#''jopson for the love of god blink will you''

[lieutenantmongoose]

Verse Info: Good and Faithful (or, a polite haunting) 

The Story - 

( Good and Faithful, Codifier )      -     In which Jopson died just before the 1839 expedition. He tends to avoid discussion of how it actually happened, but in any case he had just accepted the stewardship position and had been counting on those wages to pay the doctor for his mother’s treatment, and needed to ensure that she and Avery would be reasonably comfortable in his absence.  

Being that he had neither time nor inclination to be dead, and truthfully not quite even realizing he was dead, Jopson simply collected himself and carried on as usual, under the impression that the whole incident was simply a minor dizzy spell.

The issue, of course, with continuing to pilot one’s corporeal form with a severed connection between body and ghost, is that it’s somewhat akin to clutching a bedsheet in front of yourself while standing outside in a hurricane. And in addition to keeping hold of that bedsheet, you also have to hang up the rest of the laundry on the lines, and avoid letting your neighbors see that you’re out in a hurricane in nothing but a bedsheet still trying to finish your laundry, because odds are your neighbors will have Questions about this type of behavior. 

Fortunately, Jopson had always been quick to catch on to things so it was with only a minor bout of sudden collapses and fits of uncharacteristic clumsiness that he mostly got the hang of the situation before setting sail, and for the most part was able to avoid any trouble. 

Avoiding trouble lasted until a point about halfway through the expedition, when he very nearly frightened Captain Crozier into a similar state by forgetting to shiver. Or keep up a pulse. This almost led to a rather tender moment indeed as Crozier was quite unhappy to see him Dying, but this was abated by admitting to already having been quite dead from the beginning and thus unchanged in status despite what ought to have been a lethal case of hypothermia.

All in all, Crozier was actually rather more amenable to the idea of having a dead steward than he’d thought ten minutes prior, and all continued as normal. 

However

Once the Franklin Expedition begins

( Oh Dear, My Heart/The Moon Plays Host ) 

It turns out that keeping hold of the proverbial bedsheet is a lot more challenging under certain conditions, and there are only so many ‘fainting spells’ that can be got away with without arousing suspicion, and that the presence of a strange magic in the air tends to have interesting effects on ghosts improperly connected to the mortal plane.

It further turns out that this arrangement creates a bit of an impasse when faced with soul-devouring creatures. They are used to tackling a body and pulling the soul from it. The soul simply moving out of the way is not generally expected, and is regarded as highly inconvenient. 

Or, 

Jopson is a ghost during the Franklin Expedition, which is fine, except that improperly tethered ghosts start to get a little bit creature-y the longer they drift in seemingly-cursed landscapes trying to reject their souls like a bad transplant. Also, at night, Jopson can see the crew’s Dead still wandering the ice. 

[boilyerheid]

2 for Fitzier - more on the fluffy side please.

P.s. sorry I might have sent this twice due to tumblr being weird

James finds him at his desk, as usual, lamp burning low and Francis fast asleep - slumped over inelegantly with his head pillowed on his arm. Just a moment, is what he usually says to James before he drifts off thus - warm and comfortable on the settee before the fire, just need to rest my eyes, they're not what they used to be.

"Francis," he shakes his beloved's shoulder gently, merely ghosting his fingers over the well-worn shirtsleeve because they all wake easily after the shale. Jopson and Little have long retired, weary as they are from the long coach journey south for the visit, and James didn't expect Francis to return to his task while they have guests. "Darling, you must get to bed."

"I'm in bed," Francis grouses, voice rough and angular before he blinks awake enough to see James standing over him. "Oh, god. Get out of my study."

"That tone didn't work in the Arctic and it won't work now, old man." James arches an eyebrow and pats Francis on the back until he sits up, clearing his throat as if he's really trying to pretend he's just been resting his eyes. "You'll get a crick in your neck again like that."

"My neck is my business," Francis scrubs an ink-stained hand over his face and looks around blearily. "Have the boys gone to bed?"

"Quite a while ago," James gives him a hand up out of the chair, because Francis's knees creak a damn sight more than his these days even though James was the one who almost died on the ice. "Why on Earth did you return to your correspondence at this hour?"

Francis looks almost like a chastened schoolboy for a moment, a flash of sheepishness that only James ever sees, and James can hardly keep himself from kissing that queer little twist of his love's lips. Were Francis not half dead on his feet, he would. Instead, he starts shepherding him to the bedroom.

"Thomas was happy tonight. He's happy in his new station," Francis allows James to perch him on the edge of the bed to undress him, and that says enough about the true state of his tiredness. Poor sausage is exhausted, and James won't have him lift a finger in this state when he doesn't have to. "I was writing to Jim Ross. The Admiralty still see fit to strip Jopson of the Lieutenancy, but-"

"We shall deal with it tomorrow, dearest. I'll write to them myself." Children were never an expectation in James's life, barely a consideration at that, and he certainly didn't expect to all but adopt an adult son and son-in-law through Francis... but, well, after the Arctic nothing seems as strange as perhaps it ought. "I may even be persuaded to go and press the flesh for such a noble cause."

"You in your dress blues?" Francis makes a valiant effort to quirk an eyebrow while his eyes are closed, and James slips the nightgown over his head with a soft snort. Old fool. "How could they resist?"

"How indeed." Francis is clearly asleep before his head hits the pillow, and James tucks him in before going to ready himself for bed too.

[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.

[rahabs]

WIP Day!

tagged by the love of my life @proudspires 🖤 took me a few days because at any given point I’ve a frankly embarrassing amount of WIP joplittle fics in the making (and maybe now that the bulk of my work is done I will actually have the time to finish something, god lord, what a month it has been), but here’s a bit from a piece I’ve been tinkering away at since before I got swamped by law school (again):

“You trust my discretion,” Jopson surmised.  Edward blinked, brow furrowing.

“I trust you, Mr. Jopson,” he corrected.  The surprise was more clear in Jopson’s face this time.  Edward pressed on.  “You are an intelligent man.  I trust in the things you see and the things you have surely learned.  You have sailed with the captain before, and even if your duties were in the Antarctic what they are now, that is a sure sight more experience than most of the officer class aboard these two ships.  The captain, too, trusts you.  I see that.  Your discretion is but part of it.”

Edward kept his expression neutral and hoped that whatever it was the other man saw, it would convince him.  Part of him shrivelled away at admitting his own lack of knowledge, sure that it would only lessen his standing in Jopson’s eyes, but if there was a chance to improve, any chance, Edward would seize it; in a critical moment, he would not gamble the well-being or success of the crew on his lack of experience.  No amount of pride was worth a man’s life.

tagging @allegoriesinmediasres, @caravaggiosbrushes, @jamesclarkross (how I love being able to type that), @longstoryshortikilledhim, and any of my Terror followers or mutuals who want to do this!

[heyktula]

Closer, Chapter Four: Kink - Bonus Features

Chapter four of Closer, the first installment in Somewhere in Canada (the Terror kink AU)... is now up! It's a plot-heavy chapter! There's some platonic kink! There's the plot to an entirely different story if you squint!

Technical notes first, story notes after, line notes to finish it all up.

Alright, here we go.

Technical Considerations:

Chapter Titles: So I didn't have any particular chapter titles in mind when I started this story. The original structure I'd planned for was one chapter for Friday, one for Saturday, one for Sunday, with Jopson POV at the very beginning of chapter one, and then again at the very end of three.

Obviously, uh, there was too much story for that to fly. So I cut it where I needed to cut it, and swapped my structure to have Jopson POV at the beginning of every chapter (and bonus Jopson POV at the end of the chapter). So I needed five chapter titles. First I couldn't think of anything good, and then it occurred to me that I could name four of them after the RACK acronym (Risk Aware Consensual Kink), and then it was super fascinating from a storytelling perspective because of the way the chapters lined up. Like, Risk deals with the risks that Edward didn't take because he totally ducks out of talking to Jopson that first night. Aware covers them starting to know each other. Consensual covers the dungeon scene, Kink covers platonic kink, and also the very normal way that both of them have integrated kink into their regular lives, and how it leads to these intimacies that are normal for them, but would be strange from a vanilla perspective or in a vanilla relationship. And then, finally, since I needed a fifth chapter title, Aftercare seemed like the obvious solution, which cracks me up because the entire chapter is, uh, well. I mean, it's aftercare for them. But yeah.

Mornings: So I wanted the structure of this fic to be all chronological in order--ie, no re-covering events that have already happened from someone else's POV within the same fic. (The Tozer/Irving fic, obviously, will be covering many of the same events, but it'll be different enough that it won't matter.) Which led to an icky bit for me, because I split the chapters differently than I anticipated (see above), and needed to start the day out with Jopson-POV even though I already had this lovely Little-POV drafted out.

Thankfully, Jopson came in for the win with that one, because he's a morning person, and Ned isn't, and their alarms were set for different enough times that I could go right from Jopson's wakeup to Ned's wakeup without having to retread the same information or the same section of the day (technically, there's a small chronological overlap, I think Jopson is probably eating breakfast when Little is trying to resurrect himself from his bed, but I've decided I Don't Care).

The Three Bears' Bed: This is such a smol technical note, but I wanted to bring it up because it's one of the really fun things that you can do with deep POV. It's implied (and confirmed in the next chapter) that Jopson and Edward are in essentially identical hotel rooms. But if you squint--they both describe their beds very differently. Jopson's bed is "too big", ie, he clearly sleeps on a single at home, and it's probably not as nice as the hotel bed. Edward's bed, a carbon copy of the queen bed Jopson is sleeping in, is "too small", ie, he's clearly got a king-sized monstrosity for himself back at home. I absolutely live for these kinds of things that are literally too minor to be noticed (nor should they be, they're meant to fade into the background), but which communicate so much about the characters.

(Ah, god, there's going to be so much adjusting for them to do in London. Their lives are very, very different. Jopson is starting to clue in, and he's going to have to sit with that once he has a clear head and lets all the subconscious stuff he's been picking up on actually gel together. Right now, he's very much in the 'whoa that looks expensi--hooooly fuck Ned Little is hot' phase. He'll have a Moment in London, though, where he'll sit bolt upright in his single bed and go wait a minute he put fifties in the donation bin when I blacked his boots and didn't even blink, he just casually throws large denomination bills* around.)

*I grew up low income, and I never carry anything bigger than a twenty in my wallet. People who are used to having more money, in my experience, tend to carry larger bills in their wallets. I know a fifty isn't actually a large denomination bill, but it is when you aren't used to carrying that kind of money around. Fifties make me tense until I break them. If I have a hundred, it's because someone gifted it to me, and I am gonna stress about it until I get it to the bank to deposit. Twenties are good for me, thanks.

Story Considerations:

Jopson's Work Ethic: Jopson's work ethic is in full force here, and I love to see it. I also love to see how firm he is about not hiding it. Like, Blanky understands how rare it is for Jopson to find someone he connects with the way he connects with Nedward, and was perfectly willing to skip the dungeon* to give Jopson another go at it. But Jopson, at some point, has transitioned from 'perfect, a weekend hookup' to 'perfect, I would like Ned in my life always'. (Gonna guess it was that post blowjob cuddle-nap that tipped it over, to be perfectly honest.) And Jopson knows that for Ned to be in his life always, Jopson needs to be realistic with him about what his life actually looks like--so he's going to work the long hours that he usually works, and he's going to run Blanky's booth so that Blanky can head to the dungeon tonight, and when Edward asks to be told literally anything about Jopson's life, Jopson moves immediately to telling Ned about his job.

(You'll note that Jopson has a schedule for working in the morning, the afternoon, and also the evening, ie, decidedly more than an eight hour day/forty hour work week. He did not mention that he frequently goes to Terror, and then shows back up at three am to do more work in a haze of subspace, but I'm sure he'll get around to it.)

I think it's important to Jopson that Edward accept him as he is--that is, no arguing about what comes first (it's work), or what Jopson's priorities are (also work), or how much availability Jopson has for a relationship (all of it...after work). So in that sense, this is pretty much a trial by fire--Jopson is saying 'look, this is what my life is like, and if you fit, you can stay', and Edward, in turn, is saying 'please just let me sit next to you, I like it here'. (I'm sure Tozer would be irritable about Edward's changed loyalties if he weren't currently sorting out, you know, every bad decision he made the previous night).

*This is not a Blanky-specific thing. If Esther were here instead, she and Jopson would have the same arrangement. I think either Blanky or Esther would be equally fun to play with, don't you?

Duty and Responsibility: I also love the differing approaches to duty and responsibility, as displayed by Joplittle--Edward talks, multiple times, about his duties and responsibilities here as something that he needs to shoulder, like it's a too-heavy pack that he's hauling around behind him when he would really rather just pull the covers over his head and stay there. Jopson, however, is thriving under his.

I would posit that, perhaps, if Edward managed to distance himself further from Hickey's bullshit, that maybe his responsibilities wouldn't suck so much. But for Edward to get away from Hickey's bullshit, that would mean Tozer would also have to put his foot down, and Tozer has been ambivalent about doing that, so far.

Sadomasochism, and the ‘Gold-Star’ Dom: Oh, Edward, my sweetheart, my dear, you have a track record of dating terrible people, and hanging out with people who kinkshame you, and I am so sorry that it's come to this.

There's this really fascinating (by which I mean it's incredibly toxic) culture difference between old guard spaces and the "newer" spaces. For people Francis' age who grew up in old guard leather kink scenes, they would have come up in the scene submitting first, and then either continuing to submit, or transitioning into being a dominant as they gained experience. However, for newer spaces--and here, I'm talking about something that was starting to happen for people around Fitzjames' age--there started to be a shift toward just doing one or the other*. By the time we get to people in the same age range as Little**, Tozer, and Jopson, the emphasis on picking one or the other is much more prominent. You should 'know' your orientation when you enter the scene--and then that's typically where you stay. There's no requirement for a dom to have ever subbed--and there's no requirement for doms to be familiar with the business end of their implements either. (If I had a dollar for every talk I'd been to where a dom was proud that they've never actually tested gear on themselves, I would have a lot of dollars.)

This leaves Little in an awkward spot--he's got no interest in submitting (as per the way he nopes out of any sort of cuffs or protocol with James Clark Ross), but, unlike Tozer, who tolerates getting hit in the context of fighting but doesn't particularly like it, Little actively enjoys the pain of getting hit. Based on how awkwardly he discloses that to Jopson, we can infer (correctly) that it's gone down badly in previous hookups.

(The general stereotype that dominant-sadist-top*** and submissive-masochist-bottom are one scale instead of, you know, three different scales, is not helping Ned at all here.)

So Ned is in this spot as a sadomasochist dom where he's had a hard time finding a partner that is willing to accept that he has a masochist streak as well. Enter Jopson...

*I think, though I'm not sure, that part of this shift was kink culture moving into the straight scene as well. Heterosexual kink tends to avoid the formalized learning process, and focus strictly on I Have Always Been A Dom.

**For the purposes of kink!AU, I'm going with approximate show ages for everyone--I think I saw somewhere that historically, Little was older than Fitzjames--but I'm going with an older Fitzjames and a younger Little here, for Fitzier Reasons.

***Note that I’m talking about top and bottom in a BDSM sense here--the one who wields the flogger vs the one who has the flogger used on them. The penetrator/penetratee during intercourse is an entirely separate thing, which....you guessed it....is also unrelated to the above-mentioned scales.

Service: Jopson thrives when he's engaged in acts of service. I really loved working with the translation of canon-to-kink!Jopson, because it's really fascinating to dig into how those canon aspects of his personality translate. Like, the long hours as a steward translate directly to the long hours that he works for Francis. But those acts of service translate really easily into submission as well. (I would posit that, for people who pursue more 'lifestyle' kink as opposed to 'bedroom-only' kink, there's a great chance that they'll pursue jobs that play to those strengths.)

The particular benefit to this that's working in Ned's favour here is that Jopson loves nothing more than to arrange things for people to make sure they have what they need. So this intersects perfectly with Ned's typical methods for managing his top drop--if Jopson can leverage his connections to make sure that Ned has access to people that will let him bottom-but-not-submit for them when he needs it, well, that's a win for both of them.

(I would hazard a guess, if you squinted, that Ned is sexually monogamous, and generally dates other monogamous people, which sometimes makes the negotiation of play with other people outside the dyad a non-starter. I would also guess that Jopson wouldn't consider monogamy to be a particular value of his, and so anything he can do to make sure Ned is looked after is perfect for him.)

Top Drop: Pretty much any kink conference that even slightly touches on educational aspects will have a talk about subdrop, typically led by a sub or a panel of subs, or sometimes by a dom/sub pair, discussing how to properly care for one's sub, how to deal with subdrop, and all those coping kinds of mechanisms. I can guarantee Edward has attended a number of those talks, written at least one blog post, and probably could speak on it if you really bullied him into it.

Those same conferences typically do not talk about top drop. I've been to lots of talks on sub drop. I've only ever been to one on top drop, and it was so horribly done that we’re still talking about it years later. Even googling when I was brushing up on my research for this fic didn't give me much.

Anyways, it's good that Jopson works for Crozier, who treats drop as something that can happen to anyone regardless of position. In turn, this means Jopson is able to recognize it happening to Ned, and will just merrily bulldoze and/or gently bully Ned until he gets the information he needs to be able to help.

RACK and SSC: Ah, look, it's the author picking a pedantic fight in the middle of their fic using their POV character as a mouthpiece. SO. When I was first getting into kink in the early two thousands, SSC (Safe, Sane, Consensual) was the name of the game. It essentially means that the activities you do under the BDSM umbrella should fit all three of those criteria.

The issue that I and many others have with the acronym is that it doesn't particularly fit that well for a lot of the activities in BDSM. After all, what's really safe? You can trip walking down the same stairs that you've walked down every day of your life if your shoelace is loose, or if your ankle goes weird, or if you're just not paying attention. What's sane? No, really, what is it? What defines sane? Should we be using mental health terms to determine whether or not something is a good idea? What's the opposite of 'sane' in this context?

(I'm not gonna bicker about consensual, obviously, that one I still hold to.)

How do you practice edge play under SSC? Can you safely punch someone? Is it sane to do so? (God, I hate the inclusion of 'sane' in the acronym so much.) Can you consent to something that doesn't fit the first two criteria? If you decide an activity fits all three criteria, does that guarantee nobody gets hurt? (Absolutely not.)

So, there's a shift in the scene to use RACK instead--Risk Aware Consensual Kink. RACK is more focused on assessing the risks to specific activities, and consenting to do those activities even though the risk exists. You can definitely punch someone under RACK--because RACK supposes that you've discussed the risks of punching them, you're both doing your best to manage those risks, and you've both consented to the activity while recognizing that it’s inherently risky to do it and you’ve taken as many precautions as you can.

Sir John 'actually the expedition is outfitted for seven years and we don't need any rescue' Franklin is clearly focused on SSC, with an emphasis on no further risk assessments once a particular activity is deemed to be safe. This isn't to say that everyone who practices SSC ignores possible risks--but it is to say that the acronym doesn't encourage active risk assessment the same way that RACK does. (Doing X is safe, therefore, I don’t think about the risks while I do X, because it’s safe.) I personally think that RACK is a more robust way to assess kink activities, but, as you can probably infer from, you know, the entirety of this fic, I take part in a lot of activities that don't fit under SSC, so I'm biased.

I do not blame Edward one bit for getting into that argument with Sir John. I do feel pretty certain that Blanky surreptitiously filmed it, though, so that he can send it to Francis. I also am pretty sure that Francis’ own stance on RACK, which comes through pretty clearly in his books, would have informed Edward’s stance as well, so, you know, full circle there. (Do you have any idea how many people you’ve informally mentored via your books, Francis? It’s *cough*JamesFitzjamesAlso*cough* a lot.)

Florentine Flogging: Here's the reference video I was using for Florentine flogging! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGCQGsxbwtw

Sharp eyes will notice that this is a very similar skillset to spinning poi, which I thought was really neat.

Line Notes:

Jopson will be back in six months to give his talk, and Edward is going to be right there in the front row to support him, and that means that nothing can go wrong this weekend.

It...doesn't actually mean that. I mean, obviously, yes, not being banned from Canada is a requirement. But not having the booth open wouldn't have killed anybody.

Irving dragged you home—please advise how, he’s half your size?

This is funnier once I did some googling and realized that Ronan Raftery is six goddamn feet tall, which makes him two inches taller than Matthew McNulty, but I decided to let Edward's inaccuracies stand because they're pretty goddamn funny. Also, I maintain that Irving gives off smol energy.

“Oh, good,” Irving says, the tension instantly melting off his face. “I’m so glad he made it to bed.”

Tozer did not make it to bed, but, tbh, I wouldn't correct Irving at this particular moment either. Especially not in front of Lady Jane Franklin.

“Who’s this, then?” Lady Franklin asks. She’s wearing a vintage dress from a decade Edward should probably recognize, but doesn’t. (Jopson would, he’s sure of it.)

The 1950s, Edward. It's literally the most easily recognizable decade.

“…he’s fine,” Edward says, more confused than ever.

Edward, Edward, Edward. Both more confused than ever--and completely unwilling to do any followup on this whatsoever, because why ask questions when instead you could eyefuck Jopson. (In a sense, though, this is Tozer's problem, so Edward's ability to disconnect from it completely is probably an improvement from, say, Edward of a few years ago.) Normally, leaving plot threads hanging like this would bother me extensively, but because I'm drafting the Tozer/Irving fic as we speak, I'm comfortable just letting all of this just hang for a bit. These plot threads are important to include because they happened, but they're not important to resolve, because Edward doesn't give a shit.

Nothing fancy—just Ned, with a little handwritten squiggle next to it that’s almost a heart, if you squint.

It's definitely a heart. Jopson just channeled the patented Francis Crozier technique of 'if I make a vague line here, people can interpret it how they want'. Not very characteristic of Jopson--but, as we discussed last week, poor boy is carting around some baggage re: his affection, so we’ll just let him have this.

It’s probably the goddamn bruise from yesterday’s fuckup. Well, that, and the fact that Tozer isn’t there. Or maybe Edward’s just fucking up something else that he’s completely unaware of.

I'd like to propose option four, which is that Edward is hot as fuck, dressed in leather, and was part of a scene that gathered a respectfully distant crowd in the dungeon the night previous. Edward is not aware that option four is an option, but I would like to reassure him that option four is, in fact, an option.

“What do you do for aftercare?” Jopson asks curiously. “Like—what did you do last night, after you walked me home?”

Bold of Jopson to assume that Edward spent two seconds looking after himself. (He won't make that mistake again--Edward's blog entry on aftercare was detailed enough that last-night!Jopson made the endorphin-blurred call that Edward had his own routine sorted, and is now finding out that Edward has no such thing.)

Edward sighs, starts to mentally assemble an apology. He’s done it again—let his guard down, said too much. The apology has never worked in the past. But he’ll have to try. There’s always a chance Edward will get it right this time, even though he’s not remotely ready for this (it was going so well), but he has to, he has to start, he’ll just—he’ll start by—saying—

In true Ed Little fashion, Edward is assuming that the reason this conversation has never gone well in the past is because of him, instead of the more rational suggestion that perhaps he's just trying to hook up with people who aren't actually compatible with him.

Jopson’s face is very pink. “Quite the mental image,” he says. He swallows, visibly. “You and Tozer were, uh. Both holding back during the demo yesterday, then.”

Ah, yes, the look and sound of a man who is rather quickly realizing that a wank fantasy he'd watched unfold in real time yesterday was actually just the tip of the iceberg.

Jopson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why?” He scrunches his nose, frowns. “Was that meant to be a joke?”

Can't get all sad about Edward's past of attempting to have relationships with people he wasn't compatible with until we also get sad about Jopson's history, which apparently includes men he thought were tapping into his fantasies, only to find out that they were kidding. Ouch, my heart.

“Only if you want,” Jopson adds. “We could also, um. Go for a run?”

I don't believe that Jopson has ever gone for a run in his entire life. I appreciate that he's trying to help, though. That's very kind of him.

Jopson turns. “Hi, yes.”

Jopson cannot let a customer go unserviced, and I, for one, admire his dedication to looking after other people's booths as well as his own. I also think, although this action here is entirely instinctual, it's also a good checkpoint--had Edward reacted poorly to Jopson stepping in, well, that might not have been awesome. As it is, Edward is grateful, so he just keeps landing in Jopson's long-term prospect box.

“You know that huge guy they have on security?”

It's Tuunbaq! Also, Tozer should cool it on the whole "he doesn't speak English" thing, because it's not like Tozer speaks Inuktitut. (And while we're talking about Tozer, yes, he is wearing the equivalent of his mutineer hoodie.)

“And I’m like, yeah, I know him, I was drinking with him last night. And they just look at me. And they look at each other. And then the doctor guy is like ‘we had some concerning reports about his behaviour’, but I don’t know who would have said anything, the only other person there was Irving. Fuck, man, I was answering questions for an hour.”

Tozer, look, buddy. You can have a pass because you're as hungover as shit and I'm sure you've been contemplating death since you woke up, but you answered your own question there. The only other person there was Irving.

The only other person there was Irving.

One would hope that this might, you know, cause you to rethink your association with Hickey, considering that someone else's assessment of his behaviour has resulted in all of this, but I guess we'll have to chill on that for now until we get some Tozer POV.

Edward frowns. “He doesn’t drink?”

Pulled this bit directly from canon, and because I also think it's a fascinating bit of character development. Adam Nagaitis had such insights into his character in the AMC interview (https://www.amc.com/shows/the-terror/talk/2018/04/the-terror-qa-adam-nagaitis-cornelius-hickey) and I really think it's interesting working with that in a modern AU as well. So--this version of Hickey doesn't drink either. I think it's also interesting in how Edward and Tozer deal with this--Edward has known Hickey for years, and never noticed. Tozer knows--and still gets shitfaced anyways, even though he's drinking alone.

Tozer’s eyes go distant. “It’s the weirdest thing,” he says after a moment. “I think I told Irving about Heather.”

We can assume, for better or for worse, that Tozer's memory of last night is a bit spotty. I am sorry, though, that this is one of the things Tozer remembers. It's further away in kink!AU than it was in canon, but I don't imagine Heather's death was any easier for Tozer here than it was canonically.

(Also, the choreo of Tozer physically shifting Edward's hand off his arm was a late addition, and I hurt my own feelings adding it.)

Tozer raises his eyebrows, and then winces, goes back to squinting. “Hanky code,” he lectures. “Black is for S&M. Your proclivities aside, I don’t figure you meant to flag sub. And stuff it if you tell me it’s a fashion choice, I ain’t got headspace for that bullshit today.” He glances upward. “I swear they turned the fucking lights up in here, Jesus. I’ll see you after, I gotta go.”

Edward, you absolute himbo of a man. Jopson has been trying so hard, and I'm sure that you have a blog entry about hanky code buried somewhere back in your archive, but you also buried the information in your head, and thus did not access it, and all of Jopson's efforts were wasted.

“No, you misunderstand me,” Edward says. “I love that. Christ, the fuck did he finally do?”

Edward, Edward, Edward. Jopson has the right of it with his missing stair comment--but you're just as complicit as Tozer is in this, because by saying nothing and waiting for the problem to go away, you've been rubber-stamping Hickey's behaviour. I feel as though there's going to be Discussions about this in London.

“Honestly, Thomas, after all we’ve been through.” Sophia sighs, and then turns to face the table, braces her hands on the edge of it. “You know you can still call me Sophy.”

One of the things that really sucks about breakups is the part where there are ripples out into the rest of your social circle as well. I have the feeling that Jopson and Sophia might have gotten along really well--but Jopson's loyalties are with Francis, and so he's been pulling back since the most recent breakup in an effort to, you know, not hurt Francis any more than Francis is already hurt. I think it's significant that Edward is allowed to see this interaction, to be honest--because this is insight into who Jopson is as a person when he's not working or submitting.

Ross has a firm handshake, and a bright smile. He’s dressed casually—jeans, and a tshirt—and Edward feels horribly, awfully overdressed.

Edward is not appreciating casualdom!JCR nearly as much as I would like him to, and this is really, really upsetting me, because I would like to appreciate casualdom!JCR a lot.

I also really, really appreciated the opportunity to include some platonic kink here, because platonic kink is really important to me too. Sometimes you’re just in it for the experience, you know? And there’s no additional emotional or sexual connection there.

“Some kind of a multi-tailed flogger,” Edward says. “Little polished leather cord knots on the ends? Punches like a son of a—er, it’s a fairly sharp sting.”

Look, I wanted to include a reference picture for this. I did some googling. I like this style of flogger. But in the course of my googling, I found out that Walmart sells a twenty four dollar version of this in the states (I’ve since been informed it’s a third party seller BUT IT THREW ME OKAY), and I'm too Canadian to handle this, I can barely even handle American Walmarts selling alcohol, okay? So there's just. There's just no pictures. Anyways, good ball end floggers start at about two hundred Canadian, and they punch pretty fucking hard.

Good, Edward thinks. “So, the shower. I went up to the hotel room, figuring, ah. You know. Strip naked, step under the water, all that. And that’s what you should imagine, because I opened the door to our room, and...well, yeah. I’m here.”

Edward is going to need to update his dirty talk game, because this is Not Great, buddy. It's Not Great. And, let's be honest here. I'm sure you have years and years of filthy stories. You're going to need to learn how to tell them, because Jopson will appreciate and value every single one.

Phew. That's it for this week! Chapter five, Aftercare, goes up next Friday, and it is the very last chapter, can you believe. That's not it for this verse, though--I'm starting work on the Tozer/Irving story that runs parallel to this story. There's also a Fitzier that takes places in six months' time (during the winter conference). I have things to say about that Gore, Le Vesconte, and Cracroft situation. I have a story about Peglar and Bridgens. I might have some things to say about Goodsir. I could talk about Edward Little and Thomas Jopson until my tongue falls off. I just have a lot of feelings about kink, okay? And we're very lucky with The Terror because we have an extremely rich background of source material, both historical and tv show.

And if you have questions or anything in the meantime, you can always drop me an ask on tumblr or Curious Cat.

See you next week!

[gigi-sinclair]

Sins Not Tragedies (rated G, implied Jopson/Little, future Hartnell/Irving)

AKA “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?”

For @theterrorbingo square “there’s nothing to be afraid of.” And it was supposed to also be for @zaphodbeeblebro, but it kind of got away from your prompt, so I’ll do another one for you later!

CW for period-typical attitudes. Title, naturally, from Panic! At the Disco

John Irving is not a fool.

He is no innocent, either, although he knows many people think it of him. He is familiar with the weaknesses of men. He even has sympathy for them. That is, after all, why he sought to rehabilitate Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson himself, rather than turn the matter over to the captain, as protocol demanded. His mercy was justified, it seems. Mr. Gibson has not complained of any further assaults, and it does not appear Hickey has turned his deviant attention elsewhere. Perhaps the flogging, unpleasant as it was, proved just the lesson he needed.

This, however, is something else. Rather, it is the same thing, but John cannot possibly react to it in the same way.

Hickey and Gibson are men of the lower ranks, of the lower classes. As is Jopson, for all his extreme familiarity with the captain. In everything, they require a guiding hand, a patient teacher. They cannot be expected to have the capacity to withstand temptation—and John can acknowledge its lure is all the stronger after so long here in the ice—without the help of their moral superiors.  

Lieutenant Little should require no such assistance. The man is a first lieutenant. Soon to be a commander, if the Admiralty hasn't already decreed it. There is no excuse for what John glimpses as he passes the storeroom late one night.

The ship is all but abandoned now. For some reason, all three lieutenants—Little, Hodgson, and John himself—remain on Terror, even though only Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Captain Fitzjames are left on Erebus, but the crew is scant. They have suspended the formal system of watches. Still, the creature is out there, and they must remain on their guard. John comes down from the deck after spending long hours of staring at the ice, alert for the creature from Hell. He should go directly to bed, but he needs a cup of tea to warm him up. He heads for the galley, passing on his way the captain's pantry.

This little room, Mr. Jopson's territory, is usually sealed off from everybody else. Today, the door is ajar. Curious, John approaches, with a mind to shut it if there is nobody within. Instead, he sees what he immediately wishes he had not.

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. It is enough for John to make out the figures of Jopson and Little standing face-to-face, much more closely together than even the small pantry necessitates. Edward's arms are around Jopson's waist, while Jopson's hands rest on Edward's shoulders.

There is nothing inherently scandalous about their placement but, again, John is not a fool. Edward's position is not to prevent Jopson from slipping down the perpetually slanted floor. Jopson, while an attentive steward, is not brushing lint from the lieutenant's lapels. This position speaks loudly and clearly of illicit intimacy, and John at once feels unwell.

Abandoning the idea of tea, John retreats to his bunk.

He has to inform the captain, but, at the moment, Edward himself is captain, and, until now, doing a fine job of it. In all the years they've known each other, Edward has never struck John as weak, or as at all lacking in character or morals. If anything, he is one of the most upstanding officers John has ever met. He is the last person John would have expected to fall prey to such deviant desires. If someone like Edward can fall, John thinks, twisting his hands anxiously, then what hope does anyone else have of resisting?

John sleeps very poorly. In the morning, while he is hungry, he cannot bring himself to go to the wardroom for breakfast. He does not know how he is meant to face Edward or Jopson, how he is meant to make polite conversation with them knowing what he knows. Instead, he buries himself in that which he has always found most comforting: his Bible. It helps little. His mind, quite unbidden, keeps returning to what he saw, and, more salacious yet, that which he did not see, but which was implied.

When a knock comes on the door, John starts. Of course, it is only Gibson, here to help him dress for the day.

“Mr. Gibson,” John begins, as Gibson fastens his stock about his neck.

“Yes, sir?” Gibson looks at him with his wide, pale eyes, and John realizes he does not know what he wishes to say.

He lands on, “Thank you.” It sounds awkward. The way John feels.

“Of course, sir.” Gibson nods and excuses himself, leaving John once again alone with his ceaseless thoughts.

But not for long. Scarcely minutes after Gibson's departure, there is another knock on the door. Mr. Hartnell looks in, the sight of him reminding John, for the first time, that they are meant to meet today.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartnell,” John says. “I had quite forgotten our appointment.”

“No trouble, sir.” Hartnell looks poised to leave. John can't blame him.

The idea of John helping Hartnell come to terms with the loss of his brother through Bible readings would have been a good one, if Hartnell himself seemed at all inclined to want it. He never has. He comes to John's cabin diligently three times a week, sits and listens to John expound upon the Biblical themes of love and forgiveness, but the fidgeting and the chewing of his thumbnails indicate quite clearly that he longs to be doing something else, probably far away from John. John, unsure how to react to this, has bullied on, convinced he is doing the right thing by offering a subordinate the natural, God-given wisdom of a man of a much higher social position and rank. In the cold light of all he knows now, John has to wonder if he was ever right to interfere at all.

“We ought to stop this,” John says, his heart as heavy as his sigh.

“For today?”

“For good. I am no physician, Mr. Hartnell, nor am I a Biblical scholar. I have offered you all I can. It is time for you to seek solace elsewhere.” Harsh perhaps, but true, for Hartnell's own sake if nothing else. Hartnell's face falls. He is a very handsome man, John notes, not for the first time, and therein lies the true crux of this matter.

John always thought he was immune to Thomas Hartnell's charms, as copious as they are, because of who John is. His faith, his background, his rank, all are sturdy armour against sin. But Edward, while not as overtly religious, is just as Christian, and even more highly placed than John. He, quite obviously, has succumbed the lure of a much lower-ranking man.

Rather than flee as he should, Hartnell steps inside, and casts his gaze across John's walls. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I've always liked these paintings of yours. That cat's the spitting image of my sister's moggy.” Hartnell nods at one of the paintings. A black and grey cat, it was an experiment in monochrome painting, and not one of John's great successes. “Old Tom, we call him.  It's quite a thing, to have to share one's name with the cat. I suppose I already share it with half the men I meet. The occasional animal oughtn't make much difference.”

John blinks. “In Australia, we had a bull called Red John.” A huge, ornery beast. John hasn't thought of it in years. It was an ill-tempered old thing that fathered more calves than any other in the area. An irony which, at the moment, does not escape this John.

“Well, now, sir. That is a namesake to aspire to.”

Despite himself, John laughs. It makes Hartnell smile in turn, which sends something soaring in John's breast. “You have helped me, lieutenant,” Hartnell goes on. “Even if it doesn't seem like it. I ain't...I'm not half as addled as I was before I started seeing you.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“It's the truth.” He bites his lip. John immediately looks away. “You are a good man, sir. One of the best.”

John cannot be silent. “You say that because you do not know me.” Does not know the dreams he has been keeping at bay by clinging to his rank, his position. Has not seen the lake of depravity into which John knew—absolutely knew—he would never dip a toe, until he found Edward Little, of all people, splashing about right in the middle of it.

“I think I do.” Hartnell's expression is so earnest, John wonders, for a moment, if he really does see right through him, and, more amazing still, is not utterly disgusted. “I can come back this evening, if you're too busy now. I would very much hate to miss our discussion.”

“Yes,” John hears himself saying. “This evening.” Perhaps everything will be as it was by then. Perhaps the genie will be back in its bottle, and all will be forgotten. Strangely, that thought doesn't make John as happy as he would have expected it to.

Hartnell's smile grows brighter, making him radiant even in the weak Arctic light. “Until tonight, then, sir.” He turns to go.

“Take the painting,” John blurts out. Hartnell stops. His cheeks burning, John takes the monochromatic cat from the wall. “If you like it, that is. Could be something to remind you of home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hartnell gazes at painting as if John has presented him with an artistic masterpiece. It's prideful, but John's heart swells to see it. “For everything.”

When he's gone, John brings out his watercolours. He's not sure what he is going to paint, but despite it all, he has an urge to make something joyful. Perhaps, John thinks, Edward is not an infallible paragon of virtue. Perhaps none of us are. And perhaps, he adds, even though thinking it may well be Arctic madness or the beginnings of scurvy or brain fever or some other deadly malady, it is possible to live on regardless.

[gigi-sinclair]

5000th Post Ficstravaganza: Part 1/5

For @bup-iv-icaine, who requested Joplittle “Pancake Day” (and I’m only two days late!)

“He Who Goes To Bed Hungry”, rated T.

He who goes to bed hungry dreams of pancakes.- Maltese proverb

Jopson's hair is turning white.

This is a surprising development, particularly as it seems to have occurred in the space of a single afternoon. Stranger still, the colour is confined to only one lock, the one lying against his right cheek. It is only when Jopson sets down his serving dish of pancakes on the table, then reaches up to tuck that errant lock behind his ear, that Edward realizes the true nature of his new coiffure.

“Did you, by chance, make these yourself, Mr. Jopson?” Edward asks. The pancakes are piping hot and smell divine.

“Mr. Diggle requested my assistance, sir. He had a great deal of pancakes to make.”

“Indeed.” It is Shrove Tuesday for the men as well as the officers, and as everyone knows, pancakes are only good when eaten fresh.

Up close, Edward can see specks of flour adorning Jopson's cuffs, in addition to streaking his hair. It's so sweetly charming on a man who is usually so impeccably put together, Edward's stomach gives an unexpected lurch. He busies himself with his pancakes at once. They taste as heavenly as they smell.

“I believe on Erebus,” Lieutenant Irving declares, once they have all been served, “Sir John is having all of the officers give up alcohol for Lent. Perhaps we ought to go around the table and share what each of us is doing, to mark this particular time of year.”  

Irving is young, and irritating at times, but Edward can't fault the man's courage. He doesn't blink when the captain fixes him with a stare that would have set many a lesser man to weeping.

“Aye, lad,” Mr. Blanky says, before the captain can reply. “It's a grand idea. Personally, I plan to give up swearing.”

“Really?” Irving looks as surprised as Edward feels. “That is very commendable, sir.”

“Indeed it bloody is. I'll get a fucking start on it tomorrow goddamn morning.”

There's a round of laughter. Irving's expression doesn't change, even as the tips of his ears redden. Edward glances up, to see Jopson smiling from his position against the wall.

He has a very handsome smile. Edward has remarked it before, shamefully. It is not his business to notice anything about his subordinates, beyond whether they are fulfilling their duties, but there has always been something eminently noticeable about Mr. Jopson.

Jopson's gaze comes up, catching Edward's. Quickly, Edward focuses on the plate in front of him.

That is what Edward should be renouncing for Lent. Not just for Lent, but for good. He needs to stop staring at Jopson. Stop thinking about Jopson. Stop lying in his berth at night, picturing Jopson in all manner of extremely revealing, immoral and occasionally illegal positions. If he were a stronger man, a more pious man, Edward would endeavour to do just that.

Instead, as Hodgson embarks on some dull anecdote about a childhood attempt to give up school for Lent, Edward allows himself another quick glance in Jopson's direction. The flour-stained strand of hair has worked its way loose again. Edward's hands itch to smooth it back for him.

“It is most important that we repent during this time,” Irving insists, interrupting Hodgson’s reminiscing. Edward has to give him credit for it. Irving is not easily cowed, certainly not when it comes to religion. He would be more at home, Edward often thinks, with Sir John as his captain. “It is through self-denial that we prove our devotion to God.”

God shall be disappointed in me, then, Edward thinks, although that's hardly a surprise. He has no intention of denying himself this little pleasure. This harmless pleasure, really. There are few enough of those around here.

The captain says something. Edward doesn't hear what, but it sends another ripple of laughter around the table. Edward joins in, belatedly and too loudly, and spears the last morsel of sugar-dusted pancake on the tines of his fork.

“And moreover, I will not ask my men to give up anything,” Crozier continues, “when circumstances have already taken so much from us, and will continue to do so.” He looks around the table, his gaze landing on each man in turn. “We must live every day to its fullest. Eat up, gentlemen. We have no guarantee of such luxurious provisions this time next year.”

The thought of still being here next year is enough to make Edward ill, despite the lovely meal. He peeks over at Jopson again. This time, Edward finds Jopson looking back at him. Jopson’s rosy cheeks darken a little, but he doesn't turn away. Edward, transfixed, watches as slowly, deliberately, Jopson raises his hand and shifts his hair back into place, his big, sea-storm eyes not moving from Edward's. Then again, Edward thinks, heart pounding fit to burst, anything can happen in a year. Anything at all.