Fic for Underground
Um. So. That massive thing I posted the other day? Yeah, I wrote fic for it too. Before the project itself was actually complete.
Have some fic.
Title: Earl Grey
Show: Underground
Characters: David Murphy, Andrew Langston
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 966
Warnings: angst, alcoholism
A/N: Takes place about 12 years before the beginning of the show. Welcome to my head!canon. (Does it count as head!canon or actual!canon if I'm the one who came up with the show in the first place? I'm so confused)
Once David is moved into his new flat in America, the first thing he does is buy groceries. Not that he’s actually hungry…he hasn’t felt truly hungry in months. But the knowledge that he needs to eat at some point is enough to force himself to go out, because it’s that or get takeout for the twenty-third day in a row. That and the fact that he desperately needs a cigarette. Or a drink, he hasn’t decided yet. Maybe both. Anything to stop him thinking, remembering.
He walks through the supermarket in a haze, only half paying attention to the things he puts in his basket. Milk. Eggs. Bread. He can’t decide between vodka or scotch, so he puts a bottle of each into the basket, figuring they probably won’t last very long at any rate. He can’t admit to himself that this is a problem, not quite yet. That will come, but for now, he needs that haze that comes along with having had one too many.
Just before heading to checkout, David realizes he’s forgotten one very important item: tea. The correct aisle isn’t difficult to locate, though he already despairs what selection he might find there. The section of coffee products he has to make his way past first is absurd in its size, and beyond it he can see a paltry four shelves that seem to be his destination.
Standing in front of those shelves is a man, tall and thin, with light brown hair beginning to be touched with grey. David takes no notice of him at first, until the man starts talking to himself, and David swears his heart almost stops. It has nothing to do with what the man is saying, which appears to be muttered abuse at the supermarket, the people in charge of inventory, and Americans in general regarding the (admittedly) pitiful selection of tea, and doesn’t anybody sell loose tea leaves these days? It’s the first English accent David has heard in weeks besides his own voice; he’d been avoiding contact with anybody from home, turning the answering machine off and ignoring anything that showed an England country code in his caller ID. David has to remind himself to breathe.
Walking the last few steps to the shelves of tea is an exercise in acting casual, in pretending not to panic. He notes, distantly, that he was right in his predictions about the selection of tea, most of his mind preoccupied by his effort to maintain composure, and by the sound of the man’s voice coming from next to him. Unexpectedly, he finds that voice suddenly directed towards him.
“Bloody awful selection, this.”
“So it would seem,” David replies with a nod, finding that his voice is a lot more even than he expected it to be. Glancing up at the man standing next to him, he is met with a smile that he attempts to return, with limited success. At the sound of David’s familiar accent, his companion launches into an animated discussion of England, the pleasures thereof, and how much he misses it. David smiles and nods, making the expected noises of agreement at the appropriate intervals; it gets a little easier, he finds, as the conversation continues. His companion’s enthusiasm is infectious; for David, this means that after a few minutes, his smile is less forced, and his breathing evens out a bit. The panic is still there, but it’s lessened, at least a little.
As the conversation begins to draw to a close, David glances at the shelves, looking for something, anything that might actually be drinkable. Not seeing anything decent at a quick glance, he turns back to face his companion once more.
“It’s been a pleasure, but I’m afraid I really must go. But do you happen to know if they carry any drinkable tea here? Earl Grey, perhaps?” The other man chuckles, reaching down into his own basket. He picks up a box and holds it out towards David.
“I grabbed the last box of Earl Grey, but I can see you need it a lot more than I do.” David realizes he must look surprised, because the man continues, “You’re still new in the States, you’re not used to what generally passes for tea here yet. Take this, let yourself ease into the transition a bit.” David smiles weakly, reaching out and accepting the box with a nod and a word of thanks. Making his excuses (rather awkwardly, he feels), he turns to go. He can feel the other Englishman watching him as he leaves.
_____
Back at the flat, he unpacks his groceries hurriedly, feeling the panic starting to rise in him again as he hears the cadence of the stranger’s English accent in his head, over and over. It’s beginning to blend and fade and change into other voices with that too-familiar accent as David puts the perishables in the fridge, the tea on a shelf, and extracts the vodka from the bottom of the bag. He opens it and carries it with him to the sitting room, not even bothering with a glass. He drinks straight from the bottle, letting the comforting numbness take over his mind.
_____
The next morning, David wakes with the expected raging hangover. He stumbles to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and fumbles with the box of tea until he gets it open. Reaching into it, he pulls out a tea bag, and something else as well. Squinting at it, David realizes it’s a business card with the name “Andrew Langston” printed on it, and a phone number. He frowns, puzzled, for a moment, then remembers. A face springs to mind, bright blue eyes and slightly curly hair.
He feels the numbness start to fade, just a little.
Have some fic.
Title: Earl Grey
Show: Underground
Characters: David Murphy, Andrew Langston
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 966
Warnings: angst, alcoholism
A/N: Takes place about 12 years before the beginning of the show. Welcome to my head!canon. (Does it count as head!canon or actual!canon if I'm the one who came up with the show in the first place? I'm so confused)
Once David is moved into his new flat in America, the first thing he does is buy groceries. Not that he’s actually hungry…he hasn’t felt truly hungry in months. But the knowledge that he needs to eat at some point is enough to force himself to go out, because it’s that or get takeout for the twenty-third day in a row. That and the fact that he desperately needs a cigarette. Or a drink, he hasn’t decided yet. Maybe both. Anything to stop him thinking, remembering.
He walks through the supermarket in a haze, only half paying attention to the things he puts in his basket. Milk. Eggs. Bread. He can’t decide between vodka or scotch, so he puts a bottle of each into the basket, figuring they probably won’t last very long at any rate. He can’t admit to himself that this is a problem, not quite yet. That will come, but for now, he needs that haze that comes along with having had one too many.
Just before heading to checkout, David realizes he’s forgotten one very important item: tea. The correct aisle isn’t difficult to locate, though he already despairs what selection he might find there. The section of coffee products he has to make his way past first is absurd in its size, and beyond it he can see a paltry four shelves that seem to be his destination.
Standing in front of those shelves is a man, tall and thin, with light brown hair beginning to be touched with grey. David takes no notice of him at first, until the man starts talking to himself, and David swears his heart almost stops. It has nothing to do with what the man is saying, which appears to be muttered abuse at the supermarket, the people in charge of inventory, and Americans in general regarding the (admittedly) pitiful selection of tea, and doesn’t anybody sell loose tea leaves these days? It’s the first English accent David has heard in weeks besides his own voice; he’d been avoiding contact with anybody from home, turning the answering machine off and ignoring anything that showed an England country code in his caller ID. David has to remind himself to breathe.
Walking the last few steps to the shelves of tea is an exercise in acting casual, in pretending not to panic. He notes, distantly, that he was right in his predictions about the selection of tea, most of his mind preoccupied by his effort to maintain composure, and by the sound of the man’s voice coming from next to him. Unexpectedly, he finds that voice suddenly directed towards him.
“Bloody awful selection, this.”
“So it would seem,” David replies with a nod, finding that his voice is a lot more even than he expected it to be. Glancing up at the man standing next to him, he is met with a smile that he attempts to return, with limited success. At the sound of David’s familiar accent, his companion launches into an animated discussion of England, the pleasures thereof, and how much he misses it. David smiles and nods, making the expected noises of agreement at the appropriate intervals; it gets a little easier, he finds, as the conversation continues. His companion’s enthusiasm is infectious; for David, this means that after a few minutes, his smile is less forced, and his breathing evens out a bit. The panic is still there, but it’s lessened, at least a little.
As the conversation begins to draw to a close, David glances at the shelves, looking for something, anything that might actually be drinkable. Not seeing anything decent at a quick glance, he turns back to face his companion once more.
“It’s been a pleasure, but I’m afraid I really must go. But do you happen to know if they carry any drinkable tea here? Earl Grey, perhaps?” The other man chuckles, reaching down into his own basket. He picks up a box and holds it out towards David.
“I grabbed the last box of Earl Grey, but I can see you need it a lot more than I do.” David realizes he must look surprised, because the man continues, “You’re still new in the States, you’re not used to what generally passes for tea here yet. Take this, let yourself ease into the transition a bit.” David smiles weakly, reaching out and accepting the box with a nod and a word of thanks. Making his excuses (rather awkwardly, he feels), he turns to go. He can feel the other Englishman watching him as he leaves.
_____
Back at the flat, he unpacks his groceries hurriedly, feeling the panic starting to rise in him again as he hears the cadence of the stranger’s English accent in his head, over and over. It’s beginning to blend and fade and change into other voices with that too-familiar accent as David puts the perishables in the fridge, the tea on a shelf, and extracts the vodka from the bottom of the bag. He opens it and carries it with him to the sitting room, not even bothering with a glass. He drinks straight from the bottle, letting the comforting numbness take over his mind.
_____
The next morning, David wakes with the expected raging hangover. He stumbles to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and fumbles with the box of tea until he gets it open. Reaching into it, he pulls out a tea bag, and something else as well. Squinting at it, David realizes it’s a business card with the name “Andrew Langston” printed on it, and a phone number. He frowns, puzzled, for a moment, then remembers. A face springs to mind, bright blue eyes and slightly curly hair.
He feels the numbness start to fade, just a little.