Fic - The Baker Street Irregulars - 3 - Si tu Vas à Paris - The History Boys - PG-13
Title: The Baker Street Irregulars
Chapter Title: 3 - Si tu Vas à Paris
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Posner, Scripps eventual Posner/Scripps
Summary: Historical AU, WWII. Posner gets dropped into France, Scripps picks him up.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1475
Notes: So sorry this took so long! I've been ridiculously busy the past few weeks. Let me know if there's anything you'd like to see from these two next!
Si tu Vas à Paris
January, 1942
It was freezing. Scripps had been sat in a car next to a field in Normandy for five hours, since ten the previous night, and it was freezing, and he was exhausted, and he knew that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep until the coming evening. Biting the tip of his tongue to keep himself awake, Scripps rubbed his arms to try and get some warmth back into them. He was bone cold, and it would be all Dakin’s fucking fault if he died of something as ridiculous as hypothermia when he’d escaped being shot no fewer than four times over the six months he’d been in Paris.
He glanced into one of his wing mirrors, cursing Dakin and HQ in general under his breath when he didn’t see the signal he’d already been waiting hours for. No doubt Dakin had pissed Bomber Command off again and they were just dawdling and making the SOE wait just to show they could. Just to show it was up to them when they dropped supplies or another poor bastard into France.
Settling into his new life had been remarkably easy. When he was speaking French, he was Olivier LeCroix, journaliste, marksman, spy, saboteur. When he was speaking English, he was Don Scripps, pianist, linguist, historian, bibliophile. It was that simple; splitting his life into two as one would slice an apple down the centre, through its core. And though he didn’t exactly like being two different people at the same time, he knew it was why he’d lasted longer in France than six weeks.
Another half an hour passed before Scripps looked into his mirror and finally, finally saw the signal from the poor sod who was actually outside, lurking in a hedgerow. He had to stop himself from shouting in joy. His heart began to race as he grabbed his pistol from the passenger seat and shoved it in his coat pocket, got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. The dull roar of Bomber Command over their heads only increased his excitement. And, he supposed, he was more interested in the new agent than the others he’d picked up over the past few months and directed to other networks. This one would be working with him, and hopefully he’d be worth his salt. Dakin had also said something about this one being ‘a little treat for you,’ though what he meant by that, Scripps had no idea.
Scripps strode into the centre of the field and looked up, frowning, trying to see his new agent, who would doubtlessly have been thrown out of the plane by now. A suitcase with a parachute attached to it landed with a bang on the ground several feet away. Scripps went and checked the tag, picking it up before turning his gaze skywards again. By the moonlight, he spotted the shadow of a man drifting towards the ground, and he smiled.
The man landed soundly on his feet before his legs gave way and he collapsed, falling to the ground. Scripps walked the few feet towards him and took out his penknife, slashing the parachute’s cords and bundling it up, shoving it under his arm.
‘Up you get,’ he said, hauling the man to his feet, holding onto his shoulder. ‘Alright?’
The man - white-faced - nodded and drew in a shaking breath.
‘Come on,’ Scripps said. ‘Quickly now, to the car.’ He kept his hold on the other man, not trusting his shaking legs to hold him as they made their way to the car. Scripps opened the door and ushered the man into the passenger seat, shoving the parachute under the seat and putting the man’s case in the back. The other supplies being dropped onto the field were someone else’s concern today - it was his job to get the new agent and himself to the safehouse on the way back to Paris before completing the journey once it was light.
‘Going to be sick?’ he asked, swinging into the driver’s seat, observing the man with a raised eyebrow.
He shook his head.
‘You’ve done well,’ Scripps said quietly before starting the car and pulling away, beginning to follow the route he’d memorised the previous afternoon.
They were silent until they reached the farmhouse where they would be staying for the night. Scripps pulled the car to a stop and turned to face the other lad, offering his hand to shake.
‘Olivier LeCroix,’ he said, continuing in French. ‘This is a safehouse where we’ll be staying for a few hours. Madame Chevalier is under the impression I am a member of the Resistance, she doesn’t know a thing about the SOE and it will remain that way. Understood, Monsieur...?’
‘Hertz,’ the man said, and Scripps lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Henri Hertz.’
‘Half-French, half-German?’ Scripps said, and ‘Henri’ nodded. ‘Clever. Come on, follow my lead.’
They both got out of the car and Scripps circled it, checking for any trace of the new agent’s parachute and making sure his case was secure before going to knock on the door of the farmhouse.
It took a minute, but the door opened, and Scripps and his new agent were pulled into the house. ‘Olivier, I was worried,’ the woman who had opened the door said. ‘You’re late.’
‘I told you I would be,’ Scripps replied, smiling at her. ‘Salut.’ He leant in to kiss both of her cheeks. ‘Thank you for taking us in, we shall only be here a few hours.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Madame Chevalier said, waving her hand. ‘Come and sit down. Eat. Who is this?’
‘Our newest colleague,’ Scripps said, still smiling, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders in a manner that was a little too intimate for them, having only just met. ‘This is Henri.’
‘Henri’ took Madame Chevalier’s face in his thin, delicate hands and kissed each of her cheeks. ‘Enchanté, Madame. It is a pleasure to become acquainted with you.’
Madame Chevalier blushed and fanned her face. ‘Ooh la la!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such gentlemen. Come and sit. Eat,’ she said again, and Scripps nudged his new colleague to sit at the table. 'I am afraid you boys will have to share the attic,' Madame Chevalier continued, handing them each a plate of bread and cheese before sitting down herself. Scripps smiled and shook his head, squeezing the woman’s elbow
'It's no trouble,' he told her. 'We're just grateful to you for letting us stay. No more than a few hours and we'll be gone.'
Madame Chevalier nodded. ‘As long as you keep tripping those bastards up, Olivier, you can have anything you want from me.’
~*~
Less than an hour later, the two men had climbed the ladder up to the attic where they would be able to sleep for a few hours. Upon entering the room, Scripps was surprised to see there was a large bed in the centre of the room, more than adequate for the two of them. It wouldn’t do, though. He’d not known the man even four hours yet, didn’t even know his real name, they couldn’t very well share a bed. He’d left that behind in Oxford, back in the foreign country of the past, it wouldn’t do to start that again.
‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ he murmured in French in a tone that invited no argument, striding forwards and throwing a couple of pillows to the floor.
‘Henri’ pulled the attic door shut. ‘I don’t mind sharing,’ he said in English, his accent making him sound as though he was part of the aristocracy, the vowels clear and perfectly shaped. His voice was breathy, a light tenor.
Scripps raised an eyebrow. Was this what Dakin meant by a little treat?
‘It seems silly, you being on the floor when there’s... plenty of room,’ ‘Henri’ said, seeming to hesitate.
Scripps observed the other man carefully before nodding slowly. ‘Alright,’ he said quietly, speaking in English as well. He walked forwards and offered his hand. He wouldn’t normally have revealed his name until a much later stage in the game but there was something open and honest about this man that made Scripps trust him. Which, he supposed, was a good thing, seeing as they were to be working together until the War ended or until one or both of them got captured or killed. ‘Don Scripps. How do you do?’
‘David Posner,’ Posner said, smiling warmly as he gripped Scripps’s hand with surprising strength. ‘And it really is a pleasure.’
Chapter Title: 3 - Si tu Vas à Paris
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Posner, Scripps eventual Posner/Scripps
Summary: Historical AU, WWII. Posner gets dropped into France, Scripps picks him up.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1475
Notes: So sorry this took so long! I've been ridiculously busy the past few weeks. Let me know if there's anything you'd like to see from these two next!
Si tu Vas à Paris
January, 1942
It was freezing. Scripps had been sat in a car next to a field in Normandy for five hours, since ten the previous night, and it was freezing, and he was exhausted, and he knew that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep until the coming evening. Biting the tip of his tongue to keep himself awake, Scripps rubbed his arms to try and get some warmth back into them. He was bone cold, and it would be all Dakin’s fucking fault if he died of something as ridiculous as hypothermia when he’d escaped being shot no fewer than four times over the six months he’d been in Paris.
He glanced into one of his wing mirrors, cursing Dakin and HQ in general under his breath when he didn’t see the signal he’d already been waiting hours for. No doubt Dakin had pissed Bomber Command off again and they were just dawdling and making the SOE wait just to show they could. Just to show it was up to them when they dropped supplies or another poor bastard into France.
Settling into his new life had been remarkably easy. When he was speaking French, he was Olivier LeCroix, journaliste, marksman, spy, saboteur. When he was speaking English, he was Don Scripps, pianist, linguist, historian, bibliophile. It was that simple; splitting his life into two as one would slice an apple down the centre, through its core. And though he didn’t exactly like being two different people at the same time, he knew it was why he’d lasted longer in France than six weeks.
Another half an hour passed before Scripps looked into his mirror and finally, finally saw the signal from the poor sod who was actually outside, lurking in a hedgerow. He had to stop himself from shouting in joy. His heart began to race as he grabbed his pistol from the passenger seat and shoved it in his coat pocket, got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. The dull roar of Bomber Command over their heads only increased his excitement. And, he supposed, he was more interested in the new agent than the others he’d picked up over the past few months and directed to other networks. This one would be working with him, and hopefully he’d be worth his salt. Dakin had also said something about this one being ‘a little treat for you,’ though what he meant by that, Scripps had no idea.
Scripps strode into the centre of the field and looked up, frowning, trying to see his new agent, who would doubtlessly have been thrown out of the plane by now. A suitcase with a parachute attached to it landed with a bang on the ground several feet away. Scripps went and checked the tag, picking it up before turning his gaze skywards again. By the moonlight, he spotted the shadow of a man drifting towards the ground, and he smiled.
The man landed soundly on his feet before his legs gave way and he collapsed, falling to the ground. Scripps walked the few feet towards him and took out his penknife, slashing the parachute’s cords and bundling it up, shoving it under his arm.
‘Up you get,’ he said, hauling the man to his feet, holding onto his shoulder. ‘Alright?’
The man - white-faced - nodded and drew in a shaking breath.
‘Come on,’ Scripps said. ‘Quickly now, to the car.’ He kept his hold on the other man, not trusting his shaking legs to hold him as they made their way to the car. Scripps opened the door and ushered the man into the passenger seat, shoving the parachute under the seat and putting the man’s case in the back. The other supplies being dropped onto the field were someone else’s concern today - it was his job to get the new agent and himself to the safehouse on the way back to Paris before completing the journey once it was light.
‘Going to be sick?’ he asked, swinging into the driver’s seat, observing the man with a raised eyebrow.
He shook his head.
‘You’ve done well,’ Scripps said quietly before starting the car and pulling away, beginning to follow the route he’d memorised the previous afternoon.
They were silent until they reached the farmhouse where they would be staying for the night. Scripps pulled the car to a stop and turned to face the other lad, offering his hand to shake.
‘Olivier LeCroix,’ he said, continuing in French. ‘This is a safehouse where we’ll be staying for a few hours. Madame Chevalier is under the impression I am a member of the Resistance, she doesn’t know a thing about the SOE and it will remain that way. Understood, Monsieur...?’
‘Hertz,’ the man said, and Scripps lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Henri Hertz.’
‘Half-French, half-German?’ Scripps said, and ‘Henri’ nodded. ‘Clever. Come on, follow my lead.’
They both got out of the car and Scripps circled it, checking for any trace of the new agent’s parachute and making sure his case was secure before going to knock on the door of the farmhouse.
It took a minute, but the door opened, and Scripps and his new agent were pulled into the house. ‘Olivier, I was worried,’ the woman who had opened the door said. ‘You’re late.’
‘I told you I would be,’ Scripps replied, smiling at her. ‘Salut.’ He leant in to kiss both of her cheeks. ‘Thank you for taking us in, we shall only be here a few hours.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Madame Chevalier said, waving her hand. ‘Come and sit down. Eat. Who is this?’
‘Our newest colleague,’ Scripps said, still smiling, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders in a manner that was a little too intimate for them, having only just met. ‘This is Henri.’
‘Henri’ took Madame Chevalier’s face in his thin, delicate hands and kissed each of her cheeks. ‘Enchanté, Madame. It is a pleasure to become acquainted with you.’
Madame Chevalier blushed and fanned her face. ‘Ooh la la!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such gentlemen. Come and sit. Eat,’ she said again, and Scripps nudged his new colleague to sit at the table. 'I am afraid you boys will have to share the attic,' Madame Chevalier continued, handing them each a plate of bread and cheese before sitting down herself. Scripps smiled and shook his head, squeezing the woman’s elbow
'It's no trouble,' he told her. 'We're just grateful to you for letting us stay. No more than a few hours and we'll be gone.'
Madame Chevalier nodded. ‘As long as you keep tripping those bastards up, Olivier, you can have anything you want from me.’
~*~
Less than an hour later, the two men had climbed the ladder up to the attic where they would be able to sleep for a few hours. Upon entering the room, Scripps was surprised to see there was a large bed in the centre of the room, more than adequate for the two of them. It wouldn’t do, though. He’d not known the man even four hours yet, didn’t even know his real name, they couldn’t very well share a bed. He’d left that behind in Oxford, back in the foreign country of the past, it wouldn’t do to start that again.
‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ he murmured in French in a tone that invited no argument, striding forwards and throwing a couple of pillows to the floor.
‘Henri’ pulled the attic door shut. ‘I don’t mind sharing,’ he said in English, his accent making him sound as though he was part of the aristocracy, the vowels clear and perfectly shaped. His voice was breathy, a light tenor.
Scripps raised an eyebrow. Was this what Dakin meant by a little treat?
‘It seems silly, you being on the floor when there’s... plenty of room,’ ‘Henri’ said, seeming to hesitate.
Scripps observed the other man carefully before nodding slowly. ‘Alright,’ he said quietly, speaking in English as well. He walked forwards and offered his hand. He wouldn’t normally have revealed his name until a much later stage in the game but there was something open and honest about this man that made Scripps trust him. Which, he supposed, was a good thing, seeing as they were to be working together until the War ended or until one or both of them got captured or killed. ‘Don Scripps. How do you do?’
‘David Posner,’ Posner said, smiling warmly as he gripped Scripps’s hand with surprising strength. ‘And it really is a pleasure.’