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piecesofalice Jan. 1st, 2008 08:17 pm)
piecesofalice Jan. 1st, 2008 08:17 pm)Christmas present post number three: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aj, come on down!
She wanted Barbara and Tommy from The Inspector Lynley Mysteries at home. And I, being a Santa Claus-type (sans beard and red suit), obliged.
TITLE: Salvation By Ordinary Objects
FANDOM: The Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Tommy/Barbara
RATING: PG. It's Christmas!
DISCLAIMER: Not-not mine, not-not mine.
Salvation By Ordinary Objects
Lynley-verse, 24th December 2007
----
NOTES: Written foraj, for Christmas. Characters at home is the sort of shit we find amusing, so I wrote this for her over a box of Lindt chocolates and The Very Best of Power Ballads Volume 2. Barbara calls Tommy "sir" in this, not in a creepy, dominating way; but in a "well, she's done it this long she probs can't stop" way. So there. It's soppy and lovely and enjoy it, aj.
---
For A.j. Merry Christmas. <3
----
"Did you take the video back?"
"DVD."
"What?"
"DVD. Not video, it's not 1995, sir."
"Fine, Barbara. DVD. And did you?"
"Yup. I got some curries, too, for dinner."
"Curries."
"I know what you're thinking. It's not haute bloody cusine, but it's Saturday night and we have a date with Jane Austen."
"You remembered."
"Bloody oath I did! You're not getting out of a promise that easily."
"A promise made under duress, may I point out, when I wasn't of sound body or mind."
"You started the tickle fight, sir, how else did you expect me to respond then?"
"Not with an arm lock behind the back, that's for jolly sure."
"I did reckon that day at training would come in handy, eventually."
---
MARCH
He'd been drinking again, but that was okay. It had been two years to the day since Helen died in front of them, the gun shot resonating in her ears as she'd pulled herself into action and forced CPR upon her bosses' unmoving wife.
He was acting like everything he wasn't - sloppy, disenchanted, childish, brutish, a million adjectives that leant towards grief - and she wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it on her front door step at 2 in the morning.
She was in her dressing gown and slippers, no bra and a million year old t-shirt to dress against the cold, London night. He didn't even look to her, just stumbled into the room and sat on her couch like he'd done it a million times before and held out his hand into the dark like she was the only shining light he had left.
She took it, she told herself, because he was her superior officer. But she knew, underneath the pomp and circumstance, that they needed each other like bricks and mortar.
---
"This curry smells vile."
"That means its good."
"Ah, I see. And where did you get it, Barbara? The last outpost of India?"
"Give them to me. You don't serve it on plates!"
"Give this food a little class, please."
"Fine."
"We'll drink the beer out of the bottles, just for you."
"The things you do for me, sir."
---
MAY
When they first kissed, he'd been sober for two months. They couldn't blame drugs or alcohol or grief, because she'd taken it upon herself to distract him from sadness and the hard stuff, diving them into hard cases and crappy movies at the Regent like his life depended on it.
It probably did, she realised, but that wasn't something she was ever going to admit to her self.
She watched over him while he browsed in the Virgin Megastore, at Blockbuster and Tesco's. Normal places, buying normal things, like A Bit of Fry and Laurie and barbeque crisps, cider and postage stamps, Coca-Cola and toothbrushes and magazines on the south, west and east country.
None of this made sense to her, why she insisted they did this when they were so obviously only meant to be work mates. But part of her wondered if her brain thought "this is what partners do", like that was an excuse enough to intrude on him in the dressing room at Ted Baker and prattle off messy details of messy cases in the same breath.
They were partners, not in the romantic sense of the word but in the most utilitarian, the kind you call on when you've had a case break through at four in the morning, not someone you lock lips with after buying iceberg lettuce and underwear basics from Marks and Spencer.
The lines were blurring, but she couldn't stop it now, because they were partners and partners didn't let other partners kill themselves with grief and booze and God something about this felt like life was living again.
He lifted his hand to her waist, and scooted her forward. Light bulbs and new locks for the doors, yesterday's newspaper underfoot and the taste of the dinner they'd shared of roast beef and potatoes. Second lip brushes, a million endorphins and the absurdity of kissing a man she called "sir".
The smell of the hair gel she joked about, the feel of the shirt under her fingers that they'd bought together on a Saturday when they could have had a day apart, when a case closed, but they needed each other for a full house or the sense of companionship. Expensive, woodsy collogne and the toffy accent of a Lord.
But not the smell of Pimm's, and that's why she let it continue.
---
"Not Pride and Prejudice!"
"Why? It's bloody brilliant!"
"Because it's two discs and eighteen hours long! This is a one night only deal. One night of Jane, then back to..."
"Antiques Roadshow? The BBC News?"
"Are you implying I watch boring television, Barbara?"
"Of course not. But it's better than going out to the country estate and watching you play polo or whatever the bloody hell you make me do when we're out there."
"Being a Lady, now, you're..."
"Expected to enjoy Jane Austen with the rest of the upper class, right? Hand over the remote, and no-one gets hurt - in the most proper of senses, of course, Lord."
---
JULY
When she moved into his house, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Nothing, because she told herself it was her job to babysit this grown man, and that meant sharing his bed and his mouth and his laughter.
They told no-one at the station when he made them get married in some country church. She wore a short dress that made her feel chubby next to his un-tied, suited self, but he thought she was beautiful with her hair sticking north and south and told her so, against her mouth as they lay together in a bed and breakfast that smelt like warm toast and lavender.
It was so bloody absurd. But as he put it, who else could put up with him now?
---
"I'd much rather it if we compromised."
"It has an hour left. And you have half a curry left, which will be mine if you don't look out."
"What is mine, is yours, your Ladyship."
"Oh sod off."
---
SEPTEMBER
The routines became routine, the days became full. The only two people in the world who probably could have existed in both work and home worlds, because every day they broke down the walls of partners versus partners and the quiet trust they had on the job transferred to home like the easiest of ways.
He spoke of Helen, and she listened.
She spoke of her childhood, and he understood.
They spoke and laughed and fought and loved, and it was like the most fractured of fairytales come to life.
---
"That was magnificent."
"Shut up."
"No, really. High quality, informative information. That Darcy, what a fellow!"
"I hate you."
"And I you."
---
Fin.
---
Now I unpack my bag and think of horrible work tomorrow, all while wearing a t-shirt and shortie underpants. Sigh. Merry Christmas, A.j.!
aj, come on down!She wanted Barbara and Tommy from The Inspector Lynley Mysteries at home. And I, being a Santa Claus-type (sans beard and red suit), obliged.
TITLE: Salvation By Ordinary Objects
FANDOM: The Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Tommy/Barbara
RATING: PG. It's Christmas!
DISCLAIMER: Not-not mine, not-not mine.
Salvation By Ordinary Objects
Lynley-verse, 24th December 2007
----
NOTES: Written for
aj, for Christmas. Characters at home is the sort of shit we find amusing, so I wrote this for her over a box of Lindt chocolates and The Very Best of Power Ballads Volume 2. Barbara calls Tommy "sir" in this, not in a creepy, dominating way; but in a "well, she's done it this long she probs can't stop" way. So there. It's soppy and lovely and enjoy it, aj.---
For A.j. Merry Christmas. <3
----
"Did you take the video back?"
"DVD."
"What?"
"DVD. Not video, it's not 1995, sir."
"Fine, Barbara. DVD. And did you?"
"Yup. I got some curries, too, for dinner."
"Curries."
"I know what you're thinking. It's not haute bloody cusine, but it's Saturday night and we have a date with Jane Austen."
"You remembered."
"Bloody oath I did! You're not getting out of a promise that easily."
"A promise made under duress, may I point out, when I wasn't of sound body or mind."
"You started the tickle fight, sir, how else did you expect me to respond then?"
"Not with an arm lock behind the back, that's for jolly sure."
"I did reckon that day at training would come in handy, eventually."
---
MARCH
He'd been drinking again, but that was okay. It had been two years to the day since Helen died in front of them, the gun shot resonating in her ears as she'd pulled herself into action and forced CPR upon her bosses' unmoving wife.
He was acting like everything he wasn't - sloppy, disenchanted, childish, brutish, a million adjectives that leant towards grief - and she wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it on her front door step at 2 in the morning.
She was in her dressing gown and slippers, no bra and a million year old t-shirt to dress against the cold, London night. He didn't even look to her, just stumbled into the room and sat on her couch like he'd done it a million times before and held out his hand into the dark like she was the only shining light he had left.
She took it, she told herself, because he was her superior officer. But she knew, underneath the pomp and circumstance, that they needed each other like bricks and mortar.
---
"This curry smells vile."
"That means its good."
"Ah, I see. And where did you get it, Barbara? The last outpost of India?"
"Give them to me. You don't serve it on plates!"
"Give this food a little class, please."
"Fine."
"We'll drink the beer out of the bottles, just for you."
"The things you do for me, sir."
---
MAY
When they first kissed, he'd been sober for two months. They couldn't blame drugs or alcohol or grief, because she'd taken it upon herself to distract him from sadness and the hard stuff, diving them into hard cases and crappy movies at the Regent like his life depended on it.
It probably did, she realised, but that wasn't something she was ever going to admit to her self.
She watched over him while he browsed in the Virgin Megastore, at Blockbuster and Tesco's. Normal places, buying normal things, like A Bit of Fry and Laurie and barbeque crisps, cider and postage stamps, Coca-Cola and toothbrushes and magazines on the south, west and east country.
None of this made sense to her, why she insisted they did this when they were so obviously only meant to be work mates. But part of her wondered if her brain thought "this is what partners do", like that was an excuse enough to intrude on him in the dressing room at Ted Baker and prattle off messy details of messy cases in the same breath.
They were partners, not in the romantic sense of the word but in the most utilitarian, the kind you call on when you've had a case break through at four in the morning, not someone you lock lips with after buying iceberg lettuce and underwear basics from Marks and Spencer.
The lines were blurring, but she couldn't stop it now, because they were partners and partners didn't let other partners kill themselves with grief and booze and God something about this felt like life was living again.
He lifted his hand to her waist, and scooted her forward. Light bulbs and new locks for the doors, yesterday's newspaper underfoot and the taste of the dinner they'd shared of roast beef and potatoes. Second lip brushes, a million endorphins and the absurdity of kissing a man she called "sir".
The smell of the hair gel she joked about, the feel of the shirt under her fingers that they'd bought together on a Saturday when they could have had a day apart, when a case closed, but they needed each other for a full house or the sense of companionship. Expensive, woodsy collogne and the toffy accent of a Lord.
But not the smell of Pimm's, and that's why she let it continue.
---
"Not Pride and Prejudice!"
"Why? It's bloody brilliant!"
"Because it's two discs and eighteen hours long! This is a one night only deal. One night of Jane, then back to..."
"Antiques Roadshow? The BBC News?"
"Are you implying I watch boring television, Barbara?"
"Of course not. But it's better than going out to the country estate and watching you play polo or whatever the bloody hell you make me do when we're out there."
"Being a Lady, now, you're..."
"Expected to enjoy Jane Austen with the rest of the upper class, right? Hand over the remote, and no-one gets hurt - in the most proper of senses, of course, Lord."
---
JULY
When she moved into his house, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Nothing, because she told herself it was her job to babysit this grown man, and that meant sharing his bed and his mouth and his laughter.
They told no-one at the station when he made them get married in some country church. She wore a short dress that made her feel chubby next to his un-tied, suited self, but he thought she was beautiful with her hair sticking north and south and told her so, against her mouth as they lay together in a bed and breakfast that smelt like warm toast and lavender.
It was so bloody absurd. But as he put it, who else could put up with him now?
---
"I'd much rather it if we compromised."
"It has an hour left. And you have half a curry left, which will be mine if you don't look out."
"What is mine, is yours, your Ladyship."
"Oh sod off."
---
SEPTEMBER
The routines became routine, the days became full. The only two people in the world who probably could have existed in both work and home worlds, because every day they broke down the walls of partners versus partners and the quiet trust they had on the job transferred to home like the easiest of ways.
He spoke of Helen, and she listened.
She spoke of her childhood, and he understood.
They spoke and laughed and fought and loved, and it was like the most fractured of fairytales come to life.
---
"That was magnificent."
"Shut up."
"No, really. High quality, informative information. That Darcy, what a fellow!"
"I hate you."
"And I you."
---
Fin.
---
Now I unpack my bag and think of horrible work tomorrow, all while wearing a t-shirt and shortie underpants. Sigh. Merry Christmas, A.j.!
