Work Text:
DISCLAIMER: Not mine – bugger. Italicised lines by Clive Dawson.
TITLE: Running Rough
AUTHOR: kel
PAIRING: Proctor/Skase
SPOILERS: mild for Love's Labours Lost
RATING: FRT-13
SUMMARY: you get high/with your destructive instinct
COMMENTS: unbeta-ed quickie written for Count Nickula in response to an
LJ request meme; subsequently edited in response to some very
useful criticism by Viv Martella's Ghost. Thank you VMG!
FEEDBACK: hell yes. Mo' betta.
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Running Rough
by kel
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I don’t think I can handle you being embarrassed by me. Don’t bother to
deny it.
Making a mess of things is what Tom Proctor does best. Discuss.
As much as he resents being treated like a jumped-up tea boy, he’s glad Rod
insists on driving. He’s also glad it’s dark. It’s been a rough day. Sarah
Ryman, poor bloody Sarah and the losers she attracts. Stalkers *plural*,
Christ. She’s a born victim, always has been. Brings it on herself.
He knows the feeling. Once upon a time, long long ago, she’d been the last
in a long line of mistakes. No, really. The final straw, touch wood.
Finito, end of, no more sodding lies.
She’d clung; he’d thrived; they’d labelled it something convenient. And when
it all blew up they’d both known it was for the best. Shaken hands and
started from scratch. And Tom’s been doing well, naked and honest in this
brave new world. Naked and alone.
Learning not to be needed; to ration himself.
He’s left that life, that *lie*, behind. So it’s like being kicked in the
gut, having to see her again, having to use that...
I had a proper intimate relationship with her, not just some sick fantasy.
— Cobblers, he says, under his breath.
— You what?
— Nothing.
Rod’s biting back questions, eyes on the road. Makes a change. Perhaps he’s
finally worked out there are boundaries.
— Why didn’t you tell me? Just out of curiosity, I mean...
Tom ignores him. Watches the wet streets flash by. Lets the silence get
heavy as the angry commuters outside huddle under trees, awnings, umbrellas.
— Suit yourself. No skin off my nose.
A park, a warehouse, the Jasmine Allen. He knows this route, jogs it on
Sunday mornings when he can be bothered. It dawns on him, suddenly: Rod’s
taking him home.
— Hold up. I haven’t signed off yet.
— No bother, I’ll do it. Doesn’t need both of us to take the car back.
— Deakin’s up to here with me already.
— Deakin’ll be down the pub with everybody else. ‘Course, if you’d rather bus
back from the nick in this...
— All right, all right. But don’t... It’s been a long day.
— S’alright. You don’t have to explain, says Rod, with only the faintest trace
of archness in his voice. – Things to do, people to see...
— Rod...
— No, really. *I’ve* got plenty to catch up on. Specially after the last couple
of nights.
And what nights. He’s grateful, shamed; Rod’s been oozing attitude all week.
Fiercely possessive, in private; but once he’s dressed, showered, *onstage*...
It’s all little looks that no-one sees. Proprietorial, dismissive smiles that
cut to the bone.
Just the way Tom likes it. Must be tattooed on his sodding forehead.
— Ah, so you *do* remember. Starting to think I’d imagined it.
And Sarah *knew*. He’d watched them exchanging glances, when they thought he
couldn’t see. Oh yes. They’d read each other perfectly, straight away; left him
flushed and raw at the realisation.
The worst thing is, Rod had handled her well. Delicately. Like a proper bloody
copper — for once.
Tom did his best, did better; and still feels pathetic. Every word she said,
every look she gave him: *ah love... you haven’t sodding changed*.
She’s *sorry* for him. He can feel himself flushing miserably. Deep, deep red;
cheeks burning.
Rod’s coughing. Or suppressing a laugh.
— It’s okay, Tom. Really. I understand.
— Drop it, will you.
— No, I *do*. Dunno what came over you... Felt like a good idea at the time...
— Rod-
— Only I draw the line at being *the exception*, know what I mean? Bit of fun’s
one thing, but you’re just having some kind of wobbly, forget it.
— Oh, for Christ’s sake...
— No offence.
— It was *three years ago*, Rod. *Over* three years.
— Yeah, you said.
How dare he sound so bloody *bored*?
— Things were... *different*, yeah? I’ve...
— Sorted yourself out? Worked out who you *really* are?
— *That’s* never been the problem.
His voice cracks; Rod looks at him, quickly, then away.
— Whatever. I’m just saying. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.
Rod takes advantage of the traffic lights to smooth his wet hair back into place;
turn the radio on, softly.
– Rather you didn’t, to be honest.
They cruise on, the car’s engine knocking gently. Running rough, past another
park; stopping at last outside Tom’s flat, its hideous geometry magnified in the
ankle-deep spill from a blocked and forgotten gutter.
— Suppose *you’ve* never... no, you wouldn’t, would you.
— Eh?
— Never mind.
Rod smiles,absently, as if his mind is somewhere else. Waiting for Tom to leave.
— Well. If I’m not coming in...?
The silence stretches; the rain grows worse.
— ...‘Spose I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t worry, I’ll brief Deakin.
And here’s the thing: he really *could* care less.
It’s never hurt before.
Tom gets out without a word; watches from the kerb as Rod drives away too fast
for the weather; taking a perverse pleasure in the feel of the rain. Cold and
clear and streaming down his collar. Not noticing. Not thinking at all.
Not soaking his jacket, because it’s at work.
His bored and lonely neighbours watch him fumbling fruitlessly for keys.
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© arjuna 2005