In This Time
FESTIVE TITLE: In This Time
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: the lovely and amazing electro_club
AUTHOR: blue_fjords
SUMMARY: “Out of Time”-compliant Andy fic
BETA: paragraphs
RATING: FESTIVE
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: IT'S JUST ABOUT THE TORCHWOOD TEAM DRINKING EGGNOG
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE. IN MAH PANTS.
The second pint of Guiness was placed with a dull thunk on the bar in front of him. Andy nodded his thanks to the bartender before wrapping his fingers around the glass and taking a drink. He grimaced down at the foamy liquid. He should really pace himself. The odds of surviving Christmas Eve at his Great-Auntie Sarah’s greatly increased with the number of drinks he had, but the odds of actually making it to her house conversely decreased. And if he didn’t go for Christmas Eve, he would have to for New Year’s Eve, and that really was not an option, despite his current lack of plans for the party-heavy holiday.
The door to the pub swung open, admitting an icy breeze and one more bloke alone on Christmas. The man took a moment to scrape the ice from the bottoms of his shoes along the bristly entrance mat before making his way to the bar. Andy made a mental note of height (close to his own), age (a little younger than him), looks (dark hair, blue eyes), and dress (suit beneath an overcoat, somewhat posh). If the newcomer decided to make trouble, PC Andy Davidson would have … a description that matches hundreds of men in Cardiff.
Andy snorted to himself and took another drink. At the rate you’re sipping this bloody pint, you may as well have gone there sober!
Three stools down from him the stranger ordered a whisky. Andy glanced around the pub. Daffyd and Aled had a booth, both retired coppers hunched over their bottles of a local brew that tasted like swill but they staunchly defended. Neither man had spoken a word since entering the pub, communicating in wordless snorts and hrm’s. In the far corner, Alun was explaining his part in a rugby match from 1973. Alun had almost played for Wales; would have, if not for an injury sustained during rough sex with a prostitute. The entire pub had heard the story of Alun’s match, and the prostitute, hundreds of times before. Tonight his sole audience was Deaf Pete. Deaf Pete was blind, not deaf, but the origins of his nickname were lost to the mists of time. When he lost his sight, he declared he was damn well going to hold onto his name. Two more retired coppers played a desultory game of darts with an old “Vote for Thatcher” poster on the far wall. Ifan and Bob both had guts that threatened to declare their independence from the rest of their bodies, or at least design their own flags in support of their massive acreage. One other man sat at the end of the bar, but as he had not once in four years spoken to a single soul there, no one knew his name. The rest of them called him ‘The Hand,’ as a flick of his denoted desire for more alcohol, the bill, the cruddy bowl of pub peanuts. Cardiff’s best and brightest.
The newcomer caught his eye as Andy turned back to face the bar, and gave him a half-smile. Andy nodded, raised his glass. “Happy Christmas,” he said.
“Happy Christmas,” came the response. The other man’s eyes were tight, his upturn of the lips more of a grimace than a joyous wish of the season. Andy recognized the look from when it graced his own features. It was a side effect of days spent as a 21st century knight; a human shield for drunk opposing rugby fans, or working alongside fellow coppers completely lacking in respect, or doing all of the thankless tasks he had to perform to protect the population of Cardiff from bad drivers, petty thieves and the occasional criminal that was actually dangerous.
“Public servant, eh?” he asked, arching a brow, and when the man nodded, Andy spread his arm wide to indicate the interior of the pub. “Welcome to your future.”
That drew a genuine smile as the man glanced around. “It looks brilliant.”
They talked for the next hour. Jones, the newcomer, had a wicked tongue for skewering bureaucracy. Pointless forms, repetitive reports, meaningless staff meetings - they all fell victim to Jones’ brand of dry wit. Andy clutched at his sides, he laughed so hard. Even Daffyd and Aled looked up from the silent contemplation of their drinks.
“What are you doing here on Christmas Eve, Jonesy? They don’t exactly get much new custom,” he asked finally.
Jones shrugged his shoulders. “It’s open and near work.” He paused and ran a tongue over his lips. “I needed a break from my boss for a bit.”
“He an ogre?”
“Only at the full moon,” Jones muttered before taking another drink.
“Quit and join Heddlu. We have hideous uniforms and asshole bosses, too.”
“Well. He needs me, at least.” Jones’ lips quirked in another half-smile. Andy could understand that. He’d stayed with people to feel needed himself. He shook his head. Not thinking about that tonight, Andy.
“It’s fair Cardiff that needs me,” he said instead, “I just finished working this case with a DI - supporting a case, excuse me; I’m just a copper - and I swear that bloke’s an alien.”
Jones contemplated him over his glass. “Why do you say that?”
Andy frowned. Maybe ‘alien’ wasn’t the funniest name. Social ingrate? Fastidious freak? Bloke with a stick so far up his ass it juts out his mouth when he speaks? “Er … he has no people skills?”
“Ah. I work with a total prick, too, but at least he’s not my boss.”
“To the pricks!” Andy laughed, and raised his glass. Jones grinned, and raised his, too.
“Why do we do it, Jones? Not for the glory, eh?” Andy asked, half-serious, as he contemplated the last of his pint.
“For the old men,” Jones answered solemnly.
“Then here’s to us, too, Cardiff’s knights in shining armor! Better us than Bob’s gut.” Andy clinked his glass against the bar and downed his last gulp; Jones followed suit. They both rose to go at the same time.
The icy rain had thinned to a mist, dribbling down their necks despite their upturned collars. Andy held out his hand. “Well met, Jones.”
“Take care of yourself, Andy,” Jones replied, clasping his hand in a firm shake.
Andy watched Jones pick his way carefully across the street, headed towards Roald Dahl Plass. A shadow broke off from a building at the end of the street and fell into step with him. Andy squinted through the mist. The streetlamps threw light in strange patterns through the patchy fog. Now Jones and his companion disappeared, now they loomed large, knights in all but name. When the second man skidded on the slick pavement, Jones stretched forth a steadying hand, and they continued on, stronger with two.
From inside the pub, Andy could still hear the sound of Alun’s rugby legends, and the dull thwak thwak of the darts hitting the pockmarked wall behind Margaret Thatcher’s picture. Farther down the street families tumbled from their cars, slipping and sliding their way to mass, grumbling about the weather. Streetlamps illuminated storefronts, displays of toys, candy, hardware, his favorite pasty shop he’d been going to since he was in school. His phone buzzed with a new text message, his cousin Carys begging him for reinforcements and signing off with an ‘xo.’
He sniffed the air and reveled in the sharp tang of salt, and the smell of ‘damp’ that he swore was unique to rain-soaked Cardiff, not that he’d ever really been anywhere else. This was his city, and he might just be a foot soldier, but he would stand on a wall and defend it with every fiber of his being. He drew his coat closer around him and became one more knight in the night for Cardiff.
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: the lovely and amazing electro_club
AUTHOR: blue_fjords
SUMMARY: “Out of Time”-compliant Andy fic
BETA: paragraphs
RATING: FESTIVE
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: IT'S JUST ABOUT THE TORCHWOOD TEAM DRINKING EGGNOG
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE. IN MAH PANTS.
The second pint of Guiness was placed with a dull thunk on the bar in front of him. Andy nodded his thanks to the bartender before wrapping his fingers around the glass and taking a drink. He grimaced down at the foamy liquid. He should really pace himself. The odds of surviving Christmas Eve at his Great-Auntie Sarah’s greatly increased with the number of drinks he had, but the odds of actually making it to her house conversely decreased. And if he didn’t go for Christmas Eve, he would have to for New Year’s Eve, and that really was not an option, despite his current lack of plans for the party-heavy holiday.
The door to the pub swung open, admitting an icy breeze and one more bloke alone on Christmas. The man took a moment to scrape the ice from the bottoms of his shoes along the bristly entrance mat before making his way to the bar. Andy made a mental note of height (close to his own), age (a little younger than him), looks (dark hair, blue eyes), and dress (suit beneath an overcoat, somewhat posh). If the newcomer decided to make trouble, PC Andy Davidson would have … a description that matches hundreds of men in Cardiff.
Andy snorted to himself and took another drink. At the rate you’re sipping this bloody pint, you may as well have gone there sober!
Three stools down from him the stranger ordered a whisky. Andy glanced around the pub. Daffyd and Aled had a booth, both retired coppers hunched over their bottles of a local brew that tasted like swill but they staunchly defended. Neither man had spoken a word since entering the pub, communicating in wordless snorts and hrm’s. In the far corner, Alun was explaining his part in a rugby match from 1973. Alun had almost played for Wales; would have, if not for an injury sustained during rough sex with a prostitute. The entire pub had heard the story of Alun’s match, and the prostitute, hundreds of times before. Tonight his sole audience was Deaf Pete. Deaf Pete was blind, not deaf, but the origins of his nickname were lost to the mists of time. When he lost his sight, he declared he was damn well going to hold onto his name. Two more retired coppers played a desultory game of darts with an old “Vote for Thatcher” poster on the far wall. Ifan and Bob both had guts that threatened to declare their independence from the rest of their bodies, or at least design their own flags in support of their massive acreage. One other man sat at the end of the bar, but as he had not once in four years spoken to a single soul there, no one knew his name. The rest of them called him ‘The Hand,’ as a flick of his denoted desire for more alcohol, the bill, the cruddy bowl of pub peanuts. Cardiff’s best and brightest.
The newcomer caught his eye as Andy turned back to face the bar, and gave him a half-smile. Andy nodded, raised his glass. “Happy Christmas,” he said.
“Happy Christmas,” came the response. The other man’s eyes were tight, his upturn of the lips more of a grimace than a joyous wish of the season. Andy recognized the look from when it graced his own features. It was a side effect of days spent as a 21st century knight; a human shield for drunk opposing rugby fans, or working alongside fellow coppers completely lacking in respect, or doing all of the thankless tasks he had to perform to protect the population of Cardiff from bad drivers, petty thieves and the occasional criminal that was actually dangerous.
“Public servant, eh?” he asked, arching a brow, and when the man nodded, Andy spread his arm wide to indicate the interior of the pub. “Welcome to your future.”
That drew a genuine smile as the man glanced around. “It looks brilliant.”
They talked for the next hour. Jones, the newcomer, had a wicked tongue for skewering bureaucracy. Pointless forms, repetitive reports, meaningless staff meetings - they all fell victim to Jones’ brand of dry wit. Andy clutched at his sides, he laughed so hard. Even Daffyd and Aled looked up from the silent contemplation of their drinks.
“What are you doing here on Christmas Eve, Jonesy? They don’t exactly get much new custom,” he asked finally.
Jones shrugged his shoulders. “It’s open and near work.” He paused and ran a tongue over his lips. “I needed a break from my boss for a bit.”
“He an ogre?”
“Only at the full moon,” Jones muttered before taking another drink.
“Quit and join Heddlu. We have hideous uniforms and asshole bosses, too.”
“Well. He needs me, at least.” Jones’ lips quirked in another half-smile. Andy could understand that. He’d stayed with people to feel needed himself. He shook his head. Not thinking about that tonight, Andy.
“It’s fair Cardiff that needs me,” he said instead, “I just finished working this case with a DI - supporting a case, excuse me; I’m just a copper - and I swear that bloke’s an alien.”
Jones contemplated him over his glass. “Why do you say that?”
Andy frowned. Maybe ‘alien’ wasn’t the funniest name. Social ingrate? Fastidious freak? Bloke with a stick so far up his ass it juts out his mouth when he speaks? “Er … he has no people skills?”
“Ah. I work with a total prick, too, but at least he’s not my boss.”
“To the pricks!” Andy laughed, and raised his glass. Jones grinned, and raised his, too.
“Why do we do it, Jones? Not for the glory, eh?” Andy asked, half-serious, as he contemplated the last of his pint.
“For the old men,” Jones answered solemnly.
“Then here’s to us, too, Cardiff’s knights in shining armor! Better us than Bob’s gut.” Andy clinked his glass against the bar and downed his last gulp; Jones followed suit. They both rose to go at the same time.
The icy rain had thinned to a mist, dribbling down their necks despite their upturned collars. Andy held out his hand. “Well met, Jones.”
“Take care of yourself, Andy,” Jones replied, clasping his hand in a firm shake.
Andy watched Jones pick his way carefully across the street, headed towards Roald Dahl Plass. A shadow broke off from a building at the end of the street and fell into step with him. Andy squinted through the mist. The streetlamps threw light in strange patterns through the patchy fog. Now Jones and his companion disappeared, now they loomed large, knights in all but name. When the second man skidded on the slick pavement, Jones stretched forth a steadying hand, and they continued on, stronger with two.
From inside the pub, Andy could still hear the sound of Alun’s rugby legends, and the dull thwak thwak of the darts hitting the pockmarked wall behind Margaret Thatcher’s picture. Farther down the street families tumbled from their cars, slipping and sliding their way to mass, grumbling about the weather. Streetlamps illuminated storefronts, displays of toys, candy, hardware, his favorite pasty shop he’d been going to since he was in school. His phone buzzed with a new text message, his cousin Carys begging him for reinforcements and signing off with an ‘xo.’
He sniffed the air and reveled in the sharp tang of salt, and the smell of ‘damp’ that he swore was unique to rain-soaked Cardiff, not that he’d ever really been anywhere else. This was his city, and he might just be a foot soldier, but he would stand on a wall and defend it with every fiber of his being. He drew his coat closer around him and became one more knight in the night for Cardiff.