(no subject)
And there were bad days too.
He'd dreamed hard, dreamed of bodies, Fi and Ros and Jo and dark hair, and Wes with a bullet hole between his eyes, an almost delicate trickle of blood down the bridge of his snub nose. He'd dreamed hard, and woken up blank, and he'd pulled on a clean shirt and gone walking, heading in the direction of the sea.
"I don't think I can do this job anymore, Adam."
"If I can do it, you can do it. If I leave, I'm nothing."
Nothing. He'd gone into the Service at twenty two, the year he left Cambridge, and he'd never looked back. He'd done terrible things, had terrible things done to him. For love of his country. For love of his country that, if he listened to everyone, he'd start believing he was never going to see again.
Back in Wimbledon, Adam's parents believed, and had believed for years, that he had a low level job in the Diplomatic service...that he translated for a living, and that Fi was brilliant, and paid to keep him in the style to which he'd become accustomed. Or they had though that, anyone.
With a stick, sitting in the damp sand that looked nothing like anywhere in England, Adam traced a phrase in Arabic in the sand.
What it meant was that, maybe, he was never going home.
ooc: he might seem unresponsive, but it'll only take him a moment to click into a legend. For reference, in case anybody who's tagging in would be able to read it, the phrase in the sand says what is past is dead, and his handwriting is pretty much impeccable.
He'd dreamed hard, dreamed of bodies, Fi and Ros and Jo and dark hair, and Wes with a bullet hole between his eyes, an almost delicate trickle of blood down the bridge of his snub nose. He'd dreamed hard, and woken up blank, and he'd pulled on a clean shirt and gone walking, heading in the direction of the sea.
"I don't think I can do this job anymore, Adam."
"If I can do it, you can do it. If I leave, I'm nothing."
Nothing. He'd gone into the Service at twenty two, the year he left Cambridge, and he'd never looked back. He'd done terrible things, had terrible things done to him. For love of his country. For love of his country that, if he listened to everyone, he'd start believing he was never going to see again.
Back in Wimbledon, Adam's parents believed, and had believed for years, that he had a low level job in the Diplomatic service...that he translated for a living, and that Fi was brilliant, and paid to keep him in the style to which he'd become accustomed. Or they had though that, anyone.
With a stick, sitting in the damp sand that looked nothing like anywhere in England, Adam traced a phrase in Arabic in the sand.
What it meant was that, maybe, he was never going home.
ooc: he might seem unresponsive, but it'll only take him a moment to click into a legend. For reference, in case anybody who's tagging in would be able to read it, the phrase in the sand says what is past is dead, and his handwriting is pretty much impeccable.