WIP Amnesty -- or something
D'you ever just... want to share bits of things you've got floating around? It's still so weird to me, even though I fully understand why it happens, that I've only written/posted one fic this calendar year. Stuff has been happening, it just tends not to get the momentum I want it to. But I want to hear what people think of it! So, right, these fics may wind up finished at some point in the future, but for now... a bunch of Kate/Hotspur bits.
***
The Hollow Crown RPF, Joe Armstrong/Michelle Dockery, character-building, mildly porny
Off-script, he's a bit of a wag, a fast talker with a twinkle in his eye. She's a little nerdy, sweet and silly and open. They get on well at rehearsals, at table readings, at the parties Tom throws at his flat. They're not glued at the hip or anything; Harry and Joe chain-smoke together while telling wild stories to all comers, and Michelle has everyone in stitches with her impressions. For Richard, they're playful but serious, relaxed, focused, a good team. Good casting.
It's when he opens his door and she's there on his welcome mat, smiling and holding up a bottle of wine, that's when they switch on. "A vintage fit for kings, my lord," she says, beautifully enunciated, and smirking. Joe takes the wine and holds open the door.
"Let's have none of kings tonight, my lady," he says, and there's nothing south of Newcastle in him then. She shuts the door herself and takes her kiss right there. His stubble rasps against her palms as she cups his cheeks. He's warm, and she's greedy for that. His hands snake under her coat to pull her closer, hip to hip.
After dinner, he picks a fight with her, and they shout for twenty minutes before she slams him against the wall, her knuckles white in his t-shirt. They leave most of their clothes in the dining room, though they finish up in his bed. After, when they are both panting against the headboard, he turns to her and grins. "Tell me then, Kate, are we resolved?"
"Nay, Harry." She sits up, and pushes him back when he rises to follow. "There is still the wine to be had."
"Dross!"
"What sayest thou?"
"I would not sully a thirst I better slake elsewhere."
Fifteen minutes later, she has one knee slung over his shoulder. They save the wine for next time.
***
College (uni?) AU, Kate & Hotspur, freshman year
He was already moved into his dorm room when Kate arrived to claim the one next door. As she and her parents unpacked and decorated the small single, they had a taste of how thin the walls were: three quick, strident voices rose and fell clear as day, sometimes arguing, sometimes braying with laughter. As she stepped into the hallway, the group of them passed her by, the son striding bow-legged ahead of his father, each the image of the other. Kate watched them from the door, then walked the few paces to her neighbor’s door to see what the RAs had posted by way of label: Harry Percy, Alnwick, Northumberland.
Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer kissed her goodbye in front of Lancaster House, and she headed back inside, new keys in her hand, to the first dorm meeting. Hal Bolingbroke was there, as he would be; he’d grown even lankier over the summer, and greeted her as Kate Won’t Wait. “I know it’s Sunday,” he said conspiratorially, “but Ned here-” He indicated his new bosom friend. “Ned is a local and says there’s this epic dive in town. Are you in?”
“Why don’t you scout it out for me,” she said, and excused herself to find a seat among some likely looking girls. The Resident Head and her husband introduced themselves, and they all went around the room with an icebreaker. Kate told everyone she intended to study English and political science, that she still played the cello sometimes and that her favorite film was Office Space.
Harry Percy, who had been making comments to whoever would listen throughout, announced, in a burst of Geordie enthusiasm, that he intended to form a rugby team and that any and all would be welcome, ladies and gentlemen both. In the mingling and eating of cake that followed the icebreaker, Hal made no move toward Harry, who was meeting and greeting at a dull roar in no time.
Kate found that Harry’s volume was a constant battle when she was back in her room. She heard his music, which tended toward an odd mix of raucous “alternative” fare and big band swing. She heard his voice at all hours, laughing with friends or shouting at his homework or complaining about useless school policies on the phone. She heard him rearranging furniture, which is how his bed came to share a wall with hers, and there were times she heard a good deal more than she liked. The first time she finally just pounded the wall, he seemed to have the decency to be mortified, except he followed up with turning on music, and Kate could never listen to Oasis the same way again.
She hated him. He picked fights with her in the dining hall. He tried to keep a slow cooker in his room, even after he forgot he’d left it on during a long weekend. He brushed his teeth in the co-ed showers, and strolled up and down the halls in only his towel. He made impossibly simple (if occasionally powerful) arguments in the ethics and philosophy course they shared. His only good quality, as far as she was concerned, was that Hal did not impress him, and they could form brief alliances, should the need arise. But mostly, she hated him.
She hated his stupid nose and his crooked teeth and his swaggering walk and his oversized shoulders and his protruding Adam’s apple and his intensity and his blunt hands and that mocking smirk and his messy hair and his ridiculous accent and his terrible temper and his rotating crop of injuries and his poor taste in television and his blue eyes.
“Mortimer!” he half-bellowed as he pounded on her door one evening (she hated how he only ever called her by her last name). When she yanked open her door he was hanging off the frame, and nearly face to face with her. “There’s a costume party at one of the apartments,” he said, totally blithe. “Will you come with us?”
She narrowed her eyes. Her copy of Mrs. Dalloway hung from one hand, a green highlighter in the other. “Who’s going?” she said, rather than “Piss off, I’m studying” or “Get out of my space, Percy” or “Since when do you invite me anywhere?”
He shrugged. “Just some people. Not all of ‘em from Lancaster.”
Not good enough. “I don’t have a costume.”
“Neither do I.” That stupid grin again. “I thought I’d improvise.”
“Did you want to borrow something of mine?” Mrs. Dalloway began an impatient tattoo against her thigh. “And when were you planning on leaving for this party?”
“Later,” he said, “and is there something inherently funny about a man dressed in women’s clothing?”
Kate crossed her arms. “Someone in one of your classes said that.”
He thinned his lips. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
She spun the highlighter in her fingers. “Come in,” she said after a minute. She shut the door behind him and set the book and highlighter on her dresser.
“So this is the other side of the wall-!” he began, before she grabbed his shirt and smashed her mouth to his.
“Shut up,” she said when they pulled apart.
His eyes widened, and his started to grin. “Kate Mortimer-”
She slammed him against the door to her closet. “Kate-” he mumbled, before she kissed him again, just as hard. It was a pitched battle not even a minute long. Her nails dug into her palms through his t-shirt. His hands curled around her hips, trying to decide whether to go up or down. She’d never done anything like this before, but she liked what she was getting from it. She knew he hated her as much as she hated him.
At the end of the minute she broke off the kiss. Harry tried to lean in again, but she stepped back. “Find your own damn costume,” she said brusquely. “I’ll meet you downstairs in 45 minutes.”
He was waiting for her in the lounge with his hair greased high, wearing someone else’s leather jacket and jeans turned up at the cuffs. She was belted into an oversized suit, and had scrounged a bowler hat, small mustache and cane. Neither of them acknowledged what had just happened, and whether they were bickering or bantering on the walk to the party was never resolved. They separated as soon as they got in the door, but kept crashing back together as the night drew on. Kate stuck to hard liquor, Harry to beer. Sometime after midnight, they found each other alone in the kitchen. Harry pulled her close, wordlessly. He tasted of cheap and terrible lager and she had had too much rum, but he kissed her, still fierce but slower this time, and for longer than a minute before he paused and peeled off her mustache.
***
Hotspur Ruins Everything: The Harry Kills Hal at Shrewsbury AU
They say the old king’s camp was silent already when Harry Percy rode in. All marked the corpse tied face-down behind his saddle; all noted the set of Hotspur’s jaw. Old Henry was in his tent, weeping dearly over cold young John. Percy did not announce himself, only stopped his horse and dared Henry’s guards not to fetch their master.
The old king emerged, tottering and pale, Westmorland grim behind him. He made no noise, only stood rooted and shaking as Percy glared down at him. “The Prince of Wales is yours,” he said. “As he is the son of an anointed king, so must you give him his appointed burial.”
The old king gaped. Westmorland gave the order to untie the body. Never once did Percy take his eyes off Bolingbroke. Prince Hal was a large man, a heavy man in death; his armor clanked as his limbs bent and swayed.
“Should this have been?” Westmorland held his ground at the horse’s side. “Did you scorn the king’s clemency so?”
Percy frowned. “My uncle gave me none.” His horse danced beneath him as its burden came free. Percy reined it back. “If such was offered, it matters not: mark you all, we have clashed today o’er the weight of this king’s word.”
The guards bore the prince’s corpse away. The old king clutched at his chest plate, still mute.
Already, across the bloodied field, the hungry cry had started: Esperance! Esperance! O esperance!
* * *
Maybe some of these will get finished if you like them and comment? I AM A SUCKER FOR FEEDBACK. I'm not ashamed to admit it! ♥
This was originally posted on Dreamwidth, where it has
comments. I would love to hear from you at DW! If you can see this post, you can comment here using OpenID. Thanks!
***
The Hollow Crown RPF, Joe Armstrong/Michelle Dockery, character-building, mildly porny
Off-script, he's a bit of a wag, a fast talker with a twinkle in his eye. She's a little nerdy, sweet and silly and open. They get on well at rehearsals, at table readings, at the parties Tom throws at his flat. They're not glued at the hip or anything; Harry and Joe chain-smoke together while telling wild stories to all comers, and Michelle has everyone in stitches with her impressions. For Richard, they're playful but serious, relaxed, focused, a good team. Good casting.
It's when he opens his door and she's there on his welcome mat, smiling and holding up a bottle of wine, that's when they switch on. "A vintage fit for kings, my lord," she says, beautifully enunciated, and smirking. Joe takes the wine and holds open the door.
"Let's have none of kings tonight, my lady," he says, and there's nothing south of Newcastle in him then. She shuts the door herself and takes her kiss right there. His stubble rasps against her palms as she cups his cheeks. He's warm, and she's greedy for that. His hands snake under her coat to pull her closer, hip to hip.
After dinner, he picks a fight with her, and they shout for twenty minutes before she slams him against the wall, her knuckles white in his t-shirt. They leave most of their clothes in the dining room, though they finish up in his bed. After, when they are both panting against the headboard, he turns to her and grins. "Tell me then, Kate, are we resolved?"
"Nay, Harry." She sits up, and pushes him back when he rises to follow. "There is still the wine to be had."
"Dross!"
"What sayest thou?"
"I would not sully a thirst I better slake elsewhere."
Fifteen minutes later, she has one knee slung over his shoulder. They save the wine for next time.
***
College (uni?) AU, Kate & Hotspur, freshman year
He was already moved into his dorm room when Kate arrived to claim the one next door. As she and her parents unpacked and decorated the small single, they had a taste of how thin the walls were: three quick, strident voices rose and fell clear as day, sometimes arguing, sometimes braying with laughter. As she stepped into the hallway, the group of them passed her by, the son striding bow-legged ahead of his father, each the image of the other. Kate watched them from the door, then walked the few paces to her neighbor’s door to see what the RAs had posted by way of label: Harry Percy, Alnwick, Northumberland.
Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer kissed her goodbye in front of Lancaster House, and she headed back inside, new keys in her hand, to the first dorm meeting. Hal Bolingbroke was there, as he would be; he’d grown even lankier over the summer, and greeted her as Kate Won’t Wait. “I know it’s Sunday,” he said conspiratorially, “but Ned here-” He indicated his new bosom friend. “Ned is a local and says there’s this epic dive in town. Are you in?”
“Why don’t you scout it out for me,” she said, and excused herself to find a seat among some likely looking girls. The Resident Head and her husband introduced themselves, and they all went around the room with an icebreaker. Kate told everyone she intended to study English and political science, that she still played the cello sometimes and that her favorite film was Office Space.
Harry Percy, who had been making comments to whoever would listen throughout, announced, in a burst of Geordie enthusiasm, that he intended to form a rugby team and that any and all would be welcome, ladies and gentlemen both. In the mingling and eating of cake that followed the icebreaker, Hal made no move toward Harry, who was meeting and greeting at a dull roar in no time.
Kate found that Harry’s volume was a constant battle when she was back in her room. She heard his music, which tended toward an odd mix of raucous “alternative” fare and big band swing. She heard his voice at all hours, laughing with friends or shouting at his homework or complaining about useless school policies on the phone. She heard him rearranging furniture, which is how his bed came to share a wall with hers, and there were times she heard a good deal more than she liked. The first time she finally just pounded the wall, he seemed to have the decency to be mortified, except he followed up with turning on music, and Kate could never listen to Oasis the same way again.
She hated him. He picked fights with her in the dining hall. He tried to keep a slow cooker in his room, even after he forgot he’d left it on during a long weekend. He brushed his teeth in the co-ed showers, and strolled up and down the halls in only his towel. He made impossibly simple (if occasionally powerful) arguments in the ethics and philosophy course they shared. His only good quality, as far as she was concerned, was that Hal did not impress him, and they could form brief alliances, should the need arise. But mostly, she hated him.
She hated his stupid nose and his crooked teeth and his swaggering walk and his oversized shoulders and his protruding Adam’s apple and his intensity and his blunt hands and that mocking smirk and his messy hair and his ridiculous accent and his terrible temper and his rotating crop of injuries and his poor taste in television and his blue eyes.
“Mortimer!” he half-bellowed as he pounded on her door one evening (she hated how he only ever called her by her last name). When she yanked open her door he was hanging off the frame, and nearly face to face with her. “There’s a costume party at one of the apartments,” he said, totally blithe. “Will you come with us?”
She narrowed her eyes. Her copy of Mrs. Dalloway hung from one hand, a green highlighter in the other. “Who’s going?” she said, rather than “Piss off, I’m studying” or “Get out of my space, Percy” or “Since when do you invite me anywhere?”
He shrugged. “Just some people. Not all of ‘em from Lancaster.”
Not good enough. “I don’t have a costume.”
“Neither do I.” That stupid grin again. “I thought I’d improvise.”
“Did you want to borrow something of mine?” Mrs. Dalloway began an impatient tattoo against her thigh. “And when were you planning on leaving for this party?”
“Later,” he said, “and is there something inherently funny about a man dressed in women’s clothing?”
Kate crossed her arms. “Someone in one of your classes said that.”
He thinned his lips. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
She spun the highlighter in her fingers. “Come in,” she said after a minute. She shut the door behind him and set the book and highlighter on her dresser.
“So this is the other side of the wall-!” he began, before she grabbed his shirt and smashed her mouth to his.
“Shut up,” she said when they pulled apart.
His eyes widened, and his started to grin. “Kate Mortimer-”
She slammed him against the door to her closet. “Kate-” he mumbled, before she kissed him again, just as hard. It was a pitched battle not even a minute long. Her nails dug into her palms through his t-shirt. His hands curled around her hips, trying to decide whether to go up or down. She’d never done anything like this before, but she liked what she was getting from it. She knew he hated her as much as she hated him.
At the end of the minute she broke off the kiss. Harry tried to lean in again, but she stepped back. “Find your own damn costume,” she said brusquely. “I’ll meet you downstairs in 45 minutes.”
He was waiting for her in the lounge with his hair greased high, wearing someone else’s leather jacket and jeans turned up at the cuffs. She was belted into an oversized suit, and had scrounged a bowler hat, small mustache and cane. Neither of them acknowledged what had just happened, and whether they were bickering or bantering on the walk to the party was never resolved. They separated as soon as they got in the door, but kept crashing back together as the night drew on. Kate stuck to hard liquor, Harry to beer. Sometime after midnight, they found each other alone in the kitchen. Harry pulled her close, wordlessly. He tasted of cheap and terrible lager and she had had too much rum, but he kissed her, still fierce but slower this time, and for longer than a minute before he paused and peeled off her mustache.
***
Hotspur Ruins Everything: The Harry Kills Hal at Shrewsbury AU
They say the old king’s camp was silent already when Harry Percy rode in. All marked the corpse tied face-down behind his saddle; all noted the set of Hotspur’s jaw. Old Henry was in his tent, weeping dearly over cold young John. Percy did not announce himself, only stopped his horse and dared Henry’s guards not to fetch their master.
The old king emerged, tottering and pale, Westmorland grim behind him. He made no noise, only stood rooted and shaking as Percy glared down at him. “The Prince of Wales is yours,” he said. “As he is the son of an anointed king, so must you give him his appointed burial.”
The old king gaped. Westmorland gave the order to untie the body. Never once did Percy take his eyes off Bolingbroke. Prince Hal was a large man, a heavy man in death; his armor clanked as his limbs bent and swayed.
“Should this have been?” Westmorland held his ground at the horse’s side. “Did you scorn the king’s clemency so?”
Percy frowned. “My uncle gave me none.” His horse danced beneath him as its burden came free. Percy reined it back. “If such was offered, it matters not: mark you all, we have clashed today o’er the weight of this king’s word.”
The guards bore the prince’s corpse away. The old king clutched at his chest plate, still mute.
Already, across the bloodied field, the hungry cry had started: Esperance! Esperance! O esperance!
* * *
Maybe some of these will get finished if you like them and comment? I AM A SUCKER FOR FEEDBACK. I'm not ashamed to admit it! ♥
This was originally posted on Dreamwidth, where it has
comments. I would love to hear from you at DW! If you can see this post, you can comment here using OpenID. Thanks!