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15 Mar 2014 11:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ieuneName: ieune
Title: Clouds on the Horizon.
Rating & Warnings: Gen & mild swearing.
Summary: Is life a series of chance occurrances, or is there a plan?
Note: prompt: subway diver pic
WC: 587
A/N: Ze leetle grey cells produced 4 scenarios for this, but this was the one I could prune back without sacrificing too much essential detail and still have it make sense.
It's also first time writing this character and so it feel 'thin' to me.
“Bloody hell, JJ, what happened?”
Jimce Jâcob Sarre, universally known as JJ, twisted awkwardly and shaded his eyes with the hand not holding a lit cigarette to view the speaker stumping across the sand.
“Terry! Mouôn Doue! What the devil brings you to these shores?” He leaped to his feet and met his fellow Royal Navy Clearance Diver a couple of paces outside the penumbra of the little open-faced tent he’d created from a blanket and the stripy windbreak.
Terry pumped his hand in an excess of enthusiasm and grinned. “Bloody hell, man, tell me all those aren’t yours!”
JJ glanced to where two little bundles lay sleeping on a petassoun in the shade; the third had kicked off his blanket and was playing with his toes in total absorption. “They’re not all mine.”
“Ha! Joker! Seriously.”
They strolled back and looked down on the next generation. JJ raised his cigarette but didn’t put it in his mouth. “The one wondering what his toes are is Darri, he’s a friend’s five monther. The one sucking his fist (he indicated the swaddled bundle in the middle) is Jimce, and---
“Named for you, then?”
JJ smiled. “That’s what Lîs wanted. She named our eldest Jâcob.”
Terry looked around the sandy expanse, narrowing his eyes against the dazzling whiteness. “You’ve lost him, then. Unless I’m missing something?”
JJ pinched his cigarette out and dropped the stub in his pocket. “Nan, man vyi, he’s with his Manman---his grannie, he added,” when Terry blinked. “She’s teaching him his letters and numbers while Lîs has a nap.”
The sly grin that JJ recalled of old crept up Terry’s face. “And being the only one not working, you got lumbered with the babies?”
A sensation akin to probing an imperfectly healed wound shot down his right side. “Lumbered? Nan. It’s a privilege. So, what brings you out here? Pull up a patch of sand.” He sank easily to a cross-legged position where he could keep an eye on the infants while Terry grunted and puffed his way down to sitting. Odd to think they were of an age. Terry wasn’t wearing well.
Brouay’s motherless little tot threw herself over, toeing sand over Jimce, who promptly screwed up his face and grizzled. JJ picked him up, ‘chu chu’d’ him and delicately puffled away every grain. Satisfied, he cradled his son at his shoulder.
Terry rambled on, and picking out specks of information, JJ deduced his fellow ‘pressure head’ hadn’t completed his twenty-two, but been invalided out at fifteen and gone into teaching instead. One of his pupils had gone into film work and the current project needed a couple of divers experienced in deep sea clearance work. And he came to pick your brains, and you came to pick mine.
“It’s for some disaster film they’re making. New York gets flooded and these divers have to go down into the subway.”
“What for?” His namesake resumed his appreciation of his fist; JJ smiled. “Greedy-guts,” he murmured, smoothing the shock of dark hair.
“Because it’s in the plot?”
“Mmm.” The subway wasn’t deep enough for the kind of clearance work he and Terry had specialised in. And besides, Terry could just as easily give them an opinion. There was more to this than his oppo was letting on. There had to be some good reason for him to leave his cushy life in the Adriatic and traipse across to Jersey, and throwing him a bone was not it. So, how to ferret it out…
Title: Clouds on the Horizon.
Rating & Warnings: Gen & mild swearing.
Summary: Is life a series of chance occurrances, or is there a plan?
Note: prompt: subway diver pic
WC: 587
A/N: Ze leetle grey cells produced 4 scenarios for this, but this was the one I could prune back without sacrificing too much essential detail and still have it make sense.
It's also first time writing this character and so it feel 'thin' to me.
“Bloody hell, JJ, what happened?”
Jimce Jâcob Sarre, universally known as JJ, twisted awkwardly and shaded his eyes with the hand not holding a lit cigarette to view the speaker stumping across the sand.
“Terry! Mouôn Doue! What the devil brings you to these shores?” He leaped to his feet and met his fellow Royal Navy Clearance Diver a couple of paces outside the penumbra of the little open-faced tent he’d created from a blanket and the stripy windbreak.
Terry pumped his hand in an excess of enthusiasm and grinned. “Bloody hell, man, tell me all those aren’t yours!”
JJ glanced to where two little bundles lay sleeping on a petassoun in the shade; the third had kicked off his blanket and was playing with his toes in total absorption. “They’re not all mine.”
“Ha! Joker! Seriously.”
They strolled back and looked down on the next generation. JJ raised his cigarette but didn’t put it in his mouth. “The one wondering what his toes are is Darri, he’s a friend’s five monther. The one sucking his fist (he indicated the swaddled bundle in the middle) is Jimce, and---
“Named for you, then?”
JJ smiled. “That’s what Lîs wanted. She named our eldest Jâcob.”
Terry looked around the sandy expanse, narrowing his eyes against the dazzling whiteness. “You’ve lost him, then. Unless I’m missing something?”
JJ pinched his cigarette out and dropped the stub in his pocket. “Nan, man vyi, he’s with his Manman---his grannie, he added,” when Terry blinked. “She’s teaching him his letters and numbers while Lîs has a nap.”
The sly grin that JJ recalled of old crept up Terry’s face. “And being the only one not working, you got lumbered with the babies?”
A sensation akin to probing an imperfectly healed wound shot down his right side. “Lumbered? Nan. It’s a privilege. So, what brings you out here? Pull up a patch of sand.” He sank easily to a cross-legged position where he could keep an eye on the infants while Terry grunted and puffed his way down to sitting. Odd to think they were of an age. Terry wasn’t wearing well.
Brouay’s motherless little tot threw herself over, toeing sand over Jimce, who promptly screwed up his face and grizzled. JJ picked him up, ‘chu chu’d’ him and delicately puffled away every grain. Satisfied, he cradled his son at his shoulder.
Terry rambled on, and picking out specks of information, JJ deduced his fellow ‘pressure head’ hadn’t completed his twenty-two, but been invalided out at fifteen and gone into teaching instead. One of his pupils had gone into film work and the current project needed a couple of divers experienced in deep sea clearance work. And he came to pick your brains, and you came to pick mine.
“It’s for some disaster film they’re making. New York gets flooded and these divers have to go down into the subway.”
“What for?” His namesake resumed his appreciation of his fist; JJ smiled. “Greedy-guts,” he murmured, smoothing the shock of dark hair.
“Because it’s in the plot?”
“Mmm.” The subway wasn’t deep enough for the kind of clearance work he and Terry had specialised in. And besides, Terry could just as easily give them an opinion. There was more to this than his oppo was letting on. There had to be some good reason for him to leave his cushy life in the Adriatic and traipse across to Jersey, and throwing him a bone was not it. So, how to ferret it out…