Entry tags:
Further commentfic follow-ups
1. Philomytha wrote a lovely-painful alternate version of the "presumed dead" commentfic sequence that's been going on in the last few entries, and I ... committed a sequel to that. As one does. (Originally posted here in Philomytha's comments.)
Biggles's taxi was stopped on the corner, waiting for traffic to clear, when the door opened and a lithe figure slid in beside him, barely making a sound.
The closing of the door behind the taxi's new occupant was quiet but not enough to go unnoticed. "All right back there, sir?" the driver asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yes," Biggles said, in the closest thing to a normal voice that he was capable of. He cleared his throat. "Yes—drive on, please."
The taxi jolted into motion, and Biggles glanced at the tall figure beside him. It was dark out, the only light coming in from streetlamps, and he could barely make out anything—the figure wore a hat, the collar was turned up. But the profile was one he would recognize anywhere: had recognized, in fact, while blind drunk a week ago.
"Are you—" Biggles began, unsure of where exactly he was going with that sentence (are you well, are you staying, are you here to see me, are you here to kill me) when von Stalhein spoke abruptly, as if trying to override anything Biggles had to say, or perhaps something within himself.
"You will not have to worry about wrong intelligence from Algiers, at least not from that particular fool."
"If you are here to confess a murder—" Biggles began sharply, though he kept his voice low, the words covered by passing traffic.
Von Stalhein gave a soft laugh, and something in Biggles's chest clenched unexpectedly at that sound. "No, no. I thought—you would not like it," he said, low and almost in a rush, as if he was speaking mostly to himself. "No, you will simply find a couple of agents in the area seeking new employment soon—that's all. I thought you might want to know."
"I don't know that interfering with the British foreign service is a healthy habit to get into," Biggles said, pushing the words over the top of whatever it was that he was feeling.
"I have a lot of unhealthy habits," von Stalhein said, and looked at him swiftly, a glimmer of pale eyes under his hat.
The taxi slowed at the next corner. Von Stalhein twitched subtly, a gloved hand going to the door.
"Wait!" Biggles said. He could not quite explain it, the way the feeling inside him that had ignited into a warm glow the moment von Stalhein entered the cab was now cracking wide open at the sight of him leaving. "Wait—I don't—we could have something to eat, you could come up—"
Von Stalhein had turned to look at him again. "No, I can't," he said, and then, impatiently, "Can you stop looking like that ..."
Abruptly he took his hand off the door and made a swift move towards Biggles across the backseat. Biggles knew, in the rational back of his mind, that he should hurtle himself away. He could almost hear Algy's voice in his head, warning him of a knife or a chloroform-laced rag.
He didn't move.
So he was pulled against von Stalhein in a sudden grasp that was almost more like being grappled, one arm around his back, the other coming up to clasp the back of his neck tightly. He was drawn against von Stalhein's shoulder, his face pressed into the overcoat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and night air. After an initial instant when he was rigid with shock, Biggles closed his eyes. The hand on the nape of his neck held on in a tight grip, gun-callused fingers pressed against his skin. He could feel the tension in von Stalhein's body, feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
Then von Stalhein released him with equal suddenness, all but pushing him away. Biggles nearly fell forward, he had leaned into that grasp so wholeheartedly. "I—I am glad you—" he began, unable to get a grip on his tongue or any other part of himself. He almost felt drunk again.
"We will meet again in future, I expect," von Stalhein said, his voice strangely thick, and departed the taxi so abruptly that he all but vanished. The taxi was moving again, so he must have flung himself out into the road, and Biggles leaned forward anxiously but there was no sign of him.
He did feel something beside him on the seat. Von Stalhein had, whether by accident or intent, left one of his gloves behind.
"Continue on, sir?" asked the driver from the front.
"Yes—yes, please do," Biggles said, and as he picked up the glove and tucked it into his pocket, he couldn't stop smiling.
2. The handcuffed together ficlet has resulted in not just one but two missing scenes.
A comment of![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wateroverstone's prompted the hilarious mental image of Biggles and von Stalhein trying and failing to run in sync while handcuffed together:
It turned out that, while they were perfectly able to walk in sync without difficulty, running was something else entirely. Between the difference in their strides, the handcuffs jerking them both up short, and von Stalhein's bad leg, their first attempt at a sprint resulted in von Stalhein falling headfirst into a large planting of flowers and pulling Biggles down on top of him. This was effective at hiding them from their pursuers, at least for the few seconds it took for them to crawl out the other side of the flowerbed, arguing vociferously in furious, hissed whispers.
"It requires coordination," von Stalhein said between his teeth. "You are a pilot, surely you can manage this."
"Flying with a copilot is an entirely different thing from trying to organise two sets of legs with a chain between them." As they were now crouched behind a bush and effectively out of sight for the moment, Biggles furrowed his brow, considering the problem. "Perhaps if we have a count?"
"If you are suggesting that our next sprint should involve counting one-two, one-two to stop us tangling our legs together, I would rather be shot."
"Well, I wouldn't be, so your dignity can take the backseat for the time."
"I don't recall putting you in charge."
"Do you have a better idea?"
Von Stalhein's silent glare was a tacit admission that he did not, in fact, have a better idea.
And a follow-up from some time later in this 'verse was prompted byysande's comment: Maybe Erich will convince Biggles that they have to do a runner, and Biggles will agree on the strict condition that once they’re free and safe, they have to come back and make good to the restaurant, so Erich has to reluctantly (or not!) agree to a civilised dinner with Biggles in exchange for all their upcoming shenanigans (posted in the comments here)
Biggles had no particular expectation that von Stalhein would show up. Von Stalhein had never even agreed to do so; the rendezvous had been Biggles's suggestion, when they had parted months ago in France as not precisely enemies and not quite what might be called friends, and von Stalhein had not done anything so clear as agreeing to it.
But Biggles was there on the dot of the appointed hour; in fact, he arrived nearly an hour early, since he had nothing else to do but rattle around the hotel, dithering between the two clean shirts he'd brought with him. He explained to the waiter that a friend was joining him, sipped coffee and studied the menu and failed to read the paper he had obtained from a vendor across the street.
It was very likely von Stalhein would not show up, Biggles thought, checking his watch, which still showed ten minutes to the appointed time. He would wait—half an hour, perhaps? An hour? There were many things that could delay a man who was no doubt, like Biggles, traveling to their rendezvous from some other point of the globe. Or perhaps von Stalhein had no desire to come; it was overly optimistic to think that he might.
A shadow fell across his table. It was still five minutes to the hour.
"Not merely the same restaurant, but the same table," von Stalhein said dryly, slipping into the chair across from him. He leaned a silver-headed walking stick against the wall beside the table.
"Fortunately it isn't the same waiter," Biggles said. "I—you look—you look well. It is good to see you."
Von Stalhein did look well. He was always a smart dresser, but it seemed to Biggles he looked especially sharp. There was a crisp streak of grey in his hair that had come very slightly out of place, and Biggles had a sudden urge to reach out and smooth it down.
"You seem surprised. Is my appearance at this cafe really that much of a shock?" But the tone was wry, and there was a hint of a smile at the corner of the stern mouth.
"Of course not," Biggles said. "I had no doubt you would arrive." He passed the menu across the table, and von Stalhein accepted it from his hand.
(Scenes in two different hotel rooms that morning:
Biggles: *changes shirts 12 times*
EvS: *shaves more than once, gels his hair into absolute immobility with a single artfully tousled lock, spends 20 minutes arranging his pocket square just so*)
Biggles's taxi was stopped on the corner, waiting for traffic to clear, when the door opened and a lithe figure slid in beside him, barely making a sound.
The closing of the door behind the taxi's new occupant was quiet but not enough to go unnoticed. "All right back there, sir?" the driver asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yes," Biggles said, in the closest thing to a normal voice that he was capable of. He cleared his throat. "Yes—drive on, please."
The taxi jolted into motion, and Biggles glanced at the tall figure beside him. It was dark out, the only light coming in from streetlamps, and he could barely make out anything—the figure wore a hat, the collar was turned up. But the profile was one he would recognize anywhere: had recognized, in fact, while blind drunk a week ago.
"Are you—" Biggles began, unsure of where exactly he was going with that sentence (are you well, are you staying, are you here to see me, are you here to kill me) when von Stalhein spoke abruptly, as if trying to override anything Biggles had to say, or perhaps something within himself.
"You will not have to worry about wrong intelligence from Algiers, at least not from that particular fool."
"If you are here to confess a murder—" Biggles began sharply, though he kept his voice low, the words covered by passing traffic.
Von Stalhein gave a soft laugh, and something in Biggles's chest clenched unexpectedly at that sound. "No, no. I thought—you would not like it," he said, low and almost in a rush, as if he was speaking mostly to himself. "No, you will simply find a couple of agents in the area seeking new employment soon—that's all. I thought you might want to know."
"I don't know that interfering with the British foreign service is a healthy habit to get into," Biggles said, pushing the words over the top of whatever it was that he was feeling.
"I have a lot of unhealthy habits," von Stalhein said, and looked at him swiftly, a glimmer of pale eyes under his hat.
The taxi slowed at the next corner. Von Stalhein twitched subtly, a gloved hand going to the door.
"Wait!" Biggles said. He could not quite explain it, the way the feeling inside him that had ignited into a warm glow the moment von Stalhein entered the cab was now cracking wide open at the sight of him leaving. "Wait—I don't—we could have something to eat, you could come up—"
Von Stalhein had turned to look at him again. "No, I can't," he said, and then, impatiently, "Can you stop looking like that ..."
Abruptly he took his hand off the door and made a swift move towards Biggles across the backseat. Biggles knew, in the rational back of his mind, that he should hurtle himself away. He could almost hear Algy's voice in his head, warning him of a knife or a chloroform-laced rag.
He didn't move.
So he was pulled against von Stalhein in a sudden grasp that was almost more like being grappled, one arm around his back, the other coming up to clasp the back of his neck tightly. He was drawn against von Stalhein's shoulder, his face pressed into the overcoat that smelled faintly of cigarettes and night air. After an initial instant when he was rigid with shock, Biggles closed his eyes. The hand on the nape of his neck held on in a tight grip, gun-callused fingers pressed against his skin. He could feel the tension in von Stalhein's body, feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
Then von Stalhein released him with equal suddenness, all but pushing him away. Biggles nearly fell forward, he had leaned into that grasp so wholeheartedly. "I—I am glad you—" he began, unable to get a grip on his tongue or any other part of himself. He almost felt drunk again.
"We will meet again in future, I expect," von Stalhein said, his voice strangely thick, and departed the taxi so abruptly that he all but vanished. The taxi was moving again, so he must have flung himself out into the road, and Biggles leaned forward anxiously but there was no sign of him.
He did feel something beside him on the seat. Von Stalhein had, whether by accident or intent, left one of his gloves behind.
"Continue on, sir?" asked the driver from the front.
"Yes—yes, please do," Biggles said, and as he picked up the glove and tucked it into his pocket, he couldn't stop smiling.
2. The handcuffed together ficlet has resulted in not just one but two missing scenes.
A comment of
wateroverstone's prompted the hilarious mental image of Biggles and von Stalhein trying and failing to run in sync while handcuffed together:It turned out that, while they were perfectly able to walk in sync without difficulty, running was something else entirely. Between the difference in their strides, the handcuffs jerking them both up short, and von Stalhein's bad leg, their first attempt at a sprint resulted in von Stalhein falling headfirst into a large planting of flowers and pulling Biggles down on top of him. This was effective at hiding them from their pursuers, at least for the few seconds it took for them to crawl out the other side of the flowerbed, arguing vociferously in furious, hissed whispers.
"It requires coordination," von Stalhein said between his teeth. "You are a pilot, surely you can manage this."
"Flying with a copilot is an entirely different thing from trying to organise two sets of legs with a chain between them." As they were now crouched behind a bush and effectively out of sight for the moment, Biggles furrowed his brow, considering the problem. "Perhaps if we have a count?"
"If you are suggesting that our next sprint should involve counting one-two, one-two to stop us tangling our legs together, I would rather be shot."
"Well, I wouldn't be, so your dignity can take the backseat for the time."
"I don't recall putting you in charge."
"Do you have a better idea?"
Von Stalhein's silent glare was a tacit admission that he did not, in fact, have a better idea.
And a follow-up from some time later in this 'verse was prompted by
ysande's comment: Maybe Erich will convince Biggles that they have to do a runner, and Biggles will agree on the strict condition that once they’re free and safe, they have to come back and make good to the restaurant, so Erich has to reluctantly (or not!) agree to a civilised dinner with Biggles in exchange for all their upcoming shenanigans (posted in the comments here)Biggles had no particular expectation that von Stalhein would show up. Von Stalhein had never even agreed to do so; the rendezvous had been Biggles's suggestion, when they had parted months ago in France as not precisely enemies and not quite what might be called friends, and von Stalhein had not done anything so clear as agreeing to it.
But Biggles was there on the dot of the appointed hour; in fact, he arrived nearly an hour early, since he had nothing else to do but rattle around the hotel, dithering between the two clean shirts he'd brought with him. He explained to the waiter that a friend was joining him, sipped coffee and studied the menu and failed to read the paper he had obtained from a vendor across the street.
It was very likely von Stalhein would not show up, Biggles thought, checking his watch, which still showed ten minutes to the appointed time. He would wait—half an hour, perhaps? An hour? There were many things that could delay a man who was no doubt, like Biggles, traveling to their rendezvous from some other point of the globe. Or perhaps von Stalhein had no desire to come; it was overly optimistic to think that he might.
A shadow fell across his table. It was still five minutes to the hour.
"Not merely the same restaurant, but the same table," von Stalhein said dryly, slipping into the chair across from him. He leaned a silver-headed walking stick against the wall beside the table.
"Fortunately it isn't the same waiter," Biggles said. "I—you look—you look well. It is good to see you."
Von Stalhein did look well. He was always a smart dresser, but it seemed to Biggles he looked especially sharp. There was a crisp streak of grey in his hair that had come very slightly out of place, and Biggles had a sudden urge to reach out and smooth it down.
"You seem surprised. Is my appearance at this cafe really that much of a shock?" But the tone was wry, and there was a hint of a smile at the corner of the stern mouth.
"Of course not," Biggles said. "I had no doubt you would arrive." He passed the menu across the table, and von Stalhein accepted it from his hand.
(Scenes in two different hotel rooms that morning:
Biggles: *changes shirts 12 times*
EvS: *shaves more than once, gels his hair into absolute immobility with a single artfully tousled lock, spends 20 minutes arranging his pocket square just so*)
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"I don't recall putting you in charge."
You mean you won't admit to it, Erich, of course Biggles is in charge!
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