Ficlet: not quite alike in dignity
Dec. 8th, 2024 02:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusThis is very much a product of conversations on the discord as well as with bb and gatty. So you can blame everyone AND me for this!
Just under 1000 words of Nigel 'Cub' Peters being miserable while Ginger tries to be sympathetic.
“He’s just so… so good at everything,” said Nigel, in a voice which approached a wail. He put his head down on the pub table. Ginger restrained the urge to pat him on the head, which would probably earn him a knife through the centre of his palm, and took another gulp of his pint.
It was just past ten o’clock on a Thursday night. The pub was half-full of its usual clientele, a mix of young men looking for a pleasant evening elsewhere and older men happy to take them up on the offer. Ginger had claimed a table in the corner for himself and Nigel, now littered with empty packets of pork scratchings and several pint glasses each.
Nigel “Cub” Peters was not quite Ginger’s friend, and also not quite anything else. They had youth in common only in the sense that they were the youngest in their group of friends - if one counted Gimlet King, Trapper and Copper as friends rather than fellow mercenaries - but even then, Ginger had been an adult by the start of the War. Nigel was younger than Ginger had been when he met Biggles and Algy when he ran off to France to join the Resistance. It gave Ginger a slight twinge to think about, but that was war for you. All sorts of young men were destroyed by it; Nigel at least had made something interesting out of the pieces.
“I know,” he replied belatedly. He glanced towards the bar, just in time to spot two men finally concluding negotiations which had been going on for half an hour with a celebratory tongue down the throat. He sighed and wished quite heartily that he was back at Mount Street, where Algy might be induced to similar flights of romance.
Nigel moaned pitifully and then pushed himself up on his elbows. He was not as drunk as he should’ve been, but still swayed slightly as he propped his chin on one clenched fist. His features had sharpened as he grew from the youth Ginger had met into a young man; he’d lost his baby fat and dimples in his time in the Fleas, and now his cheeks were dusted with stubble. He looked five years older than he was, and it was all in the eyes.
“How do you cope?” Nigel asked, after taking another long drink from his own pint. He’d started out with shandies and progressed onto stout, served warm, when he was drunk enough to ignore that it tasted like piss. Ginger, who had been drinking worse beer since he was thirteen, was on his third pint and not quite tipsy.
He couldn’t give the real answer, which was I didn’t for ten years and then I snogged him behind the equipment shed, and therefore wouldn’t offer much solace to a young man in love with Gimlet King. Gimlet King - handsome, upright, utterly insane - was an entirely different kettle of fish to Algy Lacey, who still occasionally needed Ginger to remove spiders from the bathroom if they looked particularly unfriendly.
Lost for words, he slid the latest bag of pork scratchings across the table towards Nigel and watched, hawk-eyed, as he crunched through another handful and washed it down with the last of his pint. He set down the empty glass with an almost-satisfied sigh, which felt like a victory.
“It’s difficult,” he said eventually. “But it’s not as difficult as it feels at first, you know. The thing I found most troublesome was the fact I’d managed to fall for a man who was helping to provide me with food, clothing and education, which has never been an issue for you and yours.” And had been the major barrier to getting Algy to snog him again after the equipment shed interlude, which was very noble and everything but not something Ginger had worried about since the first time Algy stood him a pint in the officer’s mess and ended the evening drunkenly playing him old soldier’s songs on the company piano. “Either he’ll come to see you as a man in your own right, or he won’t. It’s not up to you, and my skipper would say that means you shouldn’t worry.”
Biggles was often telling Ginger he shouldn’t worry about things, which was a bit rich coming from Biggles. He was often a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do sort of teacher while he was teaching Ginger to fly as well, so he was used to it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t at least somewhat amusing.
“I know he’s not going to feel the same way,” said Nigel, mournfully. “He’s not wired that way, anyone can see that. But I can’t get my brain to actually believe it. I just end up at bars like this, going home with men with nice hands and a cut-glass accent and imagining it’s him. Really quite pathetic, and my father is going to figure it out sooner or later.”
“Would he mind?” Ginger asked. His own father was a non-entity in his life, but Nigel adored his own. Given that the lad had sailed from Dunkirk to rescue him this was hardly a surprise.
Nigel shrugged. “He knows I’m a queer already. Had to tell him so he’d stop trying to get me to meet so-and-so’s lovely daughter or such-and-such’s beautiful niece. He took it rather well, but I doubt he’d cope at all with my wanting to go with my C.O..”
“That’s good,” Ginger offered weakly. He glanced at the bar again. “Another round?”
“Please,” said Nigel. “Maybe this pint’ll be the one that cures the heartache.”
“Not likely, darling,” came an amused shout from a table across the room. Ginger patted Nigel on the shoulder just once before making his way to the bar.
Just under 1000 words of Nigel 'Cub' Peters being miserable while Ginger tries to be sympathetic.
“He’s just so… so good at everything,” said Nigel, in a voice which approached a wail. He put his head down on the pub table. Ginger restrained the urge to pat him on the head, which would probably earn him a knife through the centre of his palm, and took another gulp of his pint.
It was just past ten o’clock on a Thursday night. The pub was half-full of its usual clientele, a mix of young men looking for a pleasant evening elsewhere and older men happy to take them up on the offer. Ginger had claimed a table in the corner for himself and Nigel, now littered with empty packets of pork scratchings and several pint glasses each.
Nigel “Cub” Peters was not quite Ginger’s friend, and also not quite anything else. They had youth in common only in the sense that they were the youngest in their group of friends - if one counted Gimlet King, Trapper and Copper as friends rather than fellow mercenaries - but even then, Ginger had been an adult by the start of the War. Nigel was younger than Ginger had been when he met Biggles and Algy when he ran off to France to join the Resistance. It gave Ginger a slight twinge to think about, but that was war for you. All sorts of young men were destroyed by it; Nigel at least had made something interesting out of the pieces.
“I know,” he replied belatedly. He glanced towards the bar, just in time to spot two men finally concluding negotiations which had been going on for half an hour with a celebratory tongue down the throat. He sighed and wished quite heartily that he was back at Mount Street, where Algy might be induced to similar flights of romance.
Nigel moaned pitifully and then pushed himself up on his elbows. He was not as drunk as he should’ve been, but still swayed slightly as he propped his chin on one clenched fist. His features had sharpened as he grew from the youth Ginger had met into a young man; he’d lost his baby fat and dimples in his time in the Fleas, and now his cheeks were dusted with stubble. He looked five years older than he was, and it was all in the eyes.
“How do you cope?” Nigel asked, after taking another long drink from his own pint. He’d started out with shandies and progressed onto stout, served warm, when he was drunk enough to ignore that it tasted like piss. Ginger, who had been drinking worse beer since he was thirteen, was on his third pint and not quite tipsy.
He couldn’t give the real answer, which was I didn’t for ten years and then I snogged him behind the equipment shed, and therefore wouldn’t offer much solace to a young man in love with Gimlet King. Gimlet King - handsome, upright, utterly insane - was an entirely different kettle of fish to Algy Lacey, who still occasionally needed Ginger to remove spiders from the bathroom if they looked particularly unfriendly.
Lost for words, he slid the latest bag of pork scratchings across the table towards Nigel and watched, hawk-eyed, as he crunched through another handful and washed it down with the last of his pint. He set down the empty glass with an almost-satisfied sigh, which felt like a victory.
“It’s difficult,” he said eventually. “But it’s not as difficult as it feels at first, you know. The thing I found most troublesome was the fact I’d managed to fall for a man who was helping to provide me with food, clothing and education, which has never been an issue for you and yours.” And had been the major barrier to getting Algy to snog him again after the equipment shed interlude, which was very noble and everything but not something Ginger had worried about since the first time Algy stood him a pint in the officer’s mess and ended the evening drunkenly playing him old soldier’s songs on the company piano. “Either he’ll come to see you as a man in your own right, or he won’t. It’s not up to you, and my skipper would say that means you shouldn’t worry.”
Biggles was often telling Ginger he shouldn’t worry about things, which was a bit rich coming from Biggles. He was often a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do sort of teacher while he was teaching Ginger to fly as well, so he was used to it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t at least somewhat amusing.
“I know he’s not going to feel the same way,” said Nigel, mournfully. “He’s not wired that way, anyone can see that. But I can’t get my brain to actually believe it. I just end up at bars like this, going home with men with nice hands and a cut-glass accent and imagining it’s him. Really quite pathetic, and my father is going to figure it out sooner or later.”
“Would he mind?” Ginger asked. His own father was a non-entity in his life, but Nigel adored his own. Given that the lad had sailed from Dunkirk to rescue him this was hardly a surprise.
Nigel shrugged. “He knows I’m a queer already. Had to tell him so he’d stop trying to get me to meet so-and-so’s lovely daughter or such-and-such’s beautiful niece. He took it rather well, but I doubt he’d cope at all with my wanting to go with my C.O..”
“That’s good,” Ginger offered weakly. He glanced at the bar again. “Another round?”
“Please,” said Nigel. “Maybe this pint’ll be the one that cures the heartache.”
“Not likely, darling,” came an amused shout from a table across the room. Ginger patted Nigel on the shoulder just once before making his way to the bar.
no subject
Date: 2024-12-08 06:42 pm (UTC)And I fully believe Ginger has to rescue Algy from bathroom spiders.
no subject
Date: 2024-12-08 07:04 pm (UTC)