Francis Crozier - Tumblr Posts

she has that sadness in her eyes that you only see in alcoholic captains of doomed arctic expeditions

Uhm

I had an intense hyperfixation for "The Terror" for a few weeks in December sooo have some Francis and James doodles

(also I listened to "Itaca" a bunch while I was thinking about them and realized that the song kinda fit)

watched the terror and now I have to draw the babies

now, the colored version

this might have been done already but it was my first thought upon seeing it

I love that we're all back on our terror bullshit and that somewhere from a hopefully warm afterlife James Fitzjames and Francis Crozier are looking down on us and thinking what the fuck

Graham’s company has already gone over. Francis can hear the men yelling interspersed with gunfire and explosions. His company– a hundred and thirty five men– stand at the ladders, ready to charge out on the second wave. The air is cold, the sun blotted out by dark clouds of smoke.

“Affix bayonets!” James calls out to the assembled men.

Francis sees them all move together, locking the knife on to the end of their rifles. He slings his own over one shoulder, walking down the length of the trench to check his men are ready. They’re tense, knuckles white as they grip their guns.

“Steady men!” He yells, reaching out to pat the more nervous looking ones on the shoulders as he passes them. Francis touches his gas mask, then the three grenades hanging at his hip. He sees James, standing with his rifle tucked under one arm, pocket watch in hand.

“Thirty seconds.” James tells him.

A soldier in line turns to the side and retches.

“Rifles at the ready!” Francis roars. “Hold men! Forward on my order!”

He reaches out and rests a hand on James’s shoulder. “I’m with you.” James whispers. Francis squeezes his shoulder.

I wrote a Downton Abbey AU for the Terror

Terror bingo round 5, prompt: midnight sun

The Terror bingo round 5, prompt: "like a bad pun."

Terror bingo round 5, prompt: almost kiss

we all needed this

something something the 2005 royal theatre production of hamlet

Terror bingo round 5, prompt: trapped together and bare feet

reblogging so I can keep it because I love this.

ohhh the mini fic game... 11 for fitzier? 👀

*very* overdue because things have been so busy and outlander happened but here it is, 11 for fitzier

11. things you said when you were drunk

In all his dreams, before his helpless sight, Francis will see it—James, stumbling his way into the mess, eyes barely visible above the scarf wrapped around his face, and as his fingers fumbled with his slops, as Jopson moved to help him, those dark eyes rolled and he crumpled in a heap to the floor.

For one heart-stopping moment he thought him dead as simple as that, how Hornby collapsed on the ice not six weeks ago, and his own knees buckled when he reaches James’ side, pulling that scarf away.

“The shock, sir,” Jopson’s voice soft even as he felt a warm (warm) breath faint against his fingertips, “the heat after being out so long.”

Hornby had not been caught in a sudden blizzard. Had not gotten separated and lost and wandered.

Ice crystals melting in the soft web of James’ lashes.

“My quarters,” Francis’ throat aching, a wonder it could make sound, “he can rest and warm up there.”

And so it is that James has been situated in Francis’ own bunk, stripped of his slops and outer layers, wrapped in blankets. He woke, once, wretched, murmured of the cold. Francis pressed a glass of gin to his lips, smell making his own stomach churn but alas they have been short of brandy for some time. James’ fingers too thick and clumsy with bandages and frostbite to take it, but Francis bade him sip and he did, and in minutes his eyes were closed again.

He will not lose the fingers. A little sore, true, but not so severely damaged as that.

They must thank God for small mercies.

He’s taken a little hot tea since, more gin, fallen back to sleep. An exhaustion to recover from, hypothermia.

Francis prays the cold has not gone into his chest, squeezes the fingers thin and limp beneath the bandages. It was James who reached for him, the last time he woke.

(And who he thought it might have been sitting with him—but no. The faint shape of his name on those lips, the crinkle of a lopsided smile.)

(Too much gin on an empty stomach. They must get something proper into him soon.)

Of all the misfortunes they have suffered—if they had lost James—

(If he were still a drinking man—)

A low whimper from the bed drags him from his thoughts. Those thin fingers spasm, a grimace twisting that pale face. Francis shushes him, smooths back a lock of damp dark hair, curls his fingers tighter around that limp hand. The whimper turns to a moan, sloe-dark eyes flickering open, feeling out the corners of the berth.

Find him, latch on as his breath catches, and cracked lips twist into a smile, the murmur so low he strains to hear it.

“Kiss me, Crozier.”

Drunk, he tells himself, drunk, too much gin, nothing to read into it until a dry cough and again, stronger,

“Kiss me, Francis.”

Don’t call me—

“James—” name escaping him but all it earns him is a slow blink, that frail hand tightening around his own.

“Please.”

He will not remember this in the morning, and the words are a lie but they are the ones Francis clings to as he leans in, presses a chaste kiss to that clammy forehead, that sandpaper cheek and as he is about to draw back James’ head tilts and there is the brush, the faintest brush, of dry lips against his own.

“You’re drunk, James,” he whispers, inhales the acrid smell of gin, lamp light shining in those eyes, and the answering smile is pressed against his jaw.

“That’s as may be, but the drunk man speaks a sober truth.”

(And in the morning, how true those words shall prove to be, when he wakes with aching neck and back squeezed into that narrow bunk, James’ arm warm around him, James’ head tucked in against his chest.)

(“For warmth,” he will say, should Jopson find them.)

(And James’ kiss will be just as sweet sober as it was drunk.)

I’ve been thinking about Ross’s little pictures of the captains so I made my own. I wanted to add Sir John but couldn’t find any panels of 3 in the right size. Played around with the colors in the pictures to make them look older and set them up next to my compass.

GET TO KNOW ME MEME: [2/10] friendships » captain francis crozier & captain james fitzjames ↳“…“You know what I would give my left bollock for right now?” asked Captain Francis Crozier. “What?” “A glass of whiskey. Two glasses, I mean. One for me and one for you. The drinks would be on me, James. I’m standing you to a round.” Fitzjames nodded. “Thank you, Francis. And I’d lift the first toast to you. I’ve never had the honour of serving under a better commander or a finer man.”

“We have to get this matchstick away from the tinderbox.”

(The Terror 1x08)

bonus because i like suffering:

The way he smiles when he's with Francis

James Fitzjames in every episode - 1x07 Horrible from Supper