FIC: trojan kings
trojan kings
spooks, ensemble (ros/home secretary) pg-13
think of it like this: nicholas blake, mp asks ros myers out to dinner. she accepts.
notes: this started as a brief experiment, but has since taken a life of it’s own. the aforementioned ‘home secretary’ is nicholas blake, as opposed to andrew lawrence. general spoilers for series eight.
There’s a saying old wives and young husbands love to quote: what goes up, must come down. Of course, this is true. You throw a ball and catch it again. A plane takes off and lands again.
What they mean, of course, is that there is balance in the universe. For every particle there is an antiparticle. For every woman there is a man. For every lie there is a truth. Of course, this is not true. There are more particles than antiparticles. There are more women than men. There are more lies than truth.
Balance is nothing more than an illusion, dreamt up by artists and their old wives and their young husbands to find beauty where there is none.
Think of it like this: Nicholas Blake, MP asks Ros Myers out to dinner. She accepts.
Now think of it like this: Ros Myers accepts a dinner invitation from Nicholas Blake, MP.
She buys a dress on Tuesday, shoes on Thursday and runs out mascara just after the shops shut.
Jo seems like the most obvious candidate, “Can I borrow some mascara?”
The sequins on Jo’s make-up bag catch her face and she sparkles for a moment in the dull light of the Thames House toilets.
“Thank you.” Ros murmurs, an attempt at manners towards the younger woman she thought she’d never like.
“Why do you want it, anyway?”
“I’m going out to dinner.”
“With who?”
“The home secretary.”
Jo’s eyes widen, and, for a moment, she looks like the gamine she once was. “You’re going on a date with the home secretary?”
“I don’t date.” Ros says, dryly.
(Two days later she will shot Jo. Jo will die. Harry will rationalise it, calling it a necessary evil and a brave sacrifice. It is neither of these things. You cannot rationalise the irrational.)
The restaurant is small, and candlelit. They do not talk about work.
They do not talk about themselves, either.
“My brother-in-law is the head chef.” He says, absently picking at the half-eaten carbonara in front of him. Ros notices how he has picked all the bacon out, but left the spaghetti. She thinks about passing comment, but smiles instead.
“So he’s Italian?”
“No.” Then he laughs, “he’s Scottish.”
She laughs, too, and it’s the first time she’s laughed in his presence. He’s surprised by the softness of it. Though, by now, he really should know better than to be surprised by her.
He kisses her goodnight on the lips.
She makes no effort to pull away he pushes his lips harder against hers. He steps forwards when she steps back.
“Goodnight.” She whispers against his lips as she pulls back, finally.
When she turns to open the door his fingers catch in hers.
“Do you want to come in? Have a drink?” She asks and it’s stilted, slightly, with wine and a nervousness she does not care to explain.
He nods.
One drink turns to two, and then to three.
By the fourth glass she gets the bottle out of the fridge.
He kisses her again, more insistent this time. His hands twist in her hair and hears her sigh. This is her domain, and he knows she won’t let him forget that. All the same, he’s desperate for the control he can claw over her. It’s not much, and they both know that, but it’s enough. He holds her tight and she holds him tight right back.
It could not be called romantic. There is a romanticism there, certainly, but they do not touch down close to romantic.
She’s half expecting him to pull rank on her, but he doesn’t. He gives as good as he gets, that’s true, and there’s a dominance that will remain unspoken (for the time being at least), but he refuses to let the intricacies of his job and her job and their jobs become a factor.
This is not complicated. Yet.
Time passes, and they find a rhythm resembling something like an existence. It’s close to routine, if they were the routine kind of people.
Sometimes they go to his house, sometimes to hers. The press never see her face and she likes it that way.
“How do you stand it?” She asks him, one evening, watching his reflection in her wine glass. It’s a question that sounds odd on her lips, but then, she’s come to expect that around him.
“Stand what?”
“Everyone knowing your name.”
He does not give her an answer. She assumes there isn’t one.
“They want me to resign.” He tells her. Ironically (almost) there’s a note of resignation in his voice.
“Really?” She pauses, “Are you going to?”
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” He sighs, “but you already knew the answer.”
She sees his resignation on the news that lunchtime. Her fingers curl around the phone in her pocket. He’s slow to pick up, and when he does his voice is slurred with alcohol.
“You’re a fool,” She says.
“We’re all fools.” He murmurs and he’s right. There are more fools than wise men in this world.
Artists proclaim balance to be all around. Of course, this is not true. Balance lies in the eye of the beholder. Like so many things, it is an intensely personal illusion.
In the real world, chaos is all there is.
end.
spooks, ensemble (ros/home secretary) pg-13
think of it like this: nicholas blake, mp asks ros myers out to dinner. she accepts.
notes: this started as a brief experiment, but has since taken a life of it’s own. the aforementioned ‘home secretary’ is nicholas blake, as opposed to andrew lawrence. general spoilers for series eight.
There’s a saying old wives and young husbands love to quote: what goes up, must come down. Of course, this is true. You throw a ball and catch it again. A plane takes off and lands again.
What they mean, of course, is that there is balance in the universe. For every particle there is an antiparticle. For every woman there is a man. For every lie there is a truth. Of course, this is not true. There are more particles than antiparticles. There are more women than men. There are more lies than truth.
Balance is nothing more than an illusion, dreamt up by artists and their old wives and their young husbands to find beauty where there is none.
Think of it like this: Nicholas Blake, MP asks Ros Myers out to dinner. She accepts.
Now think of it like this: Ros Myers accepts a dinner invitation from Nicholas Blake, MP.
She buys a dress on Tuesday, shoes on Thursday and runs out mascara just after the shops shut.
Jo seems like the most obvious candidate, “Can I borrow some mascara?”
The sequins on Jo’s make-up bag catch her face and she sparkles for a moment in the dull light of the Thames House toilets.
“Thank you.” Ros murmurs, an attempt at manners towards the younger woman she thought she’d never like.
“Why do you want it, anyway?”
“I’m going out to dinner.”
“With who?”
“The home secretary.”
Jo’s eyes widen, and, for a moment, she looks like the gamine she once was. “You’re going on a date with the home secretary?”
“I don’t date.” Ros says, dryly.
(Two days later she will shot Jo. Jo will die. Harry will rationalise it, calling it a necessary evil and a brave sacrifice. It is neither of these things. You cannot rationalise the irrational.)
The restaurant is small, and candlelit. They do not talk about work.
They do not talk about themselves, either.
“My brother-in-law is the head chef.” He says, absently picking at the half-eaten carbonara in front of him. Ros notices how he has picked all the bacon out, but left the spaghetti. She thinks about passing comment, but smiles instead.
“So he’s Italian?”
“No.” Then he laughs, “he’s Scottish.”
She laughs, too, and it’s the first time she’s laughed in his presence. He’s surprised by the softness of it. Though, by now, he really should know better than to be surprised by her.
He kisses her goodnight on the lips.
She makes no effort to pull away he pushes his lips harder against hers. He steps forwards when she steps back.
“Goodnight.” She whispers against his lips as she pulls back, finally.
When she turns to open the door his fingers catch in hers.
“Do you want to come in? Have a drink?” She asks and it’s stilted, slightly, with wine and a nervousness she does not care to explain.
He nods.
One drink turns to two, and then to three.
By the fourth glass she gets the bottle out of the fridge.
He kisses her again, more insistent this time. His hands twist in her hair and hears her sigh. This is her domain, and he knows she won’t let him forget that. All the same, he’s desperate for the control he can claw over her. It’s not much, and they both know that, but it’s enough. He holds her tight and she holds him tight right back.
It could not be called romantic. There is a romanticism there, certainly, but they do not touch down close to romantic.
She’s half expecting him to pull rank on her, but he doesn’t. He gives as good as he gets, that’s true, and there’s a dominance that will remain unspoken (for the time being at least), but he refuses to let the intricacies of his job and her job and their jobs become a factor.
This is not complicated. Yet.
Time passes, and they find a rhythm resembling something like an existence. It’s close to routine, if they were the routine kind of people.
Sometimes they go to his house, sometimes to hers. The press never see her face and she likes it that way.
“How do you stand it?” She asks him, one evening, watching his reflection in her wine glass. It’s a question that sounds odd on her lips, but then, she’s come to expect that around him.
“Stand what?”
“Everyone knowing your name.”
He does not give her an answer. She assumes there isn’t one.
“They want me to resign.” He tells her. Ironically (almost) there’s a note of resignation in his voice.
“Really?” She pauses, “Are you going to?”
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” He sighs, “but you already knew the answer.”
She sees his resignation on the news that lunchtime. Her fingers curl around the phone in her pocket. He’s slow to pick up, and when he does his voice is slurred with alcohol.
“You’re a fool,” She says.
“We’re all fools.” He murmurs and he’s right. There are more fools than wise men in this world.
Artists proclaim balance to be all around. Of course, this is not true. Balance lies in the eye of the beholder. Like so many things, it is an intensely personal illusion.
In the real world, chaos is all there is.
end.