Fic: Burning Issues (Part 1)
Title: Burning Issues (Part 1)
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
*blink*
She was seated precariously on an ancient fold up chair. The floor beneath it squelched a little every time she shifted, uncomfortable in the new, and strangely ill-fitting, dress uniform slacks. The rain thudded dully above her head on the canvas of the marquee. It had been like this for weeks, it seemed, and the air felt thick to breathe it was so damp.
Some minor schism of the royal family had droned on for the best part of an hour, but now it seemed that the proceedings had reached the presentations.
"The Peel award for the best cadet is awarded to, Ashurst, K.E."
She rose, and squelched her way over to the podium, grateful that dress uniform mandated flats, rather than the heals that every man alive seemed to want to see her in, when she mentioned that she was on the force.
However, as she accepted the small brass plaque, everything shifted slightly, and she found herself face to face with Lauren Jackson again.
"You were head girl at Lady Margaret's," she accused. "What went wrong?"
*blink*
"The Department of Psychology is pleased to award upper second class Bachelor of Arts honours degrees to the following candidates..."
It was overly hot in the theatre, and the dark dress, stockings and heavy gown and hood that constituted academic dress were stifling her. The odious little man from the Departmental Secretary's office was droning though the short list of graduands before her in the alphabet, and she concentrated on being
relieved that she wasn't having to deal the utter ridiculousness of a mortar board perched on her head as well as the heels she'd foolishly chosen to wear for her five seconds of fame.
"Kathrine Elizabeth Ashurst."
She made for the middle of the stage, praying that she wouldn't fall flat on her face before reaching the overly smug head of department and the minor government minister who was handing out six inch pieces of plastic drainpipe prettily tied with ribbons to the new graduates. Smiling as best she could at the completely faceless grey pseudo-man, who was shaking her hand clammily, she was utterly unprepared when it opened a mouth and said, "What went wrong?"
*blink*
"I'm delighted to announce," her old headmistress from Lady Margaret's was saying, "that next year's head girl will be Kathrine Ashurst."
Polite applause from five hundred or so girls filled the room, and warred with the one or two whoops from the more exuberant members of the netball team she captained. She'd been a popular choice with staff and students alike; academic and sensible, but sufficiently sporty to not appear a swot.
She walked across the dais, approaching the woman who had both terrorised and supported her through seven years of secondary education, and was barely surprised to find when she reached the table that sat through every assembly, that it was instead Scribbs who awaited her arrival, with an small enamelled metal Prefect's badge. Pinning the badge to her lapel, her partner smiled coldly at her and said, "What went...
*BUZZ!*
The alarm clock ripped into the dream, like a klaxon warning of the end of the world. Her eyes still closed, Ash reached out one hand and slapped at the button that would convert the hideous noise to the calm, measured voices of Radio 4. Unfortunately, this morning, this lead to her changing station, and she was greeted by the voice of one of the idiot local DJs.
"That was 'What have I done to deserve this?' by the Pet Shop Boys, and after the news, we'll be taking your early morning requests."
She groaned, and swung herself out of bed and into a dressing gown. Stopping in the kitchen, briefly, to start some coffee, she made her way to the bathroom to ablute, in the hope that a long, hot shower would help to chase away the demons of her dreams. Sadly, it was not to be. Mere moments after the hot spray first hit her, she heard her phone ring. Seconds later, her mobile trilled.
Even finishing as quickly as she could, she had barely managed to slip into the conservative charcoal pin striped suit she'd decided on for today, when the door bell rang, and she was forced to run barefoot, hair still wrapped untidily in a towel to open the door to her partner, who looked her up and down, from bare feet, to towel top knot, smiling slightly.
"Come on, Ash, we've got a case."
"Good morning, Scribbs. Come in, have some coffee, tell me all about it."
"Sorry, Ash, can't. Sullivan wants us on site... er," she checked her watch, "half an hour ago."
"Oh, this morning gets better and better."
Scribbs waited in the living room, while Ash retreated to her bedroom to finish her morning toilette. The room was understatedly tasteful and basically spotless, in a way that made Emma uncomfortably aware of her eclectically furnished and somewhat less than perfectly tidy flat. It was only as she was leaving, hurried by Ash's impatient, "well, come on then," that she noticed the remains of the bar of chocolate, empty wine glass and rather trashy novel on the low coffee table. All the signs of a woman who'd spent another night
home alone.
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
*blink*
She was seated precariously on an ancient fold up chair. The floor beneath it squelched a little every time she shifted, uncomfortable in the new, and strangely ill-fitting, dress uniform slacks. The rain thudded dully above her head on the canvas of the marquee. It had been like this for weeks, it seemed, and the air felt thick to breathe it was so damp.
Some minor schism of the royal family had droned on for the best part of an hour, but now it seemed that the proceedings had reached the presentations.
"The Peel award for the best cadet is awarded to, Ashurst, K.E."
She rose, and squelched her way over to the podium, grateful that dress uniform mandated flats, rather than the heals that every man alive seemed to want to see her in, when she mentioned that she was on the force.
However, as she accepted the small brass plaque, everything shifted slightly, and she found herself face to face with Lauren Jackson again.
"You were head girl at Lady Margaret's," she accused. "What went wrong?"
*blink*
"The Department of Psychology is pleased to award upper second class Bachelor of Arts honours degrees to the following candidates..."
It was overly hot in the theatre, and the dark dress, stockings and heavy gown and hood that constituted academic dress were stifling her. The odious little man from the Departmental Secretary's office was droning though the short list of graduands before her in the alphabet, and she concentrated on being
relieved that she wasn't having to deal the utter ridiculousness of a mortar board perched on her head as well as the heels she'd foolishly chosen to wear for her five seconds of fame.
"Kathrine Elizabeth Ashurst."
She made for the middle of the stage, praying that she wouldn't fall flat on her face before reaching the overly smug head of department and the minor government minister who was handing out six inch pieces of plastic drainpipe prettily tied with ribbons to the new graduates. Smiling as best she could at the completely faceless grey pseudo-man, who was shaking her hand clammily, she was utterly unprepared when it opened a mouth and said, "What went wrong?"
*blink*
"I'm delighted to announce," her old headmistress from Lady Margaret's was saying, "that next year's head girl will be Kathrine Ashurst."
Polite applause from five hundred or so girls filled the room, and warred with the one or two whoops from the more exuberant members of the netball team she captained. She'd been a popular choice with staff and students alike; academic and sensible, but sufficiently sporty to not appear a swot.
She walked across the dais, approaching the woman who had both terrorised and supported her through seven years of secondary education, and was barely surprised to find when she reached the table that sat through every assembly, that it was instead Scribbs who awaited her arrival, with an small enamelled metal Prefect's badge. Pinning the badge to her lapel, her partner smiled coldly at her and said, "What went...
*BUZZ!*
The alarm clock ripped into the dream, like a klaxon warning of the end of the world. Her eyes still closed, Ash reached out one hand and slapped at the button that would convert the hideous noise to the calm, measured voices of Radio 4. Unfortunately, this morning, this lead to her changing station, and she was greeted by the voice of one of the idiot local DJs.
"That was 'What have I done to deserve this?' by the Pet Shop Boys, and after the news, we'll be taking your early morning requests."
She groaned, and swung herself out of bed and into a dressing gown. Stopping in the kitchen, briefly, to start some coffee, she made her way to the bathroom to ablute, in the hope that a long, hot shower would help to chase away the demons of her dreams. Sadly, it was not to be. Mere moments after the hot spray first hit her, she heard her phone ring. Seconds later, her mobile trilled.
Even finishing as quickly as she could, she had barely managed to slip into the conservative charcoal pin striped suit she'd decided on for today, when the door bell rang, and she was forced to run barefoot, hair still wrapped untidily in a towel to open the door to her partner, who looked her up and down, from bare feet, to towel top knot, smiling slightly.
"Come on, Ash, we've got a case."
"Good morning, Scribbs. Come in, have some coffee, tell me all about it."
"Sorry, Ash, can't. Sullivan wants us on site... er," she checked her watch, "half an hour ago."
"Oh, this morning gets better and better."
Scribbs waited in the living room, while Ash retreated to her bedroom to finish her morning toilette. The room was understatedly tasteful and basically spotless, in a way that made Emma uncomfortably aware of her eclectically furnished and somewhat less than perfectly tidy flat. It was only as she was leaving, hurried by Ash's impatient, "well, come on then," that she noticed the remains of the bar of chocolate, empty wine glass and rather trashy novel on the low coffee table. All the signs of a woman who'd spent another night
home alone.