1 - 20 of 41 Works in George Henry Hodgson & John Irving & Edward Little
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John and Edward share a quiet night after a long day.
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Ficlets.
Small comforts of various form and function. -
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As a scientific faculty finds themselves without food nor medicine, a group of five is sent out into a world which has been changed by an apocalypse. Three months later, two survivors return to find the faculty empty save for one delirious research assistant.
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Successful co-habitation is imminent.
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It started like this. It had been George’s birthday and if Little was honest Hodgson was possibly the closest friend he’d ever had on any voyage and by proxy Irving was Hodgson’s very good friend. So he had to indulge them.
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“And what about you, Mr. Irving?” asks Jopson, turning to him, as though he can read John’s thoughts. His lips quirk up at the corners. “You’re looking well.”
John really would like everyone to stop saying that — as though he cannot understand perfectly well what they mean, and what word they are studiously avoiding saying.
“You've managed quite well, it seems,” Jopson replies. His eyes seem to scan John, head to toe — seem to see straight through him, past all the excess weight to the insecurities he cannot choke down.
John’s fist tightens around his fork, and he forces himself to nod. He does not raise another bite to his lips. “Yes,” he murmurs. “I suppose I have.”
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“Lieutenant Irving,” Captain Crozier snaps, in one of his eminently-cheerful moods as they’re walking back from a meeting on Erebus. “Why in the name of hell is your hair sticking up at all angles?”
Irving clears his throat, and hastily tries to pat himself down. “Apologies, Captain.” His cheeks bloom a vivid red. “Miss Jacko, ahh… took the liberty of grooming me.”
Lieutenant Little snorts, and nearly trips face-first into a snowbank.
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Mr H, who receives eight cubes of sugar costing ha’penny apiece per day, trades that sugar for two weeks for a drawing - how much is the drawing worth?
Lieutenant Little's birthday is approaching, Lieutenants Hodgson and Irving attempt to create a painting of his boyhood horse, but there's one problem - neither of them really knows what a horse looks like.
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Sergeant Tozer, it would seem, really gets around.
“It’s inhuman, really,” Hodgson muses. “When does the fellow find time to sleep?”
“He must be exhausted,” Little replies.
Irving looks ready to pass away into his porridge.
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In search of artistic inspiration — hard to come by, when you’ve been frozen in pack ice for going-on-three years — Irving decides to paint from life. He asks Sergeant Tozer to model for him.
It is, in retrospect, the worst decision he’s ever made.
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“Little&Hodgson&Irving, Assembling Ikea furniture
“I want to watch them go through the hero's journey while trying to assemble a Billy soooooo badly”
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Sometime in the long winter of 1847, George Henry Hodgson ceases to exist.
It takes him a while to notice.
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The morning routines are so well-practiced by now as to be muscle memory. This morning, they demand more effort than they should. That’s wrong, a voice whispers in the back of Irving's mind — but everything is wrong here, in this endless purgatory of chill and gloom. The ice takes from them all, day by passing day. No one feels well. A bit of soreness, a lingering headache, fatigue and fogginess dogging one’s heels… it’s all become normal. Amidst the blur of dark and dread, the men hardly notice anymore.
So why should an ache in his head be any different?
( Amidst the dark and cold, John Irving is laid low by a migraine. Luckily, he does not have to bear it alone. )
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Terror (Summer) Camp by DeathMetalHarpsichord, kitseybarbours
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
04 Aug 2022
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Camp Franklin is one of the country's largest, most well-established summer camps. Sprawling and expansive, with every amenity that a child could dream of and a staff comprised of complete disasters.
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John Irving reckons with himself, and God, and the world.
The King of Jerusalem wrote: All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. And yet it is difficult to imagine that here, when there is a fire going and he’s wearing a dressing gown at noon. How much is left to fill, when he feels already so full? He reads Socrates and Martin Luther and the autobiographies of Barrow and Ross. At home, he and his brothers argue about the details of charity, the merits of monarchy. In society, he leads discussions on Paul’s letters. He is a sinner in that abstract, insubstantial way that all people know, at least a little, that they are sinners. But he is also good, and moral, and rational.
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The days pass with a tension Edward remembers from his first and second go-around. The marines’ opinions of the officers fare poorly, but time sweetens it again, or at least loosens the grip of suspicion. They are a suspicious bunch, as well; above their stiff stocks, their jaws are often tight and square, and their eyes follow the officers’ backs as if training their rifles on the spot between their shoulders.
They march in a straight line, like the many vertebrae of a dead snake, through the snow and ice, headed through the maze by Sir John. Goodsir shuffles along somewhere in the middle, over encumbered by his daguerrotype equipment. Someone must say something to someone about that, because one of the marines-- who, it is difficult to tell at such a distance-- goes to take up the tripod and drape for him.
That is the last Edward sees of them until later.or, Little is still stuck in a time loop but not for lack of trying.
Series
- Part 2 of a million daybreaks
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About him, the world swam in dizzying degrees, pulsated with the throb of the veins at his temples. Beneath him, his legs, protesting against the movement like a couple of libertines, had gone frustratingly jelly like, and Hodgson stumbled, a landsman at sea, and crashed into the wall opposite.
The wood was so cool, and he sank his burning forehead against it gratefully, for once gladly accepting of the biting freeze that prowled the desolate landscape.
Booted feet clomped past his door and he jerked his eyes open, not having realised he'd closed them. Christ alive, but he wanted to stay there - in fact, he'd love simply to crumble and wait out the end of his days in a tidy pile of gormless flesh and lazy bones right in this place.
Above them, Terror's bell rang in the turn of the watch, and Hodgson realised his plans of embracing mortality would have to wait. He had things to do. -
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Sol, John, and Ed are planning to go out tonight, but not before Ed executes his signature night-out move: passing out one drink into the pre-game.
(for Terror Rarepair Week prompt "sloth")Series
- Part 3 of The Terror US Forest Service AU
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Edward could not get away with pretending he didn’t know it was Christmas week. Every day he sat down in the dark, cold wardroom to fill in the ship’s log and saw that horrible date creeping ever closer.
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All for one.
“What,” George puffs over clicking metal, using his heavier weapon to shunt John’s sword aside and press forward, “are we wearing to Fitzjames’ costume party then?” He blocks and keeps pushing until John is teetering on the edge of the piste, and then swears and has to dance backwards when John does something complicated with his wrist that ends up in a careful backbend and the point of his foil under George’s nose.