Cornelius Hickey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spotsalone) wrote2025-04-11 07:04 pm
spotsalone) wrote2025-04-11 07:04 pm
Entry tags:
angelo and the hickster's post-belle arctic adventures
angelo cr chart
mutineers cr chart...
timeline:
- arrival; late july, mutineers' hill
- tent chats; early august, temporary camp
- spotting the ships; late august, terror camp
- tuunbaq attack; sept 1, ice floe camp
- boarding terror; fellas it's gay; early sept, hms terror
- dog to dog communication; early sept, forecastle
- bark bark bark; early sept, on deck
- coat! and post-tozer debrief; early sept, angelo's cabin
- 🌶️; early sept, hickey's cabin
- the dogs are unionizing(?); mid sept, cargo hold
- tozer/captain stuff, look at them having an adult conversation; mid sept, greatroom
- little rescue mission; early oct, terror bay
- post-little debrief; early oct, hickey's cabin
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Anger would keep Angelo warm, but everything here is dead. Even the corpses, who once feasted on the flesh of their own comrades, cannot elicit his ire. They need to get out of this place, where everything is withered and Angelo's flame is smothered. They need to get back so he can scream at somebody.
Angelo checks the safety on each gun dutifully, and then jams them into the bag with more force than strictly necessary. They won't linger long. They won't linger long. He won't be devoured.
He's glad when he can get up and shoulder the bag (Hickey doesn't need to carry this, it gives Angelo direction to be able to do something for him), finally ready to turn away from the grotesque fireplace for good. ]
-- just where did Tozer run off to?
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Now, he listens to stop himself lingering too long on each vacant face he tries to identify. Most of them, he doesn't recognize, despite living amongst these men for three years. Are they that far gone from themselves—or is he, his mind a tattered patchwork after months of hell? He stops wondering which answer he prefers. Instead: Hickey and Angelo are talking about the guns, he thinks. He can hear the heavy clatter of barrels knocking together.
Tozer lets another flap of canvas fall, the men inside strangers to him. There's only one tent left, and he nearly skips it altogether. The sides are blown out and he can all but see straight through it. A barrel, a blanket. Nothing they need. He turns back toward the firepit as Hickey and Angelo finish packing up the guns, and he hears Angelo: "Just where did Tozer run off to?"
Run off, like he's wandered away to faff about. Like Hickey's not ordered him to investigate the corpses of their crewmates. He trudges off to the last tent to give himself a moment. He won't start a row at a gravesite.
He's a few yards away when he spots the pair of legs under the blanket. Another corpse, this one alone, in a tent a little further from the others. Perhaps Crozier is here after all. Tozer hopes it's him, just to see how Hickey will react.
But it isn't Crozier. It's Lt. Edward Little, though Tozer takes nearly a full minute to place him, given the condition of his face. Gold pocket watch chains are strung over his cheeks, links hooked in his nose and lips and ears. Some are even pierced right through the skin, their weight distorting his mottled flesh. The rest of him isn't in much better condition, sagged against a barrel at an awkward angle that covers him in shadow. His only remaining dignity is that he's buttoned up in his officer's longcoat. Tozer doubts he would recognize him otherwise.
He crouches down next to the corpse. The two of them were not friends. Up until their conversation at the munitions tent, he doesn't think they'd ever spoken outside of intermittent official business. Even so, Little deserved better. Out of sight from Hickey and Angelo, Tozer allows his expression to soften into one of miserable sympathy. ]
I told you to come with us, Edward. Didn't I?
[ Had he known this is how things would end up, Tozer would've been much more earnest in his attempt to entice the lieutenant into the mutiny. ]
Now what have you gone and done to your face?
[ He remembers something: a fragment of a conversation, Little and Crozier discussing something just before Tozer made his first case for arming the mutineers. These men deserve every gold thing there is.
What possesses him to reach out to the chains, he doesn't know, but his fingertips graze the cold metal—and Little's head lifts weakly, sunken eyes searching blankly before finally landing on the marine.
Tozer's stomach flips like a lightning strike. Christ, you're alive. He balks for half a second, his soldier's instinct urging him to take action, but it's like reaching for a gun that isn't where he left it. What can even be done? The rest of them aren't in much better shape, and he may already be beyond help. From the look in his eyes, they could feed him a whole caribou and it wouldn't be enough to revive him. Despite Tozer's best efforts, he'll die within a day or two. Like Heather. Like Tommy.
Tozer pulls the stopper from his canteen and lifts it to Little's lips, a hand cradling his head so he can drink. They have to try. ]
Cornelius!
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There's a sharp comment already halfway to his lips, but then he feels how the tension in Hickey's body language has changed next to him and he looks - again, more closely.
The gold glinting in the meager amount of light. The skin flaps, bloodless and drawn out. Angelo didn't think he had disgust left to give after the sight in the fireplace, but it does make the acid rise in his throat for a second - and that is before his unsteady gaze finally manages to see the way the lips are moving ever so slightly.
He takes a step back on pure instinct. He's seen some truly decrepit-looking people before, but they'd been in the gutter where had expected them, rather than in the middle of nowhere as revived specters of a past that has never once included him. Alive? Someone is alive? Here? Even now? How many of those body parts had he eaten to make it this far? What's with the-- Angelo swallows dryly, eerily hyperaware of how the movement of his throat is mimicked by the half-gone stranger. ]
... who is that?
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Half of the water spills from Little's cracked lips. The other half makes it down, though, and Tozer chooses to consider that a victory. There is some life left yet, and that can be nurtured. They can carry him back to Terror on a sledge, settle him in a cot in the sick bay where it's warm and quiet, gently work the metal out of his face... One more mouth to feed won't make a difference. Tozer can share his own rations if the men make a fuss. They have to try.
"Sergeant," Little says, or perhaps that's just what Tozer hears in the hoarse whisper that may just as well be a wordless groan. He nods anyway. ]
I've got you.
[ Behind him, he hears Hickey and Angelo approach. He lifts the canteen to give Little another short drink, his thumb absently stroking through the lieutenant's tangled hair, an automatic attempt at comfort.
"That," Hickey says, "is the man whose berth you're sleeping in." ]
First lieutenant Edward Little.
[ Tozer turns in time to see Hickey's jaw set at the correction. Tozer waits, expecting a further reaction to discovering a survivor, but Hickey only frowns in mild curiosity as he enters the tent, crouching down on the other side of Little to prod at the chains on his cheek.
"What's this about, do you think?" It's a casual question, as if they're pondering some benign oddity. ]
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It's harder to ignore now that the guy has turned up-- well, on close observation, 'still alive' seems a generous descriptor for this, isn't it? 'Still breathing' might be more apt. Angelo joins the other two in the tent just in time to witness the way the stranger's skin flaps shit when Hickey's finger makes contact with the chain. Disgusting. ]
Does it matter?
[ Hickey is allured by the mystery of it, but so long as they are standing between corpses and almost-corpses, Angelo does not feel like he has the patience for thought-play. All his hairs stand on end, like he'd been electrified through and through. ]
It's not like he'll be able to tell us within whatever hours he's got left.
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[ The sudden ferocity startles Hickey—and even Little, his eyes flicking up to stare at Angelo. Really, the lieutenant's head lolling against Tozer's palm is the only thing preventing Angelo from being shoved bodily out of the tent. Hickey would punish Tozer for it in one way or another, but it would be worth it to remind Angelo of his place. This is not his business, not his fate, not his crew, not his tragedy. ]
You don't know a damned thing about—
[ —"Solomon." Hickey so rarely raises his voice that the name is all it takes to bring Tozer to heel. He must know this, given the pause that lingers in its wake, and yet his hand grips Tozer's shoulder anyway.
"Angelo is referring to the chains, and nothing more. Of course this man matters."
Tozer's fingers tighten in Little's hair. He drops the canteen to instead clutch at Little's sleeve protectively. He may have fallen silent, but his gaze matches Hickey's for intensity.
Later, Tozer will recognize Hickey's blatant about-face for what it is: an act, meant to keep him from fussing over a problem not worth solving. But here and now, suffocated by the ghost of a future that could have been, Tozer can't bring himself to believe that Hickey is still capable of such cold pragmatism. Whether Little has days or hours or minutes left is irrelevant. He is their shipmate. Surely, Hickey must feel that pull, too. He must. ]
We'll need a sledge and some rope. Another blanket, too.
[ Tozer doesn't direct the order at anyone in particular, but it's clear that he has no intention of leaving Little's side. ]
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As much as Hickey is correct in the most literal form - Angelo had been referring to the chains when he opened his mouth - Tozer is correct in the spirit of it. There is no value in trying to save this man. They'll only waste their strength and his limbs already feel like they are splintering under any significant exertion, a sensation he refuses to examine too deeply. ]
How are we supposed to--
[ If he argues this, is he going to undo whatever work Hickey just put in for him to defuse the situation? Is 'this man matters' Hickey's order to go along and try to haul him all the way back to the ship, likely to just watch him perish midway into the absolute emptiness of the shale? What a waste, based on nothing but Tozer's desire to play hero!
Angelo may have thought better of completing his sentence, but the rest of his refutation still visibly burns on his tongue. While Tozer is busy looking at Little like he was the game they'd been so desperately seeking, Angelo feels safe to make a much more open expression in Hickey's direction. Despite no words accompanying the look, it is still quite clear what Angelo is saying:
Elias, what the fuck?! ]
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In a sense, Hickey does mean it. As practiced as he is at detaching himself from such things, this discovery is... uncomfortable to exist within. The sooner they extract themselves from it, the sooner he can turn his back to it, discard it from relevance as he's done with all the other horrors of his life. But until this pitiful camp disappears from view, there's no ignoring the desolation of it.
Lying in filth in this miserable wasteland, freezing and starving and waiting to die... And for what? To bolster the economy of an empire that never gave a shit about any of them. This could've been us, Cornelius. A silent despair hangs over the camp now, but if Hickey had been consigned to this fate, he would have died furious. The other men should have, too. They had no choice but to accompany Crozier on his pointless march southward. Even the lieutenant, here. He was nothing more than Crozier's obedient dog in the end, but the captain would've built a gallows for him too if he'd strayed from loyalty.
Edward Little may not deserve such a miserable death—but he doesn't deserve their help, either.
Hickey holds up a hand at Angelo's look. He has this under control... probably. Convincing Tozer to abandon a living man will be challenging, even with all the logic working in his favor.
He licks his lips, choosing his words carefully: ]
Do you imagine he has much time left?
[ Tozer's eyes flick up suspiciously, landing first on Hickey and then darting to Angelo. He can already sense where this is going, it seems.
"Are you suggesting we leave him here? To die?"
Hickey's eyebrows twitch. Okay, perhaps it's more than just a sense. Tozer has gotten mouthier and mouthier these past weeks. More perceptive, too—unless he's always been tuned in to Hickey's tactics and just never bothered to swim upstream. Hm. ]
We do not have enough food for ourselves as it is. It's doubtful our efforts would even make a difference.
[ Tozer hesitates, shifting his weight. His fingers flex at Little's sleeve. He's been backed into a corner, and although he may not agree with the decision, he must know that Hickey is right. Practically speaking, they cannot afford to play rescuer.
But: "Would the others feel that way?"
Hickey's eyes narrow. ]
They would understand the practicality of it. But we're not going to tell the others.
[ "So as not to upset the men?" Tozer waits for Hickey to nod, and then: "Crozier said the same about Lt. Fairholme's sledge party."
A sharp grin spreads across Hickey's face. He was expecting a threat to snitch, but this is so much more devious—and effective, as much as he hates to admit. Crozier... In truth, Hickey agreed with his decision to withhold the sledge party's fate from the crew at large, but it was a convenient tool to drive the mutiny, further evidence of Crozier's deceptions.
Still, the comparison strikes a nerve coming from Tozer, who was angry about the decision. With that context, Tozer's words could be taken as a warning. If he's stupid enough to discard logic in the name of morals, that will be a problem should Hickey push him too far. ]
Alright, sergeant.
[ Hickey stands. He ducks out of the tent and motions for Angelo to follow. ]
From the look of him, it's unlikely he'll even make it back to the ship. If you prefer a clear conscience to full rations, so be it.
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He follows Hickey out of the tent without giving Tozer so much as another glance, and as soon as they are enough steps away to be plausible out of ear-shot, he turns to Hickey and let's his anger flow. His voice is a low hiss, owed to just enough awareness to keep quiet and not start further strife with the marine in the tent. ]
He can pull that sledge himself, if he so direly wants to play the good samaritan!
[ Inside the tent he'd engaged the same restraint that he often had to apply when standing in the back of Frontal's office, forced to tolerate the most foul disrespect in the name of diplomacy. Outside of it, that past habit melts away all-too-quickly. Angelo would never have talked back to Frontal, but Hickey--- Hickey is not his leader in the same way. And anger sustains Angelo. The camp is a little less eerie if he's channeling all his frustration towards Tozer instead. ]
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Calm down.
[ His voice is stern, yet emotionless. Pragmatic. He is thinking, and he doesn't need to be distracted by Angelo's complaining. His intuition is telling him to let Tozer win this one, but why? Machinations aside, this is a battle worth fighting. They do not have the resources, plain and simple. The other men would understand that; a crew made up of starving mutineers is not going to lose sleep over a sacrifice in the name of self preservation. No one questioned Billy's death, either.
Crozier said the same. This should not bother him, either. Hickey has known that he and Crozier were cut from the same cloth since the captain poured him a drink all those months ago. I applaud you, he'd said. Perhaps Crozier was willing to drink with anyone as Billy suggested, but surely he wouldn't say such a thing freely.
I applaud you, and then a few months later, Crozier had him stripped naked and flogged in front of the crew. Hickey allowed his loyalty to be bought with those three words, and it made the resulting betrayal wholly unforgivable. Crozier sealed his own fate in that moment.
Hickey bought Tozer's loyalty with words, too. Now, he's Hickey's most important ally. Should Tozer's allegiance change...
His anger, he realizes, is not a result of conceding this particular battle. Really, he does not care whether or not they return with Little. But it's clear now that Tozer has realized, in truth, he holds all the power between them. Hickey's role as their leader exists purely because he wills it to, and if Tozer openly questions that illusion, everything will fall to pieces.
He is not letting Tozer win, here. It's an honest victory—and both of them know it.
Having sorted all that out in a matter of seconds, he turns to Angelo. ]
We'll let Tozer keep his pet and he'll be happier for it. I won't let him be a drain on the resources meant for you.
[ It's a sentiment meant with love, though his voice is too clipped and tinged with frustration to show it. ]
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Understood.
[ A short acknowledgement, coming along with a sharp exhale. The resources... Little seems seconds away from death, so Angelo is hard-pressed to be worried on the strain he'll have on their food supplies. He'll croak before he can have even a single poisoned can, surely.
No, food is not a concern. He can be rational about food, but... The knowledge that this other lieutenant used to occupy his old room is what gnaws at Angelo. That man is who Tozer wishes were still in there. That man is who Tozer feels has earned a right to be here. Angelo kicks the rocks by his feet a bit harder than needed be as he turns away from Hickey. ]
I'll grab what we need, then.
[ There is nothing gained by having this conversation now, when neither Tozer nor Hickey will change their minds. Angelo doesn't want to linger in this graveyard a moment longer than he needs to. ]
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Hickey has Angelo handle the sack of tins while he carries the duffel of guns, undoubtedly the heavier load of the two. Tozer is left to haul Little up and over the miserable ridge by himself, and he is not surprised by this. No one says a word as they make their way back to the ship. No one looks back to the camp once they're clear of it.
It's a brutal climb, with the sledge catching awkwardly every few steps and the shifting rocks as uncooperative as ever. This would be hell even if he were well fed and rested. Now, he's not even a third of the way up before his lungs are heaving painfully and heart is thumping at a frightening pace. Little hardly weighs anything anymore, but Tozer may as well be hauling a boat by himself. The sledge clatters along over the uneven stones, and every so often, Tozer hears a weak groan from behind him. He doesn't have the breath to apologize.
Hickey and Angelo only pause to wait for him at the crest of the ridge, and once he catches up, they start off on their own again. His legs urge him to stop and rest a moment, but he knows he'll never get up again if he sits. Instead, he tells himself the path downhill will be easier. It isn't.
They return to the boat, and then they return to the ship, and even rowing slowly isn't enough to let Tozer catch his breath. His arms are shaking as they haul Little onto the deck, much to the surprise of the men standing watch. Hickey, of course, explains nothing, only issuing a curt order for Hodgson to watch for Pilkington and Des Voeux to return to the shoreline. Someone will need to row out and collect them. Hodgson balks, trying instead to follow them below deck, fumbling through half-formed questions.
"Lieutenant," Hickey snaps. "You are not needed here."
Hickey does shoulder the brunt of the effort in lowering Little through the hatchway and into the sick bay. Tozer knows he's only doing this to put on a show for the men, but he doesn't argue. He barely made it down the ladder himself.
They manage to lay Little in one of the berths after Tozer refuses to let Hickey leave him on the center table. Not even Angelo follows them into the sick bay. Stunned murmurs drift in from the forecastle, and Tozer can hear enough to know that most of the commentary is about the chains in the skeletal lieutenant's face. He yanks the curtain closed without a word.
Hickey stands over Little, studying him curiously as if trying to puzzle out how he hasn't yet expired. At first, Tozer finds it disgusting, the way Hickey regards him as a specimen instead of a man—but then, he remembers the thought he'd had back at the camp. Hickey's flaws are his strengths, somehow. This detached, cold curiosity is to their benefit, and it must be their circumstances that have rendered him so emotionless in the face of these horrors.
Perhaps Tozer's insistence on rescuing Little was foolish in the same way that Hickey's insistence on breaking form to retrieve Lady Silence was foolish. Perhaps they both let their need to take action override their better judgment. Perhaps, too, the Hickey that is sharp enough and brave enough to fight off the Tuunbaq with a makeshift bomb can only exist inside of that detachment. Tozer doesn't allow himself to feel fear in the face of danger, either. Not when there's a job to be done. ]
Thank you.
[ Hickey straightens and looks up at him, expression as unreadable as ever—but he doesn't smile, and that says enough. Tozer turns away to look for a washrag, and by the time he turns back, Hickey is gone.
That night, Tozer suffers through another nightmare. Canvas snapping in the wind, rocks clattering, the horizon blurring against the endless expanse of gray. The landscape tries to claim him. Shales slip away like sand under his boots, sharp and frigid and churning, dragging him under as the frantic bodies dragged Heather under. Gibson's butchered carcass rotting in its pathetic grave. The wreckage of Morfin's skull staining the rocks. David Young's face, crushed under the massive weight of the earth. Tommy, mangled and frozen, floating alone somewhere in this uncaring labyrinth. His own hands bound, led to the gallows, led south, the sickening taste in his mouth, a wind so cold that it feels like knives on his face, a streak of blood on the ice, a head ripped apart at the jaw, skin flayed from his palm, the crack of a whip striking flesh, Hickey's hands cradling his head, a chain around his wrist—
Mr. Collins stands over him as he is consumed by the shales. The fate that should have been.
Tozer wakes with a tight pain in his throat and pricks of tears in his eyes. The cabin is dark still, the ship silent save for the light lap of the waves, the pans of ice bumping against the hull. He scrubs his hands over his face, breathing in time to the sway of the sea beneath him. Then, he goes back to sleep. ]