Spooks Fic: adults
adults jo/adam, pg.
there were real wild horses once. we all have those stories. general spoilers for series seven and eight. 1,114 words.
-
“You’re late,” she says just as he comes up the path, two coffees in hand and his shoulders slouched into a deep arch.
Adam smiles with his teeth. He sits next to her on the stairs and she takes her coffee from him. Jo is still dressed for a run. Her music sits in a mess of headphones by her hip and her jacket rests at her feet. She rubs her hands against her cup, staring out into the park.
“I keep meaning to fix my watch, you know,” he says.
She tries to smile. Instead she continues to count the people that walk in front of them; it’s nearly a late morning, and the trees are heavier as the sun begins to settle into place. She sees more people with slouched walks, heavy coats off to work and children being pulled by hands, either by mothers or friends late to school already.
She finds herself watching passively; still separated from the routine she is supposed to carry. Looking down, she watches her hands. They don’t shake.
“How are you?” Adam asks.
Jo doesn’t look up. She listens to him as he shifts next to her. His boots scuffle against the stairs.
“The same,” she says. “But of course you know this. Because you ask me the same damn question every time we meet.”
“You’re a friend,” he says and says it too like it means something; she wants desperately to trust that. It’s different too, instead it wanting to mean something. She wants to trust that she still understands the difference between pitch and tone and words and when someone is trying to placate her.
“Really,” he says again. “You’re a friend.”
It’s the second time that makes sense to her. She smiles almost humorlessly.
She meets his gaze. There are deep creases under her eyes. Sometimes she thinks she can feel then.
“So mean it,” she still says.
He looks away quickly too, almost as an affirmation. He puts his coffee cup down and to the side. She watches him as he stretches his hands out; his palms face up and into his gaze. His fingers seem to shudder and then stretch. She isn’t entirely sure what she’s looking for.
Instead she forces herself to swallow. She looks back at her coffee cup. Her nail slides lazily under the lid.
“My mum’s gotten worse.”
It slips. The honesty makes her feel funny. They both shift this time: Jo to move closer to the railing and Adam to her. The corners of her mouth pull into some sort of smile again and Adam seems to almost return it, shaking his head.
“Do you think about the future, Jo?”
She blinks, putting her coffee down. “About my mum?”
“No,” he says. “Sorry,” he says too. “I’m sorry about your mum - I’m just … I suppose I’m asking in a more general sense, a justification of the sorts. I nearly missed breakfast with my son this morning.”
There is a hitch in his voice. It’s his son and it’s personal. She softens and impulsively, she reaches out too. Her hand settles against his. They press palm to palm and her fingers seem steady but unable to move.
She tries to focus. Adam pulls his hand out from under hers.
“Why?” she asks then.
He studies her. “I was tired,” he murmurs. There’s a slight smile and then he looks away. “I was tired, you know?”
Jo nods. Her gaze turns to the park again. Hand in hand, another mother and child skip by their spot on the stairs. There is the light sound of laughter, churning into a mix of conversation; Jo tries to remember her own mother, her own memories.
Her eyes close though. She can still hear the laughter. Adam says something but the view slowly seems to melt into a small space. She can taste metal in her mouth, her tongue sweeping against the backs of her teeth.
It becomes careful panic then. Her eyes stay close, tight even. She can place faces now: men, men with guns and whispers and plans. She can feel her clothes starts to scrape against her skin, pulling and pushing as she begins to shift. Her stomach moves in waves and bile begins to roll up her throat. She tries to cough but there’s a memory of hands around her throat and in fists.
“Jo.”
When her eyes open, Adam’s hand is around her wrist.
“I think mum,” she starts slowly and doesn’t look at him; when he says her name, it sounds like sweetheart and it’s something she tries to hate. She breathes, “I - mum wanted me to be a teacher, or be married with a few kids at this point in my life. I know for certain that she has absolutely no desire to know what I do or why I keep certain secrets. I think that makes me sad.”
She looks up at him. She’s calm, somehow. His hand stays steady against her skin, his fingers wrapping one by one around her wrist only to adjust. She looks down at his hand, at hers, and sighs.
“I think out of all of this, after everything that’s happened to you, to me, how I’m trying - trying to make sense of this awful mess in my head - I just … I think I finally feel just like her. I think I understand.”
It’s not the first time she says it. It’s the first time she feels like she can say it. Adam keeps her gaze. Behind them, there’s a slight interruption; someone yells a name and there’s laughter. Somehow it makes things seem soundless, still even, and Jo finds herself older.
Slowly Adam uncurls his fingers from around her wrist. He picks up his coffee and tucks his hands over his knees.
“So you think about it,” he says.
“Of course I do,” she murmurs.
It’s an odd moment but not the only moment. Jo almost smiles.
It will be over a year, nearly more when she thinks about it.
Ruth will be sitting on a bench and few feet away there will be stairs, maybe any stairs. Jo will follow, of course. It is closer to fall and there are colors. The air is crisp, heavy. There are bits and pieces of the odd conversation, maybe a memory and two more.
“I want to think about the future,” Ruth tells her, slumped over her knees. They will not talk about Harry yet. Jo will think about Adam. It will feel strange and warm, and passes too fast.
She knows Ruth is waiting for an answer.
“I understand why,” she says.
there were real wild horses once. we all have those stories. general spoilers for series seven and eight. 1,114 words.
-
“You’re late,” she says just as he comes up the path, two coffees in hand and his shoulders slouched into a deep arch.
Adam smiles with his teeth. He sits next to her on the stairs and she takes her coffee from him. Jo is still dressed for a run. Her music sits in a mess of headphones by her hip and her jacket rests at her feet. She rubs her hands against her cup, staring out into the park.
“I keep meaning to fix my watch, you know,” he says.
She tries to smile. Instead she continues to count the people that walk in front of them; it’s nearly a late morning, and the trees are heavier as the sun begins to settle into place. She sees more people with slouched walks, heavy coats off to work and children being pulled by hands, either by mothers or friends late to school already.
She finds herself watching passively; still separated from the routine she is supposed to carry. Looking down, she watches her hands. They don’t shake.
“How are you?” Adam asks.
Jo doesn’t look up. She listens to him as he shifts next to her. His boots scuffle against the stairs.
“The same,” she says. “But of course you know this. Because you ask me the same damn question every time we meet.”
“You’re a friend,” he says and says it too like it means something; she wants desperately to trust that. It’s different too, instead it wanting to mean something. She wants to trust that she still understands the difference between pitch and tone and words and when someone is trying to placate her.
“Really,” he says again. “You’re a friend.”
It’s the second time that makes sense to her. She smiles almost humorlessly.
She meets his gaze. There are deep creases under her eyes. Sometimes she thinks she can feel then.
“So mean it,” she still says.
He looks away quickly too, almost as an affirmation. He puts his coffee cup down and to the side. She watches him as he stretches his hands out; his palms face up and into his gaze. His fingers seem to shudder and then stretch. She isn’t entirely sure what she’s looking for.
Instead she forces herself to swallow. She looks back at her coffee cup. Her nail slides lazily under the lid.
“My mum’s gotten worse.”
It slips. The honesty makes her feel funny. They both shift this time: Jo to move closer to the railing and Adam to her. The corners of her mouth pull into some sort of smile again and Adam seems to almost return it, shaking his head.
“Do you think about the future, Jo?”
She blinks, putting her coffee down. “About my mum?”
“No,” he says. “Sorry,” he says too. “I’m sorry about your mum - I’m just … I suppose I’m asking in a more general sense, a justification of the sorts. I nearly missed breakfast with my son this morning.”
There is a hitch in his voice. It’s his son and it’s personal. She softens and impulsively, she reaches out too. Her hand settles against his. They press palm to palm and her fingers seem steady but unable to move.
She tries to focus. Adam pulls his hand out from under hers.
“Why?” she asks then.
He studies her. “I was tired,” he murmurs. There’s a slight smile and then he looks away. “I was tired, you know?”
Jo nods. Her gaze turns to the park again. Hand in hand, another mother and child skip by their spot on the stairs. There is the light sound of laughter, churning into a mix of conversation; Jo tries to remember her own mother, her own memories.
Her eyes close though. She can still hear the laughter. Adam says something but the view slowly seems to melt into a small space. She can taste metal in her mouth, her tongue sweeping against the backs of her teeth.
It becomes careful panic then. Her eyes stay close, tight even. She can place faces now: men, men with guns and whispers and plans. She can feel her clothes starts to scrape against her skin, pulling and pushing as she begins to shift. Her stomach moves in waves and bile begins to roll up her throat. She tries to cough but there’s a memory of hands around her throat and in fists.
“Jo.”
When her eyes open, Adam’s hand is around her wrist.
“I think mum,” she starts slowly and doesn’t look at him; when he says her name, it sounds like sweetheart and it’s something she tries to hate. She breathes, “I - mum wanted me to be a teacher, or be married with a few kids at this point in my life. I know for certain that she has absolutely no desire to know what I do or why I keep certain secrets. I think that makes me sad.”
She looks up at him. She’s calm, somehow. His hand stays steady against her skin, his fingers wrapping one by one around her wrist only to adjust. She looks down at his hand, at hers, and sighs.
“I think out of all of this, after everything that’s happened to you, to me, how I’m trying - trying to make sense of this awful mess in my head - I just … I think I finally feel just like her. I think I understand.”
It’s not the first time she says it. It’s the first time she feels like she can say it. Adam keeps her gaze. Behind them, there’s a slight interruption; someone yells a name and there’s laughter. Somehow it makes things seem soundless, still even, and Jo finds herself older.
Slowly Adam uncurls his fingers from around her wrist. He picks up his coffee and tucks his hands over his knees.
“So you think about it,” he says.
“Of course I do,” she murmurs.
It’s an odd moment but not the only moment. Jo almost smiles.
It will be over a year, nearly more when she thinks about it.
Ruth will be sitting on a bench and few feet away there will be stairs, maybe any stairs. Jo will follow, of course. It is closer to fall and there are colors. The air is crisp, heavy. There are bits and pieces of the odd conversation, maybe a memory and two more.
“I want to think about the future,” Ruth tells her, slumped over her knees. They will not talk about Harry yet. Jo will think about Adam. It will feel strange and warm, and passes too fast.
She knows Ruth is waiting for an answer.
“I understand why,” she says.