Absent Friends and Present Company
Title: Absent Friends and Present Company
Author: truly_bohemian
Written for: rebecca_star
Pairing: Scripps/Posner
Scripps had taken a few weeks off from work, and had retreated from London. He had told his friends that he needed some time to de-stress. He had told himself that he was going to spend some time writing the things he wanted to. But he knew that he would achieve neither of these things. He would walk; he would think about life; he would read a book properly for the first time in months - instead of just skimming through a volume on whatever he was supposed to be researching. Then he would return to work, tired from having emerged from the train at 1am the previous night, and only certain of a vague dislike of himself, something that had always been there in any case.
After visiting his family, he had headed southwards again, and eventually ended up somewhere in Devon. He wasn't sure why. He stayed in a bed and breakfast place, owned by a couple from London who, like so many people, were intending to 'make a go of it' in the country. The wife, Esme Tilling, was particularly enthused, as she had gone to Cornwall every summer between the ages of seven and fourteen. After spending eight years at an advertising company in her native London, she now considered the southwest to be her true spiritual homeland. She even made her own bread at the weekends. Her husband, Daniel, had an allotment where he grew some of their own vegetables.
The b&b was situated in a quiet place, so they weren't overwhelmed with work, but they made enough to get by (and were helped by the savings they'd put aside whilst working in London). Esme and Daniel were nice people but Scripps found it hard to stay on their wavelength. He didn't (well, more likely couldn't) believe that anyone was entirely happy; life would be less of an experience if everyone was that blissful. But these two seemed satisfied in a way Scripps couldn't quite grasp. He liked being around them, talking to them before he went out in the morning, but he was usually thankful to leave for the day, feeling as if their simple happiness only left him more displeased with being complicated. Of course, he knew that that was far too pompous an assumption. Instead, he assured himself that they were simply complicatedly happy, just the same as he was complicatedly… He didn't know how to finish that thought. He erased the whole idea instead.
Every day, in the morning, he would make the short walk into the town. Alongside the usual shops, pubs and houses, there was a beautiful church originating from the 12 th century. Since that time it had suffered from religious changes, as well as two fires, but there were a few original features, marked out with laminated card pinned to the holy walls. Scripps made a point of visiting once a day. On the second visit he brought his camera and took a few photos. The architecture was important to him now. But he still had faith. It was something that he kept hidden from his workplace, not just because religion had been unfashionable for so long, but because his Catholicism seemed such a ridiculous, contradictory faith for a journalist.
He knew, he had always known, that proving the existence of God was a little ridiculous - he never thought that it was really needed, you just had to assume that God was there and get on with it. There was no assuming in journalism - it was a calculative and strict science. Which might indicate that if journalism was a religion, it would be an extremely hard one to follow. "Thou shalt seek out truth; unless it concerns thy paymaster," thought Scripps, "Thou shalt take sides, but thou shall ever deny it."
Scripps had left the guesthouse late that morning, having allowed himself to stay in bed and read, so by the time he got to the town it was almost midday. He went into the church, knelt, bowed his head. There was no one else around, not even a priest. This wasn't very surprising. Scripps himself only went to church maybe twice a month when he was in London. He didn't think God minded him taking some Sunday's off if he had been working hard all week, but he did make a special effort sometimes. Especially when he'd had that job at The Daily Mail.
He emerged into the unfettered sunlight around half an hour later, with sore knees and a stomach desperate for some less spiritual sustenance. Just as he was wondering where he would go to eat, he noticed another man, slumped over the wall surrounding the old churchyard. He was small, slight and blonde; and Scripps knew immediately why his first thoughts were of where he had left the bike that he had sold years ago. For a few seconds it was 1984.
Posner looked up for a moment and caught Scripps' eye. He looked away again, smiling faintly, and only left his spot to meet Scripps at the gate when a few more moments had passed.
"I haven't seen you for a long time," Scripps said, uncertain of the correct way to begin. He almost told him that he hadn't changed a bit - quite honestly he hadn't changed much at all, but it seemed too clichéd to say so.
"No," Posner conceded, also racking his imagination, "I thought you were still in London - do you live here now?"
Scripps shook his head, "Not quite reached that stage yet. I think there're a few years of city-fuelled cynicism in me yet. How about you? Thought you were still living in Leeds."
"I am, most of the time. I'm just… visiting a friend, that's all."
Soon after this they both lapsed into silence. They stood, awkwardly looking at each other, until Posner asked the inevitable question: "Do you see much of Dakin these days?"
Scripps nodded but said, "He's a busy man; I haven't heard from him for weeks," in an effort to stem any lengthy discussion. As an added safety precaution he quickly asked, "You're staying with your friend then?"
Posner smiled as though he had just picked up a potent irony; although what the irony was remained a mystery to Scripps.
"What? What did I say?"
"Nothing."
He noticed that the smile had vanished from Posner's lips.
Later on, after a time of walking and talking (full of heavy silences), Scripps found himself invited back to Posner's lodgings: a tiny room in a small, slowly crumbling Devonshire guest house. The landlady didn't look too keen on Posner having a male visitor, and Scripps wondered whether, if he had been younger and less respectable looking, she would have let him in at all. It was a nice place though, if you took into consideration the worries of the hostile owner, and ignored the damp on some of the walls. Scripps sat on the bed and looked at a scruffy flower arrangement on the windowsill.
"It's nice and bright," he commented.
"I expect it's bright in Roma or Nice right now," Posner smirked, "Pity I can't be there."
"Why aren't you?"
"I told you - I'm visiting a friend."
"Doesn't your friend like warmer climes?" asked Scripps innocently.
To his surprise, Posner shot him an unexpectedly reproachful look. Seeing Scripps' reaction, he changed, looking tired and sorry. Scripps started to realise how tired he did look. His eyes were heavy and red, and he sighed like a person exhausted from more than lack of sleep.
"I know what you're thinking," Posner said after a little while, "But it's not like that. I'm not here to meet a lover or whatever else. And I'm sorry because I've not been telling you the truth and I don't know why I haven't…"
"This isn't making me feel any less confused," Scripps put in helpfully.
Posner's glance was less sharp this time. "He used to live here. I knew him in university… He died a few years ago. I'm just here to see where he was buried."
"I wondered what you were doing outside a church," Scripps admitted.
Posner merely smirked some more, "It's our usual arrangement, isn't it?"
"Not since sixth!" Scripps grinned, but promptly stopped, remembering that they were talking of the dearly departed (whom he still didn't know the name of).
"You never told me what you were doing here," Posner said, hoping to release Scripps from his anxiety.
"Finding myself, I suppose. Isn't that what people call it now?"
"Yes… but in Devon?"
Scripps shrugged, "It's cheaper than Borneo."
Posner laughed, "You should have just stayed at home and put on Classical FM."
"Yeah, but it doesn't sound quite the same when you actually have to tell your colleagues where you've been."
"I don't know if I'll tell anyone where I've been," Posner sighed, "Or whether anyone will want to know for that matter…"
"That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"
"It's like making your own secret. Pathetic, yes. I think most shy people like secrets," Posner lifted his head to look at Scripps face and smiled, "It makes us feel like we have more of a reason for keeping to ourselves."
"I think I can actually see something in that."
Scripps felt surprised that Posner would class himself as shy now - he had never been popular or gregarious, but Posner had always seemed to hold his own in school. He had been different, that was all. It was disappointing to think that individuality had come to this.
"You know what I'd really like to do?" asked Posner, abruptly.
"What's that?"
"Get absolutely blind drunk."
"It can be done. There's a pub down the road."
"No. Not there. Here. I don't want to go out."
"In that case," said Scripps, rising from the bed, "Your wish shall be granted. I'll go down the off-licence. Oh, wait… Have you got any money?"
Posner rummaged through his bags and produced enough money for them both to get sufficiently slaughtered. Scripps was about to let himself out when he stopped and turned back to the room.
"If you don't mind me asking… What did your friend die of?" he asked awkwardly, one hand still on the door handle.
Posner didn't postpone giving an answer this time.
"AIDS."
"But you…?"
"No, not with him."
Scripps left it at that.
Scripps kept his promise. Within a few hours he and Posner were in the tiny room, both on the point of oblivion.
Posner held up a glass, smirking so much that Scripps knew that one poke would send him into a giggling fit. If he was going to be mind-blastingly drunk with an old school friend, Scripps decided, he might as well make the most of it - and promptly dug his fingers into Posner's ribs. Posner fell off the bed, sending the red wine flying out of his glass and hitting a startled Scripps right in the face. This sent him into further fits of laughter, and Scripps soon joined in too.
Posner managed to pull himself into a sitting position, resting his back against the chest-of-drawers. He took the wine bottle and refilled his glass, then held it up as far as he could reach.
"To absent…" He paused to laugh, and then changed so abruptly to a look of pained sobriety that it set Scripps off. When they had both calmed down again, Posner resumed, "To absent friends, and present company."
"Absent friends, present company," Scripps intoned.
At about one in the morning, Scripps hauled Posner off the floor and onto the bed. The only sound of recognition he received was a sort of snore-cum-grunt. It wasn't until Scripps opened the door in order to leave that Posner stirred. Scripps was about to say goodbye and leave like he had planned, when he noticed the look on Posner's face and heard him say, "Oh fuck no. Don't go."
These few words sounded like the David Posner eternal; the real thing. Posner had a sensitivity, a delicacy, that was graceless. There was something very easy to love in that.
"All right then."
Scripps closed the door, took off his shoes and sat down with his back against the wall. He stared, it seemed to Posner, with the tiniest hint of a challenge until Posner said, "Come off it. Not there."
"Where then?" asked Scripps patiently.
Posner blushed. He gestured to the other side of the bed in a way that he hoped could be misinterpreted and save him some embarrassment.
Scripps merely shrugged. After a little hesitation he lay down next to Posner. After a few more moments of thought, he sat up and removed Posner's shoes, before lying down again.
He could feel Posner give him an appreciative little pat on the thigh. The pat dwindled into a sleepy pawing, and Scripps knew as soon as it stopped that Posner had fallen asleep. This was confirmed by a loud boozy snore. Scripps grinned and allowed himself to move a little closer - for warmth - his hands just resting on Posner's waist.
There had been a night like this, years ago. Scripps and Posner had kept in contact for a while after leaving school. They had never really intended to fall out of contact, but it had gradually happened anyway, as these things have a habit of doing. One night, at a time when neither had written to the other for quite some time, Posner had arrived unexpectedly at Scripps' rooms. He stayed the night and then left the next morning. There had been something wrong, no doubt about it, but Scripps had felt too unsure to ask questions and Posner had acted like his normal self - if seeming slightly wounded, in a way that wasn't clear. He only later found out that Posner had stopped attending lectures and tutorials a few weeks previously and no one in the university had any idea where he was. He had gone back eventually, of course, got his degree, went on to earn a teaching diploma… Yet Scripps worried whether, even if he did get up the next day and carried on just as before, he would be as happy as he could be. Maybe happiness was too strong a word. And if Scripps was suggesting to himself what he believed he was suggesting, what could there possibly be in him to make another person any happier? It was an idiotic, egotistical idea. Although, if he had been looking at it as an outsider, he might have been able to see that it was merely friendship or love, even, depending on your interpretation of the word.
Whichever it was, and neither occurred to Scripps, he knew that he would not want to leave in the morning.
Author: truly_bohemian
Written for: rebecca_star
Pairing: Scripps/Posner
Scripps had taken a few weeks off from work, and had retreated from London. He had told his friends that he needed some time to de-stress. He had told himself that he was going to spend some time writing the things he wanted to. But he knew that he would achieve neither of these things. He would walk; he would think about life; he would read a book properly for the first time in months - instead of just skimming through a volume on whatever he was supposed to be researching. Then he would return to work, tired from having emerged from the train at 1am the previous night, and only certain of a vague dislike of himself, something that had always been there in any case.
After visiting his family, he had headed southwards again, and eventually ended up somewhere in Devon. He wasn't sure why. He stayed in a bed and breakfast place, owned by a couple from London who, like so many people, were intending to 'make a go of it' in the country. The wife, Esme Tilling, was particularly enthused, as she had gone to Cornwall every summer between the ages of seven and fourteen. After spending eight years at an advertising company in her native London, she now considered the southwest to be her true spiritual homeland. She even made her own bread at the weekends. Her husband, Daniel, had an allotment where he grew some of their own vegetables.
The b&b was situated in a quiet place, so they weren't overwhelmed with work, but they made enough to get by (and were helped by the savings they'd put aside whilst working in London). Esme and Daniel were nice people but Scripps found it hard to stay on their wavelength. He didn't (well, more likely couldn't) believe that anyone was entirely happy; life would be less of an experience if everyone was that blissful. But these two seemed satisfied in a way Scripps couldn't quite grasp. He liked being around them, talking to them before he went out in the morning, but he was usually thankful to leave for the day, feeling as if their simple happiness only left him more displeased with being complicated. Of course, he knew that that was far too pompous an assumption. Instead, he assured himself that they were simply complicatedly happy, just the same as he was complicatedly… He didn't know how to finish that thought. He erased the whole idea instead.
Every day, in the morning, he would make the short walk into the town. Alongside the usual shops, pubs and houses, there was a beautiful church originating from the 12 th century. Since that time it had suffered from religious changes, as well as two fires, but there were a few original features, marked out with laminated card pinned to the holy walls. Scripps made a point of visiting once a day. On the second visit he brought his camera and took a few photos. The architecture was important to him now. But he still had faith. It was something that he kept hidden from his workplace, not just because religion had been unfashionable for so long, but because his Catholicism seemed such a ridiculous, contradictory faith for a journalist.
He knew, he had always known, that proving the existence of God was a little ridiculous - he never thought that it was really needed, you just had to assume that God was there and get on with it. There was no assuming in journalism - it was a calculative and strict science. Which might indicate that if journalism was a religion, it would be an extremely hard one to follow. "Thou shalt seek out truth; unless it concerns thy paymaster," thought Scripps, "Thou shalt take sides, but thou shall ever deny it."
Scripps had left the guesthouse late that morning, having allowed himself to stay in bed and read, so by the time he got to the town it was almost midday. He went into the church, knelt, bowed his head. There was no one else around, not even a priest. This wasn't very surprising. Scripps himself only went to church maybe twice a month when he was in London. He didn't think God minded him taking some Sunday's off if he had been working hard all week, but he did make a special effort sometimes. Especially when he'd had that job at The Daily Mail.
He emerged into the unfettered sunlight around half an hour later, with sore knees and a stomach desperate for some less spiritual sustenance. Just as he was wondering where he would go to eat, he noticed another man, slumped over the wall surrounding the old churchyard. He was small, slight and blonde; and Scripps knew immediately why his first thoughts were of where he had left the bike that he had sold years ago. For a few seconds it was 1984.
Posner looked up for a moment and caught Scripps' eye. He looked away again, smiling faintly, and only left his spot to meet Scripps at the gate when a few more moments had passed.
"I haven't seen you for a long time," Scripps said, uncertain of the correct way to begin. He almost told him that he hadn't changed a bit - quite honestly he hadn't changed much at all, but it seemed too clichéd to say so.
"No," Posner conceded, also racking his imagination, "I thought you were still in London - do you live here now?"
Scripps shook his head, "Not quite reached that stage yet. I think there're a few years of city-fuelled cynicism in me yet. How about you? Thought you were still living in Leeds."
"I am, most of the time. I'm just… visiting a friend, that's all."
Soon after this they both lapsed into silence. They stood, awkwardly looking at each other, until Posner asked the inevitable question: "Do you see much of Dakin these days?"
Scripps nodded but said, "He's a busy man; I haven't heard from him for weeks," in an effort to stem any lengthy discussion. As an added safety precaution he quickly asked, "You're staying with your friend then?"
Posner smiled as though he had just picked up a potent irony; although what the irony was remained a mystery to Scripps.
"What? What did I say?"
"Nothing."
He noticed that the smile had vanished from Posner's lips.
Later on, after a time of walking and talking (full of heavy silences), Scripps found himself invited back to Posner's lodgings: a tiny room in a small, slowly crumbling Devonshire guest house. The landlady didn't look too keen on Posner having a male visitor, and Scripps wondered whether, if he had been younger and less respectable looking, she would have let him in at all. It was a nice place though, if you took into consideration the worries of the hostile owner, and ignored the damp on some of the walls. Scripps sat on the bed and looked at a scruffy flower arrangement on the windowsill.
"It's nice and bright," he commented.
"I expect it's bright in Roma or Nice right now," Posner smirked, "Pity I can't be there."
"Why aren't you?"
"I told you - I'm visiting a friend."
"Doesn't your friend like warmer climes?" asked Scripps innocently.
To his surprise, Posner shot him an unexpectedly reproachful look. Seeing Scripps' reaction, he changed, looking tired and sorry. Scripps started to realise how tired he did look. His eyes were heavy and red, and he sighed like a person exhausted from more than lack of sleep.
"I know what you're thinking," Posner said after a little while, "But it's not like that. I'm not here to meet a lover or whatever else. And I'm sorry because I've not been telling you the truth and I don't know why I haven't…"
"This isn't making me feel any less confused," Scripps put in helpfully.
Posner's glance was less sharp this time. "He used to live here. I knew him in university… He died a few years ago. I'm just here to see where he was buried."
"I wondered what you were doing outside a church," Scripps admitted.
Posner merely smirked some more, "It's our usual arrangement, isn't it?"
"Not since sixth!" Scripps grinned, but promptly stopped, remembering that they were talking of the dearly departed (whom he still didn't know the name of).
"You never told me what you were doing here," Posner said, hoping to release Scripps from his anxiety.
"Finding myself, I suppose. Isn't that what people call it now?"
"Yes… but in Devon?"
Scripps shrugged, "It's cheaper than Borneo."
Posner laughed, "You should have just stayed at home and put on Classical FM."
"Yeah, but it doesn't sound quite the same when you actually have to tell your colleagues where you've been."
"I don't know if I'll tell anyone where I've been," Posner sighed, "Or whether anyone will want to know for that matter…"
"That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"
"It's like making your own secret. Pathetic, yes. I think most shy people like secrets," Posner lifted his head to look at Scripps face and smiled, "It makes us feel like we have more of a reason for keeping to ourselves."
"I think I can actually see something in that."
Scripps felt surprised that Posner would class himself as shy now - he had never been popular or gregarious, but Posner had always seemed to hold his own in school. He had been different, that was all. It was disappointing to think that individuality had come to this.
"You know what I'd really like to do?" asked Posner, abruptly.
"What's that?"
"Get absolutely blind drunk."
"It can be done. There's a pub down the road."
"No. Not there. Here. I don't want to go out."
"In that case," said Scripps, rising from the bed, "Your wish shall be granted. I'll go down the off-licence. Oh, wait… Have you got any money?"
Posner rummaged through his bags and produced enough money for them both to get sufficiently slaughtered. Scripps was about to let himself out when he stopped and turned back to the room.
"If you don't mind me asking… What did your friend die of?" he asked awkwardly, one hand still on the door handle.
Posner didn't postpone giving an answer this time.
"AIDS."
"But you…?"
"No, not with him."
Scripps left it at that.
Scripps kept his promise. Within a few hours he and Posner were in the tiny room, both on the point of oblivion.
Posner held up a glass, smirking so much that Scripps knew that one poke would send him into a giggling fit. If he was going to be mind-blastingly drunk with an old school friend, Scripps decided, he might as well make the most of it - and promptly dug his fingers into Posner's ribs. Posner fell off the bed, sending the red wine flying out of his glass and hitting a startled Scripps right in the face. This sent him into further fits of laughter, and Scripps soon joined in too.
Posner managed to pull himself into a sitting position, resting his back against the chest-of-drawers. He took the wine bottle and refilled his glass, then held it up as far as he could reach.
"To absent…" He paused to laugh, and then changed so abruptly to a look of pained sobriety that it set Scripps off. When they had both calmed down again, Posner resumed, "To absent friends, and present company."
"Absent friends, present company," Scripps intoned.
At about one in the morning, Scripps hauled Posner off the floor and onto the bed. The only sound of recognition he received was a sort of snore-cum-grunt. It wasn't until Scripps opened the door in order to leave that Posner stirred. Scripps was about to say goodbye and leave like he had planned, when he noticed the look on Posner's face and heard him say, "Oh fuck no. Don't go."
These few words sounded like the David Posner eternal; the real thing. Posner had a sensitivity, a delicacy, that was graceless. There was something very easy to love in that.
"All right then."
Scripps closed the door, took off his shoes and sat down with his back against the wall. He stared, it seemed to Posner, with the tiniest hint of a challenge until Posner said, "Come off it. Not there."
"Where then?" asked Scripps patiently.
Posner blushed. He gestured to the other side of the bed in a way that he hoped could be misinterpreted and save him some embarrassment.
Scripps merely shrugged. After a little hesitation he lay down next to Posner. After a few more moments of thought, he sat up and removed Posner's shoes, before lying down again.
He could feel Posner give him an appreciative little pat on the thigh. The pat dwindled into a sleepy pawing, and Scripps knew as soon as it stopped that Posner had fallen asleep. This was confirmed by a loud boozy snore. Scripps grinned and allowed himself to move a little closer - for warmth - his hands just resting on Posner's waist.
There had been a night like this, years ago. Scripps and Posner had kept in contact for a while after leaving school. They had never really intended to fall out of contact, but it had gradually happened anyway, as these things have a habit of doing. One night, at a time when neither had written to the other for quite some time, Posner had arrived unexpectedly at Scripps' rooms. He stayed the night and then left the next morning. There had been something wrong, no doubt about it, but Scripps had felt too unsure to ask questions and Posner had acted like his normal self - if seeming slightly wounded, in a way that wasn't clear. He only later found out that Posner had stopped attending lectures and tutorials a few weeks previously and no one in the university had any idea where he was. He had gone back eventually, of course, got his degree, went on to earn a teaching diploma… Yet Scripps worried whether, even if he did get up the next day and carried on just as before, he would be as happy as he could be. Maybe happiness was too strong a word. And if Scripps was suggesting to himself what he believed he was suggesting, what could there possibly be in him to make another person any happier? It was an idiotic, egotistical idea. Although, if he had been looking at it as an outsider, he might have been able to see that it was merely friendship or love, even, depending on your interpretation of the word.
Whichever it was, and neither occurred to Scripps, he knew that he would not want to leave in the morning.