Fic: The Handover (Wire In The Blood)
Fic: Wire In The Blood
Title: The Handover
Character/s: Carol Jordan, Alex Fielding, Tony Hill (mentioned)
Summary: After Synchronicity, Carol makes her mind up.
Word Count: 1096
Disclaimer: Not mine, at all, ever.
The new officer, DI Fielding, leafs through a stack of files, dark brows drawn in a frown. Olive skin, full lips, graceful hands. She is very feminine, this policewoman, curvaceous but compactly figured beneath a brick red sweater and dark suit. Glossy hair pulled back, away from a sculpted face that is certainly Mediterranean, of some description, in origin.
She’s pretty, this DI Fielding, and almost the antithesis of Carol’s own spare Nordic colouring. A queasiness in her gut reminds Carol that this woman will be taking her place, working her cases, working with her team. Working with Tony.
She hasn’t seen him, won’t see him now, because it is far easier to just walk away, to slip away from him and his mesmeric presence, from the weight of him like an inexorable centrifugal force in her life. A clean break is what she needs, she tells herself, like she’s been telling herself for weeks now. Time, space, perspective. She needs to get a grip, to regroup and refocus her life and, more importantly, her career, and she can’t do that while half her heart is compromised, made vulnerable by allowing Tony admittance.
She pushes the stubborn thought of him away, back into the recessing folds of her own cowardice, which she doesn’t confront, and steels herself to offer her hand to her replacement.
Deep, hazel eyes meet hers and lock. The woman’s hand is warm and soft, matching the voice, which is heather-honey brogue and disarming, with just enough rasp to be unassumingly sensual. She doesn’t seem aware of the effect it has on the men in the room, but Carol has noticed.
Another wave of nausea hits as Carol imagines, very involuntarily, this soft, earthy woman talking to Tony. Would he notice? He would, of course; he would notice her quiet sensual attractiveness with his transparently clinical approach, appraise it for what it is then let it slip past him, disregarding it in favour of ascertaining her capacity for intelligent thought instead.
Carol nods, watching this woman as she watches them, full lips pursed carefully, evidently getting a feel for the varying personalities at work in the room. Carol can’t seem to drag her own eyes away, acutely aware of feeling haunted already; replaced, misplaced. She doesn’t belong here anymore. She can’t belong here anymore, in this city where every street and old building reminds her of him.
When it is her turn to speak, Carol does so mechanically, her voice stilted and flat even to her own ears. The queasiness is back, and she works hard to supress the urge to walk out of this meeting, to get outside, to drive away, to fly away. And then the thought of flying makes her think of hang-gliding, and guilt and terror collide sickly in her gut. He will hate her, and she will never get to watch his beautiful, beautiful face, and listen while he speaks, ever again, because he will hate her for what she is doing right now. She bears the thought like a martyr, quite happily, preparing to delight in the pain of losing him, as penance for allowing him so close in the first place.
Alex Fielding speaks softly, quietly, dark eyes resting gently on each face across the table, stating her own case without pretence. She has an interesting history; recruited much like Carol herself out of university, handpicked by some Superintendent or other for a newly-formed Met cold case squad. Ten years there, then a somewhat inexplicable lateral move to Serious Crime in Glasgow. A few more years there, then back to London, and another murder squad, and a few more years on top of that. Then, another lateral move to Bradfield, into a holding position in Vice, quite obviously waiting for a better spot to open up. And now it has.
The ACC asks the vaguely innapropriate question as to why all the relocating, and a deep burgundy flush begins to spread up DI Fielding’s neck, and for the first time this afternoon she looks somewhat less than entirely together. Carol’s curiousity piqued, she listens carefully, to what this woman doesn’t say.
Family changes apparently; a marriage, a child, and a divorce, as it goes, and that explains that. The ACC lets her response hang in the air, refraining from voicing what he is clearly thinking; that family problems had better not interfere with this particular placement under his own thumb. Fielding doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t defend herself; she merely holds his gaze silently, until the ACC himself backs down, and looks away. For all this, Carol finds herself internally barracking for Fielding, just a bit, despite desperately, if irrationally, wanting to dislike her.
The meeting goes on, and Carol’s attention wanders, and she allows herself to feel soft waves of guilt over Paula, Kevin, the rest of her team, her landlord, her small and inexpertly tended window box garden, everything else she is leaving behind, and her cat. Nelson. She could take him with her when she goes, but she won’t. He is getting on, and wouldn’t appreciate the change, and besides, she doesn’t want the reminder. The guilt is soothing, familiar, oddly satisfying. She will live with it, happily, for a long time, and it will be far better than this hideous uncertain vulnerability, this abhorrent weakness. Tony wouldn’t call it that, of course, and he has shown himself to be far braver, far better than she, and she could not possibly live up to him.
Come hang-gliding with me. Take a risk, Carol, take my hand and step off the edge with me, and she absolutely can’t. There is too much fear, too much in her way and Tony would laugh and call it a psychic block. He would shake his head and smile his smile and tell her she is stronger, better than that but she isn’t. He is wrong about her, he has been all along. But now she has her chance; she will become invulnerable again, fearless and strong and full of fight, instead of this despicable tangle of emotion clashing soundlessly within her.
The ACC finishes off, finally tiring of the sound of his own voice at last, and Carol stands, eager to leave, intensely aware of Fielding’s dark eyes on her. She should say something, make some small effort toward sisterly camaraderie, but she can’t think of anything to say except “Look after him for me”, and so she says nothing at all.
She walks straight out of the boardroom, eyes fixed ahead and unwavering, down the hall and out of the building, and doesn’t look back.
Title: The Handover
Character/s: Carol Jordan, Alex Fielding, Tony Hill (mentioned)
Summary: After Synchronicity, Carol makes her mind up.
Word Count: 1096
Disclaimer: Not mine, at all, ever.
The new officer, DI Fielding, leafs through a stack of files, dark brows drawn in a frown. Olive skin, full lips, graceful hands. She is very feminine, this policewoman, curvaceous but compactly figured beneath a brick red sweater and dark suit. Glossy hair pulled back, away from a sculpted face that is certainly Mediterranean, of some description, in origin.
She’s pretty, this DI Fielding, and almost the antithesis of Carol’s own spare Nordic colouring. A queasiness in her gut reminds Carol that this woman will be taking her place, working her cases, working with her team. Working with Tony.
She hasn’t seen him, won’t see him now, because it is far easier to just walk away, to slip away from him and his mesmeric presence, from the weight of him like an inexorable centrifugal force in her life. A clean break is what she needs, she tells herself, like she’s been telling herself for weeks now. Time, space, perspective. She needs to get a grip, to regroup and refocus her life and, more importantly, her career, and she can’t do that while half her heart is compromised, made vulnerable by allowing Tony admittance.
She pushes the stubborn thought of him away, back into the recessing folds of her own cowardice, which she doesn’t confront, and steels herself to offer her hand to her replacement.
Deep, hazel eyes meet hers and lock. The woman’s hand is warm and soft, matching the voice, which is heather-honey brogue and disarming, with just enough rasp to be unassumingly sensual. She doesn’t seem aware of the effect it has on the men in the room, but Carol has noticed.
Another wave of nausea hits as Carol imagines, very involuntarily, this soft, earthy woman talking to Tony. Would he notice? He would, of course; he would notice her quiet sensual attractiveness with his transparently clinical approach, appraise it for what it is then let it slip past him, disregarding it in favour of ascertaining her capacity for intelligent thought instead.
Carol nods, watching this woman as she watches them, full lips pursed carefully, evidently getting a feel for the varying personalities at work in the room. Carol can’t seem to drag her own eyes away, acutely aware of feeling haunted already; replaced, misplaced. She doesn’t belong here anymore. She can’t belong here anymore, in this city where every street and old building reminds her of him.
When it is her turn to speak, Carol does so mechanically, her voice stilted and flat even to her own ears. The queasiness is back, and she works hard to supress the urge to walk out of this meeting, to get outside, to drive away, to fly away. And then the thought of flying makes her think of hang-gliding, and guilt and terror collide sickly in her gut. He will hate her, and she will never get to watch his beautiful, beautiful face, and listen while he speaks, ever again, because he will hate her for what she is doing right now. She bears the thought like a martyr, quite happily, preparing to delight in the pain of losing him, as penance for allowing him so close in the first place.
Alex Fielding speaks softly, quietly, dark eyes resting gently on each face across the table, stating her own case without pretence. She has an interesting history; recruited much like Carol herself out of university, handpicked by some Superintendent or other for a newly-formed Met cold case squad. Ten years there, then a somewhat inexplicable lateral move to Serious Crime in Glasgow. A few more years there, then back to London, and another murder squad, and a few more years on top of that. Then, another lateral move to Bradfield, into a holding position in Vice, quite obviously waiting for a better spot to open up. And now it has.
The ACC asks the vaguely innapropriate question as to why all the relocating, and a deep burgundy flush begins to spread up DI Fielding’s neck, and for the first time this afternoon she looks somewhat less than entirely together. Carol’s curiousity piqued, she listens carefully, to what this woman doesn’t say.
Family changes apparently; a marriage, a child, and a divorce, as it goes, and that explains that. The ACC lets her response hang in the air, refraining from voicing what he is clearly thinking; that family problems had better not interfere with this particular placement under his own thumb. Fielding doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t defend herself; she merely holds his gaze silently, until the ACC himself backs down, and looks away. For all this, Carol finds herself internally barracking for Fielding, just a bit, despite desperately, if irrationally, wanting to dislike her.
The meeting goes on, and Carol’s attention wanders, and she allows herself to feel soft waves of guilt over Paula, Kevin, the rest of her team, her landlord, her small and inexpertly tended window box garden, everything else she is leaving behind, and her cat. Nelson. She could take him with her when she goes, but she won’t. He is getting on, and wouldn’t appreciate the change, and besides, she doesn’t want the reminder. The guilt is soothing, familiar, oddly satisfying. She will live with it, happily, for a long time, and it will be far better than this hideous uncertain vulnerability, this abhorrent weakness. Tony wouldn’t call it that, of course, and he has shown himself to be far braver, far better than she, and she could not possibly live up to him.
Come hang-gliding with me. Take a risk, Carol, take my hand and step off the edge with me, and she absolutely can’t. There is too much fear, too much in her way and Tony would laugh and call it a psychic block. He would shake his head and smile his smile and tell her she is stronger, better than that but she isn’t. He is wrong about her, he has been all along. But now she has her chance; she will become invulnerable again, fearless and strong and full of fight, instead of this despicable tangle of emotion clashing soundlessly within her.
The ACC finishes off, finally tiring of the sound of his own voice at last, and Carol stands, eager to leave, intensely aware of Fielding’s dark eyes on her. She should say something, make some small effort toward sisterly camaraderie, but she can’t think of anything to say except “Look after him for me”, and so she says nothing at all.
She walks straight out of the boardroom, eyes fixed ahead and unwavering, down the hall and out of the building, and doesn’t look back.