#Fitzjames' hair and eye colour and also eyebrows

[leadandblood]

Honestly? I look like if Crozier and Fitzjames had a kid and that's so hot of me. If I ever start t i will be unstoppable

[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...