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The Terror - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things AMC's The Terror (2018). Go nuts!
Cast RPF also goes here, shine on you crazy diamonds.
Cast RPF also goes here, shine on you crazy diamonds.
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Hickey/Crozier, CNC knifeplay
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Fitzier, Firewatch AU
(Anonymous) 2022-10-05 02:06 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: spark, Francis/James, T, the rocky mountains: run away, recover, fall in love.
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 05:22 am (UTC)(link)Estes Park, 1989
Francis Crozier was no stranger to running away.
He’d run away to the navy when the crush of Bainbridge became too close and his father’s drunkenness too sad.
He’d run away to Italy when James Ross told him he was going to marry Ann.
He should have run away the first time Sophia said no, but Francis Crozier was a man weak in his vices, and like the last drop at the bottom of the bottle, couldn’t resist the pull of asking one more time.
Finally he had done the right thing, and ran away to the states.
New York had entertained, for a time, but he felt suffocated by the crowds, the noise, how big everyone’s hair seemed to be. He came west, to Denver, like in the poem by that beatnik he hadn’t understood very well but liked the rhythm of. In Denver one could breath, could feel the bracing air and the cold whip of the wind and feel alive.
What one could not do, apparently, was find a job.
Until now, that is.
It had been an innocuous ad in the classifieds. “Seeking Firewatch for temporary posting in Rocky Mountain National Park. Competitive Salary. Room and Board.” The money he’d brought with him was dwindling, his sad little apartment off of Curtis street held no fond memories that might extend his stay, and how best to spend a summer in Colorado than sitting up in a cabin scanning the treeline for a tell-tale wisp of smoke?
“What better way,” he mutters, what seems like the fiftieth mile into this fucking trail but is surely only the fifth. “What better way to have a fucking heart attack and die in the Colorado wilderness?”
He hadn’t anticipated the change in altitude. Denver was one thing - just a mile high city. This was at least eight thousand. Thin oxygen. Hard to breathe. A hundred and ninety five pounds of red faced, sweating Irishman struggling down a simple trail he would have scrambled down in his youth.
At least it was a nice day.
When he reached the tower, he briefly argued the merits of simply sitting down at the base of the stairs and dying rather than climb up the intimidating fifty seven steps. Unfortunately, that strange sense of survivalism that had dogged him despite his best efforts won out in the end, and he stumbled through the door at the very top of the tower twenty minutes later.
Francis had expected worst, honestly. A fine coating of dust on everything, a musty blanket and a pillow that smelled like mildew and someone else’s sweat.
The silence he had hoped for, however, was absent.
“Hello?” The walkie-talkie on the little desk was chirping at him. “Are you there yet? If you’ve died I have to send someone out there.” The voice was deep, masculine. English, of all things, here in the American wilderness. And it was still talking. “I might even have to hike out there. Well, not that it would be such a burden, once to deliver the mail I walked over -” Francis snatched the radio out of it’s cradle.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he said.
“Oh! They didn’t tell me you were Irish,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Francis’ hackles instantly rose.
“They didn’t tell me you would be some toff fresh from Oxford,” he snapped. But the voice only chuckled. The low laughter blended with the vibrations through the radio in Francis’ hand did not help his aggravated state, though they did redirect some of the blood flow from his head.
“Some toff fresh from Oxford, that’s a good one, I’ll have to remember that. Most of the time all I get out here is people begging me to say different words so they can hear my accent. I’m glad we won’t have to worry about that, Francis.”
“So you know my name?”
“As well I should. It’s right here on my paperwork. Francis Crozier. Fifty-one. Denver address, no mention of your origins. I must say it’s a pleasant surprise.”
Francis didn’t know what to say to that. A “pleasant surprise” wasn’t the usual reaction he got when someone heard his voice and knew his roots. Especially now, when some stupid fucking Americans who called themselves Irish because their great-great grandmothers fled the famine would slap him on the back at a bar and said some pithy nonsense about the Troubles and offer to buy him a drink.
He avoids the bars for more than one reason, nowadays.
“What do I call you then?” Francis asked, when he realized the silence had gone on too long.
“How darling of you to ask!” Francis rolled his eyes. “You can call me James.”
James.
Fuck.
“James Fitzjames, if we’re going to be formal about it.”
“Pull the other one.”
“It's true!” James laughed. “I’d show you my license but I don’t believe you’ve got a fax machine out there.”
“Next time, then,” Francis said.
“I’d like that.” The radio went quiet, and Francis busied himself with putting away his few scant things. He had a few changes of clothes besides his uniform shirts, some books he’d brought, a notebook with the vague promise of keeping a diary or writing a novel or making lists or one of the million other things he always promised he’d do with a notebook and never got around to.
“So what do you think?” The radio sprang back to life.
“What do I think about what?” Francis asked.
“What’s your fire prediction for the summer?” James replied. “A quiet few months? A raging inferno?”
“Not sure yet,” Francis answered. The radio was warm in his hand. “But I think there might be a spark.”
Re: FILL: spark, Francis/James, T, the rocky mountains: run away, recover, fall in love.
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 06:40 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: spark, Francis/James, T, the rocky mountains: run away, recover, fall in love.
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 09:25 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: spark, Francis/James, T, the rocky mountains: run away, recover, fall in love.
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)