#whalersandsailors

[hagatastudio]

cliffgate, a goodgore magic and monsters au set in the regency period for the 2023 @theterrorreversebang:

“I don’t understand why this would happen here. Of all places.” Graham’s ears perked at the distress in the parishioner's voice. “I’ve never dealt with…such things. I didn’t want to believe it. It’s horrible.”

written by the wonderful @whalersandsailors and illustrated by yours truly, you can read the story of these two interacting with the local mythical fauna and falling in love on ao3.

[theterrorbingo]

Passing of the Baton

Exciting news everyone—The Terror Bingo will be continuing on!! 

The Bingo will be running this year with new mods. The creation period will run on its usual timeline from November 1st, 2023 to March 31st, 2024. Sign-ups will open on October 23rd!

However, we’d be remiss if we didn’t give a huge thank you to the departing mods, whalersandsailors and zipegs for all their hard work creating and hosting this event for the past four years. It’s thanks to their and others' hard work that the Terror Bingo exists and has been so successful. Now that they’re retiring from modding it, it’s our honour and privilege to carry the torch into Round 5!

So who are we?

Leo, ey/eir or mixed up pronouns, twitter, tumblr link, blsky

I first watched the terror in 2021 and I’ve been rotating the men and the ice, the ice and the men in my head ever since. More of an artist than a writer (found here ofthestrangersilk), fitzier has me in a headlock that I’m only inclined to break for other cold boys being put into Situations. I’ve helped mod a few events in the fandom and I’m excited to be taking up the mantle and bringing you all the Bingo for another year.

Saura | she/they | tumblr, ao3

Hi everyone, I’m very excited to be here! I first watched The Terror this past March in 2023, and those little cold boys captured me mind, body and soul. I’m more of a writer than anything else and have fallen in love with Thomas Jopson on a molecular level, so most of the fic I have IP is about him. I’m an avid bingo player irl (the little old ladies love me), but despite my real-life experience I’m new to modding a fandom bingo event. I’m eager to help continue the Terror Bingo for another round!

Please be patient with us as we get our bearings. There will be a few changes happening around here in the next week or so, but we’ll be up and running in time for the 23rd.

See you all very soon!

[tomjopson]

Hard to believe that it’s already been two years since I posted my first Terror fic to ao3 — poised on the edge of the world. Since then I have written extensively for this fandom with my works totaling more than sixty.

To celebrate my Terrorversary, I’ve compiled a masterpost of all my fics, organized by pairing and character. {Find it here!} 

Or you can skip to one of my personal favorites linked right here:

no men but animals

I knew it was love (and I felt it was glory)

a fine lobster kettle

everyday’s most quiet need

A Sunday Aboard HMS Terror

you & me & the devil makes three

Thanks to everyone who has read, commented on, bookmarked, and reblogged my fics as well as just making me feel super welcomed! It has been a real honor participating in this small but passionate fandom. ❤️

[letmeinimafairy]

My illustrations for @whalersandsailors' absolutely wonderful werewolf AU set in Alaska during the Klondike Gold Rush for @theterrorbigbang!  no men but animals

[mifhortunach]

edward little in 22, please? 👀

only survivor of lads weekend trip speaks out; ‘maybe we should've brought things other than redbull and jäger with us’ (x)

[zipegs]

I'm also sending you multiples! I am curious about 'clavier + singing with friends' as well as 'it's alive!'

clavier + singing with friends:   wip title after the two prompts it was meant to fill (’clavier’ from our first bingo round and 'singing with friends’ for one of the winter terror fests... i don’t completely remember which one! it was going to be a terror-lieutenant-focused silly modern au featuring a winter office party in the spirit of carnivale. hodgson (on piano) and irving (singing) are having the time of their lives and coerce edward little to join in on the fun. eventually, they would’ve hit the town for a slightly drunken caroling session. i only ever wrote one line:

Edward Little despises office parties.

it’s alive!:   fitzier, wip title from the 2019 halloween fest propmt! it was supposed to be a short little piece but then i considered giving it some more meat and promptly never returned to it lmao. it’s a horror piece, kind of weird fiction, in which king william’s land/the landscape itself is sort of sentient and comes alive to defend itself/conspire against the crew during their attempt to walk out. and a random snippet:

James swallows. His head feels stuffed with cotton; there is not enough space inside his skull. He swallows. “Francis,” he tries. “Francis, I fear something is—”

“Captain!”

Francis turns toward the call, and James, still sluggish with dread, follows his lead. What words he had meant to say recede within him, tucking themselves in the hollow places betwixt his bones. 

Lieutenant Little is walking briskly toward him, the lines of his face hard and knitted with worry.

James’s stomach twists.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Francis asks. Little stops just before them, his breath rattling around in his chest; each exhalation billows from his mouth and nostrils like smoke.

“The last patrol, sir.” He pauses, glancing from Francis to James and back again as though uncertain how best to proceed. “They’ve discovered something.”

[nedlittle]

oh oops I meant to ask for 'the summer day' for Little/Tozer, if that's alright? :)

i am…sorry for this

(cw for canon-typical violence, mention of suicide, mention of euthanasia)

the summer day: what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

 ***

As of today, June 30, 1848, Solomon has died 77 times. He is, at the moment, considering making it 78 so he does not have to bury Armitage. Though, he is unsure of the rules, whether the loop will close only when they return to England, or if he’d die for good. And, even then, despite how much he wishes one of his deaths stuck, he’s tried so hard to keep the crew alive. It would be a shame for him to take it back now. Besides, with 77 deaths, he’s buried every one of his friends by now.

The first time he came back, he thought it was a dream; some panicked dying vision. After three days shipbound (not being slowly crushed, not reeking of death), after Heather sitting next to him in the mess, the way his clothes fit rather than hanging slack, it became clear that it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure why him. There had to be better choices, better leaders. But maybe this is some twisted idea of absolution.

If he did anything wrong, any violation of the articles, it was to keep his men safe. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back.

***

The second time, he swears he won’t make the same mistake twice. He won’t fall for Hickey’s plans, won’t meet his end with a roar and the glint of teeth. That lasts until the lashing. He knows the kind of man Hickey is. Hell, he knew the first time. But, there’s something about the way his body contorts around the lash that fools him into believing it could be different. His death is much the same.

The third time, he watches Hickey wrench a ring from David Young’s cold hand and remembers the faint glint of silver on Billy Gibson’s pinky during the Long Night. That kills any impending mutiny plans for good.

***

Preventing the ships from leaving port isn’t an option either. Whenever he wakes up, they’ve already been at sea a week. And trying to convince command to turn back with no logical reason is beyond foolish. He still tries though, even if he doesn’t think it would work. After seven times waking up flailing in his hammock—the latest after he was hanged for sedition. He couldn’t tell the Captains why they needed to leave and this was the next-best solution he could think of—he decides that he may as well try to figure out why they get trapped in the ice for so long. If there’s no avoiding it, he ought to determine why they’re in this mess to begin with. He spends nights in the rigging with Blanky who looks at him like he somehow has an inkling of what’s going on, shares a pinch of his tobacco every now and then, and does not call any of his questions stupid even when they are. Unfortunately, even Blanky doesn’t know why the ice hasn’t melted. Blanky in any of their loops can’t figure out why the ice won’t melt, only that it should.

In fate’s cruellest twist yet, the ice thaws in loop 15, but it takes him and the rest of Terror’s marines under with it.

***

By loop 20, he’s desperate enough that he considers killing Sir John while there’s still a chance to turn back. There’s no way their Captain will sacrifice progress for safety. He gets as far as considering poisons, how he could pull something from the sickbay and sneak it into his food or drink, before he finds he does not have it in him to murder Sir John. As fortune would have it, Sir John does die before that ill-fated hunting blind. But instead of being carried off by that Thing, he succumbs to two gruelling weeks of pneumonia. After they lay him to rest, command is so devastated by this loss that it almost isn’t worth it trying to get them to walk out.

Sol tries anyway, but can’t convince anyone to budge. This time they freeze, the entire expedition crowded in Terror when the ice pierces her hull. She’s halfway crushed before they begin to sink in earnest.

***

He thinks he’s got it sorted when he replaces Bryant on Gore’s sledge party. Nobody to shoot the shaman, no reason for the Creature to set its sights on them. The solution should be simple. It’s Des Voeux’s finger on the trigger that time and the shaman bleeds out before they can load him onto the sledge. The Creature makes quick work of the rest of them.

He tries for the same tactic the next three loops. In the first, he’s hit by a hailstone twice the size of his fist during the storm and does not wake. In the second, the bullet hits not the shaman but Lady Silence, and the Creature provides no mercy.  In the third loop, they return with no casualties and no Creature on their tail and may well survive. They die anyway.

***

There is one loop where he manages to save Heather from that Thing, and another where he pulls Heather from the flames at Carnivale. There are two loops where Heather wakes: one right before they walk out—and his eyes close for good only scant hours after they reopen—and one where he wakes alone, unable to open his eyes. Dr. Peddie says it is the fear that does him in, same as it did David Young.  The worst loop is when he survives all the way until they’re about to walk. Heather is alive but not living and there is no way they can haul a comatose man without killing him.  Solomon waits until the sickbay is empty, places a pillow over Heather’s face, and holds it there. This action meets no resistance. Sol remains at his bedside until his next watch, hugging. Wilkes finds him there in the early morning (or night, time has become quite the elastic thing to him) with dampened eyelashes and the pillow clutched to his chest. Then, of course, there is the loop in which he throws himself between Heather and the Creature’s claws. There is a moment when he feels his blood darken the deck and the odd sensation of wind against his brain before everything goes blank.

Sometimes death is whiteness, like the snow and ice they’ve come to think of as halfway between home and hell. An endless cocoon of nothing so cold it almost burns. Other times it is a growing black inkblot over his vision, devouring up any last shreds of survival. And sometimes, there’s nothing at all. Out like a candle. But never does it get easier. He doesn’t want it to get easier. If that happens then what’s there keeping him from giving up entirely?

***

What interests him the most is that the Creature has no bearing on whether they live or die. If it doesn’t pursue them, nature does its part. Sometimes he almost wishes the Creature would take them instead. Being picked off one by one, having his soul wrenched from the remnants of his body, it would be preferable to watching his fellows become shadows of themselves. He tries to ask Lady Silence one of the times they bring her aboard. Tries being the operative word here. There are rather a lot of gestures and rudimentary drawings since he has no words in her language or his to fully explain what’s going on. And it isn’t as though he can ask someone to translate without seeming completely mad. Maybe he is going mad, this is all the fevered ravings of a man dragging himself to death. But Lady Silence seems to understand him, or, maybe she pities him. Though she seems to comprehend what he’s trying to tell her, she can provide no explanation for why this is happening.

There’s something with magnetism and the poles, right? He’s had time enough to read through Terror and Erebus’ libraries, trying to wrap his head around potential explanations. Their compasses don’t work properly this far north, and time trips them up with days of sunlight after nothing but night for months. Perhaps there’s a scientific explanation for why this is happening. Time being stretched thin over the pole. More likely, he’ll never have the words to name his situation.

***

The shortest loop is #65. Sol wakes long before anyone else. The question that’s been troubling him, more than how this is possible, more than why the ice refuses to melt, is why him? One of the Captains would make a difference, even a lesser officer would be more helpful than him. This whole scene feels like a joke. He wasn’t even able to keep his marines alive. How on earth is he supposed to be responsible for two ships’ worth of men? This isn’t ever going to stop. They will keep dying and he’ll keep coming back and there isn’t anything he can do about it. He has squandered each of his 65 chances of survival. It only stops when he dies.

Solomon rises from his hammock and takes the steps down to the hold with care. All he wants is for this to stop. This won’t save the men, what he’s about to do, but it will put an end to all this. He finds a shattered glass of spirits and, before anyone can note his absence, slices into his veins.

***

His dying never broke the loop before; why should it make a difference if it’s by his own hand?

***

By loop 70, he has a formula. He complains early about the tins, collects the bits of lead from between his teeth and takes them to the sickbay when he complains of searing headaches and a wicked fire in his joints. It’s a truth and a lie. The symptoms never start this early but, after dying so many times, he never feels whole. Crozier’s dried out earlier these past few loops. That isn’t his doing, though. He doesn’t stop to consider the logistics, only knows that it means less work for him. The sooner the Captain sobers up, the sooner they can leave the ships, the better chance they have of making it out. His station gives him some leeway with convincing the wardroom that walking out would be their best option, but it’s the rest of the crew who are hesitant to agree. If we’re going to die here, Strong argues, we should die like sailors on our ship. Not crawling home like dogs. He keeps Irving away from Hickey, too. There isn’t much he can do about Hickey short of strangling him, so he’s been trying to keep him away from trouble.

Lately, they haven’t been bothering with Carnivale, which spares him the stress of preventing the fire, but it means they start walking while it’s still dark. The worst of it isn’t the heart-killing cold or the knowledge that their eyes will burn when they see the sun again, it’s that they lose men in the night. Some wander off to relieve themselves and never find their way back. In the early days, they carry lanterns only at the front of the pack and it is easy for the men at the back to lose sight of the crew. It makes burials more difficult as well.

Sol’s put bodies to rest since about the 30th loop. After all, he’s the reason why they’ve been dying over and over again. It’s the least he can do, making them comfortable despite knowing that they will not rest.

***

Over the course of 9 separate loops, he and Little fall into bed together. Sometimes it lasts, sometimes it doesn’t. He half-wishes it would stop happening because he doesn’t need the distraction from his task. But, wishing something would stop doesn’t mean anything as he knows all too well.

At the very least, it goes better than the first time. Nobody gets concussed. As the loops continue, the relationship feels natural. More than a way to get closer to the Captain, more than an outlet for the restless energy he feels radiating off of him, all his nerves about whether they’ll survive. If he’s to trapped here for the near and distant future, he may as well make the most of it.

This is why it’s all the more embarrassing when Little is the one to find him hunched over himself in his tent. He’s learned to cry without making a sound, but cannot yet master the art of sorrow without the release of tears. To his credit, Little doesn’t say a word. He unslings his rifle and removes his hat, settling down beside Sol. Wind-burned fingers come to rest in the space between his shoulder blades.

Once he can breathe without feeling like his throat will close, Sol considers a very stupid idea. More stupid than murdering Sir John. More stupid than loop #11 when he thought his greatsword could do more damage to the Creature than a gun. What is it going to matter whether he tells one person about his…condition? Little won’t believe him and, even if he does, it won’t make a difference. They’re both going to die, maybe tomorrow or two months from now. Then, it will start all over again and maybe they’ll sleep together in the next loop too, or, maybe, Sol won’t even spare him a second glance.

“I’ve something important to tell you,” he begins, close to laughter at the sheer incredulity of it. “And you mustn’t say anything until I’m finished.”

“Alright then.”

***

His final loop begins with a miracle. A day before they reach the Whalefish Islands, John Torrington begins to cough so hard his body nearly caves under the strain of it. He’s sent home without further question. John Hartnell too boards the Barretto Jr. after much persuading by Mr. Goodsir. Braine stays with them, dying a few days into April as he always does. But, at least seven men will see their families once more.

He brings up the lead at the earliest convenience, telling MacDonald who promises to tell Sir John, who in turn says that he noticed it but does not think it to be a problem. He is conscious, in informing MacDonald, that he is audible from the hall. Word spreads within the week that they are being poisoned, though nobody uses that word yet. Another rumour posits that the ice will not melt and they will spend another year frozen solid. He’s careful not to be seen spreading such gossip, he learned that lesson early on. Before Sir John is even cold in the grave, there are whispers of unease among the ships. The Passage isn’t worth being trapped like this. Sir John maintained unflappable faith in the Navy, God, and himself which clouded his vision but Sir John is dead. The only thing stopping them from walking is a squabble between the Captains. Though, that seems unlikely. As Crozier’s sobriety becomes more reliable, so do relations with Erebus.

Sol knocks on Crozier’s door, his speech prepared three loops ago. He doesn’t wait for an invitation inside, nor for permission to speak. He doesn’t even take in his surroundings before barreling on. “Captain, I’ve been consulting Mr. Blanky and he does not believe that the ice will melt this year. He also believes, from experience, that if we are to walk in search of help, it should be sooner rather than later. The men, too, consider it to be our best chance at survival. There have been murmurs in the galley for weeks and—”  when he cuts himself off to breathe, he spies something odd.

Crozier is not surprised by the tumble of words from his mouth, and his cabin is stark. Crates occupy most of the table and all the chairs, save for those occupied by Crozier and Little. Little does not look at him, keeps his eyes focused on the spread of paper in front of him.

They’ve already started packing.

“You’ve got a keen ear, Sergeant,” Crozier says, something that could be a smile or a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Captain Fitzjames and I intend on making that announcement tonight. We will likely start the journey in a week’s time.”

One week’s time. That puts them at a month before they normally start walking. The sun will be rising for their first few days. One month early with no Creature pursuing them, the putrid tins disposed of, and no mutinous stirrings (to his knowledge). If he were a betting man, he’d bet that this loop could be his last.

***

Solomon admires the wooden gravemarker with ‘T. Armitage, 1805-1848’ carved into it with a dull knife. Then, below it, ‘Ecclesiastes 12:7: and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God, Who gave it’. Armitage wasn’t a particularly devout man, neither is Solomon, at least not in the way he ought to be, but it felt wrong not to include an epigraph. Then, he crouches low enough to fill his palm with stones and sets to work piling them in front of it. He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. A second pair of hands appears and begins crafting a miniature cairn on the other side of the grave. They work in silence for a few minutes, moving across the row to decorate the other graves, those of Wentzall, Strickland, and Wall. Little hands him the stones and Solomon stacks them, he’s had enough practice for several lifetimes. When it’s over, they turn back to Armitage.

They were days from Fort Resolution when Armitage collapsed. Not dead, it took until they’d gotten good and settled at the Fort for him to die in peace. And it wasn’t the scurvy or the lead that did him in, he collapsed because his legs could support him no longer. There was no room in the sledges, already filled with the sick, the resting, the dying who they did not want to stop to bury because that was time they couldn’t afford to lose, not when they were so close. They hauled in four-hour shifts, same as the ships, or until they could not bear it anymore. For two days, Sol traded the weight of a harness across his middle for Armitage’s thinned form slung over his shoulders, steady breathing in his ear. Sol doesn’t remember anything from when he fainted—10 miles from the Fort, 4 from a group of trappers looking for game—until he woke up four days later to the news that Armitage had passed in his sleep, only 30 minutes before.

“He was a good man,” Little says in a genuine sort of way, though he did not know Armitage particularly well, “and a crack shot.”

Funny, that’s the exact wording Sol used the first time around. Only he was using it as leverage to get more guns. How stupid that plan seems now, how hollow the words ring when used as a bargaining chip and not a eulogy. He concedes with a nod, a grunt that’s more of a sigh than an affirmation. If he speaks, he’s worried his voice will crack. It’s a miracle he can still cry after all these deaths, that he finds cause to feel sorrow rather than emptiness.

There is silence again, and a long one at that, before Little turns to look at him. There is a worried look in his eye, a tiredness Sol has come to welcome in his own body. He fits the words carefully in his mouth like he’s had years to practice what he’s about to say.

“You told me something extraordinary once, I’m hoping to repay the favour.”

[fellowrat]

Barn owl for @whalersandsailors!

[whalerwrites]

Hello! Please check out my patreon, if you’re interested in more of my original work and behind-the-scenes updates.

I also have a ko-fi if the monthly commitment doesn’t work for you ❤️

[pooraurora]

6, 8 & 15 for the fic writer asks? :)

6. Something you love to see in smut. SOFT LAUGHING!!! HAPPINESS! AHHHH!!!!!!!!! fuck me up. also i firmly believe in slapping an a$$ now and then is good for the constitution even for the most taciturn of characters. but just. IDK YOU KNOW, WHEN IT HITS IT HITS. i’m also a/b/o garbage and so i love to see an omega just having a GOOD MESSY TIME. god just. general Evilness too like. give me the spice, the flavooooor. 8. Something you love to see in dialogue. EM-DASH. love of my life. i can feel the physical pause with that sexy little dude - someone taking a brief inhale, a pause, opening their mouth, the real solid ‘emptiness’ of the unspoken in it better than a comma. idk just love her. probably USE HER TOO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 15. We all project onto our characters. Where has your personality or life choices leaked onto the page the most? idk in recent stuff i went on a WHOLE JOURNEY about GRIEF AND FAMILY and what it means to forgive the ones that harm you and yourself. SO MY BIG STUPID THUMB PRINTS ARE ALLOVER THAT IRRECONCILABLY. i really love exploring sadness/loneliness and/or anger in fic because those are emotions i have trouble feeling ‘safe’ expressing in the real world because of # Trauma. loneliness especially. prior to a year ago when i met bf who is the light of my world i was A Very Deeply Lonely Person even if i didn’t show it. THAT BEING SAID: i also have a hard time dealing with and adjusting to NICE THINGS TOO, so projecting that onto characters is always a blast. MUST A FIC BE GOOD? CAN’T IT JUST BE ME, READING MYSELF FOR FILTH THROUGH THOMAS JOPSON?

[jellyfitzjelly]

heeyyyy for the fun terror themed asks, how about dundy, goodsir, & fitzjames?

dundy- what’s your favourite comfort snack?

mhmmm i’d say rice galets or ovomaltine chocolate!!

goodsir - which living creatures fascinate you the most?

Nessie! i love her and i hope we’ll get to see her one day!! and no, i don’t take critiscism.

fitzjames - if you could be at sea anywhere in the world, where would you choose?

I’d be in the Carribeans for sure! I hope to visit one day, it’s really beautiful and warm.

thank you!

[lafiametta]

I'm also a big fan of the moodboard + mini fic combos that you have done: I'm particularly fond of the WWII au from a ways back as well as your most recent noir au. But I also associate you with the first two Terror fics I ever read, 'you beloved...' and 'without feet...' and I will always remember the vivid and beautiful scene where Jopson meets Little in the storeroom in the middle of the night, and wants to capture the image of lamplit Little like a daguerreotype. A go-to reread for me!

I’m a really visual person, so sometimes I make the moodboards just to get some inspiration and if they end up being in good enough shape I clean them up and then include them with the post. I’m so glad you like them! 

And thank you so much for your shout-out to “You, beloved” and “Without feet” — it really makes me so happy to know that those two are go-to fics for so many of you, including authors whose works I also really admire and enjoy!

[theterrorbigbang]

Hi! Quick question, for a promo, is it all right if we use a cropped portion of the artist's work? It is an art piece created specifically for this event and wouldn't be revealed in its entirety until the post date of the fic. If that's not okay, I can always use something else for the promo. Please let me know :)

Hey! We see no issue with that, as long as the artwork isn’t revealed in its entirety. Thanks for asking!

[tomjopson]

productive way to spend my sunday evening????? probably not.

[rubysharkruby]

One day, when we were young, Moray used a word I did not understand. I realised that if I did not try and match his hunger for betterment then he would get so far ahead of me I would never catch him again. I did not want to lose him.

[gigi-sinclair]

Prompt MiniFic: Not the Mountain But Ourselves

@whalersandsailors requested Joplittle #16 from this prompt list: “I found you  In the bathroom at a formal event, crying in the bathroom over how you saw yourself as ugly” (I took a little creative license with the bathroom thing.) Feel free to send in more prompts!

Title from Sir Edmund Hillary: “It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”

The sound is barely audible. Edward only hears it because he has brought himself away from the bustle of the party, to stand in the quieter area near the door. He thinks at first to ignore it, but it is so mournful, so pitiful, and it does not cease. At last, he drains his drink, places the glass on the hall table, and goes to investigate.

What he finds shocks him.

“Lieutenant Jopson!” The lieutenant stands outside, hunched in a corner. He straightens up the moment he hears his name, his hand brushing at his face. It is too late. Even in the dim recess beside the door, Edward can see Thomas Jopson's cheeks are blotchy, his eyes reddened with tears.

“Are you all right?” Empathy seizes Edward, along with a touch of panic. “Shall I fetch Captain Crozier?”

“No!” Thomas' response is vehement. “I'm fine. Just...resting a while. It is rather loud inside.”

Edward understands completely. “I confess, I find these parties difficult to bear myself.” There have been many since the expedition limped home. Thanks in large part to the unwavering efforts of Lady Franklin, the surviving officers have been received as heroes, fêted over and over again by the Navy and the cream of London society alike. Edward supposes it is better than having to suffer a court martial, but not by much.

“You do, sir?”

“Edward,” Edward corrects, not for the first time. “Or Little, if that is not possible for you. And you cannot be overly surprised to learn my skills at small talk are mediocre at best.”

“That is simply not true.” A quick flash of white in the darkness shows Edward he is smiling, at least. “You are the picture of the perfect officer, si---Edward. Whereas I...” Thomas sighs heavily. “They can tell I am a pretender to the station. There is no hiding it.”

“What rubbish.” Edward has never heard anything more ridiculous. “You are a fine officer. Crozier would not have named you to the position if you did not merit it.”

Thomas snorts, evidently unconvinced. “My appearance is not that of a 'fine officer.'”

Thomas was scarred by his experiences in the North. They all were, to some extent. He is missing teeth, his eyes are sunken, and still, after months in England, he is slender to the point of emaciation. But he is here, and he is alive, and that alone is beauty in Edward's mind. “If perfect looks are now a requirement, I know a great many officers who need to resign their commissions posthaste, myself included.” That earns him a chuckle. Buoyed by it, Edward continues. “Your appearance bears testimony to your strength. That you are here is a miracle, Thomas, and one for which I am personally grateful every day.” It's the closest he's come to admitting the depth of feeling he harbours for the man. Feelings he had on the ship, and that have not dimmed since. Rather the reverse:: they have grown brighter and more prominent as Thomas' true strength has been revealed.  

“You are too kind,” Thomas replies, softly.

“I speak only the truth.”

There's a rustle, and before Edward knows what's happening, Thomas is embracing him. It is quick and light, but it sets Edward's heart to racing. “We...ah, we should return to the party,” Edward says. “We will be missed.” Thomas will be missed, in any case. He can't think anyone is longing for his own dull, dour presence.

“Or perhaps,” Thomas' voice is tentative. “Perhaps we might be scandalously rude and sneak away.”

“Sneak away?”

“I am not enjoying myself here. Neither, it seems, are you. There is an alehouse nearby that makes an excellent beef pie. Or so I have heard.” Thomas stops. Edward hesitates, a moment too long evidently, for the other man quickly continues: “But, of course, we should return to the party, you're absolutely correct, Edward. It would be terribly impolite to...”

“Hang 'impolite.' The beef pie sounds delightful.” More delightful still is the thought of time alone with this wonderful, beautiful man. He holds out an arm. Thomas takes it, and the two of them head off, side by side, into the night.