Murray & Dodson
So, following the end of Scott & Bailey, my mind continued to run on my OTP Murray & Dodson, and particularly the images and possibilities conjured up in the final scene, and I found myself writing a short piece of femslash that's a bit slashier than usual for me. Thanks to fengirl88 (not to mention Amelia Bullmore's script!) for encouragement.
STORIES WE COULD TELL
Janet Scott's telling your retirement do how she first met you back in 1993. "She was dressed head to toe in leather and she had hair down to her bum."
"I was not!" you protest.
Oh, but you were. At least, you were the first time I met you. I can see you now, out on the dancefloor, every move of your limbs and curve of your body outlined in soft black leather. And you saw me watching, and sashayed across to drag me out too.
"Anyway," Scott continues, "there she was, telling someone how they could do what they were doing so much better if they'd only do it just like her."
It may even have been me. She's right, it was scary, your confidence, your certainty. Some of us have to learn that confidence, some seem to be born with it - I catch glimpses of it in Rachel Bailey. And I saw it in you, again, when you were so sure of how to handle the Evie Pritchard case that you beat back my doubts. I can see why you were freaked out when you began to find your confidence draining away after poor Helen Bartlett - why you started topping it up with those drinks on the side.
"God help anything young and male in a fifty-mile radius..." says Scott.
"Doesn't have to be young!" someone shouts.
"Doesn't have to be male!" I yell.
"That is totally unacceptable!" you say. "Julie Dodson - the stories I could tell about you..."
Our eyes meet, challenging each other.
Go on, then. Tell them about that night, when you hauled me into the Ladies, and we squashed up against each other in the cubicle, my hands running over and over that soft leather as we snogged. And the story I've regretted ever since: how I hesitated when I felt your cool hand sliding down my belly, and you felt my uncertainty, and pulled away - stared at me for a moment, then kissed me a quick goodbye and walked out, tossing your hair behind you, while I stood there shaking.
Dave Murray didn't hesitate, damn him. And if anyone knocked your confidence before the Bartlett incident, it was him. If I were Bailey, I'd be careful with that DSI Pemberton...
But I'm not Bailey, I'm me. And you're out there dancing again, and glancing at me to see if I'll join you. So I'm doing shots, and your team think it's a laugh, I'm a sport letting my hair down. But I'm deadly serious, because I may have learned confidence but it's me that needs to top it up now.
If you try me tonight, I'm not hesitating.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
STORIES WE COULD TELL
Janet Scott's telling your retirement do how she first met you back in 1993. "She was dressed head to toe in leather and she had hair down to her bum."
"I was not!" you protest.
Oh, but you were. At least, you were the first time I met you. I can see you now, out on the dancefloor, every move of your limbs and curve of your body outlined in soft black leather. And you saw me watching, and sashayed across to drag me out too.
"Anyway," Scott continues, "there she was, telling someone how they could do what they were doing so much better if they'd only do it just like her."
It may even have been me. She's right, it was scary, your confidence, your certainty. Some of us have to learn that confidence, some seem to be born with it - I catch glimpses of it in Rachel Bailey. And I saw it in you, again, when you were so sure of how to handle the Evie Pritchard case that you beat back my doubts. I can see why you were freaked out when you began to find your confidence draining away after poor Helen Bartlett - why you started topping it up with those drinks on the side.
"God help anything young and male in a fifty-mile radius..." says Scott.
"Doesn't have to be young!" someone shouts.
"Doesn't have to be male!" I yell.
"That is totally unacceptable!" you say. "Julie Dodson - the stories I could tell about you..."
Our eyes meet, challenging each other.
Go on, then. Tell them about that night, when you hauled me into the Ladies, and we squashed up against each other in the cubicle, my hands running over and over that soft leather as we snogged. And the story I've regretted ever since: how I hesitated when I felt your cool hand sliding down my belly, and you felt my uncertainty, and pulled away - stared at me for a moment, then kissed me a quick goodbye and walked out, tossing your hair behind you, while I stood there shaking.
Dave Murray didn't hesitate, damn him. And if anyone knocked your confidence before the Bartlett incident, it was him. If I were Bailey, I'd be careful with that DSI Pemberton...
But I'm not Bailey, I'm me. And you're out there dancing again, and glancing at me to see if I'll join you. So I'm doing shots, and your team think it's a laugh, I'm a sport letting my hair down. But I'm deadly serious, because I may have learned confidence but it's me that needs to top it up now.
If you try me tonight, I'm not hesitating.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.