prompt: 40. comedy of errors
Inspired by 64damn_prompts and my friend's sanity-rooting (for me, anyway, approaching mid-terms) prompts, so:
Frank manages to catch the tail-end of the exchange through Iain's end of the grille as he passes in the hall.
"-can't accept gifts from someone we've officially rebuked, so..."
Rip.
The noise is enough to make Frank wince. As for the contempt in Angel's voice... Frank's not sure if that that tone is for the bribe, or for Sandford's, well, admittedly small, and small-budgeted, and not precisely well-staffed or -scripted or -reviewed, but certainly well-meaning Amateur Dramatics Society. He's not entirely comfortable with either option, really.
Incorruptible, indeed. He'll just have to try and integrate the stubborn little man into the local community a little harder, then.
He strides back to his office, opening the drawer with the envelope that Martin had shoved at him while spouting on about good causes and having found the perfect leading lady for his play- one who'd really be able to play off him with the witty, updated banter of an old classic that he'd written up on the spot, it'll be genius, refined Shakespeare, Frank, really, you must come and see it- Frank had taken them more out of wanting to remove Martin Blower from his immediate presence than anything else.
In that passing glimpse, Danny had looked so... disappointed. At least now he'll be putting the tickets- intended for himself and Danny- to good use. He's never been able to deny his son anything, after all.
He opens the inner door to his station.
"Ah, Sergeant Angel, glad I caught you."
Angel turns, having nearly escaped the station and what looks like the inquisitive off-duty clutches of his son, still in awe of this strange jaw-clenching London copper.
Frank brandishes the tickets at his newest subordinate. "Wondering if you wouldn't mind representing us at the Am-Drams tonight."
Angel looks like he'd rather swallow rusty nails, thankyouverymuch, but he buckles under the direct order, mumbling resignedly. "Yes, sir. 'Course."
Frank smiles encouragingly at him, then at his son. "And there's a spare for Danny, too."
"Eyy!" Danny claps, delighted, sending his father such overwhelming facial thank-yous that'll keep Frank going for some time- until he remembers about the living statue in front of the fountain on his way home that evening. God damn the crusty jugglers, the lot of them.
*
There are not words to describe what Frank feels when he finds out, much, much later, that he sent his son on the first date with his future life-partner.
Frank manages to catch the tail-end of the exchange through Iain's end of the grille as he passes in the hall.
"-can't accept gifts from someone we've officially rebuked, so..."
Rip.
The noise is enough to make Frank wince. As for the contempt in Angel's voice... Frank's not sure if that that tone is for the bribe, or for Sandford's, well, admittedly small, and small-budgeted, and not precisely well-staffed or -scripted or -reviewed, but certainly well-meaning Amateur Dramatics Society. He's not entirely comfortable with either option, really.
Incorruptible, indeed. He'll just have to try and integrate the stubborn little man into the local community a little harder, then.
He strides back to his office, opening the drawer with the envelope that Martin had shoved at him while spouting on about good causes and having found the perfect leading lady for his play- one who'd really be able to play off him with the witty, updated banter of an old classic that he'd written up on the spot, it'll be genius, refined Shakespeare, Frank, really, you must come and see it- Frank had taken them more out of wanting to remove Martin Blower from his immediate presence than anything else.
In that passing glimpse, Danny had looked so... disappointed. At least now he'll be putting the tickets- intended for himself and Danny- to good use. He's never been able to deny his son anything, after all.
He opens the inner door to his station.
"Ah, Sergeant Angel, glad I caught you."
Angel turns, having nearly escaped the station and what looks like the inquisitive off-duty clutches of his son, still in awe of this strange jaw-clenching London copper.
Frank brandishes the tickets at his newest subordinate. "Wondering if you wouldn't mind representing us at the Am-Drams tonight."
Angel looks like he'd rather swallow rusty nails, thankyouverymuch, but he buckles under the direct order, mumbling resignedly. "Yes, sir. 'Course."
Frank smiles encouragingly at him, then at his son. "And there's a spare for Danny, too."
"Eyy!" Danny claps, delighted, sending his father such overwhelming facial thank-yous that'll keep Frank going for some time- until he remembers about the living statue in front of the fountain on his way home that evening. God damn the crusty jugglers, the lot of them.
*
There are not words to describe what Frank feels when he finds out, much, much later, that he sent his son on the first date with his future life-partner.