#macsir

I had endeavored to warn Harry well beforehand against Stephen’s particular brand of unpleasantness.

“He will look upon you with an indifference more withering than any contempt,” I explained. “And he is very, very tall.”

“You’re very tall,” Harry rejoindered, quick lad he is.

“Yes,” I agreed. “A regular daddy longlegs, and just as dangerous.”

“And Stephen?” (We were lying on the chaise lounge. Harry’d just come tramping in from the early spring bluster of the wide waking world with a jar of glaucous green water for his microscope, and his brown-black curls all wind-blown. There was a bit of mud on his cheek—he was like something out of a pastoral tale. Wild mountain thyme. I could never resist him like that, and had swept him down at my side the moment he came near enough. His muddy boots lay discarded nearby, and I did not mind what drying gray-brown remainder flaked from his trousers onto the chaise lounge, which had seen worse mischief.)

“Doctor Stanley,” I sighed, “is tall like… a very, very frightening man, who also happens to be tall. Such a fellow as that is our soon-to-be-expected guest, whom you mustn’t ever call Stephen.”

Harry thought this was rather silly and thrust his slender socked foot against my thigh. He laughed in his sly way, which is to say, not aloud but with his eyes only and a dear little contracture at the edge of his mouth, and allowed me to take his ankle into my hand.

“Now, look here, lark,” I said more seriously, “you must be cautious with him. Truly. During the war, he—I told you all about that, I suppose.”

Harry nodded.

“And you mustn’t look at his scars too much,” I added.

Harry nodded again. A look of vague unease had stolen into his dear face, which I did not at all like, but there was nothing for it. That is the war for you.

“This is not talk for lounging,” he said a bit sadly. Lounging being a singular favorite pastime of mine but one which I had only recently induced him to try, I now felt it my responsibility to reverse the tone our talk had taken. So I slid my fingers up the lean, hirsute curve of his calf, unclipped his socks from the teeth of their garters, and traced the flesh beneath. He studied my face, eyes wide, and his little tongue darted out to wet his lip.

Turn, Turn, Turn | 706 words | Rated: G | McDonald/Goodsir | Includes: hiking, love confessions, flowers, and a little smooching. (Can't help myself, I just love kissing so much.)

And here's the track (taken from Cig's Maccalist):

Full fic posted! 

Thomas Jopson is not just a good steward, he's actually psychic. So he knows Lt. Little is falling in love with him.

Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little, Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Thomas Armitage/Solomon Tozer (background), Harry D. S. Goodsir/Alexander McDonald (background), John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar (background), Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson Characters: edward little, Thomas Jopson, Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames, Thomas Armitage, Solomon Tozer, Harry D. S. Goodsir, Alexander McDonald, John Bridgens, Henry "Harry" Peglar, Henry Foster Collins, Lady Silence | Silna (The Terror), John Irving, Stephen S. Stanley, Thomas Blanky, Tuunbaq (The Terror), Cornelius Hickey Additional Tags: Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, psychic powers, Mind Reading, Clairvoyance, except Tuunbaq is interfering with Thomas’s abilities, Thomas is wound really tight, but you would be too if you had to hear everyone’s thoughts, AU Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, Jopson & Crozier are close friends, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, Falling In Love, Romance, Secrets, Heavy pining, Lead poisoning scurvy and Tuunbaq oh my, True Love, Happy Ending Summary:

Thomas sensed that Crozier wanted more water. Well. Crozier wanted whiskey, but Thomas had sat him down years ago and foretold a life spent suffering at the bottom of a bottle— for it wasn’t only minds that Thomas could read, but at times the future— and Crozier had done what it took to break himself of the habit before it got its claws too far into him. He was the bravest, strongest man Thomas knew. So Thomas poured Crozier water and smiled at Crozier’s internal grumblings about Fitzjames and his stories.

Oh, Little thought. I’ve not seen him smile before. There can’t be anything lovelier. He could be the sun on an arctic night. If he ever looked at me like that, I might burn up and be glad for it.

Thomas nearly spilled the water all over Crozier.