Age challenge by Prudence Dearly
Title: Old Timer
Author: prudence_dearly
Word count: 716
Summary: Their age is beginning to tell.
Warnings: Light angst.
A/N: Thanks to akamine_chan for an excellent beta.
Ray
Ray takes his partner by the hand, and leads her out onto the dance floor, and it’s just like it’s always been - the smell of the floor polish, the sound of the music, the feel of the rhythm in his veins. He swings her round and takes her in his arms with all the ease of a lifetime’s familiarity with the moves. A moment’s beat, and then they dance.
She’s pretty - the kind of pretty that beauty becomes over seventy years. The blue dress she’s wearing brings out her eyes. Behind her, Ray catches sight of Lisa, the dance instructor, demonstrating a turn, her blond ponytail flicking out and her face alight with the joy of the dance.
One two three, one two three, and Ray’s partner follows carefully. Every week, this one gets better. He might ditch Rosa and start dancing with this one, what was her name? Annie? Anya? Anna? He flashes her a grin, and she smiles back shyly. One, two, three, turn.
His knee twists, despite the tight sports bandage he has on, and Ray has to stop. He hisses a breath through clenched teeth, taking his weight on his left leg. His partner steps back, uncertain what to do.
“Oh, Ray, honey, not again.” The dance instructor, Lisa, comes over, and rubs a hand over his back. Ray ignores her, grimacing with the pain. It’ll pass. He’ll ice the knee, lie back on the couch with his leg up and mainline painkillers, and tomorrow he’ll be able to walk without hardly limping at all. But right now… shit.
“Come on over and sit down,” Lisa’s saying, taking his arm. The others are still dancing around the community centre floor. Ray sits and watches as one of the younger guys sweeps what's-her-name off. The guy’s maybe sixty-something. Asshole, thinks Ray. He lets his head thunk back against the wall.
Ray
Ray lets the heavy door fall shut behind him. It’s just beginning to rain, the first light droplets brushing against his face. A young man trots up the steps and past him, pulls the door open and disappears inside. Ray doesn’t move.
He knows he passed the eyesight test. He memorised the card years ago. His heart hasn’t gotten any worse over the past year. He flexes his hands inside his gloves. He’s just as capable now as he was last time he had to reapply. Only, this time the woman behind the DMV’s bulletproof glass had stamped a big red “cancelled” over his application. “I’m sorry, sir,” she’d said.
If Ray was still licensed to carry a firearm she’d be pretty damned sorry, and he would have said as much, would’ve puffed himself up and bitched and complained and threatened, if it he hadn’t known it was pointless.
He’s not licensed to carry any more. He’s not licensed to do much of anything any more.
Fraser
The rifle is smooth and cold in his hands, and Fraser raises it easily, aims, fires… and misses. The crack of the gunshot echoes around the silent valley. It seems to go on for much longer than it should.
“One thing every good Mountie needs to know,” Fraser observes evenly, lowering the rifle and turning to the rookie officers behind him, “is his or her limits. For example,” his cool gaze skates over the group, ignoring the half-hidden smirks of some and the even less camouflaged embarrassment of others, “twenty-twenty eyesight and superb physical fitness are considerable advantages. However, over-confidence is a severe limitation, as is inexperience. Constable, would you take over. I see there’s a telephone call for me.”
He hands the rifle to the constable and walks back to the office, where the sergeant is standing at the door. He does not look at her as he walks inside. He likes her, and he knows that she admires him - that’s the reason she still invites him to come and talk to the rookies. He does not want to see her pitying him.
Author: prudence_dearly
Word count: 716
Summary: Their age is beginning to tell.
Warnings: Light angst.
A/N: Thanks to akamine_chan for an excellent beta.
Ray
Ray takes his partner by the hand, and leads her out onto the dance floor, and it’s just like it’s always been - the smell of the floor polish, the sound of the music, the feel of the rhythm in his veins. He swings her round and takes her in his arms with all the ease of a lifetime’s familiarity with the moves. A moment’s beat, and then they dance.
She’s pretty - the kind of pretty that beauty becomes over seventy years. The blue dress she’s wearing brings out her eyes. Behind her, Ray catches sight of Lisa, the dance instructor, demonstrating a turn, her blond ponytail flicking out and her face alight with the joy of the dance.
One two three, one two three, and Ray’s partner follows carefully. Every week, this one gets better. He might ditch Rosa and start dancing with this one, what was her name? Annie? Anya? Anna? He flashes her a grin, and she smiles back shyly. One, two, three, turn.
His knee twists, despite the tight sports bandage he has on, and Ray has to stop. He hisses a breath through clenched teeth, taking his weight on his left leg. His partner steps back, uncertain what to do.
“Oh, Ray, honey, not again.” The dance instructor, Lisa, comes over, and rubs a hand over his back. Ray ignores her, grimacing with the pain. It’ll pass. He’ll ice the knee, lie back on the couch with his leg up and mainline painkillers, and tomorrow he’ll be able to walk without hardly limping at all. But right now… shit.
“Come on over and sit down,” Lisa’s saying, taking his arm. The others are still dancing around the community centre floor. Ray sits and watches as one of the younger guys sweeps what's-her-name off. The guy’s maybe sixty-something. Asshole, thinks Ray. He lets his head thunk back against the wall.
Ray
Ray lets the heavy door fall shut behind him. It’s just beginning to rain, the first light droplets brushing against his face. A young man trots up the steps and past him, pulls the door open and disappears inside. Ray doesn’t move.
He knows he passed the eyesight test. He memorised the card years ago. His heart hasn’t gotten any worse over the past year. He flexes his hands inside his gloves. He’s just as capable now as he was last time he had to reapply. Only, this time the woman behind the DMV’s bulletproof glass had stamped a big red “cancelled” over his application. “I’m sorry, sir,” she’d said.
If Ray was still licensed to carry a firearm she’d be pretty damned sorry, and he would have said as much, would’ve puffed himself up and bitched and complained and threatened, if it he hadn’t known it was pointless.
He’s not licensed to carry any more. He’s not licensed to do much of anything any more.
Fraser
The rifle is smooth and cold in his hands, and Fraser raises it easily, aims, fires… and misses. The crack of the gunshot echoes around the silent valley. It seems to go on for much longer than it should.
“One thing every good Mountie needs to know,” Fraser observes evenly, lowering the rifle and turning to the rookie officers behind him, “is his or her limits. For example,” his cool gaze skates over the group, ignoring the half-hidden smirks of some and the even less camouflaged embarrassment of others, “twenty-twenty eyesight and superb physical fitness are considerable advantages. However, over-confidence is a severe limitation, as is inexperience. Constable, would you take over. I see there’s a telephone call for me.”
He hands the rifle to the constable and walks back to the office, where the sergeant is standing at the door. He does not look at her as he walks inside. He likes her, and he knows that she admires him - that’s the reason she still invites him to come and talk to the rookies. He does not want to see her pitying him.