(no subject)
14 February, 1984
Simon sits on the armrest of his couch, taking deep drags from cigarette du jour #37 while watching Jeremy pry his books from the bookshelf. He just wants Jeremy to take his damn books and go. They'd been together seven blissful, secretive years. Now Jeremy wanted to go to Buford Abbey.
To hell with that.
Whatever high-minded political reason Jeremy had for moving to Buford Abbey--a more open, tolerant world, he said--Simon wanted to hear none of it. Simon didn't care about a more open world. All that meant was people knowing knowing what and who he did behind closed doors, something Simon had tried to keep secret. He didn't care for gossip. It allowed people far too much control over one's image. More than gossip, however, and more than Jeremy's fluffy politics, he did not care for Buford Abbey, nor did he care to ever leave Sandford.
That was that, then: irreconcilable differences. Simon would stay, Jeremy would go, no hard feelings between them. Except Simon can't wait for Jeremy to finish fumbling his way through what possessions he's left behind. It's a excruciating show, watching him stall, because Simon knows he'll try yet again to convince Simon to leave with him. Sure enough, once Jeremy's through shoving the last of his books into a ratty bag, the first words out of his mouth are, "You sure you won't go?"
"Yes."
Jeremy looks crestfallen.
A pause.
"Are you absolutely sure?"
Simon tries his damnedest not to strangle the life out of his cigarette. "Yes."
Pause.
"Okay, then." Jeremy takes a few minuscule steps towards what Simon hopes is the door. "Are you sure--"
"Jeremy," says Simon shortly, "leave or I'll toss you out." On that admittedly fine arse of his, but Simon's withholding his sense of humor. It would give Jeremy the wrong impression that this was all for shits and giggles.
"Okay." Jeremy stares at Simon, seemingly on the verge of some action--maybe a kiss, maybe a hard punch. He does neither. He walks quickly to the door, steps outside, and out of Simon's life.
Simon sighs, takes another drag and puff of his cigarette (by no means the last of the day; he has three more to go before he hits average), and sinks into the couch to smoke away the day--
--until he hears tires skidding on pavement and the impact of metal against metal. And against human flesh.
It's a miracle he doesn't drop his cigarette on the floor in his subsequent scramble towards the door. He stops at the top stair leading to his door, temporarily transfixed by the scene. He's never seen a human's legs crushed between two cars before. Jeremy's screams barely register as Simon takes in the sight of him flailing, pinned--and, behind the two cars, a drunken teenager trying, and failing, to flee the scene.
That little fucker!
Simon tosses his cigarette and sprints towards the stumbling teen. "You there!" he calls out. The teen whips around. It's a rather mistaken move; he falls on the pavement just in time for Simon to scoop him back up and shake him like a rag doll. "Didn't anyone tell you not to drink and drive?"
And to drive in his point, he delivers one hard punch to the teen's face. The boy goes out like an expired light. Simon lets him fall to the ground. He spits, staring at the teen like one would an aberration.
Behind him, Jeremy wails. "Simon! I can't feel my legs!"
"You haven't got any legs," growls Simon.
Hours later, the drunken teen's booked with the possibility of five years in jail, depending on how the inevitable trail goes. Jeremy's in the hospital with no legs. Simon's cooling his heels in the police station, smoking number three over his average while tolerant Frank Butterman sits at his desk, listening to Simon rant and rave and watching him pace a hole into the carpet. Butterman has taken at face value the fact that Jeremy is just Simon's friend (Simon has left out a few details). He understands why Simon would be upset. If any drunken kid smashed into his best friend's legs, Butterman would be angry, too.
"Then we've got to do something about them!" says Simon. "They're ruining our village. What good is trusting the law? The law does nothing. They'll toss the damn kid in jail and toss him back out for good behavior. In the mean time we'll have dozens more like him, crashing into buildings, trees, cherished landmarks, painfully manicured gardens... Imagine the damage they'd inflict! We've got to stop them before they tear down our entire village!"
"What would you recommend we do to them, then?" asks Frank patiently.
"I'd cut off his damn legs if I could. An eye for an eye--no, even more! An arm for an eye! An entire heart for a single crime!"
"Don't you think that's a bit extreme?"
Simon stops pacing, dead center of Frank's desk, and looks him squarely in the eye. "No. And I think you'd want the same if someone you cared for was hurt by one of these..." Rather than say a word, or spit, Simon smokes.
Frank leans forward, patting Simon condescendingly on the hand. "You ought to go home. Sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning." A pause. Simon's hand is twitching to get from beneath Frank's.
"Don't worry," Frank continued. "We'll make sure he gets his just desserts."