JASMINE ALLEY: THE BILL SLASH FICTION

Jasmine Alley : The Lockup : Augustus : Ago

Title:           ago
Author:          Augustus
Email:           gaius_octavius_@...
Web Addy:        http://fabulae.org
Fandom:          The Bill
Pairing:         Rod Skase/John Boulton
Rating:          G
Status:          New, complete
Category:        Angst
Archival:        fabulae; The Jasmine Alley if Kel wants it. Anyone
                 else is welcome to archive it, but please let me know
                 where it is so I can squee *g*.
Feedback:        Go ahead; make my day
Summary:         Bad news travels fast.
Spoilers:        For something that happened on UK television in
                 October 2000... I take it we're all at least *that* up
                 to date...
Warning:         Canonical character death.

Disclaimer:      I don't own The Bill; I just sit around reminiscing
                 about the good old days and the good old characters.
                 No profit made (duh). Dedicated to: Kel. Happy
                 Birthday! I feel like such a hack, writing birthday
                 fic for someone as talented as yourself, but hey,
                 'twas the least I could do ^_^
Date:            07/04/2003


********************
       ago
********************


When Rod hears the news, it is from a near stranger, a face in the Post
Office who thinks it a topic for queuing conversation. Context blinds
him at first, because that sort of thing only rings true in America. He
doesn't ask for a name, because it's simpler that way. Cleaner.

"Did you hear about that copper who got himself killed?" Now that
he's alert to it, Rod hears the phrase in the off-license, in the
streets... even in the biscuits aisle in his local Tesco store. There's
never a name, just a mild tone of unease and a sense that a disclaimer
might follow at any moment. It's not until he turns on his television,
late at night, in a silent and stuffy house, that Sun
Hill is finally mentioned. It doesn't seem real.

On Thursdays, Rod likes to watch the soaps, a guilty pleasure that he
hides behind closely drawn blinds and a subscription to the football
monthlies. He has a fascination for the mundane, for cluttered
streetscapes and incestuous plot lines. Tonight, however, he watches
the news, bent forward in his chair as he searches patchy footage for
recognisable faces. There are no names.

It's morning when he hears. Rod wakes to blinding sunlight in his
Eyes and the ring of the telephone beside his bed. He knows Tom's
voice, although it's been a while. "Have you heard?" is the question
and Rod wishes he was still asleep. In a way, he's not surprised to
hear Boulton's name; he thinks he may have already known. He's never
been prone to nausea, but bile rises within his throat, hot and acidic.
Outside, a bird sings.

Tom is quiet and close to hysterical. Rod wonders what he'll have for
breakfast and whether he remembered to replace the bread. It doesn't
seem real. Rod's pillow feels rough and knotted beneath his head;
punching it doesn't help. Tom's voice is annoying him (...and there's
nothing new there...) but he's afraid to say goodbye. It seems an
awfully long time since he walked through the doors of Sun Hill for the
final time.

Rod can recall the last time he saw John; it's amazingly clear within
his mind. He remembers a lot of things, now that he's thinking about
it, and he's not sure he appreciates that development. His breakfast
coffee tastes bitter. The morning paper carries John's face.

Later, Rod will feel cold and immovable, but for the moment, he's all
volatile energy and restless hands. He cleans the bathroom for the
first time in months and makes a haphazard attempt at clearing the
weeds that line his front path. The telephone rings, twice, but he
doesn't want to answer. He's not entirely sure he has the words to
say hello.

John liked lasagne, but Rod tells himself that it's coincidence that
has him eating it that night. He opens a bottle of red and stares
Into the yellow and blue flicker of his vintage gas heater, as the sun
slowly sets beneath the dimpled paintwork of his window frame. He
doesn't bother with the lights, preferring the glow of good wine to the
glare of realisation. Alone, it's easy to forget.

The flames dim and lower, the metal of the heater breaking the
Silence with random creaks and groans. In the distance, a police siren
whines and fades. Smiling, Rod raises his glass. Swallowing the final
mouthful, he makes a silent toast to the man he'd loved but never
known.

~fin~
(c) Augustus 07/04/2003


	Jasmine Alley : The Lockup : Augustus : Ago
		Title: ago Author: Augustus Email: gaius_octavius_@... Web Addy: http://fabulae.org Fandom: The Bill Pairing: Rod Skase/John Boulton Rating: G Status: New, complete Category: Angst Archival: fabulae; The Jasmine Alley if Kel wants it. Anyone else is welcome to archive it, but please let me know where it is so I can squee g. Feedback: Go ahead; make my day Summary: Bad news travels fast. Spoilers: For something that happened on UK television in October 2000... I take it we're all at least that up to date... Warning: Canonical character death. Disclaimer: I don't own The Bill; I just sit around reminiscing about the good old days and the good old characters. No profit made (duh). Dedicated to: Kel. Happy Birthday! I feel like such a hack, writing birthday fic for someone as talented as yourself, but hey, 'twas the least I could do ^_^ Date: 07/04/2003 ****************** ago ****************** When Rod hears the news, it is from a near stranger, a face in the Post Office who thinks it a topic for queuing conversation. Context blinds him at first, because that sort of thing only rings true in America. He doesn't ask for a name, because it's simpler that way. Cleaner. "Did you hear about that copper who got himself killed?" Now that he's alert to it, Rod hears the phrase in the off-license, in the streets... even in the biscuits aisle in his local Tesco store. There's never a name, just a mild tone of unease and a sense that a disclaimer might follow at any moment. It's not until he turns on his television, late at night, in a silent and stuffy house, that Sun Hill is finally mentioned. It doesn't seem real. On Thursdays, Rod likes to watch the soaps, a guilty pleasure that he hides behind closely drawn blinds and a subscription to the football monthlies. He has a fascination for the mundane, for cluttered streetscapes and incestuous plot lines. Tonight, however, he watches the news, bent forward in his chair as he searches patchy footage for recognisable faces. There are no names. It's morning when he hears. Rod wakes to blinding sunlight in his Eyes and the ring of the telephone beside his bed. He knows Tom's voice, although it's been a while. "Have you heard?" is the question and Rod wishes he was still asleep. In a way, he's not surprised to hear Boulton's name; he thinks he may have already known. He's never been prone to nausea, but bile rises within his throat, hot and acidic. Outside, a bird sings. Tom is quiet and close to hysterical. Rod wonders what he'll have for breakfast and whether he remembered to replace the bread. It doesn't seem real. Rod's pillow feels rough and knotted beneath his head; punching it doesn't help. Tom's voice is annoying him (...and there's nothing new there...) but he's afraid to say goodbye. It seems an awfully long time since he walked through the doors of Sun Hill for the final time. Rod can recall the last time he saw John; it's amazingly clear within his mind. He remembers a lot of things, now that he's thinking about it, and he's not sure he appreciates that development. His breakfast coffee tastes bitter. The morning paper carries John's face. Later, Rod will feel cold and immovable, but for the moment, he's all volatile energy and restless hands. He cleans the bathroom for the first time in months and makes a haphazard attempt at clearing the weeds that line his front path. The telephone rings, twice, but he doesn't want to answer. He's not entirely sure he has the words to say hello. John liked lasagne, but Rod tells himself that it's coincidence that has him eating it that night. He opens a bottle of red and stares Into the yellow and blue flicker of his vintage gas heater, as the sun slowly sets beneath the dimpled paintwork of his window frame. He doesn't bother with the lights, preferring the glow of good wine to the glare of realisation. Alone, it's easy to forget. The flames dim and lower, the metal of the heater breaking the Silence with random creaks and groans. In the distance, a police siren whines and fades. Smiling, Rod raises his glass. Swallowing the final mouthful, he makes a silent toast to the man he'd loved but never known. ~fin~ (c) Augustus 07/04/2003

(c) Watching Since Woodentop 1996-2007