spooks fic - mythologies (1/1)
Title: Mythologies
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. Kudos to...Kudos. And the Beeb.
Spoilers: Through 3x07
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, of the R-rated variety (see above)
Character(s)/Parings: Zoe Reynolds, Zoe/Will (because they're cute and I'm kicking it old skool)
Word Count: around abouts 1,100
Summary: Zoe Reynolds, post "Persephone."
Author's Note: Unbeta-ed (because hollywoodgrrl said so). This was sitting on my laptop for god knows how long. A very long time. It's a glimpse into Zoe's life after the events of 3x06 and the goings on in 3x07. Because Spooks is a revolving door of characters I heart, and it's nice to catch up with the ones who are no longer on the show, shall we say. Rediscovering unfinished fic can be a bit fun. Er, whatever, yes. This is a Spooks fic.
We pried open my window
And let the summer rush in
And we laughed with the new air
Now I lay and watch the green leaves
Dance and whisper sweet breath
A promise of a new year
- azure ray, 'the new year'
What will you be remembered for?
You don’t exist, do you, Emily?
::
On foreign ground, she tries to define herself through sensations. The wind on her cheek, the sand between her toes, red from the sun. Sea salt, chlorine, sunscreen. The pages of unread classics between her fingers. She finds herself needing to expand her “to read” list, once a mere hypothetical.
She can feel time crawl now. Slow, casual. She adjusts her pace to compensate.
::
Qualified six months ago. Jane Graham. I teach English.
::
She pieces herself together with memories.
Playing dress up, playing make believe with boxes and an imaginary friend or two. Or three. Four A levels, four A grades. First kiss, first funeral, first job, first time living alone, first relationship that lasted longer than a month. The string of failures that came after.
Family. Friends. What little of them she had.
Her dad watching football in his favorite chair, those rare days when she had time to visit. Home cooked meals, few and far between.
The whistle of the kettle, and a warm mug of chamomile tea placed into her hands at the end of a long day. Pointless banter, laughing and picking fights and messing up her always tidy shared flat. On purpose.
Now useless languages learned, taking up space in her brain, locked in her throat. Save one.
The click of stone under heel as she walked to her first lecture at Oxford, through the doors of Thames House, down an endless corridor.
::
She remembers her past through touch, imprints that went below the surface.
She had tried. And for a while she pretended. She pretended, she pretended, she pretended. And then there were video cameras, cold and unflinching, and stolen photographs. Bosses and rules and codes and betrayal and terror and there was no room. No room to be so feeling, no room to be selfish. Controlling her emotions was never her strongest suit. Before she could steel herself, her cheeks would be wet and then there was a hand over hers, an arm around her shoulder, Sam or Harry or Tom or Danny. And for a moment, that would be enough.
::
I’ll know who I am and what I’ve done.
Really? Because your name wouldn’t be Zoe Reynolds in prison. How do you like RW936?
God. It never stops.
::
Will’s lips brush across hers, one hand firm against her backbone, fingers moving quick between her thighs.
She bends her knees and arches, toes curling into the mattress. A breeze makes the gauzy curtains flutter and ripple shadows across the room. A broken fan rattles in the corner. She keeps forgetting to fix it. It’s the height of summer, and she feels it on her skin, pink and feverish. She turns her head to the side, her forehead meeting the spot where his wrist curves up, his hand supporting his weight above her.
An unfamiliar bird cries outside her window. She turns to see a dark streak across the sky, and thinks that the sun must be a different one here, to burn with such intensity. It's been months, and she wonders if her brain will always be in contradiction, in want of a specific kind of rain and clouds, late nights and quiz shows.
::
Gina Hamilton. It's a pretty name.
::
Her neighbors are friendly. She finds herself sharing sugar, small talk. She lives near a woman close to her own age, and she has come to consider her a friend. They go to cafes, some days. She never misses a beat when she hears her name. Gina. She’s always been good at this.
She reads The Times online, all the stories she wants to ignore, and about the lives that aren't hers to protect anymore. She develops a habit of checking a particular section she knows she should avoid. When she remembers them all, she hopes they’re okay. It's all she can do.
::
She feels his hand on her face, and the movement brings her back to the sunlit room. When she turns, she focuses her eyes on the helicopter blades of the ceiling fan above, watching them circle.
"Look at me," Will says, slowing his movements.
She moves her legs over his, catching her feet underneath his calves, bringing both her hands around to press down against the small of his back.
::
Two birds perch outside on an overhanging branch across her bedroom window. They remind her of a postcard sent, a last (she hopes not last) dispatch. She considers sending another, just one more. Thinks about how she would feel to get something, anything, just once, in return.
She sits upright, her legs wrapped around him and her head resting on his shoulder as they move against each other. He holds her, tight.
"Zoe," he breathes.
"Say that again," she says, half a command, half pleading.
"Zoe." Over and over, low and hoarse, between sharp intakes of air.
She feels the sun blazing, the breeze from the window cool on her back, listens to those new sounds outside and finds they are becoming familiar. She can smell the sea, and thinks one day she will laugh about everything on that promised beach.
In her mind she sends a silent thank you across an ocean to a flat in London.
Will's motions become faster, urgent, and she responds in kind. She can still see the birds outside the window, and she laughs as Will continues to whisper her name in her ear, the sound of it intoxicating.
::
She curls onto her side, kicking her white sheet off the foot of the bed. She stares at Will, now seated by the window sill, adjusting a lens on his camera. He snaps photos casually before turning to face her.
She puts her hands up, hiding in mock embarrassment.
"Zoe."
She reaches for a pillow and covers her face.
"Say cheese."
Three letters. She has those three letters, and she sounds them out in her head. One syllable, then the next. She thinks of different futures for herself; she was always good at make believe.
She peeks her head up from behind the pillow and smiles.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. Kudos to...Kudos. And the Beeb.
Spoilers: Through 3x07
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex, of the R-rated variety (see above)
Character(s)/Parings: Zoe Reynolds, Zoe/Will (because they're cute and I'm kicking it old skool)
Word Count: around abouts 1,100
Summary: Zoe Reynolds, post "Persephone."
Author's Note: Unbeta-ed (because hollywoodgrrl said so). This was sitting on my laptop for god knows how long. A very long time. It's a glimpse into Zoe's life after the events of 3x06 and the goings on in 3x07. Because Spooks is a revolving door of characters I heart, and it's nice to catch up with the ones who are no longer on the show, shall we say. Rediscovering unfinished fic can be a bit fun. Er, whatever, yes. This is a Spooks fic.
We pried open my window
And let the summer rush in
And we laughed with the new air
Now I lay and watch the green leaves
Dance and whisper sweet breath
A promise of a new year
- azure ray, 'the new year'
What will you be remembered for?
You don’t exist, do you, Emily?
::
On foreign ground, she tries to define herself through sensations. The wind on her cheek, the sand between her toes, red from the sun. Sea salt, chlorine, sunscreen. The pages of unread classics between her fingers. She finds herself needing to expand her “to read” list, once a mere hypothetical.
She can feel time crawl now. Slow, casual. She adjusts her pace to compensate.
::
Qualified six months ago. Jane Graham. I teach English.
::
She pieces herself together with memories.
Playing dress up, playing make believe with boxes and an imaginary friend or two. Or three. Four A levels, four A grades. First kiss, first funeral, first job, first time living alone, first relationship that lasted longer than a month. The string of failures that came after.
Family. Friends. What little of them she had.
Her dad watching football in his favorite chair, those rare days when she had time to visit. Home cooked meals, few and far between.
The whistle of the kettle, and a warm mug of chamomile tea placed into her hands at the end of a long day. Pointless banter, laughing and picking fights and messing up her always tidy shared flat. On purpose.
Now useless languages learned, taking up space in her brain, locked in her throat. Save one.
The click of stone under heel as she walked to her first lecture at Oxford, through the doors of Thames House, down an endless corridor.
::
She remembers her past through touch, imprints that went below the surface.
She had tried. And for a while she pretended. She pretended, she pretended, she pretended. And then there were video cameras, cold and unflinching, and stolen photographs. Bosses and rules and codes and betrayal and terror and there was no room. No room to be so feeling, no room to be selfish. Controlling her emotions was never her strongest suit. Before she could steel herself, her cheeks would be wet and then there was a hand over hers, an arm around her shoulder, Sam or Harry or Tom or Danny. And for a moment, that would be enough.
::
I’ll know who I am and what I’ve done.
Really? Because your name wouldn’t be Zoe Reynolds in prison. How do you like RW936?
God. It never stops.
::
Will’s lips brush across hers, one hand firm against her backbone, fingers moving quick between her thighs.
She bends her knees and arches, toes curling into the mattress. A breeze makes the gauzy curtains flutter and ripple shadows across the room. A broken fan rattles in the corner. She keeps forgetting to fix it. It’s the height of summer, and she feels it on her skin, pink and feverish. She turns her head to the side, her forehead meeting the spot where his wrist curves up, his hand supporting his weight above her.
An unfamiliar bird cries outside her window. She turns to see a dark streak across the sky, and thinks that the sun must be a different one here, to burn with such intensity. It's been months, and she wonders if her brain will always be in contradiction, in want of a specific kind of rain and clouds, late nights and quiz shows.
::
Gina Hamilton. It's a pretty name.
::
Her neighbors are friendly. She finds herself sharing sugar, small talk. She lives near a woman close to her own age, and she has come to consider her a friend. They go to cafes, some days. She never misses a beat when she hears her name. Gina. She’s always been good at this.
She reads The Times online, all the stories she wants to ignore, and about the lives that aren't hers to protect anymore. She develops a habit of checking a particular section she knows she should avoid. When she remembers them all, she hopes they’re okay. It's all she can do.
::
She feels his hand on her face, and the movement brings her back to the sunlit room. When she turns, she focuses her eyes on the helicopter blades of the ceiling fan above, watching them circle.
"Look at me," Will says, slowing his movements.
She moves her legs over his, catching her feet underneath his calves, bringing both her hands around to press down against the small of his back.
::
Two birds perch outside on an overhanging branch across her bedroom window. They remind her of a postcard sent, a last (she hopes not last) dispatch. She considers sending another, just one more. Thinks about how she would feel to get something, anything, just once, in return.
She sits upright, her legs wrapped around him and her head resting on his shoulder as they move against each other. He holds her, tight.
"Zoe," he breathes.
"Say that again," she says, half a command, half pleading.
"Zoe." Over and over, low and hoarse, between sharp intakes of air.
She feels the sun blazing, the breeze from the window cool on her back, listens to those new sounds outside and finds they are becoming familiar. She can smell the sea, and thinks one day she will laugh about everything on that promised beach.
In her mind she sends a silent thank you across an ocean to a flat in London.
Will's motions become faster, urgent, and she responds in kind. She can still see the birds outside the window, and she laughs as Will continues to whisper her name in her ear, the sound of it intoxicating.
::
She curls onto her side, kicking her white sheet off the foot of the bed. She stares at Will, now seated by the window sill, adjusting a lens on his camera. He snaps photos casually before turning to face her.
She puts her hands up, hiding in mock embarrassment.
"Zoe."
She reaches for a pillow and covers her face.
"Say cheese."
Three letters. She has those three letters, and she sounds them out in her head. One syllable, then the next. She thinks of different futures for herself; she was always good at make believe.
She peeks her head up from behind the pillow and smiles.