Fic: d'Artagnan
Title: d’Artagnan
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Characters: Cook-centric. Mentions of Naomily
Rating: T (for language, themes)
Disclaimer: Skins isn’t mine. I’m just borrowing a few friends :)
Summary: : “He’s as decent as a lad you'll meet on the street on a May morning. At least, that’s what he likes to think.” Cook breaks out of jail. Visits a friend with his temporary freedom.
Author's Notes: Been gone for a month or so. I’ve come back with a one-shot. Working with some other characters besides my two favourite girls. This one’s set after Cook’s episode, a little before Freddie’s. Let’s see how it goes then...
d’Artagnan
by interpol_ice
= = = *** = = =
If there’s anything James Cook knows, it’s how to get around. But this time is a bit different,
considering he’s just wiggled out of prison. He walks the wee morning streets like a marked
man or some outlaw...
Like an outlaw.
That shouldn’t even be a simile. He is an outlaw. So gone is his commanding swagger and his
explosive attitude. Cook learns to keep his head down.
Clothed in a quiet anonymity he never thought he could have, he soon stands before Naomi
Campbell’s place. Cook’s a climber. Finds it laughable how easy it is to scale the side of her
house. There are just enough footholds in the form of window sills and big enough cracks in
the bricks. Shitty masonry, he thinks, is his saviour this morning. He finally reaches the open
window on the second floor, hauls himself in with a sort of ease you can only get from years
of practice.
That or you used to be a cat in your past life.
*
There’s no one in her mum’s room. Too much space. Too spick and span. It almost makes him
sick that it’s more empty than it is tidy. Kind of like his cell in prison.
Nothing but a fucking bed.
He looks around, finds the only thing of interest in the place. Cook smiles to himself as he
walks over to the vanity. He lifts the picture frame up with a single hand, and the first line of
sun cutting through the curtains hits the photo.
It’s a picture of Keiran, their Politics teacher.
Cook’s had proper words with him once. Not during class or anything. It was the first day of
school...
*
To be particular, it was the end of the first day of school.
A little after the last bell, Cook came to the college carpark to wait out for Freds and JJ. After
he did it with Effy, he never bothered coming back to class. Which is why it was awkward
when he found Keiran there, smoking beside his shoddy-looking, automobile. Just smoking.
Cook got called over.
James, isn’t it? Well, how’re yer balls?
And Keiran gave him a cigarette. He thought it funny, teachers weren’t supposed to be giving
out free fags.
(Cook remembers finding a certain comfort in that moment. Because Keiran got that cheap
brand. The one he prefers to smoke as well.)
You missed out y’know? You’ve got a classmate who’s pregnant with her dentist’s child. Think you
can top that?
He almost said that he just had the best shag of his life. (Elizabeth fucking Stonem, thank you
very much.) Thought against it in the nick of time and said, “What, my name? That what you
talkin’ about? And the unique fact thing?”
Bingo.
And he thought he was already spared from this. The schmaltzy introductions and shit.
“I’m Cook,” he said for the first part and then didn’t even think twice for the next one.
“I’m Cook.”
That all?
“That’s all.”
(When he thinks back on it, he wishes he could’ve said more. But then he realises how much
of a pansy-shit he sounds. He was never about regrets.)
He spotted Freddie getting out of the building a couple of seconds after. He stands out like
that, the giant he is. Cook immediately felt his chest expand from relief. Keiran was alright,
but Cook couldn’t take another minute hanging around with someone from the fucking
academe.
Cook remembers sucking in so hard that the fag reduced to a mere butt faster than Keiran
could say, “Oh, the Big Man? What was it about him? Meeting a girl he liked? Yeah, he’s that lucky
bastard,” after seeing Freddie in the distance.
(He realises Freddie called dibbs long before he did.)
*
He puts the photo down. Picks it up again. He rubs his thumb over the part where Keiran has
his scraggly beard.
I’m Cook. That’s all.
He doesn’t know what he amounts to anyway.
*
“Christ, Naomi! Cloudy with a chance of what the fuck are you on?” Cook half sputters, half
coughs. He slaps away at the air in an effort to dissipate the smoke as he makes his way
down the stairs.
It’s spliff. But then again, it could be a fire.
He bolts down faster, suddenly alarmed. “Naomi? Naomi?”
There’s a not-so-feminine grunt that gets buried into a pillow. Naomi shifts on the couch,
knocking the empty vodka bottle onto the carpet with a dull clunk.
“Cook...” she slurs stupidly, actually happy to see him. Happy to see anyone, really. She
hasn’t talked to a soul in days, hasn’t gotten out of the house an entire week (except that
Tuesday, when she bought a shit-load of fags and alcohol at a 24/7 convenience store at three
in the morning because she ran out of things to keep her company). So yeah, Naomi’s really
glad that Cook stopped by.
She fucking beams at him like he’s some much-awaited-for messiah and this takes Cook by
surprise a bit. It strikes him as so uncharacteristically Naomi that he can’t help but look back
at her with fondness.
Cook puts out all the shit on the ashtray. He doesn’t know what Naomi was playing at,
emptying her entire pack of fags into it and setting them all alight. Something’s wrong... more
off than usual.
For some reason, he can’t take it. Kind of suffocating. He moves over to the window, has
some trouble with it because it’s jammed. It finally gives and now breathing is just as easy as
it used to be.
There’s the postman at the door when he looks out of the window. He looks at Cook
curiously and Cook thinks it must be the smoke.
It’s the smoke and he’s got nothing on me. The things he tells himself desperately.
He was never this paranoid before. Then again, he’s never escaped out of jail.
“Too early for that, don’t you think?” the postman says.
And well, fuck him and his healthy lifestyle.
Cook flips the postman off, says something stupid about his neon vest to boot and before he
knows it, he gets a rolled-up newspaper to the face.
He hears Naomi laughing in the background as he bends down to pick up the paper.
Rubbing at his face in annoyance, he returns to where Naomi is. He makes himself comfy on
the couch, scooting Naomi’s legs further into the upholstery so that he’d
have some room to sit.
“You smell nice,” he says, as if there isn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice. He makes a show of
flapping the newspaper near his nose, making a funny face at her.
But Naomi, queen of that art herself, picks up on it. No surprises there, really. She expresses
her displeasure by forcing her foot upon Cook’s face. There’s a quick back and forth
struggling movement and now they’re both laughing off their tits.
The laughs start dying.
Next thing, they’re both silent. Naomi is already sitting up, reaching for one of the many
available fags on the ashtray. Cook is already taking out his lighter.
They share a smoke. And they’re still as quiet, apparently content with listening to the crackle
of their fags as they become just-filters.
Naomi is taking deep, desperate drags on her cigarette. She finishes two before Cook can
even get half-way through his first. Odd, he thinks. And Cook can’t help but say it. Because
this type of shit is something you have to point out.
“Awwww, luv. Look at you, a proper mess.” Something looking suspiciously like concern
flashes across his blue-steel eyes.
Naomi’s jaw clenches in annoyance. Of all the people in the universe it’s Cook who has to be
the one to tell her that she’s roughing it like a bum. It’s all so wrong.
“Takes one to know one,” she shoots back as her defence. But it doesn’t come off as biting as
she wanted it to.
Cook gives her a knowing look and she feels petulant. He is being so fucking... patronising.
Even more bizarre.
Naomi takes another drag, takes the smoke in smooth, it fills her chest up. She feels so full, so
heavy. It makes her miserable, the many things that she has to carry around.
On exhale, it isn’t just the smoke that comes out. Her secrets and tears decide to follow suit.
*
Turns out, Emily’s been gone a whole week.
Naomi’s already turned Bristol four times over, looking for her and still, no luck. Absolutely
no clue about where she’s run off to.
“-because if I really did know her, I would’ve found her by now.”
And Cook can’t believe Naomi is crying. Not the hysteric kind of fit, no. She’s putting up such
a strong face, enough to fool anyone. But yeah, those are tears right there, making her face
wet. Wet things she just couldn’t hold back.
He’s just so sad for her right now.
“I could lose her for good, Cook,” Naomi tells him, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying to
say it straight. Her blue eyes are shiny. And pleading.
She just breaks down. Deeper this time.
Everyone is falling apart.
And Cook’s supposed to be behind bars.
Yeah, it’s all just rainbows and butterflies now, innit?
*
Her hair’s shit.
Honest to fuck, her hair is looking shit.
He’s sorry he can’t think of something nicer, like ‘that’s a nasty case of bedhead’ or even ‘it
looks like a bird’s nest’ but fucking hell, it seems like you could hide things in there.
“I can’t believe how badly I’ve fucked it up. I thought I could handle it. I thought that I could
take it. And I pushed it, Cook. I pushed it too far-”
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Naomi-o. Cookie doesn’t process that fast. Chillax a wee bit,
yeah?”
And for a few seconds, Cook just listens as Naomi cries and cries and cries. He’ll wait forever
if he has to, because now’s the time for him to be that kind of bloke.
“It just hurts, Cook. It’s too fucking big to just feel anymore. I can’t take it. Everything’s
just...”
It’s trailing off. Like if she just didn’t say it, the weight of the words wouldn’t be as heavy. As
real.
He’s looking out the window. The light outside is magnetic. Like it could cure anything.
“Hold that thought,” he says suddenly, “you and I are going to catch some sunshine.”
Naomi, all red face and swollen eyes looks back at him blankly.
Cook punches her lightly on the arm, the gesture lightening the mood. He shows her his
toothy smile, “I promise it’s gonna be really peachy.”
*
At first, Naomi is reluctant.
“No the fuck way, Cook.”
“Come on, Naomikins, I swear it’ll do you good.”
And this is how Cook gets Naomi to shower:
It’s a condom out of his back pocket. And he chuckles to himself as he rushes to the kitchen.
Wasting his very last condom on a lesbian. One he doesn’t even get to bang...
Now, this is what he considers a sacrifice.
He goes to the kitchen, finds empty cereal bowls and milk bottles and strangely, bananas in all
sorts of places they shouldn’t be. Hanging off the fridge, tied to the ceiling fan, on the floor.
He eventually spots the sink (there’s a banana in it too). He tears the condom wrapper open,
rolls the condom out like he’s done it a million times. (Mind you, he has done it a million
times). He slides it up the tap and he turns the knob.
Cook is actually pretty excited as he watches the tropical-flavoured balloon swell up.
He walks back in the room, big grin on his lips, make-shift water-bomb in his hands.
Naomi is sluggish and slow to clarity. Sadly, she can’t put two and two together.
“Cook, what the fuck is that?”
A pause.
Then SPLASHHHHH.
The couch, the blonde bird’s nest, Naomi’s enraged expression. It’s all wet now. His mum
would go nuts. This kind of installation art? Fucking priceless, thanks.
“Tosser! Fucking tosser!”
Cook doubles up, has a fantastic laugh.
“Sorry love, you’re rocking the wet look and all... But how ‘bout that shower?”
*
Outside, Naomi’s glowing. In a bad way. She’s too pale. Maybe it’s all those days she spent
hiding from the sun.
“How’d you get out?”
Cook falls silent. Thinks it’s best not to mention the horrid details of shagging the lady guard
and talking her into freeing him. Certainly not his finest fuck, but he got to escape. The end to
justify the fucking means.
He says anyway, hoping it’s vague enough, “Got friendly with security. Really nice lady, that
Georgia.”
“Oh,” is all Naomi says. And without even looking at her, Cook knows that Naomi’s already
figured it out. That he fucked his way out of there.
He’s not really sure then, when Naomi speeds up her pace and shoots herself a couple of
steps ahead of Cook, if the words she mumbled out were, “Shag’s just a shag.”
Because if she did say those words, then… finally, a mate who understands.
*
Naomi’s bought fish and chips for the both them. Cook watches as she walks back with the
bundle of paper, meat and potatoes. He could already see the grease seep into yesterday’s
newspaper.
They find a bench, in Stapleton Road, of all places. Yes, it’s better known as ‘crackhead alley’,
but Cook and Naomi plan on having a nice time anyway, watching the latest in chav walk by
and talk fuck knows what about what they did to get the ice around their necks.
Ten minutes of peaceful sitting and three crack-dealers have already chatted them up. Cook
politely tells them to, “Get to fook.” And there’s this one guy who even smiles at them.
Almost blows their minds out when he shows them his three gold teeth. As he walks away,
Cook chokes on his chips.
“That’s fucking wrong. He could feed twenty families in Africa with those teeth.”
And that’s Naomi for him, always caring about things.
*
They decide to get out of there. It’s not the safest place to be and hanging around there is like
you’re asking to be stabbed. They get on the first bus they find. They’re headed for wherever.
Naomi took the window seat. She’s now enjoying the view of buildings and the occasional
tree outside. Cook’s busies himself in his aisle seat by tripping the occasional annoying
passenger. The businessman who thought his mobile was deaf. He was talking too fucking
loud. The gangster who had boxers with dollar signs printed on it. Who had pants that held
on to the top of his kneecaps for dear life. Then there was this stuck-up jock who had a face
that could launch a thousand shits. Cook just didn’t like that face.
“Why the fuck did it get so out of control, Cook?”
Cook pulls his foot in, seemingly finished with his mischief. Why the fuck did it get so whack?
He doesn’t know. Isn’t that what got him here? No, really. What did?
Cook goes over it. He’s not surprised when blue eyes and dark hair come to mind. He
remembers her playful lips and her knowing eyes. He hates how he used to have all of it. He
hates how he lost her to Freddie. And what’s ironic is that he loves the massive fucker more
than life. Cook can’t blame Effy for choosing him.
Cook swallows. Crosses his arms, asks, “Where would you be if Emily weren’t in love with
you?”
“I’d be dead,” she says, surprising even herself with the speed and seriousness that came
with her answer.
Naomi’s knee-deep in her drama but Cook sniggers anyway.
“That’s how it is, Naomi. She looks at my best mate in a way I can’t stand. I’m a dead man
wandering about. Like in those zombie films, yeah? Only considerably better looking.”
Then Naomi kicks him in the shin.
*
They get off at Gloucester Road. Because the place is alive and the both of them believe in the
placebo effect. (But only Naomi knows it’s called that.)
She pulls him into the first thrift shop she finds.
“You didn’t have to, you know,” Naomi tells him, as she attacks a clothes rack. The grave
tone she uses on him makes his face twitch for a second. The click-clack of hangers banging
into each other, one after another, isn’t helping either. It makes him feel more tense.
“Well,” he says, punching his pockets in even further. The seams are at their limit. “I did.”
Naomi turns to him. Looks his way, but doesn’t really look at him. Her eyes are trained on a
row of miniature plane models on a display shelf. Those things that JJ wanks off about.
“You must have been a kamikaze pilot in your past life. Always taking one for the team,” she
says.
Cook thinks about it. And yeah, she’s right. He imagines a fighter plane going down in
flames. Feels sorry for the imaginary fucker who flew it.
*
Naomi buys a collection of bows. They’re all pretty in an ornamented box. Naomi’s so
precious, handling the box like it’s a bar of gold. She smiles shyly at the clerk when the old
lady says, “These would look great on you.”
And Cook tries not to smile when Naomi mumbles a faint, “They’re not for me.”
*
She complains that she’s tired of all the walking. They pass by a pub. Naomi shakes his head
at him when he pauses to listen to the frenzied commentary.
“...giving Gerrard a red card, reducing Liverpool to ten men!”
Then Cook could hear the mix of groans and cheers of the men inside the pub. If he were in
there, he would’ve already bought another round for himself.
He looks up again. Smiles at Naomi like only a young boy would.
Naomi motions for him to get along and he pads forward, quite delighted that some of the
things that matter to him are still out there and fighting.
Well, at least things are looking up for Chelsea.
*
A few minutes later Naomi mentions, “Fucking hell, take that ridiculous moustache off.”
“Just leave me be, Naomi-o,” he says, running his fingers over his disguise.
Cook and lame disguises.
You can’t hide who you are.
*
Dry grass, rusty playthings, shit in the sandboxes. Welcome to the emptiest playground in
Gloucester.
There are times when the universe works in his favour. Those small, infrequent, treasured
moments. Those nights he gets to pull a right fittie, the times he gets to hit in an equaliser...
Sometimes, he does get it right. And it’s been a while since he was outside like this. Just a ball
and his fancy feet.
Proper execution. The ball’s supposed to be spinning inward after it hits your feet, so it
doesn’t fly off. You keep it in, within the range of your legs.
Nothing. He isn’t even aware of his own breathing. All he can hear is the pat-pat-pat, the
steady beat of a football in constant suspension. A football never meeting the grass.
Or the dirt. Or reality.
The ball goes up, then down onto a flicked knee. It goes up again, lands on his chest. It
bounces back to a foot and a second later, it’s off and up high again.
This goes out to all the fuckers who think he doesn’t have a concept of control.
He continues juggling the ball with his feet and Naomi claps her hands at this in mock glee.
“Wow, you fucking show-off!”
“Don’t, yeah? Sometimes I think this is the only thing I’m good at.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re great at shagging girls.”
Cook laughs because that doesn’t really count. “You are too, lezza lover.”
“Yeah, but just with one girl.”
And then she backtracks, her eyes darken like she’s just remembered something awful.
Cook doesn’t ask. Kicks the ball out of sight.
“She was shit at it, just saying,” Naomi tells him anyway.
The batty-old, chessboard ball, falls into the crisp grass. This is what happens when his
concentration breaks.
“The dead girl?”
“Yeah.” Silence. “I didn’t know what I was thinking.”
Cook thinks about how many times he’s fucked up over the course of his life. It’s a part of
him. If he doesn’t fuck up, then there’s something wrong. Because people leave when there’s
nothing left to fix anymore. That’s how he’s kept Freddie and JJ all these years.
Naomi fucks up once. Just once. And now Emily’s gone.
This world is not fair.
He’s almost jealous of it. Because it’s the disappointment that really gutted Emily. The belief
that Naomi would never do that to her. That Naomi was as faithful as they come. He’d like
that, the idea of someone hoping he’d succeed, or keep promises, or even graduate and shit.
Even if it was just an idea.
See, Cook never gets to disappoint. Failure is expected of him. Always.
And that’s the last he wants to hear about this. About Sophia.
His and Naomi’s shared mistake.
Never again. He’s sick of this shit.
*
“Know what? In our little group. You and muff monkey,” Cook starts, earning a smile from
Naomi, “I can really see you two ladies getting hitched and all that.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have let you down, Cook.”
“No,” Cook replies immediately, shaking his head. He starts cackling ironically, going
“naaaw, naaaw” in between breaths.
“You haven’t let me down. Not yet. So, don’t. Fucking fix it, Campbell.”
“How?” Naomi asks, passing over a freshly-lit fag.
Cook is quiet a while, smoking, smoking, smoking.
“I don’t fucking know,” he says with a mild resignation that puts Naomi off.
“But it’s not like you have a choice.”
When Cook turns to Naomi she’s staring blankly at a patch of grass. The grass isn’t green on
that side.
“Yeah, I know,” Naomi says sadly.
It makes his chest clench because he knows what it’s like for things
to not go your fucking way.
The both of them are thinking now. How they once had the girl. How they then fucked it up
to lose the girl. And how dead they are now that the girl is gone.
Cook shrugs the feeling off until the next time it’ll creep up on him. He forgets easy like that.
Then Cook’s thinking that Naomi could use a little love.
He pulls his moustache off. It’s still sticky enough for him to
smack it playfully above her lips.
Cook’s sniggering as he twiddles with the tips to make Naomi look even more ridiculous
than she already does. “Hey, Nomi, no worries, alright? You’ll work it out, kid.”
He’s almost too distracted by the moustache to catch the little twitch of a smile that she let
slip. Naomi’s eyes soften, forming charming little lines at the corners of her eyes. Like she can
finally feel the sun on her skin.
“You think I can do it?”
And he has never heard Naomi any more hopeful and hopeless than she is now. He’s got to
turn this around. Breathe new life in his fourth musketeer.
“I think,” he starts strongly, “that nobody makes Emily Fitch smile the way you do.” Cook
breaks into a small grin. “And that has to count for something, yeah?”
*
On the way back to her place, Naomi catches sight of her reflection on one of the shiny
windows of a barber shop. Inside, there’s a man getting his beard shaved off. There’s a cloud
of shaving cream on his face. He looks like a skinny Santa.
Cook waves at the man, directs the bloke’s attention away from Naomi (who’s sporting the
fake moustache, by the way) and onto himself. Cook says to Naomi, not breaking eye contact
with Skinny Santa, “So, the moustache. Likin’ what you see, Blondie?”
“Yeah, I look quite handsome, you wanker.”
Cook takes a finger to the glass. Hovers it over the moustache’s reflection. “That should’ve
been blonde too, you know,” he says, tapping at the glass. “To match your hair.”
Naomi laughs. Swats his hand away because he’s making too much noise already.
“They’re gonna think we’re customers.” She means the barber and skinny Santa inside the
shop, with the same confused looks on their faces.
She takes one last look of herself on the window. Smiles big, before grabbing Cook by the arm
and dragging him on and away from the barber shop, saying,
“This means I’m one of the boys now?”
Cook jerks free out of her hold. Shocks Naomi a bit as he does it. But he erases the distance he
just made by throwing an arm around her. He ruffles her hair, like he would with JJ. Nicks
the cigarette out of her unsuspecting fingers, like he would with Freddie.
And Naomi? Naomi lets him.
It feels like he’s fixed something. And he tells himself,
See? You aren’t so bad.
One day like this is enough. Just one day, the world’s nice to him. Today he’s the lucky bastard. And it’s enough because… what else has he got?
Naomi smells nice, he notices, because she’s close enough to take a whiff of. Like a proper girl. And Cook can’t believe he’s going to say this, but…
“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling her in closer for further affirmation.
They need to take another picture this Halloween. Him, Freddie, and JJ. And then Naomi.
The swashbuckler outfits are still in Freddie’s shed. They’d even let Naomi have one of the swords this year.
(Because they only had two and poor JJ always drew the short straw.)
“You can be one of the boys.”
- fin -
A/N: Thanks for the read. Will thank you double if you pop in for a comment. :) So c’mon then,
how’d you find it?