New Fic: Knitting the Ravelled Sleeve
Title: Knitting the Ravelled Sleeve
Author: eretria
Rating: G
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway
Genre: Gen, friendship, hurt/comfort if you want to call it that
Size: ~ 2100 words
Summary: Robbie looks down to see his hands shaking. It's that weird state after waking from a nightmare where you're not sure if what you saw was dream or reality.
Spoilers: none for the series
Notes: Based on this series of gifs made by the talented enednoviel. The story is a fix it for the gifs and will very likely not make a whole lot of sense if you don't know them. They're safe for work, but ... tread with caution. (This is an implied character death warning)
Beta-read: By the indispensible murron and auburnnothenna
AO3 link: Here
Knitting the Ravelled Sleeve
"It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable, honest-hearted duty-doing man flies out into the world, but it is very possible to know how it has touched one's self in going by."
-- Charles Dickens
Robbie wakes with a jerk, his heart racing, mind still replaying the pictures of James, eyes open and broken, the light gone from them.
Robbie looks down to see his hands shaking. It's that weird state after waking from a nightmare where you're not sure if what you saw was dream or reality. James was fine last time he saw him. But then again, James had been fine when Robbie had last seen him in the dream, so who is to tell him that --
He gets up from the sofa and stumbles into the kitchen to draw a glass of too-chlorinated water and down it in a big, cold gulp.
It's 10.30 p.m. He nodded off on the sofa; the case-notes are still spread on the cushions and the table.
10.30 p.m.
Robbie runs a still-shaking hand through his hair.
It's not too late, is it?
Even if.
There were too many nights after Val died where he couldn't tell what was dream and what was reality, where the dreams of their life together were so vivid that every morning it was a fresh and raw shock to find his bed empty.
He had a bad feeling when Val left for London. He feels cold all over again as he remembers that he had a strange, painful twinge under his heart when he bid James good night too.
Premonition? Part of the dream? Or no dream at all?
He grabs his car-keys and switches the light off. Even if it was just a dream, if he wants to go to sleep tonight, he needs to be sure.
***
In hindsight, it's a stupid idea, Robbie's told himself a hundred times ever since he picked up the whisky bottle at the cornershop. He's been standing in front of James' door for a good ten minutes now and he's seen a few curtains twitch in the house across the street. He needs to either ring the bell or leave, and though he still has no idea what to say when James opens the door, he knows that he can't leave anymore than he can tap-dance.
Robbie's hand around the bottleneck is sweaty as he rings the doorbell. He waits a few seconds, endless seconds which make him doubt whether he really did dream earlier, before the light in the hallway and over the door is switched on and he's bathed in cold halogen light.
James opens the door and gives Robbie a quick once-over, taking in the lack of suit and tie and the presence of jeans, a polo shirt and a bottle in Robbie's hand. "Sir."
Robbie drinks in the sight of James: lanky slouch against the doorframe, barefoot and in jeans with a white hoodie, hair free of product and sticking up from where he must have towel-dried it earlier. A whiff of soap, fabric softener and cigarette smoke surrounds him. He's standing there. Breathing. Alive.
Relief makes Robbie realise he's been holding his breath until now. He expels it slowly. His lungs ache.
James returns his gaze. There's no reaction, not yet, though Robbie knows the smirk is lurking. James looks past him down the street. "Have you given the taxi driver my address again after you got sloshed in the pub?"
Robbie fights a grin. He shouldn't let James be this insolent too often, but he can't deny that the deadpan deliveries amuse him too much to tell James off. Besides, they're off duty. Nothing wrong with a little ribbing between friends. "That's right. But I intend to make up for the inconvenience." He lifts the hand with the bottle.
James inclines his head to read the label. "Oban." His eyebrows go up. "Clearly, it has been a terrible inconvenience to have you on my doorstep."
"The worst."
One side of James' mouth twitches up. "Why don't you inconvenience me some more and come inside, then?"
"I'm not going to magically produce a bottle of 80 year old Macallan next, though," Robbie cautions.
"I shall attempt to hide how much your stingy nature hurts me," James deadpans. "Valiantly." He steps aside to make room for Robbie. "After you."
Robbie follows the corridor to the living room and sinks down into the large leather sofa, glad to be off his feet. James takes a while to follow him, so Robbie takes the chance to pinch himself in the arm, hard. It hurts, good and proper, and Robbie lets his head sink against the upholstery and expels another breath of relief. Just a dream. Just a bloody dream, and here he is making a complete fool of himself. He'll need a cover story, and quick.
"So, what brings you here, if I may ask the blatantly obvious question?" James asks when he returns from the kitchen with two glasses in hand.
Cover story. Cover story, damn it, he needs something now. "Your birthday." Robbie blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
James' eyebrows knit. "Which was... five months ago."
Damn it. Robbie hides a wince. "I know that," he says, inflecting exasperation into his voice.
"Then I must admit I fail to see why it brings you here." James places the tumblers on the table with the quiet clink of glass against wood. "Not that you're not welcome without a reason, mind."
"I -- " Think, Lewis, think. You dug that hole for yourself, now get yourself out of it. "I didn't give you a present back then, did I?"
James contemplates this. "Actually, you did."
Damn it. "What did I give you, then?"
"Is this a test?"
"Have to spring one on you every now and again, don't I?" Deflect, deflect, deflect.
James settles down on the sofa next to Robbie and doesn't answer. The silence stretches between them and Robbie realises after a few strained minutes that James is going to wait him out.
"Christmas. There was no Christmas present."
"Yes, there was."
Oh, buggering hell. "Easter."
"We don't do Easter presents."
Robbie has had enough of this. "I think Sergeants shouldn't argue and ask awkward questions when given a present by their governors. Just accept the bloody thing."
James just raises an eyebrow at him and Robbie huffs a resigned sigh. "Ach, damn, just give us a whisky, man."
A smile twitches at the corner of James' mouth. He complies though and pours them two healthy measures of whisky. In the light from James' reading lamp, it gleams in shades of amber and gold.
They sit in silence for a long time. Neither of them touches the glasses on the table. James' grandfather clock -- of course he'd have one -- ticks, soothing and steady.
Eventually, James leans forward and reaches for the glasses. He holds one out to Robbie and he does it in silence, for which Robbie is grateful. It's bad enough to have James' knowing gaze resting upon him.
He lifts his glass in a quiet toast and downs half of its contents with a swig that is unbecoming of the quality of the whisky. James doesn't comment on that, either, though his own sip is smaller and Robbie sees him savour the flavour.
"This is nice," James says eventually, looking briefly over his shoulder and out the window. The way he says it makes it sound oblique; Robbie isn't sure if James is talking about the whisky or the weather or something else entirely. The movement as he turns back makes James shift closer to Robbie on the sofa, and presents him with a long strip of warmth where they now touch, from arm to upper thigh.
"Yeah, it is," Robbie agrees. He's not sure what he's agreeing with. It doesn't matter, though. Something inside his chest unclenches, some poison is flushed out with the warmth that the whisky is spreading though his chest and belly and the warmth that James -- present, breathing, alive -- radiates.
Robbie takes another sip, more slowly this time and rests the glass on his belly. He lets his head sink against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. Every relevant muscle in his body seems to relax, one after the other. He's incredibly tired all of a sudden. The grandfather clock ticks. Outside, rain begins to lash against the window.
"I was reading before you arrived," James says after a while. His voice is a hushed murmur, low and rumbling -- he's only too aware of Robbie's fatigue.
Robbie blinks his eyes open and tries to look at the clock. It's gone twelve. It's a week night. Christ. "I'm sorry for crashing in on you like that," he says and makes to rise from the sofa. "I really should -- "
James' hand is gentle and warm when he pushes Robbie back against the backrest of the sofa, but there's no mistaking the adamancy behind the gesture. "I was wondering if you'd mind me continuing."
Robbie frowns at him. "It's your flat. But I really should get going." He attempts to get up again, but James' hand against his shoulder presents an insurmountable obstacle. The message is clear and Robbie reluctantly relaxes back against the sofa.
James refills their tumblers and picks up the cloth-bound and gold-imprinted book that's resting on top of the pile on the table. Dickens, if Robbie's not mistaking the small print on the spine. James then slips on a pair of wire-framed glasses and Robbie suppresses a surprised if fond smile. He hadn't known James wore glasses at home, even if he'd known James wore contacts during the day. It's a glimpse into the more private, relaxed side of his sergeant that Robbie doesn't see very often, no matter how much time they spend together outside of the job as well as on it.
James shuffles into a more comfortable position with a series of squeak-shush noises when his jeans rub against the leather, then he puts his now socked feet on the table, crossed at the ankles. Sitting like this, with not an inch between them, Robbie can very nearly feel every breath James takes. The clock ticks like a heartbeat. The rain thrums against the window. The radiator clicks as it switches on and Robbie smells old leather, fabric softener and cigarette smoke. He turns his head toward James on an exhale, getting lost in the familiarity of his appearance and scent.
Robbie just looks, relieved that he can. James' eyes, shadowed by pales lashes, flicker over the pages. The low light gilds his profile and washes his eyes into a pale shadow of their normal colour. He's lost in the book he's holding like a treasure. By the slightly musty smell and the thick, dry, rustling sound the pages make when James turns them, it must be old.
The peace in the quiet makes Robbie wish for a book of his own, but he's too comfortable to reach out for one of the books on the table and too old and too tired to try and read along with James. The print is too small and he goes cross-eyed just from trying.
After a few minutes, James rests the book in his lap and reaches for his whisky. Robbie watches James take a sip, sees his face brighten as he savours. Robbie hides a pleased smile against the upholstery and closes his eyes lest James catch him watching.
Robbie feels James watching him in return now. He imagines him smiling in fond exasperation at his silly old governor.
A shifting on the sofa, a draft of cold air; the glass clinks back against the table with the bright sound of glass on wood. Then James' warmth is back and the upholstery gives with a quiet sigh.
"We went into the house by a side door," James begins and his voice, though low, is melodious and blends in with the sounds in the flat perfectly without destroying the peace. "The great front entrance had two chains across it outside, -- and the first thing I noticed was, that the passages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.1"
Robbie doesn't hear much anymore. He's not even surprised James is giving him exactly what he needs in this very moment. He just accepts it, grateful down to his last cell.
James' voice is hypnotic. It warms Robbie and lulls him, assures him all the way into his sleep that James is there, with him, and will be when he wakes up.
1" Charles Dickens - Great Expectations
17.07.2012
If you want to treat yourself to a similar experience, ITunes offers a free reading of this very part of Great Expectations, read by Laurence Fox here.
Author: eretria
Rating: G
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway
Genre: Gen, friendship, hurt/comfort if you want to call it that
Size: ~ 2100 words
Summary: Robbie looks down to see his hands shaking. It's that weird state after waking from a nightmare where you're not sure if what you saw was dream or reality.
Spoilers: none for the series
Notes: Based on this series of gifs made by the talented enednoviel. The story is a fix it for the gifs and will very likely not make a whole lot of sense if you don't know them. They're safe for work, but ... tread with caution. (This is an implied character death warning)
Beta-read: By the indispensible murron and auburnnothenna
AO3 link: Here
Knitting the Ravelled Sleeve
"It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable, honest-hearted duty-doing man flies out into the world, but it is very possible to know how it has touched one's self in going by."
-- Charles Dickens
Robbie wakes with a jerk, his heart racing, mind still replaying the pictures of James, eyes open and broken, the light gone from them.
Robbie looks down to see his hands shaking. It's that weird state after waking from a nightmare where you're not sure if what you saw was dream or reality. James was fine last time he saw him. But then again, James had been fine when Robbie had last seen him in the dream, so who is to tell him that --
He gets up from the sofa and stumbles into the kitchen to draw a glass of too-chlorinated water and down it in a big, cold gulp.
It's 10.30 p.m. He nodded off on the sofa; the case-notes are still spread on the cushions and the table.
10.30 p.m.
Robbie runs a still-shaking hand through his hair.
It's not too late, is it?
Even if.
There were too many nights after Val died where he couldn't tell what was dream and what was reality, where the dreams of their life together were so vivid that every morning it was a fresh and raw shock to find his bed empty.
He had a bad feeling when Val left for London. He feels cold all over again as he remembers that he had a strange, painful twinge under his heart when he bid James good night too.
Premonition? Part of the dream? Or no dream at all?
He grabs his car-keys and switches the light off. Even if it was just a dream, if he wants to go to sleep tonight, he needs to be sure.
***
In hindsight, it's a stupid idea, Robbie's told himself a hundred times ever since he picked up the whisky bottle at the cornershop. He's been standing in front of James' door for a good ten minutes now and he's seen a few curtains twitch in the house across the street. He needs to either ring the bell or leave, and though he still has no idea what to say when James opens the door, he knows that he can't leave anymore than he can tap-dance.
Robbie's hand around the bottleneck is sweaty as he rings the doorbell. He waits a few seconds, endless seconds which make him doubt whether he really did dream earlier, before the light in the hallway and over the door is switched on and he's bathed in cold halogen light.
James opens the door and gives Robbie a quick once-over, taking in the lack of suit and tie and the presence of jeans, a polo shirt and a bottle in Robbie's hand. "Sir."
Robbie drinks in the sight of James: lanky slouch against the doorframe, barefoot and in jeans with a white hoodie, hair free of product and sticking up from where he must have towel-dried it earlier. A whiff of soap, fabric softener and cigarette smoke surrounds him. He's standing there. Breathing. Alive.
Relief makes Robbie realise he's been holding his breath until now. He expels it slowly. His lungs ache.
James returns his gaze. There's no reaction, not yet, though Robbie knows the smirk is lurking. James looks past him down the street. "Have you given the taxi driver my address again after you got sloshed in the pub?"
Robbie fights a grin. He shouldn't let James be this insolent too often, but he can't deny that the deadpan deliveries amuse him too much to tell James off. Besides, they're off duty. Nothing wrong with a little ribbing between friends. "That's right. But I intend to make up for the inconvenience." He lifts the hand with the bottle.
James inclines his head to read the label. "Oban." His eyebrows go up. "Clearly, it has been a terrible inconvenience to have you on my doorstep."
"The worst."
One side of James' mouth twitches up. "Why don't you inconvenience me some more and come inside, then?"
"I'm not going to magically produce a bottle of 80 year old Macallan next, though," Robbie cautions.
"I shall attempt to hide how much your stingy nature hurts me," James deadpans. "Valiantly." He steps aside to make room for Robbie. "After you."
Robbie follows the corridor to the living room and sinks down into the large leather sofa, glad to be off his feet. James takes a while to follow him, so Robbie takes the chance to pinch himself in the arm, hard. It hurts, good and proper, and Robbie lets his head sink against the upholstery and expels another breath of relief. Just a dream. Just a bloody dream, and here he is making a complete fool of himself. He'll need a cover story, and quick.
"So, what brings you here, if I may ask the blatantly obvious question?" James asks when he returns from the kitchen with two glasses in hand.
Cover story. Cover story, damn it, he needs something now. "Your birthday." Robbie blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
James' eyebrows knit. "Which was... five months ago."
Damn it. Robbie hides a wince. "I know that," he says, inflecting exasperation into his voice.
"Then I must admit I fail to see why it brings you here." James places the tumblers on the table with the quiet clink of glass against wood. "Not that you're not welcome without a reason, mind."
"I -- " Think, Lewis, think. You dug that hole for yourself, now get yourself out of it. "I didn't give you a present back then, did I?"
James contemplates this. "Actually, you did."
Damn it. "What did I give you, then?"
"Is this a test?"
"Have to spring one on you every now and again, don't I?" Deflect, deflect, deflect.
James settles down on the sofa next to Robbie and doesn't answer. The silence stretches between them and Robbie realises after a few strained minutes that James is going to wait him out.
"Christmas. There was no Christmas present."
"Yes, there was."
Oh, buggering hell. "Easter."
"We don't do Easter presents."
Robbie has had enough of this. "I think Sergeants shouldn't argue and ask awkward questions when given a present by their governors. Just accept the bloody thing."
James just raises an eyebrow at him and Robbie huffs a resigned sigh. "Ach, damn, just give us a whisky, man."
A smile twitches at the corner of James' mouth. He complies though and pours them two healthy measures of whisky. In the light from James' reading lamp, it gleams in shades of amber and gold.
They sit in silence for a long time. Neither of them touches the glasses on the table. James' grandfather clock -- of course he'd have one -- ticks, soothing and steady.
Eventually, James leans forward and reaches for the glasses. He holds one out to Robbie and he does it in silence, for which Robbie is grateful. It's bad enough to have James' knowing gaze resting upon him.
He lifts his glass in a quiet toast and downs half of its contents with a swig that is unbecoming of the quality of the whisky. James doesn't comment on that, either, though his own sip is smaller and Robbie sees him savour the flavour.
"This is nice," James says eventually, looking briefly over his shoulder and out the window. The way he says it makes it sound oblique; Robbie isn't sure if James is talking about the whisky or the weather or something else entirely. The movement as he turns back makes James shift closer to Robbie on the sofa, and presents him with a long strip of warmth where they now touch, from arm to upper thigh.
"Yeah, it is," Robbie agrees. He's not sure what he's agreeing with. It doesn't matter, though. Something inside his chest unclenches, some poison is flushed out with the warmth that the whisky is spreading though his chest and belly and the warmth that James -- present, breathing, alive -- radiates.
Robbie takes another sip, more slowly this time and rests the glass on his belly. He lets his head sink against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. Every relevant muscle in his body seems to relax, one after the other. He's incredibly tired all of a sudden. The grandfather clock ticks. Outside, rain begins to lash against the window.
"I was reading before you arrived," James says after a while. His voice is a hushed murmur, low and rumbling -- he's only too aware of Robbie's fatigue.
Robbie blinks his eyes open and tries to look at the clock. It's gone twelve. It's a week night. Christ. "I'm sorry for crashing in on you like that," he says and makes to rise from the sofa. "I really should -- "
James' hand is gentle and warm when he pushes Robbie back against the backrest of the sofa, but there's no mistaking the adamancy behind the gesture. "I was wondering if you'd mind me continuing."
Robbie frowns at him. "It's your flat. But I really should get going." He attempts to get up again, but James' hand against his shoulder presents an insurmountable obstacle. The message is clear and Robbie reluctantly relaxes back against the sofa.
James refills their tumblers and picks up the cloth-bound and gold-imprinted book that's resting on top of the pile on the table. Dickens, if Robbie's not mistaking the small print on the spine. James then slips on a pair of wire-framed glasses and Robbie suppresses a surprised if fond smile. He hadn't known James wore glasses at home, even if he'd known James wore contacts during the day. It's a glimpse into the more private, relaxed side of his sergeant that Robbie doesn't see very often, no matter how much time they spend together outside of the job as well as on it.
James shuffles into a more comfortable position with a series of squeak-shush noises when his jeans rub against the leather, then he puts his now socked feet on the table, crossed at the ankles. Sitting like this, with not an inch between them, Robbie can very nearly feel every breath James takes. The clock ticks like a heartbeat. The rain thrums against the window. The radiator clicks as it switches on and Robbie smells old leather, fabric softener and cigarette smoke. He turns his head toward James on an exhale, getting lost in the familiarity of his appearance and scent.
Robbie just looks, relieved that he can. James' eyes, shadowed by pales lashes, flicker over the pages. The low light gilds his profile and washes his eyes into a pale shadow of their normal colour. He's lost in the book he's holding like a treasure. By the slightly musty smell and the thick, dry, rustling sound the pages make when James turns them, it must be old.
The peace in the quiet makes Robbie wish for a book of his own, but he's too comfortable to reach out for one of the books on the table and too old and too tired to try and read along with James. The print is too small and he goes cross-eyed just from trying.
After a few minutes, James rests the book in his lap and reaches for his whisky. Robbie watches James take a sip, sees his face brighten as he savours. Robbie hides a pleased smile against the upholstery and closes his eyes lest James catch him watching.
Robbie feels James watching him in return now. He imagines him smiling in fond exasperation at his silly old governor.
A shifting on the sofa, a draft of cold air; the glass clinks back against the table with the bright sound of glass on wood. Then James' warmth is back and the upholstery gives with a quiet sigh.
"We went into the house by a side door," James begins and his voice, though low, is melodious and blends in with the sounds in the flat perfectly without destroying the peace. "The great front entrance had two chains across it outside, -- and the first thing I noticed was, that the passages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.1"
Robbie doesn't hear much anymore. He's not even surprised James is giving him exactly what he needs in this very moment. He just accepts it, grateful down to his last cell.
James' voice is hypnotic. It warms Robbie and lulls him, assures him all the way into his sleep that James is there, with him, and will be when he wakes up.
1" Charles Dickens - Great Expectations
17.07.2012
If you want to treat yourself to a similar experience, ITunes offers a free reading of this very part of Great Expectations, read by Laurence Fox here.