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rainbowfic2019-11-20 09:24 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-11-20 09:24 pm
Acanthus #11 [Divide and Rule/Heroes of the Revolution]
Name: Dropping the Baton
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #11 (baton)
Supplies and Styles: Seed beads
Word Count: 1117
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: 1956, 1959, 1988; Ronald Whittaker, Julia Graves, Edward Iveson, Charles Terrell (The prompt connection is purely metaphorical this time. This almost gets up to what was the original main canon, so history is very AU by that point.)
Summary: Ron is the missing link in the chain, more times than one.
***
1956
“Mr Whittaker, isn’t it?” says Julia Iveson, meeting him at the door. “Come in. I’m afraid Edward will be late. He rang five minutes ago to say that Mr Harding has detained him, but he won’t be much longer.”
Ron who’s already nervous enough at being invited to dinner by a cabinet minister, lets her usher him in and stands awkwardly in the centre of the living room, decorated in cream and green, waiting while she offers him a drink, and then rifles through the cabinet, trying to find the sherry.
“Someone must have moved it,” she says. “I’m usually much more organised.” She throws him a laughing look, as if to give to the lie to that last statement, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to believe.
Julia moves away suddenly, to where a young girl is poking her head round the door. “Oh, darling, sorry. I was coming back for you. You didn’t run away from Mrs Crosbie, did you?” She takes the child’s hand, and gives Ron a sheepish look. “I hope you don’t mind. Emily didn’t want to go to bed without saying hello to our visitor. Emily, this is Mr Whittaker, who is a Member of Parliament, but we mustn’t hold that against him.”
Ron, on the spot, smiles at Emily, and is unexpectedly pleased when she gives him a small, shy smile in response.
An elderly woman, presumably Mrs Crosbie, comes in then, shaking her head over Emily’s escape and leads her away back upstairs.
In the silence that follows Emily’s departure, the sound of the front door being pushed open sounds louder than it should and both Ron and Julia look up, hearing it click shut again and the muffled sound of footsteps outside.
“Excuse me,” says Julia, as she darts out into the hallway, pulling the door to after her. “Your guest is here,” he hears her say, while he turns about in the room, still minus a drink. He studies the old photographs on the wall. Iveson’s family at a guess. There’s a definite resemblance to him, but nobody who looks like Julia.
What Iveson says in response is lost in the rustle of their movements, but Julia adds, “You have got it, haven’t you?” And then, “You look tired, darling. I’ll have to have words with Mr Harding.”
Ron hears the door pushed open and swings around to face Iveson, who gives him a small smile, and then frowns. “Didn’t Julia offer you a drink?”
Ron’s here to learn more about policies and the arcane ways of Westminster, but instead he feels a stab of envy: never mind the rest, he wants this.
1959
Ron’s not had much to do with Iveson since falling in with Hallam’s crowd – Iveson’s far too moderate for their tastes – but now meeting him is painfully awkward. Ron doesn’t want to see him again, let alone speak to him. Spotting him across the room, he starts to make his escape, nodding to Harding and exchanging a few words with Mrs Foyle on his way to the door.
He keeps his gaze carefully averted from Iveson, and thinks he’s made it, but he finds Iveson stepping directly into his path. Damn the man.
“Whittaker,” says Iveson, his voice low but still audible despite the crowd. “I’ve been trying to catch you for a week now. It’s vital, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
Ron raises his head. He should be discreet, put up a polite front, lie about making space in the diary tomorrow, but the memory of his last meeting with Tom and Jemmings is still fresh in his mind and he can’t hide his distaste. “I’d rather not. Sir.”
“Vital,” Iveson says again quietly; unmoving.
Ron shrugs and angles himself away from him, impatient at Iveson’s refusal to acknowledge his dislike. “I’m in Tom Hallam’s full confidence,” he says in an undertone, leaning forward. “I’m not sure I approve of his behaviour right now, either, but the one thing I do know is that I want nothing more to do with you.”
“I see,” says Iveson, and weariness falls over him. He gazes past Ron and then back to him. “Nevertheless, it doesn’t alter the fact. I need to speak to you. When will be convenient?”
Ron steps back and forgets, for once, the deference that’s due to Iveson as Foreign Secretary. He swears at him, turns his back on him, and walks away. Iveson is a traitor and there’s nothing he can have to say to him. If he hadn’t given his word to Tom, he’d go right ahead and tell the authorities. He wishes he could, but he’ll at least have nothing to do with Iveson in private.
1988
“Have you given it any thought?” Ron asks, and coughs. Time hasn’t been kind. It isn’t as a rule, especially not when you’ve spent a couple of decades engaged in an underground movement. It plays havoc with the nerves. “Taking over the operation, that is?”
Charles Terrell frowns and shrugs. “Of course, but there must be someone else. I’m back in my job again, but I’ve been arrested half a dozen times. They’ve got their eye on me.”
“It ought to be you,” says Ron. “Do you know how few of us there are left of that last elected government? Only you and me – and Woodfield and a couple more of his cronies, but they’re with Hallam.”
Charles stands, straightening himself. “It hardly matters. It’s the other lot who’ll take over if we win and you’re not around. Arran. Colonel Seaton. Whatever his name is. Not me. Thank God.” He turns back to look at Ron. “You ever wonder if it would all have been different if you’d gone to see Iveson that night, not me?”
Whittaker presses himself back against his armchair and lets his mind drift away into the past. He’s been doing that a lot lately, one way or another. He remembers the explosion. Julia, the last time he saw her, sitting across the table from him in that prison. Charles, staggering out of Thames House while Ron waited on the steps below. Too many people he’s seen in too many prisons, protected himself by his friendship with Tom. God, if Tom knew exactly what he’d been doing all this time, there’d be further explosions. He’s bad enough when Ron argues with him in Council.
“Not in the way you mean,” Ron says eventually. “I’d never have believed him, not then. But it would have spared you most of those spells in prison, and for that I’m sorry.” He raises his cup of blackberry tea to Charles. “My belated apologies, old thing.”
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #11 (baton)
Supplies and Styles: Seed beads
Word Count: 1117
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: 1956, 1959, 1988; Ronald Whittaker, Julia Graves, Edward Iveson, Charles Terrell (The prompt connection is purely metaphorical this time. This almost gets up to what was the original main canon, so history is very AU by that point.)
Summary: Ron is the missing link in the chain, more times than one.
***
1956
“Mr Whittaker, isn’t it?” says Julia Iveson, meeting him at the door. “Come in. I’m afraid Edward will be late. He rang five minutes ago to say that Mr Harding has detained him, but he won’t be much longer.”
Ron who’s already nervous enough at being invited to dinner by a cabinet minister, lets her usher him in and stands awkwardly in the centre of the living room, decorated in cream and green, waiting while she offers him a drink, and then rifles through the cabinet, trying to find the sherry.
“Someone must have moved it,” she says. “I’m usually much more organised.” She throws him a laughing look, as if to give to the lie to that last statement, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to believe.
Julia moves away suddenly, to where a young girl is poking her head round the door. “Oh, darling, sorry. I was coming back for you. You didn’t run away from Mrs Crosbie, did you?” She takes the child’s hand, and gives Ron a sheepish look. “I hope you don’t mind. Emily didn’t want to go to bed without saying hello to our visitor. Emily, this is Mr Whittaker, who is a Member of Parliament, but we mustn’t hold that against him.”
Ron, on the spot, smiles at Emily, and is unexpectedly pleased when she gives him a small, shy smile in response.
An elderly woman, presumably Mrs Crosbie, comes in then, shaking her head over Emily’s escape and leads her away back upstairs.
In the silence that follows Emily’s departure, the sound of the front door being pushed open sounds louder than it should and both Ron and Julia look up, hearing it click shut again and the muffled sound of footsteps outside.
“Excuse me,” says Julia, as she darts out into the hallway, pulling the door to after her. “Your guest is here,” he hears her say, while he turns about in the room, still minus a drink. He studies the old photographs on the wall. Iveson’s family at a guess. There’s a definite resemblance to him, but nobody who looks like Julia.
What Iveson says in response is lost in the rustle of their movements, but Julia adds, “You have got it, haven’t you?” And then, “You look tired, darling. I’ll have to have words with Mr Harding.”
Ron hears the door pushed open and swings around to face Iveson, who gives him a small smile, and then frowns. “Didn’t Julia offer you a drink?”
Ron’s here to learn more about policies and the arcane ways of Westminster, but instead he feels a stab of envy: never mind the rest, he wants this.
1959
Ron’s not had much to do with Iveson since falling in with Hallam’s crowd – Iveson’s far too moderate for their tastes – but now meeting him is painfully awkward. Ron doesn’t want to see him again, let alone speak to him. Spotting him across the room, he starts to make his escape, nodding to Harding and exchanging a few words with Mrs Foyle on his way to the door.
He keeps his gaze carefully averted from Iveson, and thinks he’s made it, but he finds Iveson stepping directly into his path. Damn the man.
“Whittaker,” says Iveson, his voice low but still audible despite the crowd. “I’ve been trying to catch you for a week now. It’s vital, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
Ron raises his head. He should be discreet, put up a polite front, lie about making space in the diary tomorrow, but the memory of his last meeting with Tom and Jemmings is still fresh in his mind and he can’t hide his distaste. “I’d rather not. Sir.”
“Vital,” Iveson says again quietly; unmoving.
Ron shrugs and angles himself away from him, impatient at Iveson’s refusal to acknowledge his dislike. “I’m in Tom Hallam’s full confidence,” he says in an undertone, leaning forward. “I’m not sure I approve of his behaviour right now, either, but the one thing I do know is that I want nothing more to do with you.”
“I see,” says Iveson, and weariness falls over him. He gazes past Ron and then back to him. “Nevertheless, it doesn’t alter the fact. I need to speak to you. When will be convenient?”
Ron steps back and forgets, for once, the deference that’s due to Iveson as Foreign Secretary. He swears at him, turns his back on him, and walks away. Iveson is a traitor and there’s nothing he can have to say to him. If he hadn’t given his word to Tom, he’d go right ahead and tell the authorities. He wishes he could, but he’ll at least have nothing to do with Iveson in private.
1988
“Have you given it any thought?” Ron asks, and coughs. Time hasn’t been kind. It isn’t as a rule, especially not when you’ve spent a couple of decades engaged in an underground movement. It plays havoc with the nerves. “Taking over the operation, that is?”
Charles Terrell frowns and shrugs. “Of course, but there must be someone else. I’m back in my job again, but I’ve been arrested half a dozen times. They’ve got their eye on me.”
“It ought to be you,” says Ron. “Do you know how few of us there are left of that last elected government? Only you and me – and Woodfield and a couple more of his cronies, but they’re with Hallam.”
Charles stands, straightening himself. “It hardly matters. It’s the other lot who’ll take over if we win and you’re not around. Arran. Colonel Seaton. Whatever his name is. Not me. Thank God.” He turns back to look at Ron. “You ever wonder if it would all have been different if you’d gone to see Iveson that night, not me?”
Whittaker presses himself back against his armchair and lets his mind drift away into the past. He’s been doing that a lot lately, one way or another. He remembers the explosion. Julia, the last time he saw her, sitting across the table from him in that prison. Charles, staggering out of Thames House while Ron waited on the steps below. Too many people he’s seen in too many prisons, protected himself by his friendship with Tom. God, if Tom knew exactly what he’d been doing all this time, there’d be further explosions. He’s bad enough when Ron argues with him in Council.
“Not in the way you mean,” Ron says eventually. “I’d never have believed him, not then. But it would have spared you most of those spells in prison, and for that I’m sorry.” He raises his cup of blackberry tea to Charles. “My belated apologies, old thing.”
***
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