16 Works by blindbatalex in The Terror (TV 2018)
Listing Works
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“Mind if I join?”
James. Francis closes his eyes and decides that his friend is wearing his dress uniform; epaulettes a bright golden contrast against the winter skies beyond, ginger hair lustrous, cheeks rosy with the cold and with life. His eyes are piercing as always, and Francis remembers still the precise shape of his smile.
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And there lay a first: No one had ever given James flowers before. Which was natural, of course, seeing as he was no blushing maiden to be wooed by a handsome, Irish– by anyone, really.
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He grimaces. Oh, but what James is dancing to. The good men and women who are in charge at the Radio are evidently out of their minds today: the ‘song’ that blasts through the room sounds closer to a weapon of mass destruction, clawing at its poor victims’ ears with one horrible beat after another.
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It is considerably more difficult than it appears to make James get the rest he sorely needs.
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Fresh vines of shame shoot from hardened stems at the thought and coil around Francis' ribs. Nearly everything he could have asked for then and more: James alive, alongside the majority their men, rescued, with a home of their own and a small garden besides as spring makes inroads into a winter too mild to turn even the Channel’s feeble puddles into ice.
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Were he to explain it, Francis would understand that, James thought, the extent of his bright untainted delight at seeing Sir James Ross again.
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Francis. James lets out a chattering sound not unlike a huff. We are alive. We can fly. Must you morb? Then, with dismay, with a beady eye fixed on Francis, there is dirt in between my feathers.
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“Your flowers are nearly as lovely as you are.”
James gives him a dismissive wave. “You flatter, Francis,” she says, but the pleased little smile that graces her lips tells him that the compliment is well received. James likes to be cherished, even when he is a man, but doubly so as a wife. As she should be—cherishing James is the greatest honour Francis has known.
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an endeavour best left to fools by blindbatalex for retreat
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
13 Mar 2025
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Francis’s voice is radiant with affection as he converses with Neptune, his dog bringing out a much softer side of him—one that has no walls and nothing to hold back. James has just enough time to entertain one more thought before the door opens:
Oh, how wonderful, I am jealous of a dog.
OR James, freshly out of hospital, pays Francis a quick visit to say thank you.
Series
- Part 4 of are we barristers, francis?
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In which Francis and his two Jameses attempt to resolve the confusion stemming from that shared Christian name, no one feels a modicum of envy, and all feelings are platonic 💖
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would you mind it terribly? by blindbatalex for PeonyChikh
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
31 Dec 2024
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“I was wondering,” James said a little too sharply, prompting Francis to pause. “Whether you would do it for me. Cut my hair, that is.”
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Francis and James have to resort to extreme measures when the rich and entitled youth who lives upstairs will not stop partying like there is no tomorrow above their heads. OR James teaches Francis the joys of scheming.
(Part 2 of the law au, but can be read on its own.)
Series
- Part 2 of are we barristers, francis?
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In the infinite space between one breath and the next, he waits for his world to come crashing down. He loves Francis like a dog, rotten and helpless and bereft of reason or good sense, and he will finally set Francis free of it, of him, for once and all. It is the least Francis deserves.
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If you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me, Miss Fitzjames?
There. That did not sound so bad. James seems to agree, for Francis is rewarded to a coy smile and a fluttering of eyelashes. Were James a woman, he would have the room at the palm of his hand with none able to resist his charms. He would have a line of men, throwing themselves at her feet.
OR: Francis's world is rocked when James abuses his ghost privileges to show up to a ball wearing a splendid dress.
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Feeling his chest constrict with the sheer force of affection that surged through him, Francis wraps an arm around James’s middle and shushes him. “Sleep, darling,” he says, because with James where he is, he can get away with this too—calling him that. “You can sleep.”
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“If you are looking for my case files–”
“I am not looking for your case files,” comes the irate reply, followed shortly by the man himself, looking equally irate. He has in his hand a glass of water and a blister pack of paracetamol, which he offers James presently.
Imagine that: being nursed back to health by Francis Crozier.
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In which James and Francis are two barristers who keep butting heads in court and happen to live across from one another.Series
- Part 1 of are we barristers, francis?