FIC: The Great Dane
Yay, ficlet! Been focussing on schoolwork and The WIP lately (the latter's nearly 9000 words!) but finally got around to finishing this little thing up.
Title: The Great Dane
Author: Silver (dragged_up)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Implied Kasper Schmeichel/Edwin van der Sar, sort of
Words: 800
Warnings: One instance of strong language
Disclaimer: The match happened, and so did some of the history, though probably not as shown here. The rest is all conjecture and filthy lies, and not to be taken as anything other than such.
Notes: Based right after the City vs United match this August, obviously - which is when I started writing it, eheh - and this photo is largely to blame. bottle_of_smoke, after informing me that I'm blue scum, made encouraging noises, so this is therefore her fault even though she wasn't present for any of the writing of it.
Summary: Kasper is his father's son.
The first thing Edwin van der Sar ever says to Kasper Schmeichel is, "You're just like your father, aren't you?"
Kasper isn't stupid. He knows that no matter what he does, he'll be compared to his dad; he knows that there are more eyes on him than would be if he was just an obscure Danish goalkeeper, without a legend's name and a legend's face. He doesn't mind. He's good, he knows he's good. He's learned from the best, sure, but it takes more than playing football in the back garden with your father to get somewhere. (Still, it doesn't hurt. Even though he'd said that he wanted a dad, not a coach, there was always help available when he asked for it, tips and anecdotes over the dinner table. And there were always his father's matches, which he consumed wide-eyed as a child as Brøndby and Old Trafford and Parken Stadium roared around him, and then watched critically as an adolescent while his father moved on to Sporting and Aston Villa and Man City.)
It was always his father's role that entranced him, never the drama of the strikers. Everything hanging on a single leap of instinct. The last defence. A heavy weight, but he's proud to bear it, and when he told his parents this (fifteen, still scrawny, never tall enough, just signed to City as a schoolboy) they laughed and his mother said, "You really are your father's son, Kasper."
His father has told him that he's proud no matter how Kasper does. But the fact of the matter is: Kasper is going to meet expectations. He has to.
Which might be why he feels his face go hot when Van der Sar approaches him, holding out a hand, and says this while Eastlands roars around them: pride at the accomplishment (and he is doing well, isn't he? Not as good as he'd like - every juvenile fumble makes his cheeks burn - but a clean sheet is nothing to sneer at), pride at such a weighty compliment - and from a player like him, as well!
Except. Except there's always been that part of him that doesn't come from his father at all, the part that makes him avert his eyes a bit more firmly than the other lads in the dressing rooms and is always a bit too interested in certain players - never during matches, of course, but afterwards or on the telly - players like Van der Sar, tall and and strong and solemn-faced (and sixteen years older and fucking married with kids, Kasper tells himself frantically).
So he mutters, "Not really," clutching his gloves to his chest like a shield, not sure where he's supposed to look. And then Van der Sar is pulling him into a casual hug, and Kasper is running through every rude word he knows in his head, English and Danish, because he's too close, far too close, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do - and he allows himself a glance up at the other man's face.
The hug obviously means nothing to Van der Sar, it's clearly just courtesy; and either Kasper is hiding his emotions better than he thinks or the other keeper just isn't paying attention. He looks over Kasper's head and says, "Why do you say that?"
"I'm too short," says Kasper.
And Van der Sar looks down at him. "That doesn't matter," he says, "I have faith in you;" and he grins. "Your dad'll be old news in a few years. You're still young. Just-" and now he moves away, and Kasper stumbles back, his hands still clasped in front of his chest - "don't do it against us again, will you?"
"Like hell I won't," says Kasper impulsively, and sticks his chin up.
Van der Sar laughs, reaches out a long arm, tousles Kasper's hair, says, "Wait for me to retire, at least!" - and then he adds, "I'll keep an eye on you," as he leaves to rejoin his sour-faced teammates.
As Kasper watches him go, he feels a jolt of excitement run through him. It's probably because of the win, he decides; nothing to do with Van der Sar at all, not an adolescent, hormone-driven rush or anything in that vein; never mind that he knows he's gone even redder than usual and there's a hint of a grin on his usually solemn mouth. Beating Manchester United can do that to you, after all, he thinks, lifting his arms to salute the crowd.
He plans to continue beating them, certainly as long as Van der Sar's there. And then, well - he's his father's son, after all.
Title: The Great Dane
Author: Silver (dragged_up)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Implied Kasper Schmeichel/Edwin van der Sar, sort of
Words: 800
Warnings: One instance of strong language
Disclaimer: The match happened, and so did some of the history, though probably not as shown here. The rest is all conjecture and filthy lies, and not to be taken as anything other than such.
Notes: Based right after the City vs United match this August, obviously - which is when I started writing it, eheh - and this photo is largely to blame. bottle_of_smoke, after informing me that I'm blue scum, made encouraging noises, so this is therefore her fault even though she wasn't present for any of the writing of it.
Summary: Kasper is his father's son.
The first thing Edwin van der Sar ever says to Kasper Schmeichel is, "You're just like your father, aren't you?"
Kasper isn't stupid. He knows that no matter what he does, he'll be compared to his dad; he knows that there are more eyes on him than would be if he was just an obscure Danish goalkeeper, without a legend's name and a legend's face. He doesn't mind. He's good, he knows he's good. He's learned from the best, sure, but it takes more than playing football in the back garden with your father to get somewhere. (Still, it doesn't hurt. Even though he'd said that he wanted a dad, not a coach, there was always help available when he asked for it, tips and anecdotes over the dinner table. And there were always his father's matches, which he consumed wide-eyed as a child as Brøndby and Old Trafford and Parken Stadium roared around him, and then watched critically as an adolescent while his father moved on to Sporting and Aston Villa and Man City.)
It was always his father's role that entranced him, never the drama of the strikers. Everything hanging on a single leap of instinct. The last defence. A heavy weight, but he's proud to bear it, and when he told his parents this (fifteen, still scrawny, never tall enough, just signed to City as a schoolboy) they laughed and his mother said, "You really are your father's son, Kasper."
His father has told him that he's proud no matter how Kasper does. But the fact of the matter is: Kasper is going to meet expectations. He has to.
Which might be why he feels his face go hot when Van der Sar approaches him, holding out a hand, and says this while Eastlands roars around them: pride at the accomplishment (and he is doing well, isn't he? Not as good as he'd like - every juvenile fumble makes his cheeks burn - but a clean sheet is nothing to sneer at), pride at such a weighty compliment - and from a player like him, as well!
Except. Except there's always been that part of him that doesn't come from his father at all, the part that makes him avert his eyes a bit more firmly than the other lads in the dressing rooms and is always a bit too interested in certain players - never during matches, of course, but afterwards or on the telly - players like Van der Sar, tall and and strong and solemn-faced (and sixteen years older and fucking married with kids, Kasper tells himself frantically).
So he mutters, "Not really," clutching his gloves to his chest like a shield, not sure where he's supposed to look. And then Van der Sar is pulling him into a casual hug, and Kasper is running through every rude word he knows in his head, English and Danish, because he's too close, far too close, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do - and he allows himself a glance up at the other man's face.
The hug obviously means nothing to Van der Sar, it's clearly just courtesy; and either Kasper is hiding his emotions better than he thinks or the other keeper just isn't paying attention. He looks over Kasper's head and says, "Why do you say that?"
"I'm too short," says Kasper.
And Van der Sar looks down at him. "That doesn't matter," he says, "I have faith in you;" and he grins. "Your dad'll be old news in a few years. You're still young. Just-" and now he moves away, and Kasper stumbles back, his hands still clasped in front of his chest - "don't do it against us again, will you?"
"Like hell I won't," says Kasper impulsively, and sticks his chin up.
Van der Sar laughs, reaches out a long arm, tousles Kasper's hair, says, "Wait for me to retire, at least!" - and then he adds, "I'll keep an eye on you," as he leaves to rejoin his sour-faced teammates.
As Kasper watches him go, he feels a jolt of excitement run through him. It's probably because of the win, he decides; nothing to do with Van der Sar at all, not an adolescent, hormone-driven rush or anything in that vein; never mind that he knows he's gone even redder than usual and there's a hint of a grin on his usually solemn mouth. Beating Manchester United can do that to you, after all, he thinks, lifting his arms to salute the crowd.
He plans to continue beating them, certainly as long as Van der Sar's there. And then, well - he's his father's son, after all.