#lieutenantmongoose

It was entirely unclear how much time had passed since Thomas had come to visit Jopson and Crozier. It was one of his first excursions through the ship on the contraption used in lieu of a left leg, seeing as his had been mangled and quite ceremoniously sawed off--

--God bless Macca, honestly--

--but per the dutiful steward's insistence, Francis had gone to sleep. Thomas was not about to just leave though, and he'd asked the lad if he might stay and keep them company while Francis had his rest.

Thomas was roused from his hazy half-sleep by the knocking. The soporific warmth of unconsciousness began to ebb away faster and faster and it only took a few moments, and a slight stir of Thomas' body, for the dull and heavy ache of his stump to return to it. He grunted, shifted on his tiny bunk, wishing for all the world it was a hammock--but that would have been ill-advised, what with one leg.

Jopson. Thomas Jopson. Right, right...

"C'mon in lad," he called, attempting to push himself to sitting upright, all the aches and pains of his injuries lighting up one after the other like little additional fires to the large, burnnig ember of pain that radiated from his leg--or, what remained of it.

The Ice Master's hair was tussled and he sat dressed in his nightshirt and some old, clean slops to help keep his legs--or, stump and leg-- or--

--to hell with it, his legs-- warm and dry. Doctor's orders.

His beard was bedraggled too, and he was sure he was a terrible sight for Crozier's steward to see. In contrast, the lad was a welcome sight for Thomas, those large, dark eyes and his smile were friendly, trustworthy, dependable.

[Random Thing from @lieutenantmongoose​.]

"Have you ever done much baking, Miss Landsend?" ------------

“Baking?” Thera turned her gaze from the snow outside to her companion, head canted aside. She was seated on a threadbare mattress by the cabin’s only port, legs tucked up tight and swathed in at least two blankets, waiting while Jopson made good on his promise of fixing her greatcoat’s sleeves.

[Valentine’s Day Application from @lieutenantmongoose​.]

Name: Thomas Jopson Age: late 20’s Do you like to cuddle?: One of the better ways to stay warm, I think, although not always seen as strictly ‘proper’ Can we make-out?: Oh, that’s never seen as strictly proper….and I wouldn’t presume you’d want to. A night in or dinner out?: In would be safer, and warmer, given the circumstances. Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: I think we’ve all had quite enough ice for one lifetime. What makes you a good Valentine?: Only being willing company. Would you cook for me?: I couldn’t guarantee the result but, if you wanted, yes. Would you let me cook for you?: If you were cooking for yourself as well. I’d not want you to go out of your way.

[Easy Interaction Meme for @lieutenantmongoose​.]

Dynamics! For Jops bc he still has the braincell. ------------

At sea generally or on board the Terror, quiet allies at being the adults in the room. While everyone else is flipping their shit, these two (and probably Goodsir and Blanky) are quietly getting things done.

"Aye," the Ice Master conceded, briefly removing the end of his pipe from his lips to speak. He was sat by a stove, warming back up after having been above in that icy Hell for several hours. (Though not too close--warming up too quickly brought its own dangers.)

[Gentleness Meme from @lieutenantmongoose​.]

[subtlety] muse a gently brushes their hand over folds and wrinkles on muse b’s clothing. ------------

It was hardly the first time Thera had dressed herself in ‘men’s’ clothing. It usually proved far more hardy and practical than whatever century and society had designated women were permitted to wear - at least without ending up a scandal, something she wasn’t troubled by but tried to avoid, purely because she couldn’t be bothered with the fuss.

Mr Jopson, however, had no way of knowing any of that. His eyes had gotten a little bit large on the first glimpse, but the man was nothing if not adaptable, the practical side more than obvious in the cutting north wind.

On the other hand, Thera was well aware that the clothes as a whole were too big, particularly the greatcoat swamped around her shoulders and making her look like a girl playing pretend in her father’s garb. Eyes and lips sparkled amusement as the Steward looked her over, broke into an actual smile as he leaned forward, likely on instinct, to try to settle the bunching on the coat’s too-long sleeves.

[Non-Verbal Meme from @lieutenantmongoose​.]

[ Guard ] for your muse to step between my muse and danger. (Reversing this for reasons that will become obvious ;D) ------------

As she’d told Francis Crozier a long time ago (a lifetime, so it seemed), Thera was a warm-weather girl. High temperate, for preference, with the occasional soujourn into the desert or the tropics. And right now, even the brain-beating sun of the Sahara lurked the corners of her mind like a wishful dream.

The officers were arguing again, locked away in the Great Cabin of the Erebus, debating ... gods above and below, what was there to debate?! Abandoning the ships, apparently, though the actual bone of contention was only overheard in moments of raised voices behind the cabin’s closed doors. Kirkland’s rescue ship was well supplied, but not enough to sustain three crews through the winter until Erebus and Terror could hopefully sail once more.

The sane thing was to take as many as they could and start heading back before the Eurybia became ice-locked as well, but ... She sighed, arms folded awkwardly across her front in the several layers of coat and wool that made her move like a novelty-store penguin, gave a nod to Mr Jopson as he stood near the icy ship’s rail, and ...

Her head lifted, turned sharp to look out across the floe. Dull white stared back at her, featureless, flakes and flurries all that could be seen. But ...

But. Layers forgotten, disconsolate waddle forgotten, she took two long strides took her between the steward and the rail, hands on the wood and eyes narrowed from more than the whistling wind. To the eye only fresh snow moved, silent and dark.