#fitzjmes

“How any man achieves his post on an expedition is less important than how he                                                          spends it.”

                                                   @fitzjmes

Relief was perhaps the biggest emotion that Francis found himself feeling when he had set eyes on a British dock. To think that after all they had endured, that they were all finally back home, safe from the cold, starvation and the creature. Leaning on the frame to look out towards the land, towards home. A tear came to his eye and he was quick to wipe it away before he looked to his second.

Later historians would come to reflect that it was probably unfair of the general public to have declared the situation an embarrassment to the Admiralty. The proposed delay on a search party- from the mouth of no one less than James Clark Ross himself, who had been believed dead in the same Arctic wastes for nearly two years before his reappearance- was entirely in keeping with the usual policy surrounding a loss of contact with an expedition so far out of human reach. But the matter remained that, policy or not, when Lady Franklin began to grow more agitated by the Admiralty’s inaction and declared her intent to raise money for a search and rescue party of her own, it was an American who answered the call, and the Admiralty suffered from a rather severe loss of face when his efforts, against all odds, succeeded.

Sometimes, a break was needed. From the universe and everyone in it. Far removed anyone that could die, to decompress when all of time and space felt like a graveyard. The crashed Ascin ship that sat cloaked just below the water, encased in ice, was as good of a place as any. It had been there for a few thousand years, but it was still functional on auxiliary power and would remain so for a long time to come, cloaked in the Arctic.

The nineteenth century was also a nice step away from everything, given there wasn't too much activity. No submarines playing war games, or hidden missile silos. Just the endless white, when he came up to let the dogs run amok.

“You've got good timing.” Jack raised his voice a little more against the wind, smiling quickly before giving a quick tap to the vortex manipulator at his wrist. “I just came up to get the dogs, or I would've missed you.” On cue, following the high pitched sound inaudible to human ears, two massive Malamutes skidded to halt at their side.

“They're harmless.” Another tap, and four quick beeps as the equipment read the four life signs, then a flash of light and a feeling of a loss of gravity; and they were standing in the sudden silence of the control room below. “Take a breath, it'll pass in a second.” Automatically, he reached out a steady hand to the man's arm. “Captain Jack Harkness.”

As the dogs shook off the snow, his free hand grabbed a silver hypothermia blanket.

The Terror Appreciation Week: Day 7 :: Favorite Fandom Creation

The Terror RP Community

In conclusion to The Terror Appreciation Week, I’d like to make a special shoutout to The Terror RP Community! We’re small and tight-knight, and through our love of the Franklin Expedition / the AMC show, I’ve met some insanely talented writers. They’ve made me laugh, uncontrollably cry, everything in between, and over and over again fall in love with the characters they portray on a whole ‘nother level. The time and dedication they put into writing and exploring the nooks and crannies of their characters and the insight they give is so impressive I have to pinch myself they’re not actually ghost-written by {insert-character-names-here} themselves!

P.S. Thanks for also welcoming my oc with wide open arms into our great Franklin Expedition alternate universe(s)! We’re only getting started and it’s an awesome ride!

‘Oh, that’s a bit harsh an accusation, Captain. Didn’t like your supper much, did you?’ Hickey frowns. He picks away at something caught in between two of his teeth and leans back. With a sharp nudge of his foot, he makes the empty dinner plate clatter across the tent.

‘You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff the doctor keeps in his bag of tricks. Poor Goodsir’s been real busy these days, what with all of those men lying sick. It wasn’t half a moment’s work, grabbing what I wanted, before he ever knew it was gone.’

He flourishes the little glass vial in front of Fitzjames, just out of reach.

‘Strychnine. Dunno what it’s used for in small doses, but what I do know is that makes a wonderful rat poison.’

Hickey shrugs.

‘Don’t worry overmuch, and try not to talk, ‘cause it’ll only get worse if you do.  By the time you’re done having convulsions and making everyone panic, I’ll be long gone with my men and Crozier’s supplies.’

He leans closer and tuts, as if in sympathy.

‘It must be pretty hard on you. Just important enough to make for a good distraction, but not really important enough to be of any practical consequence. A shame, really, because I always liked you a bit better than Crozier.’

Hickey salutes Fitzjames in farewell. As he steps over him and reaches for the flap of the tent, he turns around and whispers:

‘If you’re lucky, you might even live through it. I’m not a complete monster. See, the dose wasn’t too high, or I’d have risked you dying before they find you. But if you don’t survive…’

His thin face lights up with a sudden horrible grin.

Of all the social expectations he endured, there were few he actually looked forward to. One occasion that could always bring the shy King out of his shell was the gathering of his Admiralty and those sailors which they had high hopes for. He had always held a soft spot for the discovery service too and when he heard of the expedition to head North in search of that elusive Northwest passage, he had been eager to meet with the men that would be undertaking such a task, only two of them were actually present and after meeting Sir John Franklin, Albert moved on to the other, a young Captain Fitzjames.

Fitzjames, having only woken up some five minutes ago had hoped that Mycroft be at least a few precious minutes late. The previous night, he had told the doorman of the club in which he held his rooms to let Mycroft through without other confirmation. So it was no surprise that he walked in on James midway through getting himself clothed.

“Ah— Quite alright,” he dismissed as he tugged at the hem of his shirt to cover his lower half, “I had intended to wake earlier, but alas…”

“It’s quite alright.” That was a lie. An inability to be on time irritated Mycroft and, though he wasn’t going to comment on it, he couldn’t help but feel just a touch annoyed by the situation.