[fic] tracing paper 4.5 - playtime; pg
Title: Tracing Paper (pt 4.5, playtime)
Pairing: none in this bit?
Genre: AU, communism/capitalism OTP
Unbeta'd.
Rating: PG because Carl is a sulky bastard.
Notes!: These are two shorts I wrote, taking place between part four and part five of tracing paper. There's a couple years in between the two parts, lalala.
“So, Doherty,” General Kapranos says, “I hear you volunteered for --”
“Yes, sir, the bridge mission, sir. It's a key strategic location, you know. If we manage to get that bridge we'll practically have won.”
“It is, I know.” Kapranos sighs, shaking his head slowly, barely able to resist the urge to hit his head against his hardwood desk. “That's exactly why I can't allow you to fly that mission, Doherty. You're not even a pilot.”
“I can fly an airplane, sir,” Pete says, straightening up from the casual slouch he's been maintaining cheerily through the entire meeting thus far. “Wouldn't be able to smuggle in so much chocolate if I couldn't.”
“I - of course not, Colonel. Of course not. The problem is that we can't spare you for that particular mission.”
“I'm free that day, sir. Not scheduled for anything else. You can spare my men for it.”
“Yes, and you're not one of your men.”
“Aren't I?” Pete tilts his head to the side a little, doing his best to look innocent and bewildered. His uniform is neatly pressed, his tie done up right, his eyes bright and his hair a mess. If not for the way his lips keep twitching up into a little smirky grin, he could easily manage the innocent act. “I suppose that's good to know, then. Who am I, sir?”
“You're not flying that mission, Doherty.”
“Oh,” Pete says. He nods. “Oh, that's good to know. Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“You're going home.”
“Wait, what?”
“We can't spare you for missions, because it would undermine the war effort if you were to die. Therefore, we're sending you home.”
“What?”
“If we kept you here, you'd keep volunteering for missions, and eventually I'd have to give you one. We can't spare you for trivial missions like the ones you want. So we're sending you home.”
“Oho,” Pete says, “right, then. Just one last mission? Special ops and all? I promise to go out with a bang.”
“That's what we're afraid of, Doherty, and exactly why it can't be allowed.”
“My men and I are scheduled to do that supply run, at least --”
“I hope you realise, Colonel, that none of your men are pilots.”
“Right. That's why we were going to fly that mission, sir, for the element of surprise.”
“You taught them poetry, Doherty.”
“It's a very disarming tactic, sir. I assure you, the enemy has no taste for poetry. They get all distracted and angry when --”
“Home.”
“Yes, sir.”
---
Carl's out alone and bored. Julian says he should look for a job, but he doesn't feel like it - he's drawing enough pay from the military to pay his share of the rent, and beyond that doesn't usually feel like doing much else.
The weather's getting colder, winter's cold fingers slowly pulling the summer away. Carl pulls his jacket closer around him, pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose against the cold chill wind. A few dying leaves swirl around, making little scraping skittering noises as they spin against the pavement in front of them; respectfully, Carl steps around them so as not to interrupt their tiny dance. They'll be crushed and rotting underfoot soon enough.
Passing by old buildings and closed-down businesses, Carl wanders the city aimlessly, briefly considering stopping in at the butcher shop to visit Annalisa before deciding he's not up for it today. Even the thought of that place is enough to make him sick - the smell of blood and death, the skinless animal flesh hanging in strips from the ceiling, the counters stained to yellow from countless years of fat and blood. So he's not going there today.
He turns a corner at random, nearly running headlong into a small child who's running from a group of other small children. The kid looks up at him blankly for a moment before grinning and ducking behind him.
A swarm of three other kids, none of them older than nine, are hot on the kid's tail, though they all sort of scatter, fanning out around Carl. “Bang, bang! Ka-pow!” one of them yelps, holding out a toy gun with a bright orange bit of plastic on the end of it. "You're dead!"
“I got a human shield, you guys! You can't shoot at me now!” the first kid whines, tugging on Carl's pant leg. “Isn't that right? Come on, just 'cos they're the commies doesn't mean they can cheat.”
“We're not cheating, you're the one who's cheating, getting' a civ - sev - a person who ain't a soldier involved! You wouldn't just kill somebody who wasn't a soldier, would you?”
“You mean a civilian? C'mon, we're the commies, that's what we're supposed to do. Scorched earth, man!”
“That was supplies, you retard, not random people in the street.”
“Oh yeah?”
Carl closes his eyes and breathes real slow, wondering what he did to annoy fate so much. “Shouldn't you lot be in school right now?”
“Nah, we're too communist.”
“He means it's break. We got a whole week off and stuff; it's awesome.” Finally detaching himself from Carl's leg, the first kid gesticulates excitedly as he talks. “Except these guys are really stupid and don't know how to play war right.”
“Right,” Carl says, “right.”
“C'mon, you tell 'em. You musta read the news, right? I mean, you're an old guy. That's all Dad ever does; he like, sits around and reads the newspaper and stuff all the time. His brother was a soldier and he was totally cool and sometimes he'd come home on leave and like, give me stuff and all and --”
“Tommy, shut up! Nobody cares anymore.”
“And so this one time he totally gave me this commie helmet and it was all scratched-up and it belonged to this dude, right, who'd wrote his name inside it, this guy named Doherty or something and it's sooooo cool only, you know, it belonged to a commie and they're all stupid, but you know. It's still cool cos it belonged to a dead guy. Technically it belonged to two dead guys because my dad's brother got killed like, riiiight before all his missions were done with, which sucks. He was a pilot, you know?”
“Right.” Nodding slowly, Carl says, “Doherty, you said.”
“Yeah, P period Doherty. I dunno what the P stands for, though, probably like... Piss-head.”
“You can't say that! Tommy, I'm gonna tell your mom. Oh, my gosh, you're so dumb.”
“I think,” Carl says vaguely, “the lot of you are fucking ignorant little cunts and you should all fuck off.” He draws his jacket closer, doing up a few buttons he'd left undone earlier, and sort of shuffles off slowly. His leg, which is usually fine, is acting up again, giving him a bit of a limp that he tries to hide by walking even slower.
A night of drinking helps him forget the day ever happened; still, when he curls up in bed at night, blankets wrapped tight around him, he dreams of Pete dying. He dreams of all his friends dying, Julian and Ricky and Nick and Nick and Fab and Pete again (Pete, with his eyes and tongue missing; Pete, reaching out to him from too far away.)
Another day spent drinking lets him forget his dreams, and soon enough he finds an ex-soldier willing to sell him prescription heroin. He spends the next few months in a dreamless haze.
Pairing: none in this bit?
Genre: AU, communism/capitalism OTP
Unbeta'd.
Rating: PG because Carl is a sulky bastard.
Notes!: These are two shorts I wrote, taking place between part four and part five of tracing paper. There's a couple years in between the two parts, lalala.
“So, Doherty,” General Kapranos says, “I hear you volunteered for --”
“Yes, sir, the bridge mission, sir. It's a key strategic location, you know. If we manage to get that bridge we'll practically have won.”
“It is, I know.” Kapranos sighs, shaking his head slowly, barely able to resist the urge to hit his head against his hardwood desk. “That's exactly why I can't allow you to fly that mission, Doherty. You're not even a pilot.”
“I can fly an airplane, sir,” Pete says, straightening up from the casual slouch he's been maintaining cheerily through the entire meeting thus far. “Wouldn't be able to smuggle in so much chocolate if I couldn't.”
“I - of course not, Colonel. Of course not. The problem is that we can't spare you for that particular mission.”
“I'm free that day, sir. Not scheduled for anything else. You can spare my men for it.”
“Yes, and you're not one of your men.”
“Aren't I?” Pete tilts his head to the side a little, doing his best to look innocent and bewildered. His uniform is neatly pressed, his tie done up right, his eyes bright and his hair a mess. If not for the way his lips keep twitching up into a little smirky grin, he could easily manage the innocent act. “I suppose that's good to know, then. Who am I, sir?”
“You're not flying that mission, Doherty.”
“Oh,” Pete says. He nods. “Oh, that's good to know. Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“You're going home.”
“Wait, what?”
“We can't spare you for missions, because it would undermine the war effort if you were to die. Therefore, we're sending you home.”
“What?”
“If we kept you here, you'd keep volunteering for missions, and eventually I'd have to give you one. We can't spare you for trivial missions like the ones you want. So we're sending you home.”
“Oho,” Pete says, “right, then. Just one last mission? Special ops and all? I promise to go out with a bang.”
“That's what we're afraid of, Doherty, and exactly why it can't be allowed.”
“My men and I are scheduled to do that supply run, at least --”
“I hope you realise, Colonel, that none of your men are pilots.”
“Right. That's why we were going to fly that mission, sir, for the element of surprise.”
“You taught them poetry, Doherty.”
“It's a very disarming tactic, sir. I assure you, the enemy has no taste for poetry. They get all distracted and angry when --”
“Home.”
“Yes, sir.”
---
Carl's out alone and bored. Julian says he should look for a job, but he doesn't feel like it - he's drawing enough pay from the military to pay his share of the rent, and beyond that doesn't usually feel like doing much else.
The weather's getting colder, winter's cold fingers slowly pulling the summer away. Carl pulls his jacket closer around him, pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose against the cold chill wind. A few dying leaves swirl around, making little scraping skittering noises as they spin against the pavement in front of them; respectfully, Carl steps around them so as not to interrupt their tiny dance. They'll be crushed and rotting underfoot soon enough.
Passing by old buildings and closed-down businesses, Carl wanders the city aimlessly, briefly considering stopping in at the butcher shop to visit Annalisa before deciding he's not up for it today. Even the thought of that place is enough to make him sick - the smell of blood and death, the skinless animal flesh hanging in strips from the ceiling, the counters stained to yellow from countless years of fat and blood. So he's not going there today.
He turns a corner at random, nearly running headlong into a small child who's running from a group of other small children. The kid looks up at him blankly for a moment before grinning and ducking behind him.
A swarm of three other kids, none of them older than nine, are hot on the kid's tail, though they all sort of scatter, fanning out around Carl. “Bang, bang! Ka-pow!” one of them yelps, holding out a toy gun with a bright orange bit of plastic on the end of it. "You're dead!"
“I got a human shield, you guys! You can't shoot at me now!” the first kid whines, tugging on Carl's pant leg. “Isn't that right? Come on, just 'cos they're the commies doesn't mean they can cheat.”
“We're not cheating, you're the one who's cheating, getting' a civ - sev - a person who ain't a soldier involved! You wouldn't just kill somebody who wasn't a soldier, would you?”
“You mean a civilian? C'mon, we're the commies, that's what we're supposed to do. Scorched earth, man!”
“That was supplies, you retard, not random people in the street.”
“Oh yeah?”
Carl closes his eyes and breathes real slow, wondering what he did to annoy fate so much. “Shouldn't you lot be in school right now?”
“Nah, we're too communist.”
“He means it's break. We got a whole week off and stuff; it's awesome.” Finally detaching himself from Carl's leg, the first kid gesticulates excitedly as he talks. “Except these guys are really stupid and don't know how to play war right.”
“Right,” Carl says, “right.”
“C'mon, you tell 'em. You musta read the news, right? I mean, you're an old guy. That's all Dad ever does; he like, sits around and reads the newspaper and stuff all the time. His brother was a soldier and he was totally cool and sometimes he'd come home on leave and like, give me stuff and all and --”
“Tommy, shut up! Nobody cares anymore.”
“And so this one time he totally gave me this commie helmet and it was all scratched-up and it belonged to this dude, right, who'd wrote his name inside it, this guy named Doherty or something and it's sooooo cool only, you know, it belonged to a commie and they're all stupid, but you know. It's still cool cos it belonged to a dead guy. Technically it belonged to two dead guys because my dad's brother got killed like, riiiight before all his missions were done with, which sucks. He was a pilot, you know?”
“Right.” Nodding slowly, Carl says, “Doherty, you said.”
“Yeah, P period Doherty. I dunno what the P stands for, though, probably like... Piss-head.”
“You can't say that! Tommy, I'm gonna tell your mom. Oh, my gosh, you're so dumb.”
“I think,” Carl says vaguely, “the lot of you are fucking ignorant little cunts and you should all fuck off.” He draws his jacket closer, doing up a few buttons he'd left undone earlier, and sort of shuffles off slowly. His leg, which is usually fine, is acting up again, giving him a bit of a limp that he tries to hide by walking even slower.
A night of drinking helps him forget the day ever happened; still, when he curls up in bed at night, blankets wrapped tight around him, he dreams of Pete dying. He dreams of all his friends dying, Julian and Ricky and Nick and Nick and Fab and Pete again (Pete, with his eyes and tongue missing; Pete, reaching out to him from too far away.)
Another day spent drinking lets him forget his dreams, and soon enough he finds an ex-soldier willing to sell him prescription heroin. He spends the next few months in a dreamless haze.