also appear to have found leads in the ice. 17 men pile into a boat only meant for 8 and begin to paddle northward but it's clear quickly that they cannot continue to do so for long, and it's not because of the leads themselves: "I Heard Hickey and Aylmore whispering after we landed to pitch Tents this Evening - they made Little Effort to lower their Voices. Someone will have to go. ...now that they do not need Man-haulers, which Men will be Sacrificed to the Food stores so that the boat can be Lightened for tomorrow's Sailing?"

-

Chapter Fifty-Six: Jopson

Oh gang... I'm afraid this is it...!

Jopson doesn't understand. He doesn't fully understand what's happening to his body anymore - why his teeth and hair are falling out and he's bleeding from every orifice. And he doesn't understand why he's being left behind on this, his literal birthday: "...but he was not an old man. He was thirty-one years old today and they were leaving him behind to die on his birthday." :(((

He has just enough wherewithal to smell the roasting of the seal meat Des Voeux's men brought back to camp, and to note the stream of men visiting his tent, unwilling to show their faces but leaving behind a pile of mouldy ships biscuits for him "like so many white rocks in preparation for his burial."

Jopson can only really protest in his own head - against the men and their actions and, interestingly, against Crozier... "Hadn't he stayed by Captain Crozier's side a hundred times during the captain's illnesses and moody low points and outright bouts of drunkenness? Hadn't he quietly, uncomplainingly, like the good steward he was, hauled pails of vomit from the captain's cabin in the middle of the night and wiped the Irish drunkard's arse when he shat himself in his fever delirium? Perhaps that's why the bastard is leaving me to die." Good Christ if that thought doesn't actually fucking destroy me! It's not even the idea of doing all that for someone and it somehow not being good enough, it's almost as if it was too good instead. Like something about reaching that level of intimacy being too unbearable in some way and somehow being the thing that dooms him? Ooh lordy I'm unwell... :(((

Soon enough, Jopson's birthday becomes more surreal and yet more literal as his crawling from the tent is described almost like labour, like an actual birth - "He had grown used to the canvas-filtered dim light and stuffy air of his tent-womb that this openness and glare made his lungs labour and filled his squinted-shut eyes with tears."

Crawling over food - "brought to him as if he were some damned pagan idol or sacrificial offering to the gods" - Jopson exits the tent which all too quickly fades into the fog behind him so he can't go back, and tries to shout after the departing men.

He's so weak but so utterly utterly desperate that he even tries to use his fucking chin to drag himself along the ground when his arms fail him. But of course it's not enough. Just like that, the departing men are gone. "It was as if they had never existed."

[daincrediblegg]

Do itttttttt

Give us the gory details baby

All right nonnie, if you say so, here you go...

John Franklin had been dead for days. When the Marshalls found him, the flies had been so dense that he’d looked nothing more than a shadow of a man standing over the creek near duskfall. Had there been a man to accompany him, perhaps Deputy Jopson wouldn’t have noticed him at all, save for the way the thing moved and jittered like lakewater, and the man stank of all manner of filth- whether human or non-human, remained to be seen. 

Deputy Little had his theories, and certainly spared none of them to the open air as they rode to where the man had been found. Hodgeson, the Marshall’s man, of course, did nothing to assuage them. The man seemed to be full of apocryphal tales of natives (he’d never specified which, of course), missing children, women with their necks cleaved open by tomahawks, all manner of brutality that might befall a man should he face the indian hordes outside the safeties of their little town. Sheriff Crozier, of course, gave credence to none of them. He was never a speculating man, save for the occasional game of cards he played with Thomas at the Blue Belle, but he’d not put a penny on anything until he had a chance to see for himself exactly the manner of carnage that befell their man. If his years with his badge had taught him anything, fear never led to the truth, and speculation was always the birthmother of that poor mistress. But, he supposed, these greenhorns fresh from those pretty cities back east had nothing but those tales to go on. Not a lick of sense but for that of the men by whom they were raised to go on, none of which would serve them in the open country as they were now. None of it would prepare them for what they would find when they arrived. None of it would have prepared their poor stomachs fresh from breakfast for what Deputy Jopson had to show them.

George was the first to go, and from the smell alone, as they had not even cleared the treeline before he’d emptied his stomach upon the grass. Ned was not too far behind him, judging by the thick swallow that Crozier heard beside him as he scaled down the ridge to where the Marshall and his men waited for them. He at least had had the good sense to cover his face with his neckerchief before approaching further, as Crozier had. Still, all men present couldn’t help but wince under their masks.

Even Crozier himself felt queasy as he came face to face with their inquest. His belly had been empty for hours now, save for the shot of whiskey he spared himself when Jopson came storming into the office in a frenzy he’d never much seen in his young protege. He understood a bit better now to look at what he had seen.

The whole thing looked as though it might up and move by itself at any given moment, were it not for the construction of branch and twig and twine that held the poor man upright. The flies began to shift and scatter in places as he approached to inspect a little better the patches left untouched underneath the swarm. He could hear a man begin to wretch a little behind him, to see the pallid gray palor the man now posessed- Little, most likely, since Hodgeson could dare not venture further and opted to watch the tree-line, and wait for his own betters to arrive back from town with a cart to transport the man- or better he would say, what was left.

Crozier waved his hand then, to clear the flies and better look at what lay beneath the carrion that had gathered, and was met immediately with a scene that made the younger men behind him gasp.

The eyes were pale, but strung open wide, and the mouth affixed- agape, skin pulling back at the lips- rigor having long settled in. The horrified expression, combined with the odd shaping of the man’s pose, provided no clarity. There were wounds around his belly, but little blood soaked into the clothes to indicate their incision. But more ghastly of all was the gaping flesh at the top of the man’s hip where his leg should be, but where currently there was none, and where the flies continued their work at the rotting flesh there, blood and meat congealing against raw bone. 

“Have you found the leg?” Crozier finally asked, his tone even to himself unexpectedly low.

“No, Sir,” Jopson replied in a whisper, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “I had Deputy Irving sweep the shoreline before riding out to alert Fitzjames’ party. Haven’t seen any sign of it.”

Crozier grunted as he stood again, not so much at the ache in his bones but more for the mention of one Mr. Fitzjames. A foolish man who seemed to be under the impression that his appearance, subdued though he tried to keep it, as it was, might disguise better in this place the truth of his employment, but Crozier knew a Pinkerton man when he saw one. The man couldn’t hide that no matter how many fine waistcoats he owned and wore. Not to mention his distaste for the local culture. He expected the man would show himself any minute now, with those city airs of his, and no doubt, some theory to who might have done this that might satisfy the speculations of the Deputies. 

It would not, however, satisfy Crozier.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

Snippet From: Cold Berth Word Count: 465 Words Currently This is a cut from the Thomas x Crozier section that will be coming along here. Warnings: None

Captain Francis Crozier was still vertical, pouring over maps as if they would change where they were lodged in the frozen sea. He did not immediately look up as Jopson entered, though he bore a pleasant and foreign tone to his voice as he spoke. “Thomas…”

“Sir.” He replied candidly, his body moving autonomously. The Captain must have had a guest previously, for there was tea that had been drunk and a whiskey glass that was still half full. Thomas took it, careful and mindful so Francis would not notice. He poured the contents back to the decanter where it belonged and locked everything up.

“Thomas…” Francis Crozier spoke again, looking up fully this time.

“Sir?” He could only answer back, questioning the Captain and his intent. It was late. Perhaps he had been intent for sleep. “It is late.” It was a gentle suggestion, one he hoped the Captain would accept. 

There was something changed about Crozier ever since the previous night. Jopson had left Francis, Thomas Blanky and the younger Captain to drink and be merry with some cards. Goodness knows that those three men needed an evening of respite. He had been dismissed early and did not shy on the opportunity to take care of some stitching for Leftenant Little and the Captains. Wilbur’s clothes, after all, had been in need of mending, his coat especially. He could not leave the man with holes in his linens and woollens. Such things would need tending to. But after that night, the Captain looked upon him, a steward, with a strange curiosity to his eye. He lingered, watching him. This was, of course, most inconvenient for rather personal reasons for Thomas Jopson.

He quite liked being able to linger, watch and pleasantly spy upon his Captain. He spent much of his time appreciating the broadness and berth of Captain Crozier’s shoulders, the thickness of his back and the waxing of his hairline. No such admiration was allowed the morning following their night of cards. It was as if the Captain was made acutely aware of Jopson’s criminal eyes and shame ran the course of his cheeks every time that the Captain caught him staring. He could only look away so fast so many times before he realised that his usual spotting was not going to slide over so smoothly. He worried that he had noticed and might have some stern words for him. But instead he licked his lips and watched as his Captain stretched languidly, a slow and almost animal-like unlocking of his limbs. “Perhaps that ought do me well, aye?” 

Agreement flowed out of Thomas Jopson’s lungs as he exhaled in relief. He had half of a worried mind that his Captain was beginning to know better than what he let on.

[majorxmaggiexboy]

&& like the orphans we are || some Terror Tomfoolery (1/?)

centric character: Frauncis Crozier relationships: Crozier & Jopson vibe: crack, essentially content warnings: handwaved magic, de-aged characters, panicked captains bringing their habits (of addressing people by surname) to involuntary parenthood, enthusiastic child labor, complete lack of actual effort or plot, summary less indicative of content than the so-called warning section, no regard for canon timeline, God Damn It as a substitute for the profanity Crozier would actually be using, Weird Victorian Child, Blatant Hodgeson erasure  Summary: In which Captain Crozier would give anything, anything to be going through withdrawals right now.

~*~

On top of every damn thing else, naturally, the sky explodes. 

It’s such a violent outburst of colors, accompanied by a sound like the earth itself bursting apart, it sends as many men scurrying for cover as it holds wide-eyed and transfixed upon the deck.

The display is over in a matter of minutes. The crew is split for a few hours between skittish and sheepish, but in the end it’s just one more strange occurrence among many, and as no one was killed, it’s quickly forgotten.

~*~

Francis wakes to find Jopson struggling with the curtains, yanking on the poor drapes as though his life depends on it. 

The captain’s first thought is that, thank God, the year is only 1839 and he has just woken from the longest, coldest, bloodiest dream of his life. His second thought is that he could have sworn his steward, who is now standing stock-still and staring at him in a way eerily reminiscent of a cat with lamp light caught in its eyes, was considerably taller last he was aware.

Jopson goes back to fighting with the curtains. The way the panel is drawn rapidly back and forth, the weak beam of sun falls along Crozier’s bed and disappears, falls and vanishes, falls and vanishes. Until with a furtive glance in his direction Jopson gives up trying to slide the curtains open properly and instead tucks the offending panel behind the table to hold it open. 

It is when Jopson reconsiders and climbs onto the table to reach the curtain rod that Francis begins to suspect both that the year is not 1839 and that he is about to be very much alarmed.

~*~

Francis is very much alarmed, and cannot for the life of him understand why Jopson does not seem to be.

His shining moment of hope that he’s actually still in the midst of withdrawals and this is the latest torment his mind has concocted for him gets dimmer and dimmer with every passing moment, and Jopson looks moderately concerned at most.

Crozier sighs. Where the hell to begin.

He starts with the obvious. 

“Jopson- - -”

His....inexplicably tiny and unruffled steward brightens.

“Captain!”

Oh god.  

It occurs to him that perhaps Jopson is his normal height, and has his normal voice, and that he, Crozier, has simply gone mad at last. Wouldn’t that just match the rest of his life record. Still, Jopson is staring again, and he ought to be sure.

“Jopson,” he says again, carefully, “Are you...well?”

Jopson blinks. Tilts his head like a goddamn sparrow, stray hair flopping over his eyes. The fact that, by all appearances, he is currently stood on a chair awkwardly attempting to help Francis with his coat is not doing wonders for Crozier’s investigation into his own sanity. 

He decides to elaborate. “You’re not feeling...ill, then? Not feeling-” about a meter high or so “- - - Different, today?”

Jopson hesitates.

God. Damn it.

~*~

“Is there a reason,” Francis finally settles on asking, “Any reason at all, that upon finding yourself in this....condition....you decided the most appropriate course of action would be to resume your duties as normal instead of...?”

Instead of a rational response, such as running to Dr. McDonald, screaming, crying, alerting someone. 

To his credit, Jopson seems to genuinely consider for a moment, staring intently at a spot just past Crozier’s right shoulder. Then he’s staring into the tumultuous depths of his soul again with the faintest hint of a shrug.

“Nothing for it,” the boy (god, once again, damn it) replies. He then grins like the devil in a way Crozier has only ever seen once or twice before (like when he was so triumphantly confessing to his part in that ridiculous scheme he and the Lieutenants had cooked up for Edward’s birthday last month) “It’s not as if I can go home, sir.”

~*~

“Doctor Mcdonald!” Crozier shouts before he even reaches the door. Even with the current state of emergency, he gives it three courteous knocks and a quick glance shows him the still only slightly nonplussed miniature steward tucked under his other arm attempting to do the same.

The door opens, but only enough for the uncharacteristically flustered Doctor McDonald to peer out.

Crozier briefly considers dropping Jopson and walking back the way he came. 

The defeated look on McDonald’s face as he glances between the two of them persuades him otherwise. 

The poor bastard regards Jopson warmly, if tiredly, and manages a wobbly smile for Francis. 

“Captain,” he says by way of greeting, and then lies through his teeth, “I was just about to send for you.” 

He steps back, allowing the door to open and gesturing for Crozier- and Jopson, no longer being held like a bony little sack of flour but instead trotting along at the captain’s side and holding Francis’ coat sleeve like a prized possession -to follow.

And damn it all to hell if two distinctly too-small but unmistakable lieutenants and a capuchin don’t turn to stare.

[boilyerheid]

WIP Weds: Terror but make it advertising AU

You should go talk, Silna signs emphatically, pointing after Jopson and giving Francis the sort of look that would make a lesser man quake when he doesn't immediately follow her directions. Francis might quake a little bit anyway, but nobody needs to know that as he makes a beeline after his fleeing assistant. 

Tommi is throwing up next to the smoking area, when he manages to find where she's run off to. She's a sorry sight with one hand braced on the distressed brick wall of the bar, and Francis dithers for a moment on propriety before gently pressing a hand to her upper back - he knows more than enough about the drunken spins, and hopes offering a modicum of stability will help.

"Sorry, sir," she only notices Crozier when she's done, immediately trying to straighten up and scrub a hand over her mouth and nearly toppling over in the process. Francis carefully takes her arm and guides her to one of the nearby picnic benches, forehead creased with concern. "Something I can do for you?"

"For Christ's sake no, Jopson. Just stay here while I get you some water," she shakes her head and grabs his sleeve when he goes to leave, and looks so stricken that Francis softens his voice. "I'm not angry with you, you just need to drink some water. You'll feel better."

"No, I- I need to talk to you, Mr Crozier. I meant to, I did, I need to, just…" she trails off from the nonsense jumble of a sentence, voice cracking. Francis looks her over with a mixture of concern and confusion bubbling in his chest and sinks down to sit beside her, choosing not to mention that she's still got a hold of his sleeve like a lost child. "I haven't been… I haven't been fully honest with you, sir. An-and it's only because I respect your opinion and I couldn't- I don't know what I'd do if you lost respect for me." 

"Why the hell would I ever lose respect for you?" Francis is seriously worried now, if he wasn't already, and touches Jopson's elbow to bring her focus back, still her slight drunken weaving even while sitting down. God, he knows a thing or two about having to get smashed to say what you mean, to force words past your throat that would otherwise have festered and died in your gut like an ulcer. "Are you in some kind of trouble? D'you need help?"

"N-No. I… I don't want you to hate me, sir," her voice cracks again and Francis thinks she's tearing up, oh lord. He doesn't know what to do with crying twenty-somethings, especially not one who follows him like a duckling. "I couldn't stand it if you hated me."

"Jopson, look at me. I'm not going to hate you," he enunciates clearly, trying to make sure he gets through the haze of booze he’s horribly familiar with, and yes, those are definitely tears in her eyes. Shit, she's breaking his heart. He's never wanted kids but Jopson apparently activates all the paternal instincts he never knew he had. "Now tell me what's wrong, and we'll look at it together. It's going to be okay. You're a smart girl, we'll figure it out, whatever it is." 

"I'm not, sir."

"Of course you are! You're one of the smartest-"

"No, I'm- I'm not a girl."

[restmyheadatnightcontent]

so I watched the terror and fell in love with all these stupid cold boys so I went and read all the fics I could and I fell in love with thse two. my brain wouldnt shut up until I wrote this so here we go. it was meant to be a short little but but ended up as almost 2k of domestic joplittle fluff

_

Edward sighs as he wakes again to find the space beside him empty. He wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t the fifth time this week that it has happened. He sighs and pulls the jumper that has taken permanent residence on the floor next to the bed. He isn’t sure if it is his, or Thomas’, but right now he is too tired to care.

When Tom first moved in, their clothes were organised and separate from each other, but now, like every other aspect of their lives, they are mixed and tangled in together. There have been many days where he has rushed to work and grabbed a shirt blindly from the wardrobe only to reach the office and find that it isn’t his, or they will go out to the pub and Tom will be wearing the shirt that Ed remembers wearing two weeks before. As time goes on, the lines where separating him and Tom begin to blur more and more. 

And honestly, Edward doesn’t mind at all.

However, there is one thing that they do differ on, and that is their attitude for work.

That isn’t to say that Edward doesn’t enjoy his work, and that he doesn’t put any effort in because he does. But he is also loves the moment when he can turn off his computer, leave the office and not have to think about the seemingly never-ending stream of emails that plague him.

Whereas Edward is certain that, if given the choice, Tom would do nothing but work. It is something that has been ingrained into him since childhood, Edward suspects. He had grown up in the countryside, his struggles being distant yet disapproving parents who would ship him off to boarding school so as to not have to deal with him for half the year;  the expectation to never let anything show, even on the days where he wanted to do nothing but cry; and the loneliness that ate away at him, despite being almost always surrounded by people. But no matter how cold his family would get, they would always provide for him. He never had to worry about food, or shelter, or money.

Thomas hadn’t been quite so lucky.

It had taken him a while to tell Edward about his childhood, having buried every trace of it deep down out of fear that anyone would find out and think less of him for it.

Not that sane person who had ever met the man would ever think badly of Thomas Jopson. He was hard-working, punctual, incredibly well organised but also friendly, funny, and kind. He remembered everyone’s name in the office, and would always make time to stop and chat. He seemed to have this magical ability to see everyone, and make you feel seen in return, which had terrified Edward at first. He wasn’t used to attention, used to people only talking to him when they needed something from him and for not a second more. So it had been a shock one day to find a cup of tea set down on his desk and looked up to find Francis Crozier’s assistant in front of him with a beaming smile, asking how his day is going. It was a strange feeling being noticed, and realising that Jopson must have noticed him enough attention to make his tea order perfectly. After that, Tom’s visits to his desk had become more frequent, and he would visit Tom at his own whenever the man had a spare minute. And desk visits had become a few pints in the pub after work, and pub trips became dinner, and then he one day he found himself sat across from Tom in the park on his old picnic blanket when the other man had leaned across and kissed him.  

After that, Edward started to see more and more of the real Thomas Jopson, as the other man slowly peeled away his hardened layers, letting Edward see what lay beneath. His eyes crinkled when he really smiled, and he snorted when he laughed, and his accent would slip if he was ever really excited about something. He let Tom see the true him in return, and he knows they both found it hard to let someone in after so long, but god was it worth it.

One night, as they were laying in bed, just between awake and sleep when Tom began to talk. He told Edward all about his childhood; about his mum, the young boy who was forced to become a parent to his younger brother, how he had started working so young just so there could be food on the table, about the fear that hangs over him and that he will wake up one day to find he is still that little scared boy, fighting to survive.

His voice hadn’t wavered as he talked, and Edward marvelled at his bravery; to flay himself open, pull down every wall he had built up and let everything else fall away until there was just him. He didn’t say it, but Edward could hear him all the same, saying here I am, this is it, do you still love me? And Edward had thought yes, I love you now more than ever and just pulled Tom in close, held him tight against his chest and promised him that he would never be alone again.

The memories were dredged up again once Crozier made the decision to stop drinking, encouraged by Tom, and Edward could do little besides watching the man he loved run himself into the ground, helping James care for Francis whilst trying to keep the office running smoothly and look after himself. Ed could help with last part at least, and so he made food and made sure that Tom actually ate it, kept the flat tidy because the last thing Tom needed was to come home and have to clean, and when Tom came home late at night exhausted, shaking and overwhelmed by the memories, Edward would hold him, let him cry into his shoulder until he was asleep.

It wasn’t long after that, once Crozier had returned to the office healthier and happier than he’d been in a long time, that Tom had quietly mentioned that he was thinking of a career change. He had always helped people, had always liked helping people and he wanted to do it for other people, to choose to help them and help other people the way he wished someone would have helped him as a child. So the next few weeks were spent meticulously researching different courses and placements and funding and eventually Tom had decided.

He was going to become a nurse.

Ed had been wholly supportive, of course, and his heart swelled with pride as Tom had told him, knowing he would do whatever he could to help the man he loved achieve his dreams. He kept it quiet at the office until Tom had figured out a way to tell Crozier his plans, but he couldn’t help but beam whenever he caught Tom’s eye.

(Once he found out, Crozier was overjoyed but also a little heartbroken to be losing his trusted assistant.)

But he wouldn’t be losing him for a while, as it was going to be a long process. Because he had to care for his mum and brother, Tom had had to drop out of school the minute he could which meant that he didn’t have much in the way of qualifications. So he was put on a foundation course so that he could catch up before starting the proper training, which sadly he hadn’t been able to get funding for. Both Edward and Francis (and almost everyone they knew) had offered to help him, so that he would have time to study, but Tom being Tom would not and could not accept it. This was his decision and he wanted to do it by himself.   So he was still working full time at the office, whilst coming home in the evenings to study.  Which would have been fine if Tom wasn’t such a perfectionist, and work himself late into the night as he is doing once again tonight.

Edward catches a glimpse of the clock as he makes his way out of the bedroom towards the living room and he sees that it reads 3:34 and sighs. This is the latest that Tom has been up this week and Ed knows that if he carries on like this, he will burn himself out.

Tom is sat on the sofa, laptop balanced on his lap with textbooks open all around  him, and even from here Edward can see the exhausted set to his shoulders. At least this time he has made it to the sofa, some nights Edward has found him slumped over the table, shoulders drawn up tight and back tense, and Ed had to sit and watch him wince every time he turned too quickly, the next day when he thought no-one could see.

He shuffles over to the sofa, and Tom doesn’t notice him until he comes to sit beside him. From here Ed can see the deep bags beneath his boyfriends eyes, the paleness of his face and the tiredness that seems to be pouring off of him and he curses himself for not waking earlier and pulling Tom into bed with him, back from the edge of exhaustion before he can do any real harm to himself.

“Shit, did I wake you?” Tom asks, voice quiet but rough with tiredness and eyes slowly blinking at Ed.

“No, just woke up,” he replies. “Missed you.”

“Sorry, darling. I just need to finish this and then I’ll come in,” Tom says, turning back to his typing.

Edward knows better than to start arguing with him, Tom can be incredibly stubborn, and even more so if he thinks he is being coddled. So, he has learnt to resort to slightly more underhanded tactics. He manoeuvres himself up so that he can wrap his arm around Toms waist and let his head fall on his shoulder.

“Ned—” Tom protests, but Ed just hums and squeezes his middle, sneaking his hand underneath Tom’s shirt and runs his fingers along the skin just above his waistband. He pushes his face into Tom’s neck, nose nuzzling at the spot just below his ear that he knows makes Tom weak.

Tom huffs and carries on typing, but Ed can already feel the tension draining from him, and he smiles. Tom is one of the strongest people Edward knows, he carries so much weight on his slim shoulders, but most of the time he carries it effortlessly and Ed is in awe of him.

But there are times when it all becomes a little bit too much and Edward is there to help him carry the load.

He knows Tom has a path in his head, carefully treading the line between the past and the present, taking him where he knows he needs to go. But sometimes he stumbles, pushes himself a little too hard, is a little too harsh on himself, but it doesn’t matter because Ed is there walking every step behind him.

And he will always be there to lead him home.

[gaylord-fagaton]

How to Not Make Friends: A Guide by One George Henry Hodgson

Or alternatively titled: How George Hodgson’s Character Arc is Actually a Story about Trying to Fit in, and then Failing Miserably

Today I’ll be bringing you more Hodgson thoughts, specifically on the question of his place within the group, or rather his lack of place within the group. He exists at the fringes of the Terror’s command team, he’s a part of it of course that’s his job, but he really isn’t part of the group not like Little, nor Crozier, or finally Irving. This is what made him such a good target for Hickey, who is probably observant enough to notice this, his feelings of rejection coupled with the fact that apparently nobody ever taught him about stranger danger had him following Hickey into the tent.

The way Hodgson behaves is the primary reason for him being ostracized from the rest of the terror officers I believe. If you hadn’t noticed, Little is basically depression personified, Irving is well….the way he is, and their captain is an alcoholic angry at the entire world. There is no room for the happy go lucky Hodgson, who is just here to have a good time, not a long time. (Side Note: This doesn’t have much relevance when it comes to the terror as a show, but Hodgson was hand picked by Fitzjames. Can you imagine having your friend asking you to come work with them, only to find out you aren’t actually working with them at all, and are in fact working in one of the most stressful environments imaginable.) It also does not help that a great deal of Hodgson’s attempts of relating to others or bringing levity to situations are generally not particularly relevant or are downright inappropriate at times. I always go back to the “hear, hear” bit when Irving is listing their dwindling food supplies, because it’s one of the best examples, you’re going to starve to death Hodgson what is wrong with you? (Not to insert head cannons into my meta but, George Hodgson autistic). The sheer level of annoyance on the faces of his companions when he does his bullshit, is almost funny. In the aforementioned scene Irving looks about ready to kill him, so does Armitage when he goes on about the origin of the word diet in a later scene.

Not only does the way everybody behaves around Hodgson tell us about the way he is viewed, but so does everybody’s reactions, or rather lack thereof.  Nobody ever responds to him verbally at least; this is except for one notable exception in Hickey. I think this was perhaps a ploy on Hickey’s part at least at first, later it became mocking, he had no intention to really allow Hodgson into his group (more on this later).

I hadn’t really noticed this before, until @gildatheplant​ mentioned it on my newest gif-set, but we really don’t have any shots of the Lieutenants together. This to me, is seemingly done to create a further sense of separation between Hodgson and his fellow command members.

Here the camera pans away from Hodgson leaving only Little, Irving, Crozier, and Jopson in the shot. He was left out, even though he is standing right next to Little at the time.

In this scene, Little and Irving are standing right next to each other, but Hodgson is standing across the room by himself.

I don’t know how much those kinds of scenes really mean in the long run, I just think it’s really interesting to look at. Even without them, Hodgson is painted as quite the outcast from the rest of the terror command. There but not really There.

Here we come to his murder of the Netsilik family, now this is primarily motivated by racist fear. His go too wouldn’t have been fucking murder if he wasn’t a shithead racist, and as I’ve mentioned before his story to Little later when he realizes he might have fucked up on goes on to further illustrate how he feels about the Netsilik people. Beyond the racist fear fueled by a story that sounds like a chain email or a shitty Facebook post, another motivator for his haste in acting, I think is probably a want for some form of acceptance into the group. At this point he’d just been informed of the fact that a command meeting had occurred, and he wasn’t invited, instead he was sent out on the rather unlikable task of burying Morfin. They are sharing important information and promoting new officers, and they hadn’t thought about including him. If he didn’t feel like an outcast beforehand, he must certainly feel that way now, especially as hickey is shoving his rat like fingers into the hole in his heart where friends would go if he had any. So he acts, because if he does the right thing, perhaps this will be enough for him to get the recognition that he wants and craves, and he’ll maybe be a part of the group finally. It turns out, however, that he was wrong, really fucking wrong, and then everything proceeds to go to shit.

When it comes to his placement within the mutineer group, I wouldn’t call him a mutineer but he is also definitely not a hostage like Goodsir. He had a choice something which Goodsir who was forced at gun point to come with Hickey and co. did not, a shitty choice, but a choice none the less. (Side note: beyond referring to the fact that he is to much of a coward to do anything about hickey, I think his “I’m hungry and want to live” line could also describe the circumstances in which he joined up with Hickey. If he hadn’t joined he’d have certainly starved to death.) He is still on the fringes even here, treated like a spectacle, a joke, and has his live threatened by Hickey multiple times. He is neither a mutineer or a hostage, but kind of both at the same time. Hickey was a collector of those who he knew didn’t fit in, and that fits Hodgson.

Onwards to his monologue to Goodsir in the tent, who also doesn’t respond to him rip. In part beyond it being about a strange religious experience, which oof dude you were like 8, I think it is also a tale about fitting in. In church setting like that everybody is doing the same thing, you are a part of a collective in front of god. Which is why tiny Hodgson was so moved to participate because it finally meant he was a part of something. He labels it a “perfect moment in his imperfect life” because it’s what he always wanted, to fit in. Interestingly enough, (Thanks to @gobnaits​ for pointing this out) communion means “sharing in common” and is a sacrament of initiation. (Catholic facts that make you hmmm) He ultimately rejects this because he was taught this kind of community is wrong but also because, I believe that he thought he’d eventually be unable to function within this group. (*Cough* George Hodgson Autistic *Cough*) Ultimately I think George Hodgson’s story arch is about being an outcast and a want for acceptance, which along with his own ignorance is the reason for his downfall.

TL;DR: Hodgson is outcast and it makes me sad. Also I love him.

[bro-stoevsky]

For the list of prompts - Fitzier and Aid from unexpected quarters ??

Unexpected indeed!

Spectacular, spectacular

Pairing: Crozier/FitzjamesRating: M

Wherein everyone is fine and they are heading home on Terror and Sir John’s credulous simplicity is practiced upon. 

It was no easy thing to obtain commerce in such a crowded ship as Terror was now, steaming home with two crews packed in tightly. But Crozier was already sharing his quarters with Fitzjames, which eliminated a number of the traditional logistical problems. As long as they kept quiet and kept track of their limbs, they did well enough indeed.

On one such occasion they were down to their shirts, Fitzjames occupying most of the bed and reaching invitingly toward Crozier, when they heard an unmistakable bluff voice call out just beyond the door:

“Francis? James? I need you.”

They both froze. Fitzjames whispered a horrible oath very quietly. Francis felt the stiffness go out of his cock so thoroughly that he wondered if it would be limp for the rest of his life.

He stared at Fitzjames in horror.

Fitzjames stared back, his eyes wide and wild.

There was a knock, then the voice again: “Francis? Are you decent? And where is James?”

“Say something,” Fitzjames hissed urgently.

“Like what?” Crozier whispered back, throwing his entire face and body into pantomiming the hysteria he felt.

“Anything!” Fitzjames replied, and when Crozier was still silent he threw a hand over his eyes and started swearing again at a whisper.

Crozier finally got up his courage and replied in a strangled whisper: “One moment, Sir John.”

“Very well,” Sir John replied.

Crozier struggled into his trousers, only to make the unhappy discovery that they were not his. He persisted, got into his boots, and made to open the door when he heard approaching footsteps and a far more welcome voice:

“Good evening, sir,” said Blanky. Crozier froze. Fitzjames lifted his hand off his eyes and looked hopefully at the door.

“Mr. Blanky,” said Sir John benignly.

“Are you looking for Captain Crozier? I’m afraid you might have caught him at a bad moment. You see, he might not like to tell you, sir, but he’s right in the middle of an awful—” Blanky paused. He had never been a terribly creative liar when he was put on the spot.

Crozier saw the hope go out of Fitzjames’s face. But then they heard another, lighter step come up at a run, and Jopson’s breathless voice cried out: “Laundry incident!”

“Laundry incident,” Blanky agreed. “An awful laundry incident, it upsets me to say.”

“A laundry incident?” said Sir John.

“Begging your pardon, sirs, it is all my fault,” Jopson went on. “Oh, it is as awful a laundry incident as even I have seen. Why sir, I like not to allude to the captain’s trousers—”

Here Crozier heard Blanky laugh and turn it badly into a cough. On the bed, Fitzjames put his hand over his mouth and started shaking.

“Are you well, Mr. Blanky?” asked Sir John.

“I am quite well,” Blanky replied. “You are kind to ask, sir. It’s only that I don’t like hearing the captain’s trousers alluded to. It offends my understanding of propriety, so it does.”

“Very well,” said Sir John with approval. “I understand that the situation bears on his trousers and shall say no more. But gentlemen, what is the matter? Surely it is within my power to help in what way I can. Perhaps I could lend him a pair of my own trousers, for the time being.”

“Sir!” said Jopson. There were more footsteps approaching as he spoke: “You are the soul of kindness, sir. Why I did not—good evening, Lieutenant Little.”

“I got here directly,” said Little. He was breathing hard. “I was told to tell Sir John that—”

“—Pray do not trouble yourself about it,” said Jopson smoothly. “I have just told Sir John, though I don’t like to, about Captain Crozier’s awful laundry incident and particularly the involvement of his trousers, which I am sure prevents him from making a more civil reception for Sir John.”

“Oh yes,” said Little. “Well. That’s all I wanted to say, the things about the—what you said, and trousers.”

Blanky coughed again. Fitzjames was shaking with laughter enough that his elbow hit the frame of the bed. Crozier made a frantic silencing gesture at him.

“You are very proper, Mr. Blanky, it gladdens my heart to see it,” said Sir John. He then raised his voice to carry through the door: “Be easy, Francis, I have been informed about your trousers. I will have a pair of mine sent to you directly. But tell me, where is James?”

Fitzjames himself stopped laughing. 

Crozier could almost picture Jopson, Little, and Blanky sharing a panicked glance.

“Well,” said Blanky. “He’s…” he trailed off.

“Yes of course,” said Jopson.

Little tried third: “He’s—”

“Awfully sorry!” came the voice of Lieutenant Le Vesconte. “Hello there, Sir John. Gentlemen.”

“James is awfully sorry?” said Sir John. “About what, I pray?”

“Unfortunately, he’s an idiot,” Fitzjames whispered to Crozier.

“What?” said Le Vesconte. “I beg your pardon, Sir John, I haven’t the foggiest what’s going on. I meant to say I am terribly sorry, but I am here to inform Sir John that his monkey’s got loose and I am come to believe sir, that she will heed your voice alone. Dr. Goodsir and a couple of the stewards are chasing her around but she won’t listen to them. She bit poor Mr. Bridgens on the finger, sir.”

“Jacko!” said Sir John. “Mr. Jopson, please see to it that the trousers are arranged. I must fly—oh, Jacko! I pray she has not got into the brandy again.”

Sir John thundered off, and when his footsteps had faded, Le Vesconte said very smugly: “Gentlemen, it is a frail distraction to make up stories about laundry when there is a monkey that may be let loose. May this incident be instructional to you.”

Fearing how such a precedent could escalate, and in consideration of the monkey’s health, Crozier and Fitzjames agreed that they would not sleep the same watch again aboard Terror. 

[gigi-sinclair]

A Birthday Gift!!

For the always wonderful, young and talented @draculas-gay-daughter, who is celebrating today!

An homage to your amazing fic In His Shape How Lovely. And I hope you have a great birthday, even if things are a bit weird right now. 

“Someone Else’s Story”, rated M

Edward Little's family is ashamed of him.

They never miss an opportunity to tell him so. Edward, however, has never been ashamed of himself. He is a man who has always loved order, and loved caring for others. Even as a boy, he preferred “women's tasks” to those his father and brothers tried to foist upon him. Preferred to sit quietly. To read, to paint. Even to help Mrs. Wilcox with the mending, when he could get away with it.

“There is something wrong with him,” was the general consensus. Perhaps it is correct. Edward has never felt wrong, though, except when he was forced to live another man's life, compelled to do things for which he has no skill or interest.

His father, a Navy man, put Edward to work as a ship's boy as soon as he was old enough. The path laid out for him was clear. He would become an officer, everybody thought. He was of the breeding and the background for it, but Edward possessed no desire—and, it was soon apparent, no aptitude—to lead men. No desire to labour with the tars, either, although he did find he very much enjoyed being at sea. A steward's position might be far beneath what was expected of him, but it is exactly what Edward has always wanted. He's never been happier than he is here, serving Captain Fitzjames and the worthy officers of Terror on their expedition to find the Northwest Passage.

Edward tries to respect all the officers equally, but one in particular stands out in his mind. Lieutenant Jopson is at once similar to Edward, and his complete opposite. Jopson rose from the London gutter, everybody knows. He was once a steward himself, aboard Terror no less. A battlefield promotion in the Antarctic, vigorously defended by the now-retired Captain Crozier upon their return, put him where he is today. An unorthodox path, maybe, but Edward cannot imagine a man more suited to his role. Jopson is gentle, on the whole, but firm when he needs to be. Due to his origins, the men accept Jopson as one of their own in a way they do no other officer, but when necessary, he makes his superiority of position known. He is intelligent and capable, an invaluable asset to their crew. Captain Fitzjames' trusted second. And, Edward thinks privately, Jopson also happens to be possessed of a rare beauty he finds moving in the extreme.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Little.” Jopson comes into the wardroom with a smile on his face. Edward has rarely seen him without one. “Although you would scarcely think it, given we are steeped in the pitch darkness of midnight.”

Edward doesn't speak much. It's not that he dislikes talking. He can just never seem to land on the right words to say. Silence is a desirable trait in a steward, although some officers have teased him for it. Jopson never teases. He simply fills the quiet with words of his own, without comment or complaint, and somehow without ever resorting to idle prattle.

“Captain is out, sir,” Edward says. “Gone to Erebus to meet with Sir John.”

“Ah, yes. He did tell me so.” Jopson's smile doesn't waver. Nor, Edward notices, does he turn around to leave. “How are the preparations for Christmas? If I understand correctly, we are to host the Erebite officers on the day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is going well?”

“Yes, sir.” Edward doesn't know what else he can say about it. He feels himself flushing as he casts about in the recesses of his mind for something, anything. It doesn't help that Jopson is looking upon him with his most kind, patient expression, the one that makes him even more alluring than usual. Edward doesn't look at him. “Mr. Diggle is doing up as much of a feast as he can manage.” Given that they've just passed their second anniversary in the ice, that's not much.  

“Ah, yes. Christmas dinner courtesy of Mr. Goldner.” Jopson laughs. “I don't mind. I must say, I'm not particular about my food.”

“No, sir.” Edward has noticed. Jopson cleans his plate at every meal, without exception. A man who grew up with hunger, Edward thinks. While he has no experience of it himself, he is sympathetic. On the rare occasions there are leftovers, he always offers them to Lieutenant Jopson before anyone, even the captain. It is not protocol, but nothing has yet been said.  

“What about you?”

“Sir?” Edward's flush is darkening, he's sure. He can feel it heating his face.

“What did young Edward Little desire more than anything for his Christmas meal?”

Edward licks his lips, his eyes on the lamp in the corner. He couldn't look at the lieutenant if his life depended on it. “Ah, goose, sir. It was normally goose.” It feels wrong to expound upon the memory, given what he knows about Jopson's past. But Jopson, kind as always, says, “Go on, please,” and Edward adds, “With Yorkshire pudding and mince pies.” And a good deal more than that, but there is no need to belabour the point.

“It sounds heavenly. Thank you for sharing that with me. Now I shall have something to imagine as I pick the lead out of my own Christmas dinner.”

Edward expects the lieutenant to leave. Hopes he will leave, really, although there is a part of him that wants nothing more than for him to stay.

“Mr. Little.” Edward looks up. The lieutenant is gazing back at him, his beautiful eyes wide and shining.

Edward has never admired an officer, not in that way. Not in the dangerous way, the way that makes his stomach churn and his mouth grow dry. The way that haunts him when he's alone in his berth, that gives him illicit fantasies that segue into filthy dreams. 

He's never wanted to undress an officer slowly, unprofessionally, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it comes into view, his fingers stroking through the hair that darkens the man's chest. He's never wanted to go to his knees as he pulls down an officer's trousers, never wanted to mouth an officer's stiffening yard through his small clothes. Never wanted to hear an officer gasp above him, feel him thread his hands in Edward's hair, murmuring words of appreciation and encouragement as Edward removes the last barrier between them and presses his tongue to a hard pink cock. Never wanted to look up coquettishly through his lashes, his dark eyes meeting astonished blue ones. Never wanted to taste an officer, never wanted to kiss and lick and suckle him, root to tip, until he spends, flooding Edward's mouth with wave upon wave of his salty essence.

Lieutenant Jopson is unique in all sorts of ways.

“You are an excellent steward.” Jopson speaks with conviction. He wouldn't say it if he knew the vile contents of Edward's mind.

Edward stands still as Jopson raises a hand. Automatically, Edward's body braces for a blow, although Jopson is most certainly not that type of man, and has never struck anybody to Edward's knowledge. He doesn't do so now, of course. Instead, his hand lands, gentle and light, on Edward's shoulder. “I don't know what we should do without you,” he says, and squeezes. The sensation sends a warm wave the length of Edward's arm.

Lieutenant Jopson winks, the expression so fleeting Edward almost doubts if he saw it at all. Then, he leaves, his footsteps echoing down the passageway. Edward feels suddenly cold, despite his layers of clothing.

Edward has never been ashamed of his occupation, never been ashamed of who he is. He is ashamed of his consuming, humiliating lust for Lieutenant Jopson. But maybe, he thinks, recalling the wink, and the soft touch, the kind words the lieutenant always has for him and the sea-blue eyes that sometimes—often—meet his over the dinner table or as they press past one another in the passageway, if I'm lucky enough, there may be no cause for shame there, either.  

[annecoulmanross]

A Prequel to “A World That Was Meant for Our Eyes to See.”

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

Lady Ann Ross awakens in the afterlife and discovers that the answers to the questions she and her husband have had about the Franklin expedition might finally be within her grasp.  

(for the @theterrorbingo square “Lady Ann Ross” | pairings: Ann Coulman Ross & James Fitzjames; James Clark Ross / Ann Coulman Ross; James Fitzjames / Francis Crozier; Francis Crozier / James Clark Ross; background Francis Crozier / Sophia Cracroft | word count: 5696 plus endnote | rating: T | warnings: angst with a happy ending; mild worries about period-typical homophobia, not actually present; death, but make it happy – happier?)

When Lady Ann Ross first awoke, she blinked her eyes at the golden light streaming through lace curtains. Unseasonably bright for January, she thought. Unseasonably warm too. And her limbs didn’t ache as they had these last few weeks; she felt almost well again. Then the door creaked quietly open and Ann looked up into the kindly face of Eleanor Anne Franklin née Porden, and Ann Ross realized what had happened. She’d spent enough years in the company of this woman’s daughter to know what seeing her long-deceased mother meant.

So, this was it. The end.

Except it wasn’t.

There were people to meet, and people to meet again. Lady Franklin the First – Eleanor – led Ann gently through all of it, through the winding corridors of a grand house whose huge windows gave views of an icy sea and grand cliffs, and Ann gave handshakes and embraces to friends and long-lost relatives until she was tired beyond measure.

Eventually, Eleanor guided her to a settee in a new room of the unending house, pressing a cup of tea into Ann’s hands. Ann looked up to give her thanks, and startled at the face of the man standing at Eleanor’s elbow.

“Mr. Jopson?”

The young man gave her a familiar grin, and tucked his hair behind his ear, lovely as ever.

“Yes, Lady Ross,” Jopson answered.

He looked just as he had when the Antarctic crew had returned to England in 1843, with Thomas Jopson standing tall and poised, half a step behind his captain aboard Terror.  But there was no captain here now, only Jopson, whom Ann hadn’t seen in over ten years. The last word about Jopson Ann had heard was from that thrice-damned last letter Ross had received from Francis Crozier.

Ann began to ask, “But then–”

Jopson nodded, his smile dimming a bit.

In sudden realization, Ann looked toward Eleanor. “Is Sir John–?”

But Eleanor seemed contented enough. “He’s out with the ships, yes,” she explained. “Most of them are out on the water, but our Lieutenant Jopson likes to keep an eye out for new arrivals, and Captain Fitzjames should be around here somewhere.”

Ann reeled. To finally know! “Are they all here then?”

Eleanor shook her head, a bit of the melancholy upon her at last. “Ah – no. We’ve yet to see Captain Crozier.”

Mr. Jopson – Lieutenant Jopson, Ann corrected in her head – stepped forward, his voice suddenly eager. “He was one of the last of us who was still hale and hearty, ma’am,” Jopson said. “We assumed he’d been rescued, but no news of it ever came to us. Your husband, m’am, would have found him, we thought?”

Ann’s heart sunk. She shook her head sadly, saying, “James went searching and found only stories of tragedy and a handful of buttons. No word of Captain Crozier but ‘Gone, dead and gone.’”

Jopson’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“I wish I had better news to give you,” Lady Ann added. The young man had never struck her as talkative but his silence was worrisome, and she had nothing but silence to give him on this matter, so she hurried to change the subject: “You’ve earned ‘lieutenant,’ have you then, dear Jopson?”

Jopson nodded. “Captain Crozier wrote up the promotion himself, ma’am. In 1848.”

“Oh, that’s excellent – my congratulations. What was the occasion?”

Jopson hesitated to reply, and he seem to stare unseeing, at some distant mark. “We were short of officers, m’am. We’d lost more than half of the complement of Erebus and then–” But Jopson did not speak further.

Ann bit her lip. The instinct to ask for more details of the Franklin expedition was strong, but the young man seemed likely to shiver out of his skin, the way his eyes skittered away from hers and his face stayed in a careful, unmoving mask.

“Well,” Ann replied, carefully and slowly. “I have heard it said that when new lieutenants earned their titles in the Med – for, my husband told me, many officers take their exams on Malta – there would be a sort of little theatre festival. Eleanor, didn’t you hear the story about when Captain Fitzjames was on Malta?”

Lady Eleanor quickly caught onto the tone of Ann’s voice. With a gentle hand, Eleanor eased Jopson slowly down onto the end of the couch, and picked up the thread of the story. “Yes,” Eleanor began, “My husband told me that Captain Fitzjames had performed in a play to mark the occasion. It was something rather funny-sounding – what was it called again, Ann?”

“Oh I can’t recall.” Ann continued, her words light. “It was long and terribly Greek. But Fitzjames played the best role, didn’t he? The queen? And he wore just the most spectacular gown, I heard. What was the queen’s name, Eleanor – do you remember? Fandillia? Fadlandia?”

“Fadladinida.”

That was Jopson. He had tucked his hair behind his ear again and managed a shaky smile. “Queen Fadladinida,” he confirmed. “Captain Fitzjames and Captain Crozier were talking about it one night. It sounded like the most absurd thing.”

Eleanor grinned and turned to Jopson, “Have you heard what happens at the end?”

“No, m’am,” Jopson replied.

“Ah,” Ann added. “Then you’re in for a treat, because we shall tell you the story of Fad-lad-whatever-her-name-is (as we have understood it from several sources) and you will never believe us, but we shall attempt to replicate the plot as best we can.”

Jopson smiled a little more broadly at this, and seemed to prepare himself to listen to Ann and Eleanor recounting their version of the play. As they narrated the romantic escapades of the queen and her entourage, Jopson appeared to settle back into himself, and he even smothered a laugh or two at the odd twists of the narrative. Once, when Ann laughed as well, Jopson’s eyes went briefly hollow, but Eleanor’s friendly hand to his arm and their ongoing discussion appeared to soften even this fleeting harsh memory, whatever it had been. By the time Ann retired for bed, Jopson was once more his former self, and bid her and Eleanor goodnight with a nod and a smile.

As Lady Eleanor turned to leave as well, Ann caught her hand and said quietly, “Thank you. I would not have known how to help him without you. I certainly hadn’t intended to upset him so.”

Eleanor smiled sadly. “That dear young man has it harder than some of the others. And he takes Crozier’s absence poorly. You did well, though, to bring him back around.”

Ann bowed her head in thanks. “Your care helped him as much as the story-telling, I think. But do you know more of what happened to him and the rest of the men who were with Franklin? I admit I am desperate to know.”

“They mislike to tell of it,” Eleanor said briefly. “We know that many things went wrong, and John tells me that they were beset by ice for more than a year by the time he himself passed on. From what I gather, some of the crew lived longer than he, but none more than a year or two. And none know what happened to Crozier – or if they know, they do not say.”

Ann nodded, thinking.

Eleanor continued, “Put it from your mind, my dear. This is not a place to trawl up dark thoughts and rememberings. When you see more of the men of the expedition you will have some answers, but do not pry. They are all in and out of the house; you will run into them sooner or later.”

And yet, as she prepared for bed, Ann’s mind buzzed with questions. What had happened to the men of Franklin’s expedition? Of course she would press young Jopson no further, but perhaps, if she were to meet another of Franklin’s officers, someone of old acquaintance…

+

Despite Eleanor’s words, it was several days until Ann caught a glimpse of any of the other officers of that ill-fated expedition. There were simply too many people to greet, and Ann tired easily, now. But perhaps the third day after her arrival at the grand house on the cliffs, Ann spied a silhouette she’d seen before – a tall, slim man with long, wavy hair much like Ann’s own James. This figure stood at the front window, alone, gazing out at the ships in harbor, anchored serenely in the bay below. Ann knew that she could have gone out to the ships herself and gotten the answers she sought directly, but there seemed to be so little hurry in this place and after the conversation with Lieutenant Jopson she was hesitant to disturb any man so badly in need of a rest from their life’s sufferings. Someday Ann would know more, and someday her James would arrive, and she would comfort him and that was that. But now that one of the poor officers was here before her, Ann felt it was time to at least ask – carefully, this time.

“Captain?” Ann inquired – Jopson had explained to her that the custom here was to use the highest station a man had obtained while alive, even if he had done so under less than ideal circumstances; this had apparently been implemented without question after someone had dared to slight Lieutenant Jopson in Fitzjames’ hearing – and when the man made no motion, Ann called out a bit louder, “Captain Fitzjames?”

The man at the window startled and turned. “Ah, my dear Lady Ross!” Ann could tell that some cheer had come over him only in that moment that had not been present before she arrived, but she still gladdened to see James Fitzjames before her, whole and well and exuberant. Indeed, the man grinned and tossed his curls much like she remembered.  

Ann smiled. “It is good to see you, Captain. How is this place treating you?”

Fitzjames smiled back. “I am well, my lady. It has been good to see my lost loved ones, and now and then to see new friends from old times. Tell me, when did you arrive? Are you settling in alright?”

Ann had never known Fitzjames to turn a conversation so quickly away from himself, before. but she happily told him of her arrival.

After these initial pleasantries, Ann shifted on her feet, and Fitzjames invited her to sit down, joining her in the other of the two chairs facing the fireplace.

Ann settled herself and turned back to Fitzjames. “And you, sir?” she began. “When did you arrive?”

The look Fitzjames gave Ann then told her that she had not been subtle, but what Ann had known of this man in particular told her that she needn’t be, with him. After all, Fitzjames soon relented, and said, “We of the Franklin crew have been here a few years. Most as many as nine or ten years, I believe. Surely you’ve heard this story already.”

Ann shook her head. “I’ve seen few of your men, Captain. And those I have met have been – understandably – somewhat less than eager to speak of it.”

“I am unsurprised, my lady, but have you not had the news from others? We’ve heard rumors of search parties, even – had they brought back no report?”

“I’ve heard some news, of course,” Ann replied. “Lady Franklin – our Lady Franklin, Eleanor – has told me what she knows from her husband, and yes, there have been expeditions searching for you – my husband led one, but he found very few answers to his questions – and so I truly haven’t heard your story. If you’d like to tell it, I’d truly love to listen, but don’t put yourself to any harm, Captain. It’s not worth all that – it’s not worth causing you grief, I mean to say.”

Fitzjames looked at her differently now. His thin lips pressed together almost as though he were angry, but there was something deep and thoughtful and not angry at all in his eyes, in the care-lines of his brow and jaw.  

“If you truly wish it, then,” Fitzjames said, finally, “I will tell you what I can of what happened.”

Fitzjames’s story was nothing like any mighty epics she had heard him tell before, at Admiralty dinners or at the Franklins’ house. Gone were the moments of grand adventure, gone were the references to Caesar crossing the Rubicon. Fitzjames began the tale with the first men to die, and his story was a slow accounting of loss, at first, such that Ann almost wept to hear it. She assumed there were things Fitzjames was keeping from her – such details he lavished over the small tragedies of illness and accident, and yet he offered no more of his own captain’s death than “an animal attack,” sparsely described and hurriedly recounted. Other scenes also rang false to her – the image of Francis Crozier, suddenly sick with a mysterious ailment; the depiction of a tragic, accidental fire caused by some unknown sailor who had clumsily knocked over a torch at a carnival. Ann tucked these thoughts away – filed them under the notion of fictions, perhaps to be picked apart later. But it was at this point, after the fire, that Fitzjames’ tone changed. Terrible though the circumstances continued to be, there was a true warmth in the man’s voice as he described a growing intimacy with Crozier, now miraculously healed, and as tender as Ann had remembered him. The care that Fitzjames wove into Crozier’s every small act of courage brightened up his words and gilded them, filling them with some of the glory of his old tale-telling, though Fitzjames himself seemed almost unconscious of it. His stories were all for the golden light of the place, barren though it was, and the great deeds of the men, and of Francis. Even as Fitzjames’s own end hovered on the horizon, he carried at least so much gleaming pride in his recollection that the words were not bitter.

“At this point,” Fitzjames was saying, “my wound had reopened – my lady, I do apologize for the bluntness, but I trust that you appreciate honesty, and I know no other words –”

Ann nodded.

“–and perhaps you remember that I had a wound from China?”

Ann nodded once more. The story was ever so vivid.

“Well, one of the maladies that haunted us could summon back long-dead wounds, and so it was for me. I’ll spare you – and myself – more detail, but it was the Chinese sniper that finally got me. Francis– Captain Crozier, he was with me, at the end. I could not have wished for a better man to have, there, beside me. I thought that I would have more time, but I was ready, in that moment. Lo– having him there made me ready.”

Fitzjames paused, and looked as though he had woken from a dream. The gilding dropped out of his voice, then, but he was not so rattled as Ann feared, as he concluded his tale. “And then I found my way here, I suppose,” Fitzjames said. “I am given to understand that it was 1848 when that happened. I know only fragments of what happened after, mainly from Dundy.”

Ann met Fitzjames’ glance and tried to show some of her gratitude and her grief with her eyes.

“I am sorry,” Ann said, “that you did not have more time. To think that you were gone barely three years after we saw you last grieves me, and it will be a pain to my husband when he hears of it. He missed you all by a very close margin, I think, if he set sail the very year you passed on.”

Fitzjames nodded. “Even if he had sailed early that season it would not have been enough.”

“So then even the first of the expeditions sent to your rescue would have been too late, for all of you?” Ann mused.

“No one could have saved us, my lady. If anyone could have done it, it would have been Captain Crozier alone. That he did not succeed is no mark against his character, and any who would say otherwise is a fool, and worse, uncaring of the horrors we faced. Why Captain Crozier is not here I do not know – perhaps he yet lives, though I don’t know why no one has ever heard word from him. Perhaps he is somewhere better than here – for this place does not have enough of heaven to deserve him, I think.”

Fitzjames was flushed with fierceness, though Ann had not meant any insult. Ann considered his face, so fervently impassioned with his defense of Francis Crozier, and it finally occurred to her.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

At that Fitzjames’ eyes went wide and shocked, and then the man crumpled, his head bowed, the whole long line of his body rippling like water, revealing the shadowed depths fathoms below.

Ann stood in silence for a long time, unsure what sentiments to offer at this wordless revelation.

Eventually, Fitzjames raised his eyes again, though he still looked off into the distance and would not meet Ann’s gaze. “My dear lady, you are too insightful. I doubt even a spy could hold secrets from you for long.” His voice was despondent.

Ann shifted slightly closer to Fitzjames than propriety really allowed – they were beyond such things, weren’t they? – and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Do not grieve, Captain. He will come here in his own time, and I must imagine he will be as dear and kind to us now as he was in life.”

Fitzjames held her glance now, and looked shocked. “How can–” Fitzjames shook his head, disbelieving. “How can you say such things? As though I have not just shown my hand, as it were.”

Ann smiled a bit sadly and replied, “It’s no care to me what you think of Captain Crozier, save that he is a dear man, and good to me and my husband, and I would rather he be loved than not. In whatever way as may be.” Ann looked more closely at Fitzjames. He seemed like a man who had not gotten used to going about without a mask, uncomfortable in his nakedness. “You are not as well as you seem, are you, Captain? Better than one might expect given what you endured, but there is something of Francis’s loneliness about you.”

Fitzjames nodded.  

“You are waiting for him?” Ann asked quietly.

Fitzjames nodded, more slowly, as if just then realizing it himself.

+

After that, Lady Ann took care to find Fitzjames often, and they found a great comfort in sitting and talking of little things. Fitzjames had been deeply amused to hear of Lady Ann recounting the third-hand tale of his Maltese theatrical history to poor Jopson, and he gave her more details “to enrich the telling – for next time.”

Most often they would not mention Franklin’s expedition, but occasionally Fitzjames would offer a story of Crozier, and Ann treasured these – at first for her husband, and eventually for herself, as she pieced together the true story of how Francis had suffered uniquely on this last voyage. She had known from her own James of Crozier’s overindulgence with drink, but she did not think even her husband knew how bad it had become, that Crozier had been in such great danger while drying out under Jopson’s care on Terror.

Fitzjames told her also of Francis’s care for his men, of which Ann knew well, and Francis’s particular sense of humor when alone with Fitzjames, of which Ann knew little. Ann thought back on the forthright man she had known as Francis Crozier, and wondered where he was now, and thought of her dear husband James, and mused on what the two would think to know that she sat so often with Fitzjames, whom she had only ever known in life as one of those brash young men with too much taste for battle and too little scientific training, of whom Francis had often grumbled. Ann hoped her James and Francis were happy. Ann knew that they likely weren’t.

So she spoke with Fitzjames and she learned and she waited. It was all she could do.

+

“I was on Clio,” Fitzjames told her when she asked. Where it was that he awoke, that is.

They had talked about nearly everything else; it was a bit impolite to ask, but they were at the end of politeness, now.

“I was all alone,” Fitzjames added, “but the sun was there, and it was warm, and I knew it was heaven.”

Now, he seemed less sure that he was in heaven, Ann thought. Though Fitzjames obviously had his joys: sailing on the strange new seas (mainly on Clio, with Lieutenant Le Vesconte, she noted), and sketching, and socializing; he was more subdued than she remembered, but only a little. His old exuberance returned when he was with the Coninghams, his family, who visited often and so clearly loved him and cherished him and called him “son,” here, which shocked some who knew him in life, but Fitzjames’ excitement at these times felt unforced.

And yet Ann could tell he was waiting, always waiting.

“Francis told me we were at the end of vanity, once,” Fitzjames admitted. “And I thought he knew some deep truth about the world, that he could see something I couldn’t. But there is vanity here too. I’ve only exchanged one mask for another: I may stop hiding my birth but not my feelings – my love. I must keep it wrapped under that beloved slant-name ‘brotherhood.’ I don’t even know that he would wish for more than brotherhood, and even if he did I wouldn’t dare name it.”

One time, before, in that other lifetime, Ann had seen Crozier with Ross in the parlor room of their townhouse  – her’s and James’s – after some Admiralty dinner that Ann herself had begged off attending, so Ross had dragged Crozier instead. When they returned home, both men stumbling and flushed, they had made quite a racket on their way into the townhouse, so Ann had come down to check on them. When she had peered into the parlor, her dear James had been in Crozier’s arms, as though for a waltz; though the two were of a height, Crozier’s solid strength made Ann’s husband look almost dainty, with his gloved hand on Crozier’s shoulder. The two had been speaking, too soft for Ann to catch more than a few words – “ships” and “so cold” and “that dress” and “James dear.” They had swayed in each other’s grasp, in a late-night mockery of a dance, and for a few minutes, James had rested his head on Francis’s broad shoulder. Soon enough, however, James had been blinking sleepily, and Crozier began ushering him toward to door, so Ann snuck back to the bedchamber, and almost didn’t have to pretend to be asleep by the time James joined her, stroking a soft hand over her arm.

When she told Fitzjames all this, now, he asked “Were they–” but did not finish; he did not need to.

Ann shook her head. “I do not think so,” she considered. “But I think – perhaps – they would have wished too, in another lifetime. James always rushed to reassure me that he would never love another, though I never worried he would, not even when Sophia made her play for him.”

Fitzjames sighed. “I think you are very lucky, my lady.”

Ann struggled to find the words. She was lucky, she knew, but in this moment, if felt like neither Fitzjames nor her own James had truly understood. She’d never have wanted Crozier for herself alone, but she did want him for James. Both her James and this one, seated the chair beside hers.

Ann confessed quietly, “I would – I would share.”

Fitzjames barked out a laugh. “God,” he says. “Like I wouldn’t? A moment of his time – I’d rather have it than not. A fair world would give him Sophia – would give him Sophia and your husband both – and yet – and yet I’d hope a fair world would give him to me. I’m not sure there can be such a thing as a fair world anymore. Not for you or for me.”

Ann shook her head. “I don’t mean it grudgingly. If it would make my husband happy, it would make me happy.”

Fitzjames curved his lips in a wistful image of a smile. “I’m not sure I have your faith, my dear, but I aspire to it. I want to imagine him happy. I hope that, should he come here, this would be a place where that could happen.”  

“Maybe this is a place where we are meant to share,” Ann mused. “It seems to me that both you and Francis had a scarcity of love in your lifetime; perhaps here you might be allowed to have a surfeit of it?”

Fitzjames seemed to consider this. “I’m not so convinced that this is meant to be heaven as you are, perhaps,” Fitzjames admitted, quietly. “But if it is, then yes, that is what I might desire from the best of all possible worlds.”

Fitzjames laughed to himself, then, and marveled, “A surfeit of love. What a thing to have.”  

+

One morning, Jopson came hurtling into the house from the ships.

Jopson had taken to spending more time out on the ice after Lady Ross had arrived. Ann didn’t think the lieutenant was avoiding her – he’d always been unfailingly kind, and quick with a smile when they did meet, nowadays. But she had learned from Fitzjames that the men of Terror and Erebus had a kind of superstition about them, that the reason so many of them had awoken out on the ice – or in the boats themselves – was because the ice and the cold had been in their souls when they died, and it steered the paths of their spirits. When Jopson had heard from Lady Ann’s own lips that the there was no news of Crozier being rescued, Jopson seemed to resign himself to haunting the boats, as though Ann’s lack of news had confirmed Crozier’s fate. Those who awoke on the ice were often disoriented to start, Ann had been told, and fearful and disbelieving. It wasn’t hard to imagine that such a thing would be less pleasant a passage than being born again in this comforting, stately house with its golden light and quiet chatter of friends and loved ones.

When Jopson burst through the front door shouting, “It’s Crozier – he’s here!” Ann realized that the lieutenant had been right to look for his captain out on the ice.

Although several people in the house straightened up in interest at Jopson’s announcement, none stood as if to follow – hurry was foreign here, for most people at most times. But hurry was familiar for Ann in that moment: her heart raced, and she strode up to Jopson.

“It’s him?” she asked.

Jopson nodded, breathing heavily. “He was at the shore, down by the island. He’s with Thomas Blanky now–”

“And he’s alright?”

“I think so.”

Ann nodded. How one would judge these things was beyond her as well. “Let me find Fitzjames,” she said. “Then, take us to him?”

Jopson agreed, and Ann turned back into the parlor, searching. No luck – she hurried deeper into the house.

As she spun around the corner into one of the long dining rooms, she ran into Lady Eleanor. “Fitzjames?” Ann gasped.

Eleanor, seeing the look on her face, merely pointed down the hallway behind her with a soft smile. Ann pressed her hand and raced on.

At the end of the corridor was a small library, and sure enough, Fitzjames was seated at a writing desk in the corner. Ann pulled up sharp at the door and called out “James!”

When Fitzjames turned, he caught the light in her eyes and rose quickly. “Is it–?”

“Jopson says so, yes.”

They rushed together back to the front door, where Jopson was waiting impatiently. As soon as they had pulled on cloaks and coats, Jopson whisked them out onto the doorstop, and down the steep path toward a small harbor, sheltered by the cliff and by a rocky island.  

Ann had been down by the large quay on the grand harbor at the base of the cliffs, since most of the ships embarked from there, and often enough Eleanor and Sir John had taken her sailing on Erebus from there, or Fitzjames had invited her onto Clio. But Ann had never yet been down to the smaller dock, where the faster and slimmer boats came into harbor.

Jopson swiftly led them past the view of the house, and down toward the water. A quick turn, and Ann stumbled on the stones of the path. Though she righted herself neatly, Ann saw that Fitzjames had reached out a hand to help her; she looked up to Fitzjames and smiled, before taking his hand anyway. They followed Jopson as best they could, on toward the place where the small harbor lay, and separated as they emerged, blinking, into the sunlight.  

They turned a last corner of the rocky wall, and Ann saw that a single ship was anchored beside the dock, Thomas Blanky’s beautiful little steamer Icebear. And on deck Blanky stood, facing them, conversing with a man dressed in Inuit furs. When Blanky caught sight of their little party, he gave a shout, and the man with him turned around.

Finally.

It was certainly Francis. He was dressed for the Arctic, but he looked more as Ann had known him when she had first met him and Ross. He seemed younger – her own age, or Fitzjames’s – and though it was hard to be certain across such a distance, he seemed to carry himself with an energetic spirit. Even from the shore, Ann could see as he quickly embraced Blanky, then slid gracefully down from the steamer’s deck to the pier below.  

Ann glanced at Fitzjames beside her, who stood frozen in place, as though the wooden planks of the pier before him might crumble under his feet. He had eyes only for Francis, approaching now at a good clip.

So Ann looked across to Jopson, who nodded, grinning, and the two of them pulled Fitzjames forward onto the pier.

They all came upon him at once, halfway between the ship and the shore.

Francis seemed hardly to know what to do with himself, between the three of them arrayed before him. His eyes glowed with happiness, and though he looked somewhat weary up close, Ann had been right to think that he looked younger. His eyes had dark circles of sleeplessness, but fewer lines of worry.

Francis reached out a hand to clasp Jopson’s shoulder, first, calming the young man who had only just slowed himself. Francis looked to Jopson tenderly and smiled, confirming some past reassurance that had already been uttered, before Jopson stepped aside, back to his comfortable station to the captain’s side.

Then Francis faced Fitzjames. There was only the barest suggestion of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were graced with a tenderness that hurt to look at, as he gazed up at Fitzjames who was, of course, frozen once more.

Fitzjames could hardly speak. “Francis,” was all he said before the man took pity on him, reaching up to steady Fitzjames with a hand to his arm and a warm embrace. Fitzjames collapsed against him with a sob, burying his proud head in Francis’s neck. They stood thus for several moments, and then Fitzjames gathered himself and pulled away. Tears had gathered in his eyes, and he choked out wordless reassurances and lifted his hands placatingly as he smiled through his tears, still looking to Francis. Though a bit concerned, Francis smiled back helplessly, and surrendered one of his hands to Fitzjames’s care, when it was apparent to all involved that the two men could not part completely.

At last, Francis turned to Ann, who smiled, and clasped Francis’s free hand. “You’ve been missed, dear friend.”

Francis looked at her, astonishment dawning as the realization of her presence here hit him at last. “I hadn’t thought – I’m so sorry, Ann. I had no idea you would be here ahead of me. Are you alright?”

Ann almost laughed before she caught herself. “Yes, captain,” she replied. “I very much am. It’s so good to see you.”

“Is James here? Oh god.”

Ann shook her head. “No, no he’s not yet.”

They stood in silence. The phrase We’ve left him behind echoed between them, unspoken but not unheard.

Eventually, Ann stepped close, and pressed a single kiss to Francis’s cheek. “That’s from him. Until he gets here, at least, it’ll have to do.”

Francis nodded, his lips parted in sorrow but still silent.

Ann looked up to Fitzjames, who still stood with Francis’s free hand between both of his own. He was stroking his thumb over the back of Francis’s hand apparently unconsciously, and his eyes darted between the two of them, the emotion in his glance unreadable. Ann caught his gaze and nodded her head toward Francis, the work of mere seconds, but Fitzjames startled, and then titled his head, questioning.

Ann nodded encouragingly to him, marveling at how they had come to read each other in the last few years.

And so Fitzjames leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Francis’s cheek, just as Ann had, on the other side.

When Fitzjames straightened up, Francis followed the motion with his eyes, wonder and joy clear for all to see. He slowly lifted their clasped hands to his lips, and brushed Fitzjames’s knuckles with his mouth in a caress that felt far too intimate for Ann’s sight. She almost looked away, but Fitzjames glanced at her and then away, cheeks reddening with a blush as he focused on Francis but a familiar smile still on his face, so Ann stayed where she was, and looked, and looked, and smiled.  

Source notes: The title is from “In Another Lifetime” by Zoe Sky Jordan, from this lovely rossier playlist by @frauncis. The timeline here begins when Lady Ann Ross passes away at the age of 40, on the 25th of January, 1857, and runs through Crozier’s death sometime around 1860.

Eleanor Anne Franklin née Porden (1795–1825) was the first wife of Sir John Franklin, and mother of his daughter, also named Eleanor. Eleanor the Elder wrote poetry, including a long poem about the Arctic! (She actually had it in writing that she be permitted to continue writing poetry even after marrying Franklin – it was a stipulation of her acceptance of Franklin’s offer of marriage. In this house we stan Lady Franklin the First.)

Ann Ross mentions the “last letter Ross received from Francis,” which I also used in my previous fic for this universe; you can read it here. This letter includes a sentence from Francis Crozier that is transcribed as, “I am generally busy but it is after all a very hermit like life – Except to kick up a row with the helmsman or abuse Totson[?] at times…” I think we can all agree that the transcription’s “Totson[?]” is almost certainly Jopson, as one of the few men of the Franklin expedition whom Crozier (and indeed Ross) would have known well enough to tease, since Jopson had known the both of them from the Antarctic expedition of 1839-1843.

The terrible play that Eleanor and Ann describe to Jopson is Chrononhotonthologos, The Most Tragical Tragedy That Ever was Tragedized by Any Company of Tragedians (1734), and Fitzjames really did act in a production of it on Malta, as Fadladinida, Queen of Queerummania. History is a gift. You can read the script here. (Note, this performance took place after the death of Eleanor Anne Franklin in 1825; Eleanor has heard the story – told imperfectly – from Sir John after they’ve both died.)

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Thirty-Six: Crozier

A true exercise in misery this chapter, but I'm tempted to continue on towards The Event asap and rip the band-aid of it off, so to speak.

The sledge party is on the last leg now and Crozier can feel himself flagging. Even though he's escaped the clutches of alcohol, he's become even more of an insomniac than usual instead and is profoundly exhausted: "His mind was sodden much of the time. He was a smart man whose mind was stupid with the chemical by-products of constant fatigue."

Another thing that hasn't helped is sleeping alone. Jopson thought it improper that the Captain should share a sleeping bag with other men so saw to it that Crozier had one of his very own tailored. The problem being that the body-heat of other men is just about the only thing that keeps a sleeping bag warm in those conditions and on his own, Crozier is freezing. Given Irving's yearning for solitude in the previous chapter, this is a very definite declaration that alone isn't always best - a reiteration of the simple fact that they need each other if they've any hope of survival.

And of course, Crozier is far from the only one suffering. They've barely enough fuel to even thaw the content of the cans, let alone cook it, so they're still shovelling it Jopson-style, straight from the tins, still half-frozen. Three men collapse in their harnesses on the second day of hauling, one puking blood on the ice. Crozier doesn't want to reduce the number of men watching for Tuunbaq so he and Little step in to haul for the rest of the day. Not that it makes much difference, the men keeping watch can barely even leave the side of the sledge party for fear of being lost in the blizzard.

And again, Tuunbaq is very much behind them. They can see it out on the ice "...moving much faster than they could haul. Or run, should it come to that." "It knows we've abandoned the ships..." Crozier thinks. "It knows where we're going. It's planning to get there first."

Things continue to deteriorate the closer they come to Terror Camp. The temperature hits -82 degrees. Crozier, in a moment of distraction, tears off the skin from his palm on the cold metal of his telescope. Vomiting from the sheer pain of it, muscles bleeding internally from hauling, he considers abandoning the sledges temporarily and doing the last mile to Terror Camp unburdened, just so they can get there at all, but decides he'd lose all authority if he did so.

Eventually, they make it. Relieved and heartened to see a crowd of officers awaiting them, Crozier considers making a feeble joke, but is stopped when he realises something terrible has happened and they're not all there to greet him out of the goodness of their hearts: "...he knew that something had happened and that nothing would now be as he had planned or hoped and might never be again."

[daincrediblegg]

for the three-sentence fic: how about Francis Crozier + Lady Terror and any au setting you choose 😊

hmmm... western au stuff it is 🥰

It was nearly noon when Francis emerged from the Sheriff's Station that day. The Main Avenue was all abustle, as he'd expcted, from the sound of the hammers near the railway station still being constructed on the far end of the street- the same that echoed the pounding in his head like the rhythm of an ancient and terrible drum that threatened to make his head explode.

And it was this same reason that brought him to the street in the first place. Down to the Saloon to find the hair of the dog that bit him, since he had none left himself, and by Deputy Jopson's account, they were not likely due for a new shipment of this particular supply for a few more days yet. He would, of course, prefer to keep his vices away from such a public house, but if it meant making his head ache a little less, and a little fire in his belly so he might attend to that so-called Mr. Hickey currently locked in their cells, it would do for him to shame this walk.

As he shuffled along, and kicked up dust from the poor makeshift road ahead of him, he chanced a glance towards the general store, only to find a woman just stepping out, and making way towards her horse.

He'd hoped this wouldn't happen. He'd hoped that perhaps he would miss her entirely. Of all these witnesses to his shame, he'd least wanted Miss Sinclair to bear it , but perhaps, for the sake of deepening that same shame, he deserved it, to be seen in such a state by the little entrepreneur.

She wore a periwinkle dress that day- the kind that reminded him of pretty little wild flowers in springtime. He should like to walk in the garden of her, if only he were brave enough to tread there without fear of crushing them under his horrible heels.

The clank of something falling to the ground pulled him from his grim reverie, and the knock of something gentle against the toe of his boot.

An errant can, it seemed, had decided to escape its owner. Though it pained his head to bend down, he plucked it from the ground, and turned it over in his hand. Peaches, the label read. Since when did they carry peaches?

When his gaze rose over the brim of his hat again, to find the owner of this errant can, he found Sinclair's dark eyes directly on his, and it made his stomach jump. It was one thing to observe the woman at a distance, and another entirely to be seen by the darkness that made him feel naked from within with their warmth.

He approached slowly as he might a spooked mare, his step more gentle now. Sinclair's eyes never left him, it seems, as he stood before her, and handed the errant thing to her. She smiled.

"Thank you, Sheriff."

And that sound in her voice. As sweet as those peaches, and twinged just the same with concern, for him no doubt, for he was sure it was a sorry state that he was in.

"Miss Sinclair..." he uttered, on the cusp of whispering more. And how he wanted more. How his eyes sparkled down at her for wanting more. To skip the saloon entirely. To accompany her back to her house just outside town. To talk. To dine, perhaps, even to...

These thoughts he swallowed, exercising the muscle for its ventures in the not too distant future. Swallowed them to make room for what he needed. "Good day to you," he said as he twitched the corners of his mouth into the best smile he could manage (which was not much of one at all), and tipped his hat before passing her by. He could feel her eyes still as he paced faster towards the saloon, and his heart ached for it. But this was not the day for it, and it was better to spare her from him anyhow.

THREE SENTENCE FIC ASKS

[shark-from-the-park]

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode One

A Fitzier The The Thick Of It AU in several parts.

So, I finally decided to start posting this long-ass fic and see what people think. You don’t need to have seen The Thick of It to get this. It’s just sweary political satire as a thinly veiled excuse to have James crush on Francis. Dedicated to @casperthefriendlylittlefan for constant cheerleading, encouragement and brainstorming, and for encouraging me to use my place-holder title for the fic instead of some pretentious thing.

Warnings for very bad language, frequent Britishisms, and Blanky. Also, this is still a WIP. Will be posted on AO3 when complete.

@casperthefriendlylittlefan @boisinberryjamarama @what-a-terrorific-mess @coffeesugarcream @hereliesnils @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @the-jewish-marxist @cinemaocd @jaredharrisankles @thegreenmeridian - please PM me to be tagged in future installments/untagged/to ask questions/to say hi, etc. My love to all in the Fitzier fandom.

Episode One

“Look Francis…  There’s no need to be so coy with me.  I’m just saying that when you do finally announce this Westminster’s-worst-kept-secret leadership bid, you’re going to fucking need me on side, whether you want to admit it or not! Francis, Francis, for Christ’s sake, are you even listening to me?”  James felt the irritation that was so specific to Francis Crozier crawling along his spine and scraping across the breadth of his shoulder blades as the older man turned his face away from him.  

“You know Tom, I miss the days when acquaintances would address me as ‘Minister’.” Francis addressed his chief political aide as though James was not even in the room.  

“Aye, them were the days.  Respect, n’all that.”  Grinned Tom Blanky, flanking Francis on his left side like a gangster’s hired muscle, while hulking, sullen-faced Ed Little did his strong, silent thing on his right.  

Furious, James chose to ignore the two henchmen completely.

“Fucking hell, Francis, you’re an ignorant bastard!  Are you really going to piss all over an olive branch when it’s handed to you?!  Just give me a fucking clue, alright?  You know, animal, vegetable, mineral.  Give me something to fucking work with here.  You owe me at least a brave fucking coming out story just to make up for the fucking cardigans, you -”

“’E’s talking about your cardigans again, Frank.”  Blanky stage whispered, his eyes twinkling.  

“Obsessed, I’d call it.”  Rumbled the human boulder that was Ed Little from Francis’s other side.

“James, I’m ancient and boring and serious about political reforms.  The electorate doesn’t give a flying fuck who I’m shagging or not shagging.”  Francis sniped across the desk at him, his lip curling in that disdainful way he had.

James had heard colourful swearing out of Francis on innumerable occasions.  The Irishman was legendary for his biting turns of phrase.  But there was something about hearing him say the word ‘shagging’, and twice in one sentence no less, that made James fingers fumble with his expensive stainless steel clipboard, almost dropping it.  

Tom Blanky’s shrewd and mocking eyes caught on James’ momentary discomfort at once, and the Yorkshireman smiled to himself.

James saw red.

“I give a flying fuck who you’re shagging, you Stalinist loon!”  He shouted, and knew that he’d worded that wrong when three pairs of eyebrows rose laconically in response and a cacophony of titters could be heard from the shared office outside.  

“Brave of yer to just come out with it like that.”  Opined Blanky.

James threw one of his prized Paperchase paper-clips at him and it hit him squarely in the temple.  

“Francis, you’re not thick enough to really believe that the electorate won’t care about your personal life, are you?  They already care about what you wear.  They care about how stupid you look riding a bike.  They care about your bad hair cut and where you do your weekly shop.  Of course they’ll care that you’re into men.  Or both.  Or whatever it is that you’re into.  I’m just pre-empting the conversation for when you announce and inevitably want to hire me.”

Francis sneered at him crookedly.  “Are you really so keen to jump ship from Sir-Just-Left-of-Centre, James?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Francis, who’d you think sent me?  Sir John’s imminent resignation is the second worst kept secret in Westminster.”

“So it’s his olive branch I’m pissing on, then, and not yours...”

James hated him and his stupid, ruddy face.

“Do you want to be the next Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland or not, you bolshy, gap-toothed wanker?”  He yelled across the desk, a fine spray flying from his mouth.  

Thomas Jopson, junior minister and probably the sweetest human being who had ever entered politics, barged through the office door.

“James, you are well out of order!”  The young man exclaimed at a volume which James had never heard him achieve before.  

This had a remarkable effect on the four men in the room.  

Francis’s eyes instantly softened in a way James hadn’t been certain he was capable of.  Ed Little let his aggressively pointing finger drop to his side and closed his open trap.  Blanky slowly lowered the chipped mug he’d been aiming at James’ head and toned down his glower a fraction.  

James looked down at his exquisitely expensive, fashionable brogues.

“It was beneath me to mention your teeth, Francis.”  He admitted.

“None taken, you Oxbridge ponce.”  Francis muttered.  “But listen, you tell Sir Sell-out that if I need his help, I’ll send the prearranged signal, which is me stepping out into a taxi lane during rush hour.”

Ed Little snorted.  

James seethed.

“Oh how easy it must be to refuse honours when you’ve never been offered any.” He hissed through his teeth, trying desperately to tamp down on his disappointment.

“Or when you have principles.”  Francis shot back.  

James sighed in bitter resignation and rubbed his temples with one hand.

“Fine.  Good luck to you and your red cabal, Francis.  You’ll need it.”

He gathered what remained of his dignity and left Francis’s office, ignoring the stares and murmurs from the assorted aides and secretaries sat at the desks outside as he made his way over to the lift.  

Huffing in frustration, he turned to deliver one last glare at the bunch of Bolshevik wankers, only to nearly jump out of his skin when he found Tom Blanky perched on the nearest hot desk, regarding him with an inscrutable look.  

James had no idea how a man with a bad leg could move so stealthily.  

Blanky brandished the paper-clip which James had just thrown at him.  It was pink and in the shape of an arrow.  One of James’ favourites.  

“I’m keepin’ this.”  The Yorkshireman said with a cryptic grin, sliding the paper-clip triumphantly onto the hem of his shirt pocket.  

James opened his mouth for a retort, but found that he had nothing, and so stepped, utterly defeated, into the now open doors of the lift.  

*****

“So, go on then. How was your parley with Red Frank and his terrors?”  Dundy asked him with a gleeful glint, as they sipped triple shot lattes in Cafe Nero the next morning.  

“Like being shot at at close range by the cast of Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.” James mumbled unkindly.  

Dundy laughed delightedly at him around a mouthful of biscotti.  “Well.  What did you expect.  You haven’t exactly made an effort to be friendly with him before.  He’s not just going to roll over the first time you pat his head, is he?”

“Can we dispense with the dog metaphors, Dundy, for fucks sake?”  James was in no mood to rehash yesterday’s failure, even with his closest friend.  

Dundy, as ever, blundered on regardless.  “Look.  He’s already got advisors. Such as they are.  He’s got the grass-roots, and he’s the only candidate with a consistent political record.  He’s bound to be a bit cocky right now.  You just need to hop down off your gilded pony and come down to his level if you want to actually...”

“Wise words from the working class hero over here...”  Snorted James inelegantly.  

“Fitz, you know exactly what I’m saying...”

“Of course I know what you’re saying!  It’s not just that he’s our only chance, it’s that he’s the best chance the party’s had in a while…  I do get it.  Politics is changing and we’ve got to change with it or we’ll find ourselves completely out of the loop.  Francis does have the support.  And I suppose he’s got a certain sort of… mass appeal.  He’s got... natural authority, I mean…  But these bastards...”  James shoved at the pile of broadsheets in front of them.  “Are going to completely tear him apart.  He doesn’t see it yet, Dundy, but he needs me!  And I’m trying this time!  I actually tried!  I actually want to help the cranky Irish bastard.”

Dundy demolished the last of his biscotti and then started chewing thoughtfully on James’ croissant.  

Occasionally, James knew, his long-time colleague would deliver some glimmer of wisdom, so he waited patiently for it.  

“You know Fitz, I knew you’d drunk the red koolaid.  Seen it coming for a while now. But you have to admit, it’s more than that.  You don’t just admire the ginger twat.  You actually fancy him.”

James felt not a smidgen of guilt, after, for spraying a mouthful of lukewarm coffee over Dundy’s smug face.  

*****

“Your latest cardigan’s gone over well with millennials on twitter, Francis.” Ed Little informed them in a tone which was as bright as the big man ever accomplished.  

“Just what I always wanted, Edward.  To be a fashion icon.”  Francis gave him a wry smile.  

“I bet Fitzjames is a fan too, Frank.”  Blanky grinned from across the room. “Sadly, you’re still catching some heat in the broadsheets for our CND stance.”

“Guess I’ll just change my mind about the threat of mutually assured annihilation then...”  Francis winked at Blanky before diving back to drafting his speech.  

“We will sort of have to work with Fitzjames eventually though, won’t we?”  Ed intoned glumly, as though carrying on from a previous conversation.  

Francis met Blanky’s eye.  “Of course we will.  Our options are thin on the ground.” He sighed.  

“But we’ll definitely make the posh bugger sweat first.”  Blanky added, with relish.  

*****

Episode Two here...