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gattycatRight, totally missed that I had something in the drafts for this prompt, so here you go, I fling you something unfinished, part of a longer, unposted fic, for all the fans of messed up Algy/vS
Algy/vS 467 words
Some messed up role play because it's easier to have weird sex with someone you hate than consider what's going on with your own emotions.
Algy opens the wardrobe and pulls out the suitcase from the bottom that still smells like cordite and bitumen and lays it open across the bedroom floor, breathing erratically.
The uniform still fits.
It has been ten years since he last wore it, and he thought he must have changed in that time, but as he slips on the shirt and fixes the Sam Browne belt across the maternity tunic, he finds he has not changed half as much as he might have hoped.
There is a noise in the sitting room. Foot steps, the clinking of glasses.
Von Stalhein is back.
Good.
If Algy were a better man he would learn to name his feelings, to give them their due and let them pass on; but he is, in some part, forever seventeen. Terrified and exhilarated and sure the world will end before he needs to worry about the consequences of his actions. His feelings are, more often than he would care to admit, a confusing, blurred land, made up of impulse and exhaustion and a desire to put his hand into the flame.
In the mirror he combs his hair back into the style he remembers, straightens cap on his head. The brim hides his eyes, and when he turns the light off, he is reduced to a shape, a lithe frame, a uniform, deep set eyes. Only his hands are wrong, too broad and blunt.
Through the half open bedroom door, he watches Von Stalhein move about the flat, picking up dirty dishes and stacking discarded books, until he is at last done and comes to bed.
Algy retreats to the bathroom, palms sweating, and waits, bathed in shadow.
Von Stalhein comes in, shuts the door and shrugs off his jacket. The long line of his lithely muscled back is clear beneath his shirt, and next he shucks his tie, letting the collar fall open.
Algy steels himself.
‘Turn off the light,’ he orders.
He modulates his voice as best he can. It is a voice he has heard most every day of his adult life - and before - and it is uncanny how easy it is to slip on, as though he has ever only existed as the shadow of another man.
Von Stalhein frowns, straightens, looks round. ‘Lacey?’
‘I said, turn off the light.’
He has got it right this time.
An almost visible shudder passes through von Stalhein, who does not speak, only reaches out one hand to the wall switch and presses it.
They are in darkness. Through the gap in the curtains comes a soft glow of the street light below, it is enough to see the uneasy set of von Stalhein’s jaw, the way his hand clenches and unclenches.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice low and thick.
Algy/vS 467 words
Some messed up role play because it's easier to have weird sex with someone you hate than consider what's going on with your own emotions.
Algy opens the wardrobe and pulls out the suitcase from the bottom that still smells like cordite and bitumen and lays it open across the bedroom floor, breathing erratically.
The uniform still fits.
It has been ten years since he last wore it, and he thought he must have changed in that time, but as he slips on the shirt and fixes the Sam Browne belt across the maternity tunic, he finds he has not changed half as much as he might have hoped.
There is a noise in the sitting room. Foot steps, the clinking of glasses.
Von Stalhein is back.
Good.
If Algy were a better man he would learn to name his feelings, to give them their due and let them pass on; but he is, in some part, forever seventeen. Terrified and exhilarated and sure the world will end before he needs to worry about the consequences of his actions. His feelings are, more often than he would care to admit, a confusing, blurred land, made up of impulse and exhaustion and a desire to put his hand into the flame.
In the mirror he combs his hair back into the style he remembers, straightens cap on his head. The brim hides his eyes, and when he turns the light off, he is reduced to a shape, a lithe frame, a uniform, deep set eyes. Only his hands are wrong, too broad and blunt.
Through the half open bedroom door, he watches Von Stalhein move about the flat, picking up dirty dishes and stacking discarded books, until he is at last done and comes to bed.
Algy retreats to the bathroom, palms sweating, and waits, bathed in shadow.
Von Stalhein comes in, shuts the door and shrugs off his jacket. The long line of his lithely muscled back is clear beneath his shirt, and next he shucks his tie, letting the collar fall open.
Algy steels himself.
‘Turn off the light,’ he orders.
He modulates his voice as best he can. It is a voice he has heard most every day of his adult life - and before - and it is uncanny how easy it is to slip on, as though he has ever only existed as the shadow of another man.
Von Stalhein frowns, straightens, looks round. ‘Lacey?’
‘I said, turn off the light.’
He has got it right this time.
An almost visible shudder passes through von Stalhein, who does not speak, only reaches out one hand to the wall switch and presses it.
They are in darkness. Through the gap in the curtains comes a soft glow of the street light below, it is enough to see the uneasy set of von Stalhein’s jaw, the way his hand clenches and unclenches.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice low and thick.
