first fruit of the writing prompts
Spooks (surprise!), Malcolm and Lucas, mid series 7, no plot spoilers, 850 words. Prompt from the marvellous londonsophie and beta-ed by the same.
- - -
Waiting beneath the poison tree.
"Where are you going?"
Lucas stops stacking files long enough to raise an eyebrow. "At five past five on a Friday?"
"Yes," says Malcolm suspiciously.
"Actually, I don't know yet, Malcolm. But it's certainly not here. Would you care to join me?"
Zaf used to leave early on a Friday, Malcolm thinks. So did Adam, once, he is surprised to remember - although he made a show of it. He casts an eye over to Jo's desk and finds himself frowning at her bent head and sober clothes.
Malcolm hasn't been to a pub in a social capacity since Colin last dragged him to the George. He cannot help but be apprehensive. This is why Jo and Ben gave polite dismissals, earlier, he thinks - not that they didn't need understanding camaraderie, but that they baulked at being obliged to return it.
What has Malcolm got to offer in the way of understanding? Once I thought I was going to die, but it was just Adam appeasing his god-complex. Nothing like eight years. Nothing like a single day.
Lucas, it turns out, just wants to get drunk and talk about football. Malcolm tries not to look too relieved. He wonders if he is standing in for Tom Quinn, or even Tessa - just a thread holding Lucas to his former life. But he is moved by how much Lucas remembers about him; his hobbies, his family. As if he spent at least part of those eight years contemplating their friendship.
When the pub starts to get loud and dark, they walk along the river. It's a warm evening, bringing people out in bunches from offices and cafes. Malcolm set his drinks at a ratio of one to four of Lucas' lagers, and is a little tipsy. Lucas is expansively pissed.
"Friday evenings are quite pleasant," Malcolm concedes, admiring the last glow of twilight.
"You should start your own IT firm. Guaranteed millions and all the time off you like."
"I won't say I haven't considered it. It falls into the same category as other people's dreams of selling the house and setting up a B&B in a mansion in rural Spain."
Lucas is watching his feet intently as he walks, forgetting the length of his stride so that Malcolm has to hurry to keep up. He chuckles, a low sound in his throat. "You could do that too. Take your mum for a holiday. My parents would love an excuse to go to Majorca."
The use of present tense answers a question Malcolm has been playing around the edges of his thoughts for weeks. "Do you see much of your parents?"
Lucas rolls his shoulders, as if loosening a twinge. "Well. They're out in the country," he says vaguely.
It takes Malcolm a long moment to catch on. When he does, he stops walking, shocked for another moment into speechlessness. "Oh, Lucas. They don't - ?"
Lucas turns his head to smile apologetically, slowing but not stopping. "They come down to London about once a decade, so it's not like they're going to run into me on the street," he says. After a pause he adds, "I mean to go and see them. This weekend. Probably."
"Just turn up on the doorstep?" Malcolm asks dubiously, surprised to get a laugh in response.
"Yes. Well. I'll have to think about that. I'll probably get the door slammed in my face."
Malcolm is wary of this casual Lucas, eyes everywhere but the sightlines which even Malcolm, desk-bound for decades, is conditioned to scope. Maybe there is someone tailing them - some Russian for whom Lucas is putting on a performance of drunken complacency. Deep-seated shame follows quickly on the heels of this thought.
Malcolm opens his mouth still phrasing his response, but finds the drink in him makes the words come out regardless. "I could speak to them. If you'd like."
"Thanks, Malcolm. That's very kind."
Lucas has stopped beneath the Eye, craning back so far to look up at it that he has to put out his hands for balance. "Have you ever been up on it?"
Malcolm sniffs derisively. "No. It's for tourists and children."
He follows Lucas' gaze up to the wheel, then across the river, where the coloured lights are making a rave party of the reflections. When he turns back Lucas hasn't moved.
"They'd nearly finished building it when I left. I thought it was just a temporary thing. Nice to see it's still here."
There is something brittle but completely unforced about him. Malcolm expected it was bitter anger Lucas had to restrain, but he reminds himself that nightmares, ex-wives and accusations of treachery aside, Lucas still has a hell of a lot to be happy about.
The anger, he thinks, is there for another day.
"Are you suggesting," he says with great solemnity, "that we act like ordinary people?"
Lucas looks indignant. "Goodness no, Malcolm. I'm suggesting we act like tourists and children."
Malcolm, who has never been short of a theatrical expression when it comes to being put-upon, bites his smile into a world-weary sigh and reaches for his wallet.
- - -
Title is from William Blake's A Poison Tree.
- - -
Waiting beneath the poison tree.
"Where are you going?"
Lucas stops stacking files long enough to raise an eyebrow. "At five past five on a Friday?"
"Yes," says Malcolm suspiciously.
"Actually, I don't know yet, Malcolm. But it's certainly not here. Would you care to join me?"
Zaf used to leave early on a Friday, Malcolm thinks. So did Adam, once, he is surprised to remember - although he made a show of it. He casts an eye over to Jo's desk and finds himself frowning at her bent head and sober clothes.
Malcolm hasn't been to a pub in a social capacity since Colin last dragged him to the George. He cannot help but be apprehensive. This is why Jo and Ben gave polite dismissals, earlier, he thinks - not that they didn't need understanding camaraderie, but that they baulked at being obliged to return it.
What has Malcolm got to offer in the way of understanding? Once I thought I was going to die, but it was just Adam appeasing his god-complex. Nothing like eight years. Nothing like a single day.
Lucas, it turns out, just wants to get drunk and talk about football. Malcolm tries not to look too relieved. He wonders if he is standing in for Tom Quinn, or even Tessa - just a thread holding Lucas to his former life. But he is moved by how much Lucas remembers about him; his hobbies, his family. As if he spent at least part of those eight years contemplating their friendship.
When the pub starts to get loud and dark, they walk along the river. It's a warm evening, bringing people out in bunches from offices and cafes. Malcolm set his drinks at a ratio of one to four of Lucas' lagers, and is a little tipsy. Lucas is expansively pissed.
"Friday evenings are quite pleasant," Malcolm concedes, admiring the last glow of twilight.
"You should start your own IT firm. Guaranteed millions and all the time off you like."
"I won't say I haven't considered it. It falls into the same category as other people's dreams of selling the house and setting up a B&B in a mansion in rural Spain."
Lucas is watching his feet intently as he walks, forgetting the length of his stride so that Malcolm has to hurry to keep up. He chuckles, a low sound in his throat. "You could do that too. Take your mum for a holiday. My parents would love an excuse to go to Majorca."
The use of present tense answers a question Malcolm has been playing around the edges of his thoughts for weeks. "Do you see much of your parents?"
Lucas rolls his shoulders, as if loosening a twinge. "Well. They're out in the country," he says vaguely.
It takes Malcolm a long moment to catch on. When he does, he stops walking, shocked for another moment into speechlessness. "Oh, Lucas. They don't - ?"
Lucas turns his head to smile apologetically, slowing but not stopping. "They come down to London about once a decade, so it's not like they're going to run into me on the street," he says. After a pause he adds, "I mean to go and see them. This weekend. Probably."
"Just turn up on the doorstep?" Malcolm asks dubiously, surprised to get a laugh in response.
"Yes. Well. I'll have to think about that. I'll probably get the door slammed in my face."
Malcolm is wary of this casual Lucas, eyes everywhere but the sightlines which even Malcolm, desk-bound for decades, is conditioned to scope. Maybe there is someone tailing them - some Russian for whom Lucas is putting on a performance of drunken complacency. Deep-seated shame follows quickly on the heels of this thought.
Malcolm opens his mouth still phrasing his response, but finds the drink in him makes the words come out regardless. "I could speak to them. If you'd like."
"Thanks, Malcolm. That's very kind."
Lucas has stopped beneath the Eye, craning back so far to look up at it that he has to put out his hands for balance. "Have you ever been up on it?"
Malcolm sniffs derisively. "No. It's for tourists and children."
He follows Lucas' gaze up to the wheel, then across the river, where the coloured lights are making a rave party of the reflections. When he turns back Lucas hasn't moved.
"They'd nearly finished building it when I left. I thought it was just a temporary thing. Nice to see it's still here."
There is something brittle but completely unforced about him. Malcolm expected it was bitter anger Lucas had to restrain, but he reminds himself that nightmares, ex-wives and accusations of treachery aside, Lucas still has a hell of a lot to be happy about.
The anger, he thinks, is there for another day.
"Are you suggesting," he says with great solemnity, "that we act like ordinary people?"
Lucas looks indignant. "Goodness no, Malcolm. I'm suggesting we act like tourists and children."
Malcolm, who has never been short of a theatrical expression when it comes to being put-upon, bites his smile into a world-weary sigh and reaches for his wallet.
- - -
Title is from William Blake's A Poison Tree.
