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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,466
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Niet of Nooit Geweest

Summary:

Hollis/Taviner: ik ben mezelf niet of al die jaren nooit geweest

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

DISCLAIMER: Not mine.  Look Ma, no leash.

TITLE:      Niet of nooit geweest
AUTHOR:     kel
FANDOM:     The Bill
PAIRING:    Des/Reg
RATING:     PG, first time

CHRONO:     Shortly before "Happy and Glorious".  Am I the only one who
            misses the sectionhouse?
ARCHIVE:    yes to Fabulae, Britslash, Rareslash, MakeBelieve
SUMMARY:    ik ben mezelf niet of al die jaren nooit geweest

FEEDBACK:   Of any and all stripes welcome - to bessie@goldweb.com.au.

THANKS TO:  no names, no pack drill

COMMENTS:   Happy Christmas Augustus & Mez (The Bill) and Katie &
            Charlie (it sneaks into ps/ft territory)  (Oh, and he
            means the *original* film).

 

==================

Niet of nooit geweest
by kel

==================

 

"Oh, give it here," says Reg, tutting mildly, and gently takes the
keyrings away from his swearing partner.   His and Des', inextricably
tangled after an hour in Des' pockets, walking back from the pub.  Car
and flat and God knows what; serves Taviner right for confiscating
them, for ten minutes of exasperated pulling which only made it worse.

Des stares bleakly at him, marvelling at his patience.  Thinking:  if
he gets them loose in under a minute I'll kill him.

"You know," says Reg, in a tone of mild interest, the one he uses for
pointing out unlikely political coincidences, shooting stars, and
amusingly shaped vegetables, "I thought you was going to kiss me, back
there."

After far too long, Des manages a strangled "Oh yeah?"

Reg nods, noncommittally, and concentrates on the keys.  Humming
something he's far too old to know the words to.

Des knows what he's supposed to say; something automatic and bored, a
shrug-off, but it takes too long in coming and his voice breaks.  He
shouldn't be looking at Reg, and his chest tightens with the same sense
of yawning imbalance, of adventure, of *what-the hell* he associates
with the end of *The Italian Job*.  He's suddenly cold, intensely aware
of the clothes on his skin and the distribution of his weight.  Staying
upright seems the hardest thing in the world, because somewhere between
his brain and his mouth, "He would," becomes  "What would you have done
if I had?"

He can't breathe.  He expects Reg to do the decent thing; to look away,
to let him laugh it off.  To overlook it, kindly; pretend it isn't
there, like an embarrassing gift, or an elderly aunt's fart during an
Armistice Day silence.  Reg can do that, ignore things.  Des can't.  If
it was the other way round, he'd have his fists out.

"Well," says Reg, seriously, as if he's really thinking hard about the
answer, as if he's considering, or taking the piss, like any normal
bloke.  "Depends, dunnit".

"On...?," says Des, with just the merest touch of something which feels
like hysteria and sounds like a threat.  His shoulders hurt, suddenly;
hard and tense and on the verge of cramping.  Chill with sweat, and him
struggling like hell not to lash out.

"Whether you was any good at it," says Reg, a little indignantly, and
creases his forehead, nodding gently the same way he does every day
when they're talking about fuck-all.  When the coffee's good, and the
trains are just the right model, and it's finally stopped pissing down.
When he views the possibility of any alternative answer with mild
surprise.

He looks up, gentle grey eyes looking kind and deep into Des's own.
"You can try now if you like.  If you still want to.  Assuming you
*did*, and I ain't got the wrong end of the stick..."  He smiles,
brilliantly,  absently, and returns to the keys.  "I tend to do
that..."

Very few people have ever seen Des Taviner lost for words.

The rush with which tension leaves his body leaves him sitting hard on
the low wall at the top of the steps.  Making a fool of himself, with
his head in his hands and what feels like a very, very stupid look on
his face.  The harsh brick cuts into his underthighs, cutting off his
circulation, but he won't move.  He has a feeling his legs would shake,
and that doesn't happen to Des.

He kicks out at the ground, savagely, hard enough to bruise; waits to
feel better, and doesn't.

"Fuckin' hell, Reggie-babe," he says, at last, into his hands.

"Language," says Reg, quietly, and sits down next to him, comfortably
close and without looking first, as if this is a favourite spot.  It
probably is, knowing him.  Quite pleasant, really, for what it is.
Shadowy.  Quiet and private, out of the breeze and porch-light range.
There's a view right down the street if you want it, although why you
would in a grotty shithole like this is beyond Des.  Dirt's honest up
North, shot through with sweat and things that mean something.  Down
here it all comes from poxy cars.

Des tries to say something, once or twice, but can't quite manage.  He
wishes he still smoked, that he was younger,  that his hands had
something to do.  In the end he keeps his head down, and listens to the
traffic, to low voices passing on the other side of the street, to the
quiet metallic song of Reg untangling the keys and nodding hello to
coppers coming home.

The longer he says nothing, the more he feels a decision's been made.
There it is, sitting in his gut in football boots.  Well done, son, he
thinks,  that's the easy part.  Now all we have to do is work out what
the fuck it is.

He wants to ask Reg whether walking away would mean yes or no.  Whether
yes would mean yes or no.  He wants to ask Reg what he wants.  Reg
always knows what he wants.  Maybe he could tell him what Des wants
while he's at it.  Fuck knows somebody should, they'll be here all
night at this rate.

He takes a deep breath, and sits upright, hands on his knees and
blinking up at the tattered moths around the naked bulb; at shadows
huge on cobwebby eaves.  Moths so old or so tired or so unambitious
they're happy to sit and look at the light.  He wonders where moths go
when they hit the pension, assuming they live that long.  Can't imagine
there'd be much fun in an old moths home.  Or many inhabitants.  At
least they'd have rooms to themselves.

He wonders what the hell he's doing.  They're insects.  Fucking insects
too fucking stupid not to beat themselves to death.  He sees idiots,
Reg sees seekers after beauty.  They've had that conversation before.
Every conversation they have is a variation on it one way or another.

No point in this at all.

He's about to stand up and say... fucking *anything* except what he
wants to, but Reg beats him to the push, rising to his feet with a
satisfied grin.  "There you are," he says, "easy."

He holds out the keys, Des' keys, slowly, and says in the most
studiedly casual voice Des has ever heard, "Coming up?"

He's standing in front of the light, blocking it out, and Des can't see
his face, but there's the slightest, just the slightest tremor in the
dangling keys, and it's driving Des nuts so he stands up and reaches
out and stops them, which means holding the hand around them just a bit
harder than he needs to.  Just a little bit.  Just till they settle.

He can see Reg's face, now.  Half-lit and invested.

And the monstrous, steaming great *yes* kicking holes in his guts comes
out "Not tonight, eh?"

*Not tonight.*

He sounds old and tired, all of a sudden, sounds every inch of his
nearly forty and knocked about, and Reg's hand relaxes in his.  Relaxes
into his, which stays right where it fucking well is, thank you.  It
must be the right answer, the right thing to do, because Reg just
smiles, catching shadows in his crows' feet.

It feels natural to trace them with an unsteady left hand.

Just once, terrified.

It'll be a damn long time before he dares try it again, but that's
fine.  Absolutely fuckin' sound, 'cause he'd have to step back, and if
he stepped back then he'd stop being held.  Gently in the cold against
Reg's long, too-thin body, in the quiet shadows on the steps of the
sectionhouse.  Held and holding, anchored by someone warm with far too
many elbows for his own good.  Someone humming and warm and not asking
any fucking questions.

It's possible people see them, that they walk past with raised eyebrows
and say nothing and talk about it later; Des doesn't care.

There's a strange sadness in the air, here.  Everyone's moving out, the
place is coming down, they've other homes to go to.

Fucked if they can't keep each other's secrets a little longer.

 

=== © arjuna 2003 ===

 

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author kel.
If this work is yours and you would like to reclaim ownership, you can click on the Technical Support and Feedback link at the bottom fo the page.