Discovered in the Holly and the Ivy: Day 27 Fic: R is for

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

The following is not exactly seasonal; in fact it's downright vile in every way and has absolutely no business turning up in a holiday collection. But … it's never the wrong time for the women and men of our dreams to be righting a few wrongs here and there, I hope? I'm also well aware that in reality by far the most commonly used drug in this situation is simply added alcohol. Hope I might be forgiven nonetheless, both for that and for possibly the least seasonal fic ever!

Huge thanks to bsl for beta which has vastly improved my horribleness; all extant horribleness, nastability and vile-atude plus all remaining red-pencilability is mine and mine alone.

R is for

The place was some sort of a cross between a pub and a wine bar; just upmarket enough for the after-work city crowd, still enough like a local to attract a few locals … a betwixt and between sort of a place. Relaxed, but anonymous, and everybody getting into that careless christmas mood too. Nobody would remember his face.

Gary Anderson knew he was a nice guy. OK so he wasn't Mr. Universe or anything, but he was a nice guy – which any woman could see if they weren't too busy cutting him dead to go and slaver over some prick with a big car and a bigger wallet. Yeah, but women – they were all just shallow, stuck-up bitches really. They thought they were too good for someone like Gary. They didn't get it that he was a nice guy.

But he would show them. Yeah, he would show some toffee-nosed cow who was in charge, teach her not to brush him off.

There were three women sitting at a table against the far wall. The one in the middle would do. She had short hair – ugly, that, but never mind – and she was drinking something that looked like whisky. Probably thought it made her look tough, or she was some kind of feminazi bitch, probably a dyke or something. The other two weren't worth bothering with – they were old, jesus, so fucking old, they must be like fifty at least, what did they think they were doing out in a place like this? Should be at home getting their husbands' dinner ready, except Gary would bet they didn't have husbands. Loser dyke bitches.

The rest of the crowd were mostly youngish, a few older blokes ... couple of old geezers propping up the bar in the corner, christ this place must be going downhill …

Stroke of luck. One of the two old crones seemed to be looking at him, and maybe it reminded her of something – whatever it was, they all had a natter and looked at their watches and then the two of them got up and headed for the door. They nodded to the old geezers on their way out, and one of them raised his glass and said something as they went past, and they both laughed. His mate rolled his eyes, and then the two oldies were laughing together. Probably laughing at those two old cows, Gary thought. Disgusting, really, old women in a place like this. Ugly.

Gary went over to the bar – it was crowded, he had to shove in a bit between one of the old blokes, the one with the curly hair, and a bunch of yuppie types – and ordered two whiskies, keeping an eye on the younger woman sitting alone now. Reading something. The barman turned his back to get Gary his change from the till, and it only took a moment to reach into his pocket, open the vial and pour a small amount into the glass on the right. So easy. Working behind the counter at a pharmacy meant he had to spend his whole fucking week being polite to a bunch of ugly old bats wanting cough medicine and fat cows buying nappies for their brats, and stupid little tarts who'd come in and buy make-up to fool the stupid little pricks who'd come in and buy condoms - but at least it had a few perks.

He had the lid screwed back on and the vial back in his pocket just as the barman came back with his change. He knew exactly how this was going to go – she'd act like she was doing him such a huge fucking favour drinking his whisky, that he'd paid for, but if he insisted a bit she'd take a free drink, the little tart. And she'd be laughing out the other side of her face once he got her out of there and into his car … quick detour to a quiet car-park, have a bit of fun, dump her there after, then back to his place and nobody any the wiser. And when she woke up, she wouldn't remember what he looked like, stupid cow. She'd know what'd happened, though, oh yeah. He was going to mark her up good and proper, too, so she'd never forget.

He’d gone to put his change in his pocket and pick up the two glasses, when the old bloke beside him – clumsy idiot – went and lost his grip on his walking stick; it fell almost between Gary's feet and damn near tripped him up. The old man was fussing and making a big performance out of getting down from his bar stool – and the other bloke was leaning across and getting in the way – so Gary bent down quickly and picked up the stick himself to save time; he gave it back with a scowl, and the old geezer thanked him and fussed a bit more while his friend got in the way and almost tipped over one of Gary's glasses of whisky while he was about it, and then he was all apologies and straightening the glasses and the other bloke was straightening Gary's jacket and getting in the way and jesus you had to wonder who let them out they bloody well ought to be in a home or something.

Geriatric old fools, blind as bats. Gary got hold of his two glasses of whisky at last and went over to the woman's table. Carefully offered her the one in his right hand; always the one on the right, always the same, easier to remember that way.

A line or two about how she was too pretty to be drinking alone – he had to work at it a bit, but he got her to take the whisky at last and he sat opposite and drank his own, watching for when she'd start to slur a bit. Gary made sure to polish off his own glass quickly, so he'd be ready to help her solicitously to the door when she started to fade …

Seemed to be taking a while. He hoped it wouldn't be long now, it was hot in here, too bloody hot, it was making him sleepy, he needed a bit of fresh air… funny, he hadn't noticed, the two old geezers had come wandering over to their table… what were they talking to this little cow about? And the old women were back, when the hell had that happened? They’d come out of nowhere too, and they were all talking … something about a doctor. He didn't need a doctor. Who the hell was Dr. Ross anyway, and none of the words made any sense, probably can't talk properly round their dentures or something, any of 'em …

The old bloke with the hair, the one who'd dropped his stick and fussed over Gary's jacket, he was holding something up for the others to look at … looked awfully like one of Gary's vials from the pharmacy, but he was holding it inside a clear plastic bag, what was that about? … and the one with the dark grey hair was pointing at the whisky glasses. There was something funny about his eyebrows, had Gary seen him before somewhere …? But Gary couldn't hold on to the thought. He really needed some fresh air now.

Shit, he was completely drifting off, fuck it that wasn't right! Got to get his head back in the game, got to … what were they all doing here, laughing about … something? They were all laughing but it didn't sound funny, didn't sound like a joke at all. He could feel somebody was … was somebody writing on his face? And when had he shut his eyes anyway? He forced them open, and there were angry laughing faces looming all around him.

Gary's eyes were drifting shut again despite himself, when he heard somebody talking. It didn't make sense, none of this made any sense. Nobody knew what he looked like, nobody had ever seen him …

It was a woman's voice, sounding oddly far away: “Never mind writing it, this bastard deserves to have it tattooed all over him”. And then one of the old blokes chiming in: “Permanent warning, like? That's his MO, really. Tempting, mind”. And the other one: “How about just sending him down for life”.

And a woman's voice, at the end, he couldn't tell which one: “As long as he never ever fucking gets the chance to try this again”.

Who, me? But that's not right, Gary thought. Not me, I'm a nice guy.

Comments

[shooting2kill.livejournal.com]

I didn't actually set out to write something horrible and vile like Gary, but it just kind of suggested itself

He was, wasn't he?! And worrying to think there are people out there actually like that.

It's always so good to find stories with a new take on the lads, a new angle, and this was one of them! Very, very readable. Thanks so much.

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

There are, and I'm sure that (for all their sometimes dodgy attitudes!) our lads would rightly loathe and despise outright abusers like this. Fisher and Dr. Ross had been consulted by their younger colleague about this ongoing case, I think, and had the idea of bringing their old friends in on the sting - and the lads were delighted to put their leisure as retired civil servants to good use :-)

Thank you very much for the lovely comment!