Fic - April, 1944 - Posner/Scripps - R
Title: April, 1944
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Posner/Scripps
Summary: AU. Scripps and Posner are Special Operations Executives in occupied France during the Second World War.
Rating: R
Contains: War setting
Word Count: 912
Notes: I'm fond of this setting and would love to write more of these two running round France with a radio transmitter, but I haven't really got many ideas. If you like it and want me to write some more, I'm open to suggestions! :)
April, 1944
‘Two years and seventeen days,’ Posner says in a murmur, his English accent sounding strange in Scripps’s appartement in le quatrième arrondisement of Paris.
‘Since what?’ Scripps asks, securing the windows, pulling the curtains tight, checking and double-checking the locks on the door before pulling his pistol out of his coat and putting it on the bedside table. His own accent sounds odd to his ears as well, having been so used to speaking and hearing French for the past two years. He lights the lamp in the bedroom and blows the match out, smoke curling upwards to the damp spot on the ceiling. The dwelling being as small as it is, Posner is still in sight, sat at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other..
‘Since I met you,’ Posner says with a smile, his long, thin fingers toying with the sugar lumps in their bowl.
Scripps smiles back weakly and checks the bedroom window again.
‘Two years and seventeen days?’ he says, Sheffield creeping back into his voice.
He wants to go home.
‘Yes,’ Posner says, standing up, taking his coat off and folding it over the back of the chair, placing his hat on the table as well. ‘Take your coat off, Don,’ he murmurs, walking to the bedroom, leaning against the door jamb. ‘The flat’s safe enough.’
Scripps sighs and nods, his eyes closed. The flat may be safe enough, but it won’t ever, ever be safe enough.
Posner walks forward and curls his fingers round the back of Scripps’s neck, rubbing affectionately with his thumb for just a moment before leaning in, bringing their lips together.
‘Take your coat off, love,’ he whispers, and he kisses him again. This, Scripps knows, is what he breaks codes and shoots Nazis and risks his life for. This is what it’s all for.
He’d been an idealist, back at the start. Recruited straight from Oxford by the Special Operations Executive and dropped into France before he’d even had time to think about what he’d got himself wrapped up in. He wasn’t a soldier and he certainly wasn’t a hero but he liked his work and was good at it. It was exciting and dangerous, everything he wasn’t, but when he stepped out of his door of a morning, he was Olivier LeCroix, journaliste, and he was untouchable.
Here, though...
Here, he was Don Scripps. Don Scripps who was lonely and frightened and paranoid and who wanted to go back to his village and have his mam make him his tea and sleep in his bed and walk to the top of his hill every morning more than anything.
Scripps sighs into the kiss, resting his hands on Posner’s trim waist. ‘David,’ he breathes, rubbing his nose against Posner’s, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘I love you.’
Posner doesn’t reply (he never does), but kisses him instead, warm and passionate, his hands running over Scripps’s neck and shoulders, up into his hair.
‘I love you,’ Scripps murmus again when Posner pulls away, stroking Posner’s waist and back, never able to touch him enough. ‘I love you, I love you,’ he says, never able to tell him enough either, nothing is never enough.
Rather, nothing that is good is ever enough. There is more than enough worrying, transmitting, hiding, shooting, running. More than enough of that.
Posner pushes him back onto the bed and climbs atop him, kissing him again. ‘Shh,’ he says as Scripps murmurs frantically, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘Shh, love, shh.’
Scripps clings onto him, clutching his waist, pulling his shirt out of his trousers and resting his cold, rough hands against Posner’s skin. ‘Did I lock the door?’ he breathes, knowing he did but terrified he didn’t all the same.
‘Yes,’ Posner murmurs, kissing Scripps’s worried frown, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand.
‘I love you,’ Scripps says again, staring at Posner, touching a hand to his face, rubbing his thumb across Posner’s bottom lip. Posner bends down and kisses him, brushing his tongue over Scripps’s, moving closer, leading Scripps’s hands to his chest.
‘Too thin,’ Scripps mumbles, pulling Posner’s shirt away, kissing his shoulder and down his arm, breathing the smell of him in. ‘You’re too thin, David, when all this is over--’
‘Shh,’ Posner says again, gentle but firm at the same time. ‘Come here,’ he whispers, loosening Scripps’s tie, undoing his shirt buttons. Posner never wants to think about what might not happen, what would happen if this doesn’t blow over and they both end up bleeding to death in a ditch in the French countryside like Burney, or shot in the head in a café like Marwick, or sent to Belsen like Fyfe.
‘I love you,’ Posner whispers into Scripps’s ear, and Scripps calms down, stops muttering frantically, lies back and lets Posner touch and kiss and stroke him, lets Posner make everything go away.
He wants to go home.
He wants to go home.
He arches his back and kisses Posner and cries into the pillow when Posner undoes him, his teeth gritted as he fights not to make any noise, to not give anything away. ‘David,’ he gasps, clinging onto Posner.
He wants to go home.
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Posner/Scripps
Summary: AU. Scripps and Posner are Special Operations Executives in occupied France during the Second World War.
Rating: R
Contains: War setting
Word Count: 912
Notes: I'm fond of this setting and would love to write more of these two running round France with a radio transmitter, but I haven't really got many ideas. If you like it and want me to write some more, I'm open to suggestions! :)
April, 1944
‘Two years and seventeen days,’ Posner says in a murmur, his English accent sounding strange in Scripps’s appartement in le quatrième arrondisement of Paris.
‘Since what?’ Scripps asks, securing the windows, pulling the curtains tight, checking and double-checking the locks on the door before pulling his pistol out of his coat and putting it on the bedside table. His own accent sounds odd to his ears as well, having been so used to speaking and hearing French for the past two years. He lights the lamp in the bedroom and blows the match out, smoke curling upwards to the damp spot on the ceiling. The dwelling being as small as it is, Posner is still in sight, sat at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other..
‘Since I met you,’ Posner says with a smile, his long, thin fingers toying with the sugar lumps in their bowl.
Scripps smiles back weakly and checks the bedroom window again.
‘Two years and seventeen days?’ he says, Sheffield creeping back into his voice.
He wants to go home.
‘Yes,’ Posner says, standing up, taking his coat off and folding it over the back of the chair, placing his hat on the table as well. ‘Take your coat off, Don,’ he murmurs, walking to the bedroom, leaning against the door jamb. ‘The flat’s safe enough.’
Scripps sighs and nods, his eyes closed. The flat may be safe enough, but it won’t ever, ever be safe enough.
Posner walks forward and curls his fingers round the back of Scripps’s neck, rubbing affectionately with his thumb for just a moment before leaning in, bringing their lips together.
‘Take your coat off, love,’ he whispers, and he kisses him again. This, Scripps knows, is what he breaks codes and shoots Nazis and risks his life for. This is what it’s all for.
He’d been an idealist, back at the start. Recruited straight from Oxford by the Special Operations Executive and dropped into France before he’d even had time to think about what he’d got himself wrapped up in. He wasn’t a soldier and he certainly wasn’t a hero but he liked his work and was good at it. It was exciting and dangerous, everything he wasn’t, but when he stepped out of his door of a morning, he was Olivier LeCroix, journaliste, and he was untouchable.
Here, though...
Here, he was Don Scripps. Don Scripps who was lonely and frightened and paranoid and who wanted to go back to his village and have his mam make him his tea and sleep in his bed and walk to the top of his hill every morning more than anything.
Scripps sighs into the kiss, resting his hands on Posner’s trim waist. ‘David,’ he breathes, rubbing his nose against Posner’s, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘I love you.’
Posner doesn’t reply (he never does), but kisses him instead, warm and passionate, his hands running over Scripps’s neck and shoulders, up into his hair.
‘I love you,’ Scripps murmus again when Posner pulls away, stroking Posner’s waist and back, never able to touch him enough. ‘I love you, I love you,’ he says, never able to tell him enough either, nothing is never enough.
Rather, nothing that is good is ever enough. There is more than enough worrying, transmitting, hiding, shooting, running. More than enough of that.
Posner pushes him back onto the bed and climbs atop him, kissing him again. ‘Shh,’ he says as Scripps murmurs frantically, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘Shh, love, shh.’
Scripps clings onto him, clutching his waist, pulling his shirt out of his trousers and resting his cold, rough hands against Posner’s skin. ‘Did I lock the door?’ he breathes, knowing he did but terrified he didn’t all the same.
‘Yes,’ Posner murmurs, kissing Scripps’s worried frown, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand.
‘I love you,’ Scripps says again, staring at Posner, touching a hand to his face, rubbing his thumb across Posner’s bottom lip. Posner bends down and kisses him, brushing his tongue over Scripps’s, moving closer, leading Scripps’s hands to his chest.
‘Too thin,’ Scripps mumbles, pulling Posner’s shirt away, kissing his shoulder and down his arm, breathing the smell of him in. ‘You’re too thin, David, when all this is over--’
‘Shh,’ Posner says again, gentle but firm at the same time. ‘Come here,’ he whispers, loosening Scripps’s tie, undoing his shirt buttons. Posner never wants to think about what might not happen, what would happen if this doesn’t blow over and they both end up bleeding to death in a ditch in the French countryside like Burney, or shot in the head in a café like Marwick, or sent to Belsen like Fyfe.
‘I love you,’ Posner whispers into Scripps’s ear, and Scripps calms down, stops muttering frantically, lies back and lets Posner touch and kiss and stroke him, lets Posner make everything go away.
He wants to go home.
He wants to go home.
He arches his back and kisses Posner and cries into the pillow when Posner undoes him, his teeth gritted as he fights not to make any noise, to not give anything away. ‘David,’ he gasps, clinging onto Posner.
He wants to go home.