Someday that girl's gonna take your mind
Life is boring. Lalala. I have to social life. I went dressed as a bogan for a mates' 21st on Saturday night. It am all kinds of classy.
Anyway. BIG NEWS: I just finished writing my first fan-fic ever. I don't know how it's taken this long, but it is now complete. I thought of it the other day while re-watching Changi and had to get it out before my brain exploded. I'll probably end up doing six of these, and just to be difficult, I'll start with the last episode first, because it's got a lot of music stuff in it and music is my life.
If you haven't seen Changi, it may or may not make sense.
It hasn't been beta'ed so I apologise if it is balls. Even if no one reads it, I won't care.
Title: Pacifying the Angels
Fandom: Changi
Wordcount: 1,500
Rating: G
Pairing(s): Tommy/Molly
Warning(s): Tiny spoilers.
"Perfect pitch,” announced Tommy’s mother.
Tommy beamed as his mother and father applauded his ability. At age 7, Tommy could play by ear songs that he heard at Church or on the wireless. To him, music was another language. A language that he was gifted enough to understand. As he grew older, he began to notice that not everyone understood music the way he did.
At age 15, he would play the piano at Church services. He would take the congregation through the verses and choruses of hymns, the notes rising and falling as if of their own accord. By now, he could read music, but he had no real need. The music was merely there to tell him when he should stop. As soon as he sat at the piano, his fingers would take over and the piece would create itself, the notes falling neatly into place, descants soaring above the melody.
It was there at Church where he saw Molly for the first time. Tommy watched her out of the corner of his eye, noticing that she was not singing along with the congregation, but watching Tommy’s fingers deftly skim the keys.
After the service had finished, he watched Molly stand awkwardly next to her grandmother, glancing occasionally over at Tommy, trying to catch his eye. Tommy stared at his feet, feeling warmth rush to his face at the attention of the most beautiful girl in Australia; well, the prettiest girl he knew.
“Hi,” came a voice from in front of him.
Tommy looked up and saw Molly. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide. He swallowed again, forcing himself to respond.
Clearing his throat, he croaked out a, “Hi,” and went back to staring at his feet.
“You were really good today,” Molly stated. “Do you play every week?”
Tommy looked up a little and nodded. He still couldn’t meet the eye of the girl before him.
“Well, definitely worth coming from Sydney for,” Molly smiled at him.
Tommy stood up straight and met her blue eyes. “You’re from Sydney?”
“Yeah - my gran lives here in Bilpin. I come every school holidays. First time I’ve been to Church, though. Glad I did.” She smiled at Tommy once again, turned and walked back to her grandmother.
Tommy stood rooted to the spot, staring at the space the girl had left, allowing himself a small smile at the girl who noticed him.
Molly would come and visit every school holidays. He played piano for her, he named birds after her and he drew pictures of her. She always brought the latest records from Sydney so he could learn them, she learnt the names and breeds of all the birds and she sat patiently still for countless drawings. When she went back to Sydney, they would exchange letters almost daily; each person always coming up with something new to say.
On the day that Tommy enlisted, he didn’t write a letter. He didn’t know how to tell her. She’d have seen the propaganda posters and the films; she would have listened to the radio, somehow knowing that Tommy would leave her.
On the evening before Tommy’s departure, he sat at home. A glass of scotch, his fathers’ way of saying goodbye, sat untouched on top of the piano. He softly played through some old tunes, but no song could explain how he was feeling.
Unconsciously, he started playing We’ll Meet Again. Molly had brought him up the record to listen to; he had had the song memorised within ten minutes. The doorbell rang, but Tommy paid no attention. The words of the song ran through his head:
“We'll meet again,
Don’t know where, don't know when.
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day.”
“Tom. Molly’s here to see you.”
Tommy broke from his reverie and turned on his seat to see his mother standing in the doorway, anxious for an answer. He nodded quickly and stood up.
Molly walked slowly over to him, her eyes red. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. There’s hardly any trains running.” She paused, looking up at Tommy. “I came to say goodbye; properly. Letters just couldn’t cut it.”
Tommy smiled briefly, looking down at the most beautiful girl in Australia. “I’m glad you could make it. I was hoping you’d come.”
Molly blushed, reached out gingerly and held his hand. “I couldn’t let you go without a kiss goodbye.”
His eyes widened. He had wanted this moment for almost four years. His grip tightened on her hand as their lips met. Tommy felt music whirl up within him. He felt an entire string section play out a romantic symphony. He felt the piano sweeping around him. Trumpets played high and loud. Timpanis boomed.
As the pair pulled apart, the music softly continued; major chords sweeping around them. Molly rested her head against his chest and sighed, holding him close.
They stood together, holding each other, the music swirling around them.
Another world, another age later, Tommy was sitting at a piano. It was not perfectly in tune like his piano back home. It did not sing out like the piano at Church. But surrounded by five of his best mates, this piano was the sweetest music Tommy had ever played.
To Tommy, it was a gift; a gift that he could share with the camp. This piano took Tommy away from his muggy, dreary and depressing surroundings and took him into a world of his own. His mates would join him in this world as they sang Along the Road to Gundagai. At night, he would play sweet, soft lullabies to a quiet camp. Sometimes others would join him, suggesting songs, singing along, or just sitting and listening.
It was only when he stopped playing that he was brought back to reality. Brought back to Changi.
It was at Changi, years later, that he saw Molly. It had been years since he had seen her. Years since they made music together.
Then he saw his birds.
They were escaping.
He couldn’t let them out. Not now. Not after all he’d done to protect them.
Then he heard it. A middle C. A little out of tune, but it was music. Something he could focus on. Something that took him away from his birds, from Molly, but brought him back to his world of safety. The music had saved him.
Later, back in reality, he sat at the piano, Rowdy standing by and listening. Tommy asked if Rowdy had a favourite.
“Favourite song, Tom?” he replied. “Well, I’m not that much one for the jazz. Too much freedom of expression locks me out in a way. No. I like tunes: simple tunes, Tom. If they touch the spirit, they pacify the angels. We’ll Meet Again, Tom. That’ll do me.”
We’ll Meet Again. It was the last song Tommy played before he left and it was the first song he played back home on his piano. His mother stood cautiously by, watching him. She watched the thin, scarred young man skim his fingers lightly over the piano.
As Tommy played the final chord, his mother cleared her throat. Tommy stopped, turned and faced his mother. “It’s about Molly, isn’t it?”
His mother nodded. “She thought - well, we all thought at one point - that you were-” she stopped, swallowed hard and continued, “not coming back. She met a man in Sydney. He’s a good bloke. Looks after her well.”
Tommy turned back to the piano, his fingers forming the tune of Bye Bye Blackbird.
Years later, Tommy found himself in an aged care village. The years had gone by so quickly. A failed marriage, a son, but he still got to meet his five best mates every nine years. As Tommy got older, he found that looking after himself became much harder. He wasn’t the only one. Curly still needed a hand with everything; so nothing much had really changed with him. After Gordon’s stroke, he relied on a young female nurse to help him with his personal care; Tommy suspected he didn’t mind that too much.
The village where he lived had a piano. He would play for the other residents as much as he could, taking him away to that special world of his.
It wasn’t until years later that Tommy and Molly did meet again.
He would have known that curly head of hair and those beautiful brown eyes anywhere.
She had changed. Tommy knew that she would have changed through the years of being a wife and mother, but something had left her. Her eyes didn’t shine like they used to. She seemed vague, trapped in her own world.
It wasn’t until Tommy started playing the piano that Molly recognised him. Every day Molly would sit on the piano stool next to him, seeing the teenager that she met and lost all those years ago.
They would sit together until lights out, pacifying the angels.
END
I'm glad it's out there.
Anyway. BIG NEWS: I just finished writing my first fan-fic ever. I don't know how it's taken this long, but it is now complete. I thought of it the other day while re-watching Changi and had to get it out before my brain exploded. I'll probably end up doing six of these, and just to be difficult, I'll start with the last episode first, because it's got a lot of music stuff in it and music is my life.
If you haven't seen Changi, it may or may not make sense.
It hasn't been beta'ed so I apologise if it is balls. Even if no one reads it, I won't care.
Title: Pacifying the Angels
Fandom: Changi
Wordcount: 1,500
Rating: G
Pairing(s): Tommy/Molly
Warning(s): Tiny spoilers.
"Perfect pitch,” announced Tommy’s mother.
Tommy beamed as his mother and father applauded his ability. At age 7, Tommy could play by ear songs that he heard at Church or on the wireless. To him, music was another language. A language that he was gifted enough to understand. As he grew older, he began to notice that not everyone understood music the way he did.
At age 15, he would play the piano at Church services. He would take the congregation through the verses and choruses of hymns, the notes rising and falling as if of their own accord. By now, he could read music, but he had no real need. The music was merely there to tell him when he should stop. As soon as he sat at the piano, his fingers would take over and the piece would create itself, the notes falling neatly into place, descants soaring above the melody.
It was there at Church where he saw Molly for the first time. Tommy watched her out of the corner of his eye, noticing that she was not singing along with the congregation, but watching Tommy’s fingers deftly skim the keys.
After the service had finished, he watched Molly stand awkwardly next to her grandmother, glancing occasionally over at Tommy, trying to catch his eye. Tommy stared at his feet, feeling warmth rush to his face at the attention of the most beautiful girl in Australia; well, the prettiest girl he knew.
“Hi,” came a voice from in front of him.
Tommy looked up and saw Molly. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide. He swallowed again, forcing himself to respond.
Clearing his throat, he croaked out a, “Hi,” and went back to staring at his feet.
“You were really good today,” Molly stated. “Do you play every week?”
Tommy looked up a little and nodded. He still couldn’t meet the eye of the girl before him.
“Well, definitely worth coming from Sydney for,” Molly smiled at him.
Tommy stood up straight and met her blue eyes. “You’re from Sydney?”
“Yeah - my gran lives here in Bilpin. I come every school holidays. First time I’ve been to Church, though. Glad I did.” She smiled at Tommy once again, turned and walked back to her grandmother.
Tommy stood rooted to the spot, staring at the space the girl had left, allowing himself a small smile at the girl who noticed him.
Molly would come and visit every school holidays. He played piano for her, he named birds after her and he drew pictures of her. She always brought the latest records from Sydney so he could learn them, she learnt the names and breeds of all the birds and she sat patiently still for countless drawings. When she went back to Sydney, they would exchange letters almost daily; each person always coming up with something new to say.
On the day that Tommy enlisted, he didn’t write a letter. He didn’t know how to tell her. She’d have seen the propaganda posters and the films; she would have listened to the radio, somehow knowing that Tommy would leave her.
On the evening before Tommy’s departure, he sat at home. A glass of scotch, his fathers’ way of saying goodbye, sat untouched on top of the piano. He softly played through some old tunes, but no song could explain how he was feeling.
Unconsciously, he started playing We’ll Meet Again. Molly had brought him up the record to listen to; he had had the song memorised within ten minutes. The doorbell rang, but Tommy paid no attention. The words of the song ran through his head:
“We'll meet again,
Don’t know where, don't know when.
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day.”
“Tom. Molly’s here to see you.”
Tommy broke from his reverie and turned on his seat to see his mother standing in the doorway, anxious for an answer. He nodded quickly and stood up.
Molly walked slowly over to him, her eyes red. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. There’s hardly any trains running.” She paused, looking up at Tommy. “I came to say goodbye; properly. Letters just couldn’t cut it.”
Tommy smiled briefly, looking down at the most beautiful girl in Australia. “I’m glad you could make it. I was hoping you’d come.”
Molly blushed, reached out gingerly and held his hand. “I couldn’t let you go without a kiss goodbye.”
His eyes widened. He had wanted this moment for almost four years. His grip tightened on her hand as their lips met. Tommy felt music whirl up within him. He felt an entire string section play out a romantic symphony. He felt the piano sweeping around him. Trumpets played high and loud. Timpanis boomed.
As the pair pulled apart, the music softly continued; major chords sweeping around them. Molly rested her head against his chest and sighed, holding him close.
They stood together, holding each other, the music swirling around them.
Another world, another age later, Tommy was sitting at a piano. It was not perfectly in tune like his piano back home. It did not sing out like the piano at Church. But surrounded by five of his best mates, this piano was the sweetest music Tommy had ever played.
To Tommy, it was a gift; a gift that he could share with the camp. This piano took Tommy away from his muggy, dreary and depressing surroundings and took him into a world of his own. His mates would join him in this world as they sang Along the Road to Gundagai. At night, he would play sweet, soft lullabies to a quiet camp. Sometimes others would join him, suggesting songs, singing along, or just sitting and listening.
It was only when he stopped playing that he was brought back to reality. Brought back to Changi.
It was at Changi, years later, that he saw Molly. It had been years since he had seen her. Years since they made music together.
Then he saw his birds.
They were escaping.
He couldn’t let them out. Not now. Not after all he’d done to protect them.
Then he heard it. A middle C. A little out of tune, but it was music. Something he could focus on. Something that took him away from his birds, from Molly, but brought him back to his world of safety. The music had saved him.
Later, back in reality, he sat at the piano, Rowdy standing by and listening. Tommy asked if Rowdy had a favourite.
“Favourite song, Tom?” he replied. “Well, I’m not that much one for the jazz. Too much freedom of expression locks me out in a way. No. I like tunes: simple tunes, Tom. If they touch the spirit, they pacify the angels. We’ll Meet Again, Tom. That’ll do me.”
We’ll Meet Again. It was the last song Tommy played before he left and it was the first song he played back home on his piano. His mother stood cautiously by, watching him. She watched the thin, scarred young man skim his fingers lightly over the piano.
As Tommy played the final chord, his mother cleared her throat. Tommy stopped, turned and faced his mother. “It’s about Molly, isn’t it?”
His mother nodded. “She thought - well, we all thought at one point - that you were-” she stopped, swallowed hard and continued, “not coming back. She met a man in Sydney. He’s a good bloke. Looks after her well.”
Tommy turned back to the piano, his fingers forming the tune of Bye Bye Blackbird.
Years later, Tommy found himself in an aged care village. The years had gone by so quickly. A failed marriage, a son, but he still got to meet his five best mates every nine years. As Tommy got older, he found that looking after himself became much harder. He wasn’t the only one. Curly still needed a hand with everything; so nothing much had really changed with him. After Gordon’s stroke, he relied on a young female nurse to help him with his personal care; Tommy suspected he didn’t mind that too much.
The village where he lived had a piano. He would play for the other residents as much as he could, taking him away to that special world of his.
It wasn’t until years later that Tommy and Molly did meet again.
He would have known that curly head of hair and those beautiful brown eyes anywhere.
She had changed. Tommy knew that she would have changed through the years of being a wife and mother, but something had left her. Her eyes didn’t shine like they used to. She seemed vague, trapped in her own world.
It wasn’t until Tommy started playing the piano that Molly recognised him. Every day Molly would sit on the piano stool next to him, seeing the teenager that she met and lost all those years ago.
They would sit together until lights out, pacifying the angels.
END
I'm glad it's out there.