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rosanicusNo. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED
Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."
426 words, Algy & Biggles, WW1
Another late night at the officer’s mess. Algy pushed past a few officers playing draughts, air filled with the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, and finally laid eyes on his cousin.
“Long time no see,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside Biggles. It had been almost three days, in fact, with Algy scrambled to another squadron for a scout escort, and Biggles still here when half of ‘A’ Flight went West in a dogfight over No Man’s Land.
Biggles didn’t turn his head. He took another long gulp of – gin, probably, Algy couldn’t smell it with the smoke still in his throat. His hands were steady as ever.
“Algy,” he said, after a moment. “How’s the 169? Still holding steady?” Algy withheld a sigh of relief; he couldn’t have been drinking long with vowels like that.
“Steady as can be,” Algy replied. He glanced over his shoulder. The mess was half-empty, really, at such a late hour and with a dawn raid staring them down. Everyone but Algy, gifted a two-day pass for his part in the 169’s mission, and Biggles, who Mahoney wouldn’t let go further than an inch off the tarmac for at least twenty-four hours.
He put a hand on Biggles’ forearm. He felt the tension in the muscle there for half a second before Biggles shrugged him off in one stiff movement.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Algy. He looked again at his cousin, at the way he held himself, the thin film of dirt on his face and the flight jacket hung loose around his shoulders. “How bad is it this time?”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Biggles said. His eyes, usually glittering with the hint of some daring plan or other, were blank as he stared into his glass.
Algy looked at his hands again. His fingernails had clearly seen a scrubbing brush recently - a faint rusted stain was just visible.
Algy once again held back a sigh. “Look, if you need a quick once-over with a pair of tweezers and a bit of sticking plaster, I’m your man. But if it’s broken ribs I’m carting you to the medic whether you like it or not.”
“It’s not my blood,” said Biggles, quietly. He drained the glass and slammed it on the bar. Algy caught his arm again as he stood, unsteady on his feet. Biggles shook him off and stormed towards the doors.
Algy followed him. He’d got into the habit, by then, and it would be some years before he realised it wouldn't break.
Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."
426 words, Algy & Biggles, WW1
Another late night at the officer’s mess. Algy pushed past a few officers playing draughts, air filled with the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, and finally laid eyes on his cousin.
“Long time no see,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside Biggles. It had been almost three days, in fact, with Algy scrambled to another squadron for a scout escort, and Biggles still here when half of ‘A’ Flight went West in a dogfight over No Man’s Land.
Biggles didn’t turn his head. He took another long gulp of – gin, probably, Algy couldn’t smell it with the smoke still in his throat. His hands were steady as ever.
“Algy,” he said, after a moment. “How’s the 169? Still holding steady?” Algy withheld a sigh of relief; he couldn’t have been drinking long with vowels like that.
“Steady as can be,” Algy replied. He glanced over his shoulder. The mess was half-empty, really, at such a late hour and with a dawn raid staring them down. Everyone but Algy, gifted a two-day pass for his part in the 169’s mission, and Biggles, who Mahoney wouldn’t let go further than an inch off the tarmac for at least twenty-four hours.
He put a hand on Biggles’ forearm. He felt the tension in the muscle there for half a second before Biggles shrugged him off in one stiff movement.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Algy. He looked again at his cousin, at the way he held himself, the thin film of dirt on his face and the flight jacket hung loose around his shoulders. “How bad is it this time?”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Biggles said. His eyes, usually glittering with the hint of some daring plan or other, were blank as he stared into his glass.
Algy looked at his hands again. His fingernails had clearly seen a scrubbing brush recently - a faint rusted stain was just visible.
Algy once again held back a sigh. “Look, if you need a quick once-over with a pair of tweezers and a bit of sticking plaster, I’m your man. But if it’s broken ribs I’m carting you to the medic whether you like it or not.”
“It’s not my blood,” said Biggles, quietly. He drained the glass and slammed it on the bar. Algy caught his arm again as he stood, unsteady on his feet. Biggles shook him off and stormed towards the doors.
Algy followed him. He’d got into the habit, by then, and it would be some years before he realised it wouldn't break.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-06 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-06 07:46 pm (UTC)All the descriptions of Biggles are just agonising, blank-eyed and swaying with steady hands and blood scrubbed out of his fingernails with a brush, and Algy clearly not that much better off but here and ready to haul Biggles out of it anyway. This is heartbreaking and perfect and I love them.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-06 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-06 10:24 pm (UTC)