Current mood:	content
Current music:	Tom Lehr, 'Poisoning Pigeons In The Park'

Greetings and drabbles
Yo all, I'm Eli, it's a pleasure to meet you. I was going to do an audaciously alliterative announcement of arrival...but I realized I kind of suck at alliteration. ^^ Nevertheless.

I mostly write slash with a dash of (rare) het, and as I see that fic of all stripes is welcome here, may I present two Dominic/Finch drabbles and one sort-of Evey/Finch.

Both are movie-canon (I haven't actually read the GN), 150 words long, and self-contained (i.e. no overflow from one drabble to the next.)

Incidentally, the playwright referenced in #3 is indeed Federico Garcia Lorca, partially because I fangirl Lorca to a ridiculous degree, and partially because I think Finch would sympathize with Lorca's "Oh God civilization is slime and wires and people SUCK" poetry.



#1: November 4 a.m.

The angry red numerals on his bedside clock read 4 a.m.; outside, the wind is screaming against the walls. Screaming like every victim of the Fingermen, like the test subjects must have screamed at Larkhill, and good God, doesn’t the screaming ever stop? He doesn’t think so. In the back of his mind is the sure and certain knowledge that he’d be screaming if the Party, if anyone, had any idea of - this. Whatever this is; he hasn’t figured that out yet. Relationship, mutual need? He wonders if he’ll have time to figure it out before Creedy does, before the black bags come down and damn them both. Beside him, Dominic mumbles in his sleep and rolls over, seeking the creature comforts of the older man’s warmth. Finch drapes an arm around him, listens to the screaming, and tries not to wonder how long this fragile peace will hold.

#2: Untitled

Mrs. Evey Finch, nee Hammond, has a quiet life these days. The newspapers have long since tired of seeking every salacious detail about her life as a terrorist’s moll, although the occasional keen newshound does turn up. She fobs them off with details and plays the devoted wife at social functions; she reflects with bitter irony how well she was taught to play a role, as she pours herself a drink from the bottle of scotch her husband keeps in the drawer. A motif straight from the hard-boiled detective novels she used to read, back when things were simpler and she wasn‘t married to a man who was never home. She is happy, she tells herself as the liquid burns her throat. Her husband is successful. Her future is assured. Her life is not in danger.
She doesn’t let herself think of V anymore, except for every day or two.

#3: Uneasy Lies The Head

Five years have passed now since that November Fifth, (and Once Five Years Pass, isn’t that a play by that dead gay Spanish bloke that Eric likes?), but still Inspector Finch doesn’t sleep the sleep of the just. He wakes in the early hours of the morning, shaking, the memories spreading through his mind like the St. Mary’s virus, and about as poisonous. Dominic holds him through the tremors, rubbing his back; his lips murmur meaningless assurances as he carefully doesn’t enunciate the hate on his mind. He does hate that grinning madman, hates him even though he’s been dead for so long, even though he provided the catalyst to overthrow the Party. Dominic hates V even now because he knows, so acutely, that no matter how close he holds his partner through the nightmares, some part of Eric Finch will always be out there in the darkness chasing V.


Concrit adored, all feedback treasured.

Cheers!

Eli :D