fences.
The History Boys.
Lockwood. Smoking and generally not giving a damn.
1: Lockwood's character was heavily influenced not by the text itself, but by one of the performances I saw. "The girl" was mainly influenced by a teenaged Kate Maberly in my mind, which gives you a clue as to who played Lockwood. (An excuse for me to write a bizarre form of AU Dickon/Mary?! Surely, you jest!)
2: Written way back in January '06, making it - possibly? - the first ever History Boys fic. Ha, I'm so lame. And it's neither Dakin/Posner, nor Irwin/Dakin. Go figure.
Lockwood's always hated girls like her.
The ones who whinged and called for their mums when you pushed them a little too hard; the ones who always had to have their hair pinned up neatly and just so; the ones who crossed their arms and looked frighteningly like pictures of haughty patron saints whenever they were forced to attend the annual joint dances between the boys' and girls' schools...
...the ones who never usually gave certain boys a second glance.
He first catches her watching him when he presses the small cardboard packet into little Jamie Murphy's chubby hand, lips twisting into the beginnings of a satisfied smirk. Her dark eyes follow him from between the chainlink fence, almost accusingly.
He considers flipping her the bird, then decides that would be too uncouth and settles for merely cupping his hands to his mouth and calling her various names, instead.
She arches her eyebrows and shifts her weight to the other leg, but makes no move to verbally assault him in return.
Lockwood frowns.
The next day during free period, it's he who sees her first. It takes a good four minutes for her to actually realise it, and then she begins calling something to him, but over the loud jumble of voices of the combined schoolyards, he can barely make it out. After a moment, she gives up and merely smirks, motioning with a swooping motion over her head.
Oh. Clever.
He instantly wants to go back inside, a thought that has never passed his mind in all of his years at school. But it's suddenly just a little too windy, and he hasn't even made that much money today, and whose stupid idea was it to place two private schoolyards directly side-by-side, anyway?
She's smoking now, too. He wants to tell her to piss off and stop stealing his and Timms' act.
Thoughts of him crushing her delicate wrists together between his own larger hands and the wide-eyed, startled look he'd receive in return as he takes a hit off of her cigarette suddenly invade his mind. They're enough to distract him during Hector's class from Akthar and Posner's dramatic interpretation of The Corn Is Green.
He buries his head in his arms in frustration. Scripps thinks he's fallen asleep and tries to shake him awake.
It's a bit pathetic, because whenever they go out for free period or lunch, he finds himself constantly watching to see if she's there, and he's irresistibly reminded of the way that Posner's eager gaze always seeks out Dakin whenever they're in the same damn room together, and then he feels sick.
He wants to somehow make his way past the flimsy bars of the fence and wrap his hands round her neck and throttle her. It's not natural. It's not supposed to happen like this; not for him, anyway. Well-scrubbed and polished boys like Crowther and Scripps, maybe, but not him. They, though both shrewd and clever, are of the type who'll probably allow themselves to be snared by horrible, bossy cows at university, and then remain saddled with said cows for the rest of their lives. Careers notwithstanding, of course.
His head is only supposed to be stuffed with useless trivia about the Tudor dynasty, directions to the best pasty shops, the entire second act of Othello, and the occasional memorable page two girl. He's not supposed to be vainly hoping to catch glimpses of some boring, uptight little schoolgirl who would probably laugh if in his face if she'd any idea as to what sort of thoughts he's been entertaining about her lately.
He bets she's been studying the rest of his classmates with those dark, penetrating eyes of hers. She probably finds Dakin to be the most attractive of them all. He snorts with barely suppressed laughter at the thought, even though in retrospect, it doesn't seem very funny at all.
The most female interaction he's had in his life - aside from his mum, Great Aunt Gertrude, and Mrs Lintott - occurred at the age of seven when he shoved Maria North on the sidewalk after she acted like a complete brat and refused to let him have a go on her new bike. He wasn't particularly enamoured with the gender as a whole, and hadn't cared to see much more of it since.
So, in theory, this sort of thing shouldn't happen to him.
He's the one with the longest, most unruly hair out of any of his fellow classmates. His jacket is covered with badges of Adam Ant, Madness, and The Clash, amongst others. Things like 'FUCK A-LEVELS' and 'ARSENAL FOREVER' are crudely carved onto his bag with dull marker. He wears bright yellow socks and Doc Martens to class. His fingernails, with the dirt underneath visible even from several metres away, are among the most ragged in school. He shoves boys smaller than him out of the way, then turns around and sells smokes to the ones that don't run off in tears.
Somehow, though, he thinks (or maybe it's just pure wistfulness) that he's the one she seems to be watching the most.
He wishes she'd just get the whole fucking thing over with already and tell him exactly what she plans on doing.
How is it, he thinks sullenly, that she seems to be able to smoke all she wants and never get caught, yet Timms and I are called into the Headmaster's office at least once a week?
She's leaning against the cool grey brick, a cigarette poised in one hand, the other resting on her hip casually. He unconsciously mirrors her position against the cherry brick behind him.
"Miss Andrews!"
Funny how he never knew her name until now. True, it's only her surname, but it's better than simply "her," or "that girl." Or nothing at all.
"Miss Andrews!" he hears the voice call again, in a less forgiving tone.
She turns slightly, dark bangs whipping around her face, chapped lips forming a slight pout.
Ha, he thinks, serves you right.
His triumphant snicker dies in the back of his throat the instant she crushes her cigarette with the heel of her Mary Jane and sends a surreptitious wink in his direction. It's over far too soon before she's smiling sweetly at her Headmistress and walking primly back inside the stone building.
Not even a moment later, Timms is back, leaning comfortably beside him against the wall. He counts the last few pounds he made off of one of the younger years, then stuffs them into his pocket and grins.
"Anything new?"
"Not a one," Lockwood responds, accepting a light.
Unrequited love's for poufs.
Lockwood. Smoking and generally not giving a damn.
1: Lockwood's character was heavily influenced not by the text itself, but by one of the performances I saw. "The girl" was mainly influenced by a teenaged Kate Maberly in my mind, which gives you a clue as to who played Lockwood. (An excuse for me to write a bizarre form of AU Dickon/Mary?! Surely, you jest!)
2: Written way back in January '06, making it - possibly? - the first ever History Boys fic. Ha, I'm so lame. And it's neither Dakin/Posner, nor Irwin/Dakin. Go figure.
Lockwood's always hated girls like her.
The ones who whinged and called for their mums when you pushed them a little too hard; the ones who always had to have their hair pinned up neatly and just so; the ones who crossed their arms and looked frighteningly like pictures of haughty patron saints whenever they were forced to attend the annual joint dances between the boys' and girls' schools...
...the ones who never usually gave certain boys a second glance.
He first catches her watching him when he presses the small cardboard packet into little Jamie Murphy's chubby hand, lips twisting into the beginnings of a satisfied smirk. Her dark eyes follow him from between the chainlink fence, almost accusingly.
He considers flipping her the bird, then decides that would be too uncouth and settles for merely cupping his hands to his mouth and calling her various names, instead.
She arches her eyebrows and shifts her weight to the other leg, but makes no move to verbally assault him in return.
Lockwood frowns.
The next day during free period, it's he who sees her first. It takes a good four minutes for her to actually realise it, and then she begins calling something to him, but over the loud jumble of voices of the combined schoolyards, he can barely make it out. After a moment, she gives up and merely smirks, motioning with a swooping motion over her head.
Oh. Clever.
He instantly wants to go back inside, a thought that has never passed his mind in all of his years at school. But it's suddenly just a little too windy, and he hasn't even made that much money today, and whose stupid idea was it to place two private schoolyards directly side-by-side, anyway?
She's smoking now, too. He wants to tell her to piss off and stop stealing his and Timms' act.
Thoughts of him crushing her delicate wrists together between his own larger hands and the wide-eyed, startled look he'd receive in return as he takes a hit off of her cigarette suddenly invade his mind. They're enough to distract him during Hector's class from Akthar and Posner's dramatic interpretation of The Corn Is Green.
He buries his head in his arms in frustration. Scripps thinks he's fallen asleep and tries to shake him awake.
It's a bit pathetic, because whenever they go out for free period or lunch, he finds himself constantly watching to see if she's there, and he's irresistibly reminded of the way that Posner's eager gaze always seeks out Dakin whenever they're in the same damn room together, and then he feels sick.
He wants to somehow make his way past the flimsy bars of the fence and wrap his hands round her neck and throttle her. It's not natural. It's not supposed to happen like this; not for him, anyway. Well-scrubbed and polished boys like Crowther and Scripps, maybe, but not him. They, though both shrewd and clever, are of the type who'll probably allow themselves to be snared by horrible, bossy cows at university, and then remain saddled with said cows for the rest of their lives. Careers notwithstanding, of course.
His head is only supposed to be stuffed with useless trivia about the Tudor dynasty, directions to the best pasty shops, the entire second act of Othello, and the occasional memorable page two girl. He's not supposed to be vainly hoping to catch glimpses of some boring, uptight little schoolgirl who would probably laugh if in his face if she'd any idea as to what sort of thoughts he's been entertaining about her lately.
He bets she's been studying the rest of his classmates with those dark, penetrating eyes of hers. She probably finds Dakin to be the most attractive of them all. He snorts with barely suppressed laughter at the thought, even though in retrospect, it doesn't seem very funny at all.
The most female interaction he's had in his life - aside from his mum, Great Aunt Gertrude, and Mrs Lintott - occurred at the age of seven when he shoved Maria North on the sidewalk after she acted like a complete brat and refused to let him have a go on her new bike. He wasn't particularly enamoured with the gender as a whole, and hadn't cared to see much more of it since.
So, in theory, this sort of thing shouldn't happen to him.
He's the one with the longest, most unruly hair out of any of his fellow classmates. His jacket is covered with badges of Adam Ant, Madness, and The Clash, amongst others. Things like 'FUCK A-LEVELS' and 'ARSENAL FOREVER' are crudely carved onto his bag with dull marker. He wears bright yellow socks and Doc Martens to class. His fingernails, with the dirt underneath visible even from several metres away, are among the most ragged in school. He shoves boys smaller than him out of the way, then turns around and sells smokes to the ones that don't run off in tears.
Somehow, though, he thinks (or maybe it's just pure wistfulness) that he's the one she seems to be watching the most.
He wishes she'd just get the whole fucking thing over with already and tell him exactly what she plans on doing.
How is it, he thinks sullenly, that she seems to be able to smoke all she wants and never get caught, yet Timms and I are called into the Headmaster's office at least once a week?
She's leaning against the cool grey brick, a cigarette poised in one hand, the other resting on her hip casually. He unconsciously mirrors her position against the cherry brick behind him.
"Miss Andrews!"
Funny how he never knew her name until now. True, it's only her surname, but it's better than simply "her," or "that girl." Or nothing at all.
"Miss Andrews!" he hears the voice call again, in a less forgiving tone.
She turns slightly, dark bangs whipping around her face, chapped lips forming a slight pout.
Ha, he thinks, serves you right.
His triumphant snicker dies in the back of his throat the instant she crushes her cigarette with the heel of her Mary Jane and sends a surreptitious wink in his direction. It's over far too soon before she's smiling sweetly at her Headmistress and walking primly back inside the stone building.
Not even a moment later, Timms is back, leaning comfortably beside him against the wall. He counts the last few pounds he made off of one of the younger years, then stuffs them into his pocket and grins.
"Anything new?"
"Not a one," Lockwood responds, accepting a light.
Unrequited love's for poufs.