![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
A couple of Biggles prompt fics
*surfaces from the Depths with a couple of ficlets from Tumblr*
1. Prompt from Anonymous:
If you're still taking prompts for Biggles - then Bertie, Algy and Fritz on a hunting weekend in Chedcombe? Maybe make it a casefic where there's robbers/spies/murderers? I imagine Fritz being a very skilled horseman, like his uncle :D
500 wds, posted on Tumblr here
Fritz had been uncertain and shy about the weekend's invitation, but after a slightly awkward car ride and even more awkward introduction to the Chedcombe staff, he was charmed immediately by the horses.
"We've a quiet old lass in the stables here, Lady is her name, you might enjoy her," Bertie suggested, while Fritz was making friends with all the horses, petting and talking to them.
"Oh, but I like this one very much," Fritz said, stroking a silky equine nose. "He's beautiful. I would very much like to ride him. What is his name, please?"
"That's Jupiter, old boy, he might be a bit much for a novice rider, but let's see if he's been getting his daily gallop, what?"
The groom saddled the horses for them. Fritz listened avidly to Bertie's explanations, mounted with a little awkwardness but sat his saddle proudly, adjusting his grip on the reins swiftly at a word from Bertie.
"Let's walk him round a bit, what? Good form, lad," Bertie said happily. "You've ridden before?"
"Only a little. There wasn't much opportunity back home."
"Chip off the old block, I say," Bertie declared, and Fritz flushed and ducked his head. Meanwhile, Algy mounted up on the blue roan hunter he had selected for himself. After a few more turns round the paddock and some corrections to Fritz's seat, Bertie announced them ready for the gallops -- or the walking trails, at least.
"Chip off the old block, what?" Bertie repeated to Algy as they rode behind Fritz, who sat upright and natural, holding the rein self-consciously but with a relaxed grip. Several of the dogs from Bertie's kennels coursed alongside. The well-trained horses danced only a little at the dogs' presence, and Fritz, reacting almost instinctively, tugged his horse back under control when it began to prance.
"Exactly what we all hoped for," Algy said dryly, but he said it quietly, so that Fritz couldn't hear.
"I told you the lad's a natural. Jolly old Biggles doesn't know what he's missing."
"Jolly old Biggles would be bored off his head in an hour and driving the rest of us up the wall by evening."
Bertie laughed. "Right there with you, right with you. The Chief and Ginger will most likely have found an entire smuggler's den of criminals by the time we're back. Not to speak of old Erich--"
"Let's not speak of him, then," Algy said between his teeth.
But whatever Biggles, Ginger, and (regrettably, in Algy's eyes) von Stalhein might have been getting up to back in London, the Chedcombe parkland and forest lay golden-green and lovely in the afternoon sun. They flushed a pair of foxes, but Bertie called back the dogs -- "Just a married couple on a stroll, let's give 'em a little space" -- and they ended up walking the horses down to a lovely pond with ducks paddling about and pheasants on the far grass. It was a soul-soothing place after all they'd been through, and Fritz looked delighted.
2. Prompt from Anonymous:
I've read a couple presumed-dead fics where Biggles is the presumed party, but I don't think I've seen one with the reverse dynamic of Biggles thinking EvS dead and coping (or rather, not as the case may be) until the sudden revelation/reunion- which seems like something that would fit your writerly wheelhouse
In my wheelhouse indeed. :D For a longer take on this idea, I also know of a couple of Sakhalin presumed dead AUs:
• A Desperate Execution by Philomytha
• But At What Price by me
...but there is absolutely NO bad time to write presumed dead.
1000 wds, posted on Tumblr here
The item came across Biggles's desk in a stack of other reports and files. It was his habit to come into the office early and read the stack of post, analysts' reports, and other items flagged for his attention over a cup of tea before the others got there. When Algy came in, however, it was to find him staring into space, the dregs of his tea going cold at his elbow.
"Something wrong?" Algy asked, taking his jacket off. Then, getting a better look at his cousin's face, he amended it with more concern. "Bad news?"
"What? Oh—no, nothing, I ..." Biggles jerked a little, as if coming back to himself. "A piece of international news that caught me by surprise, that's all." He shuffled the papers he had been looking at into a stack.
"Anything the rest of us should be worried about?"
"No—no, just ... a surprise," Biggles repeated, and as Algy continued to look at him with concern, Biggles hastily opened another file, almost at random.
He continued to be distracted all morning, occasionally missing the others' comments, staring uncomprehendingly rather than laughing at jokes. After a while, Algy went and sat on the edge of Biggles's desk, eyeing his oldest friend and disliking the pallor he saw, a drawn look that made him think uncomfortably of Biggles in wartime. "If you're feeling under the weather, go home. We have things in hand here."
"I'm perfectly well," Biggles said with a surliness that suggested to Algy he wasn't.
"Right," Algy said, hopping off the desk only to take Biggles by the elbow. "Time for lunch. Hold down the fort, lads."
"Wait a minute, we're hungry too!" Ginger protested.
"Get a sandwich then!" Algy said over his shoulder.
In the hallway, Biggles drew himself up stiffly, adjusted his jacket, and said, "You're behaving very strangely."
"I'm behaving strangely? You're either about to go down with a bout of malaria or you've just heard someone died -- oh God," Algy said in a very different tone, as Biggles looked away. "It is that, isn't it?"
He didn't say anything else, but he steered Biggles, not towards the main entrance, but down the back stair that led to a small courtyard with benches. A few people were having their lunches there. Algy walked to the end and sat Biggles on a bench.
"Now look," he said, sitting beside him. "If it's anyone I know, I won't thank you to stay quiet about it. I suppose it's something awful from the way you're acting—it's not old Wilks, is it?"
"No, you've the wrong idea entirely. I knew you'd—oh well, why not." Biggles sighed and reached into his pocket, and pulled out the sheet of typewritten paper he had been reading earlier. Algy hadn't even noticed him tucking it into his pocket, folded and folded again. Algy took it and opened it, noting as he did the softness of the folds that suggested it had already been opened and refolded more than once.
It was an analyst's report; he had become familiar with the dry tone of collated reports distilled from firsthand sources. This was a brief summary about mercenary operations in the North African desert involving cargo aircraft ... an Algerian police action leaving six dead ... the names of the deceased ...
"Ah," Algy said. He laid the paper down on his knee, unsure what to say.
"It shouldn't really be as much of a surprise as all that," Biggles said quietly. "I always knew—well, that I'd see that name on this sort of list someday. I simply felt that ..." He stopped abruptly, looked off into the distance for a minute, and then said, "He was capable of better things. That's all."
Algy rather doubted that, but sensed that now was not the time to say it. "Look," he said, handing back the paper. "D'you suppose there's a—a next of kin, or something?"
Biggles folded up the page with an odd sort of care, handling it gently as if the typewritten sheet of bond meant something to him. "I suppose there must be," he said, looking a little more focused and less pale and unhappy with something to do, as Algy had known he would. "Unless all his people were lost in the war—but no, there must be someone. And they might like to hear from someone who knew him. I'll ask Major Charles about it, that's a good idea, Algy."
Lunch was a bit funereal all the same, and Algy found himself lifting a glass in a toast. "I won't pretend that I liked him," he said. "But a lonely grave in the desert's a hard end, and—and I'm sorry for it." He was a little surprised to find that he meant it, and Biggles smiled a little, the first smile all morning, and clinked glasses.
They ordered takeaway sandwiches for the others and returned to the office. As they came in, Ginger called, "A fellow from the Air Commodore's office was in and left you something, Biggles. Eyes only. Do we have a case or not?"
Biggles strode over to his desk, one hand in his pocket. He swiped up the folded slip from his desktop, opened it, and read it. Algy was close enough to see the swift flash of delight that crossed his face, all the animation that had been absent for the entire morning returning in a rush.
"Oh, it's nothing much," he said casually, and tucked it in his pocket beside the other.
Algy took the opportunity later that afternoon to slip off to the coat room during a quick trip to the loo, and was very much unsurprised by the contents of the slip.
Earlier report from Algiers in error. Five casualties, not six.
Algy replaced it carefully; he supposed it was likely to end up into some box of souvenirs in Biggles' room. So, he thought, not the end of an era after all. But after seeing Biggles that morning—quiet and dull, as if the best part of his bright energy had gone out of him—Algy discovered that he couldn't find it in himself to be too upset about it.
ETA: And don't miss the lovely Erich-POV follow-up ficlet in the comments!
1. Prompt from Anonymous:
If you're still taking prompts for Biggles - then Bertie, Algy and Fritz on a hunting weekend in Chedcombe? Maybe make it a casefic where there's robbers/spies/murderers? I imagine Fritz being a very skilled horseman, like his uncle :D
500 wds, posted on Tumblr here
Fritz had been uncertain and shy about the weekend's invitation, but after a slightly awkward car ride and even more awkward introduction to the Chedcombe staff, he was charmed immediately by the horses.
"We've a quiet old lass in the stables here, Lady is her name, you might enjoy her," Bertie suggested, while Fritz was making friends with all the horses, petting and talking to them.
"Oh, but I like this one very much," Fritz said, stroking a silky equine nose. "He's beautiful. I would very much like to ride him. What is his name, please?"
"That's Jupiter, old boy, he might be a bit much for a novice rider, but let's see if he's been getting his daily gallop, what?"
The groom saddled the horses for them. Fritz listened avidly to Bertie's explanations, mounted with a little awkwardness but sat his saddle proudly, adjusting his grip on the reins swiftly at a word from Bertie.
"Let's walk him round a bit, what? Good form, lad," Bertie said happily. "You've ridden before?"
"Only a little. There wasn't much opportunity back home."
"Chip off the old block, I say," Bertie declared, and Fritz flushed and ducked his head. Meanwhile, Algy mounted up on the blue roan hunter he had selected for himself. After a few more turns round the paddock and some corrections to Fritz's seat, Bertie announced them ready for the gallops -- or the walking trails, at least.
"Chip off the old block, what?" Bertie repeated to Algy as they rode behind Fritz, who sat upright and natural, holding the rein self-consciously but with a relaxed grip. Several of the dogs from Bertie's kennels coursed alongside. The well-trained horses danced only a little at the dogs' presence, and Fritz, reacting almost instinctively, tugged his horse back under control when it began to prance.
"Exactly what we all hoped for," Algy said dryly, but he said it quietly, so that Fritz couldn't hear.
"I told you the lad's a natural. Jolly old Biggles doesn't know what he's missing."
"Jolly old Biggles would be bored off his head in an hour and driving the rest of us up the wall by evening."
Bertie laughed. "Right there with you, right with you. The Chief and Ginger will most likely have found an entire smuggler's den of criminals by the time we're back. Not to speak of old Erich--"
"Let's not speak of him, then," Algy said between his teeth.
But whatever Biggles, Ginger, and (regrettably, in Algy's eyes) von Stalhein might have been getting up to back in London, the Chedcombe parkland and forest lay golden-green and lovely in the afternoon sun. They flushed a pair of foxes, but Bertie called back the dogs -- "Just a married couple on a stroll, let's give 'em a little space" -- and they ended up walking the horses down to a lovely pond with ducks paddling about and pheasants on the far grass. It was a soul-soothing place after all they'd been through, and Fritz looked delighted.
2. Prompt from Anonymous:
I've read a couple presumed-dead fics where Biggles is the presumed party, but I don't think I've seen one with the reverse dynamic of Biggles thinking EvS dead and coping (or rather, not as the case may be) until the sudden revelation/reunion- which seems like something that would fit your writerly wheelhouse
In my wheelhouse indeed. :D For a longer take on this idea, I also know of a couple of Sakhalin presumed dead AUs:
• A Desperate Execution by Philomytha
• But At What Price by me
...but there is absolutely NO bad time to write presumed dead.
1000 wds, posted on Tumblr here
The item came across Biggles's desk in a stack of other reports and files. It was his habit to come into the office early and read the stack of post, analysts' reports, and other items flagged for his attention over a cup of tea before the others got there. When Algy came in, however, it was to find him staring into space, the dregs of his tea going cold at his elbow.
"Something wrong?" Algy asked, taking his jacket off. Then, getting a better look at his cousin's face, he amended it with more concern. "Bad news?"
"What? Oh—no, nothing, I ..." Biggles jerked a little, as if coming back to himself. "A piece of international news that caught me by surprise, that's all." He shuffled the papers he had been looking at into a stack.
"Anything the rest of us should be worried about?"
"No—no, just ... a surprise," Biggles repeated, and as Algy continued to look at him with concern, Biggles hastily opened another file, almost at random.
He continued to be distracted all morning, occasionally missing the others' comments, staring uncomprehendingly rather than laughing at jokes. After a while, Algy went and sat on the edge of Biggles's desk, eyeing his oldest friend and disliking the pallor he saw, a drawn look that made him think uncomfortably of Biggles in wartime. "If you're feeling under the weather, go home. We have things in hand here."
"I'm perfectly well," Biggles said with a surliness that suggested to Algy he wasn't.
"Right," Algy said, hopping off the desk only to take Biggles by the elbow. "Time for lunch. Hold down the fort, lads."
"Wait a minute, we're hungry too!" Ginger protested.
"Get a sandwich then!" Algy said over his shoulder.
In the hallway, Biggles drew himself up stiffly, adjusted his jacket, and said, "You're behaving very strangely."
"I'm behaving strangely? You're either about to go down with a bout of malaria or you've just heard someone died -- oh God," Algy said in a very different tone, as Biggles looked away. "It is that, isn't it?"
He didn't say anything else, but he steered Biggles, not towards the main entrance, but down the back stair that led to a small courtyard with benches. A few people were having their lunches there. Algy walked to the end and sat Biggles on a bench.
"Now look," he said, sitting beside him. "If it's anyone I know, I won't thank you to stay quiet about it. I suppose it's something awful from the way you're acting—it's not old Wilks, is it?"
"No, you've the wrong idea entirely. I knew you'd—oh well, why not." Biggles sighed and reached into his pocket, and pulled out the sheet of typewritten paper he had been reading earlier. Algy hadn't even noticed him tucking it into his pocket, folded and folded again. Algy took it and opened it, noting as he did the softness of the folds that suggested it had already been opened and refolded more than once.
It was an analyst's report; he had become familiar with the dry tone of collated reports distilled from firsthand sources. This was a brief summary about mercenary operations in the North African desert involving cargo aircraft ... an Algerian police action leaving six dead ... the names of the deceased ...
"Ah," Algy said. He laid the paper down on his knee, unsure what to say.
"It shouldn't really be as much of a surprise as all that," Biggles said quietly. "I always knew—well, that I'd see that name on this sort of list someday. I simply felt that ..." He stopped abruptly, looked off into the distance for a minute, and then said, "He was capable of better things. That's all."
Algy rather doubted that, but sensed that now was not the time to say it. "Look," he said, handing back the paper. "D'you suppose there's a—a next of kin, or something?"
Biggles folded up the page with an odd sort of care, handling it gently as if the typewritten sheet of bond meant something to him. "I suppose there must be," he said, looking a little more focused and less pale and unhappy with something to do, as Algy had known he would. "Unless all his people were lost in the war—but no, there must be someone. And they might like to hear from someone who knew him. I'll ask Major Charles about it, that's a good idea, Algy."
Lunch was a bit funereal all the same, and Algy found himself lifting a glass in a toast. "I won't pretend that I liked him," he said. "But a lonely grave in the desert's a hard end, and—and I'm sorry for it." He was a little surprised to find that he meant it, and Biggles smiled a little, the first smile all morning, and clinked glasses.
They ordered takeaway sandwiches for the others and returned to the office. As they came in, Ginger called, "A fellow from the Air Commodore's office was in and left you something, Biggles. Eyes only. Do we have a case or not?"
Biggles strode over to his desk, one hand in his pocket. He swiped up the folded slip from his desktop, opened it, and read it. Algy was close enough to see the swift flash of delight that crossed his face, all the animation that had been absent for the entire morning returning in a rush.
"Oh, it's nothing much," he said casually, and tucked it in his pocket beside the other.
Algy took the opportunity later that afternoon to slip off to the coat room during a quick trip to the loo, and was very much unsurprised by the contents of the slip.
Earlier report from Algiers in error. Five casualties, not six.
Algy replaced it carefully; he supposed it was likely to end up into some box of souvenirs in Biggles' room. So, he thought, not the end of an era after all. But after seeing Biggles that morning—quiet and dull, as if the best part of his bright energy had gone out of him—Algy discovered that he couldn't find it in himself to be too upset about it.
ETA: And don't miss the lovely Erich-POV follow-up ficlet in the comments!
no subject
The first ficlet was very soft, too - I adore Bertie's turn of phrase, and Fritz's delight and instincts.
no subject
(Happy ending though! No Biggleses or Erichs were harmed in the making of this fic!)