Fic - From The Ashes of Disaster (5/12)
Jun. 22nd, 2010 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
redfiona99Author: Red Fiona
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters, Spyglass Entertainment do. No money being made.
Pairing: Quinn/Creedy, eventually. Some Creedy/OFC in the first part.
Rating: M, especially later on.
Spoilers: None. Prequel to ‘He Who Fights Too Long Against Dragons’ - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/471485.html.
Summary: In the ruins of Britain, humans still try to eke out a living where the dragons cannot find them. A band of roving bikers arrive in the remnants of Birmingham, both sides have to try to reach an agreement.
Part 1 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/589916.html
Part 2 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/598026.html
Part 3 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/610429.html
Part 4 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/625409.html
Quinn was not paying attention in English again. It was poetry. Quinn had come to the conclusion a long time ago that he and poetry did not get along. Why couldn’t it just say what it meant? He could understand the purpose of some of it, but that was mostly sea shanties and the like that either told you how or why people did things, something with a rhythm, but love poems, which they were stuck doing today, struck him as particularly pointless.
The Prof had hit on the “genius” scheme of making them all choose a poem to read out from the book of love poems he’d dug out from somewhere. The sensible boys had chosen the short ones, the girls had chosen all the old-fashioned ones, and he was stuck reading something from Ted Hughes.
It was Creedy’s turn; he’d held to his word and taken to coming to English lessons, which had cheered Quinn up no end. It was nice having someone else who understood.
Midway through ‘Red, Red Roses’ that Quinn realised he was lost, doomed, and various other words that he normally preferred not to attach to himself. If he’d been asked to describe the situation, he probably would have blamed at least part of it on the weather, the sun shadowing Creedy, so all you could see was curls and the outlines of his features, and then when he turned slightly to face the Professor, because Creedy was one of the few in the class to feel brave enough to look up from his book when reciting, the light caught him just so. Creedy was reading out Burns’s lines, and all Quinn could think was that he wished that Creedy would read something like that to him.
Quinn knew that he’s enough of a freak already before taking into account that he isn’t interested in women. He thought people could live with that, if he didn’t also have an interest in men. He wished that it were less of a purely academic interest, but he got into enough fights as it was, anything obvious would probably mean he’d have to spend every waking moment watching his back, rather than every other one.
He knew all of that and still he wanted. It wasn’t only his prick talking, for once - he’d really hated being twelve but fourteen was a lot better - it was all of him.
Creedy carried on reading, Scottish brogue rolling over Quinn, soothing and inflaming at the same time.
It was a stupid time to be having a revelation, and an even worse person to be having it about. Why Creedy? Yes, he was good-looking, what with the hair and the accent and the way his entire face seemed to crease up when he smiled. And yes, he was kind, sort of, and more importantly, he was sympathetic to Quinn’s cause, his and the Professor’s grand cause, which mattered so much to Quinn, but he was also his best mate. His only friend, if Quinn was being honest, because the Prof wasn’t a friend, he was the nearest thing Quinn had had to a Dad even before the dragons came. He couldn’t fuck up what he had with Creedy, not for anything. No matter how much he wanted whatever anything was.
Quinn rested his head in his crossed arms on the desk. His left hand hung over the edge of the desk and held onto the poetry book they were reading from, thumb keeping the right page open. He’d raise his head and read when he heard his name being called.
He knew he looked ridiculous, but it was this or walking out of the class, laughing at himself, and this was less disruptive. It could only happen to him.
Quinn hated poetry.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters, Spyglass Entertainment do. No money being made.
Pairing: Quinn/Creedy, eventually. Some Creedy/OFC in the first part.
Rating: M, especially later on.
Spoilers: None. Prequel to ‘He Who Fights Too Long Against Dragons’ - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/471485.html.
Summary: In the ruins of Britain, humans still try to eke out a living where the dragons cannot find them. A band of roving bikers arrive in the remnants of Birmingham, both sides have to try to reach an agreement.
Part 1 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/589916.html
Part 2 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/598026.html
Part 3 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/610429.html
Part 4 is here - http://redfiona99.livejournal.com/625409.html
Quinn was not paying attention in English again. It was poetry. Quinn had come to the conclusion a long time ago that he and poetry did not get along. Why couldn’t it just say what it meant? He could understand the purpose of some of it, but that was mostly sea shanties and the like that either told you how or why people did things, something with a rhythm, but love poems, which they were stuck doing today, struck him as particularly pointless.
The Prof had hit on the “genius” scheme of making them all choose a poem to read out from the book of love poems he’d dug out from somewhere. The sensible boys had chosen the short ones, the girls had chosen all the old-fashioned ones, and he was stuck reading something from Ted Hughes.
It was Creedy’s turn; he’d held to his word and taken to coming to English lessons, which had cheered Quinn up no end. It was nice having someone else who understood.
Midway through ‘Red, Red Roses’ that Quinn realised he was lost, doomed, and various other words that he normally preferred not to attach to himself. If he’d been asked to describe the situation, he probably would have blamed at least part of it on the weather, the sun shadowing Creedy, so all you could see was curls and the outlines of his features, and then when he turned slightly to face the Professor, because Creedy was one of the few in the class to feel brave enough to look up from his book when reciting, the light caught him just so. Creedy was reading out Burns’s lines, and all Quinn could think was that he wished that Creedy would read something like that to him.
Quinn knew that he’s enough of a freak already before taking into account that he isn’t interested in women. He thought people could live with that, if he didn’t also have an interest in men. He wished that it were less of a purely academic interest, but he got into enough fights as it was, anything obvious would probably mean he’d have to spend every waking moment watching his back, rather than every other one.
He knew all of that and still he wanted. It wasn’t only his prick talking, for once - he’d really hated being twelve but fourteen was a lot better - it was all of him.
Creedy carried on reading, Scottish brogue rolling over Quinn, soothing and inflaming at the same time.
It was a stupid time to be having a revelation, and an even worse person to be having it about. Why Creedy? Yes, he was good-looking, what with the hair and the accent and the way his entire face seemed to crease up when he smiled. And yes, he was kind, sort of, and more importantly, he was sympathetic to Quinn’s cause, his and the Professor’s grand cause, which mattered so much to Quinn, but he was also his best mate. His only friend, if Quinn was being honest, because the Prof wasn’t a friend, he was the nearest thing Quinn had had to a Dad even before the dragons came. He couldn’t fuck up what he had with Creedy, not for anything. No matter how much he wanted whatever anything was.
Quinn rested his head in his crossed arms on the desk. His left hand hung over the edge of the desk and held onto the poetry book they were reading from, thumb keeping the right page open. He’d raise his head and read when he heard his name being called.
He knew he looked ridiculous, but it was this or walking out of the class, laughing at himself, and this was less disruptive. It could only happen to him.
Quinn hated poetry.
