#foyle to the rescue

[darkhorse-javert]

Not exactly flufftober- Day 15 'Emergency/Confession/Adventure'

A scenario I've had in my head for a while, but it doesn't fit in any sort of my AU or true canon. This is a good excuse to write it, although it is rather more angsty than fluffy

Slightly inspired by the fact that a police station in Hastings (but not the main one) was affected, although not demolioshed by a blast in 1943.

Foyle hears the distant scream of a shell falling somewhere in the town, and braces, counting it down. Near but not very near, closer to the coast, the shockwave doesn't reach this far. He breaks into a jogging run in the direction it fell; too many years of instinct, of being one to help, taking over against new habits of a civilian.

It's a running member of the ARP he meets as he strides onto the high street "Where is it?"

Habit causes the man to call back "Down by the Town Hall, Mr Foyle."

Oh no - Not the station, please. He, he knows should be equally worried for the more central offices of the town, the records, the functional points, but he isn't.

His legs move faster, rounding the corners even with the longer legged man.

The station, or rather a crumpled pile of rubble where it was, rears up in front of him, throwing him to a dead stop.

Oh no. Sam, Milner, Brooke... Sam. The shelter is deep down, in the old archive cellars, they'll be fine, you know how solid the foundations are and how many stairs down to them

And already the ARP and rescue crews are swarming onto the rubble. At least with this building, they already have the blueprints, they know where the designated shelter is, they'll have everyone out quick.

Assuming everyone is in the shelter.. no don't even think that. You know better. And was there anyone in the cells,

He watches as rubble is shifted efficiently and one then two of the rescue disappear into a gap. He watches, thinks about the layout of the building, yes that would be the quickest way down. It still feels like an age, before one of the rescue uniforms reappears, then followed by a dark head, and a darker uniform, police black and silver. Brooke

He's calling something frantically, almost shouting, “in the office, far end two of them, in the office!”

They're leading him out, but Brooke is fighting against the gentle -now firming - hands trying to turn back to the building. Milner, who follows him, also makes a scramble for the rubble, managing it in spite of their efforts to head him off.

Foyle follows the scramble with his eyes, only to find Brooke stumbling towards him, face pale, aghast. 

"Mr Foyle, Miss Stewart..." He coughs hard a couple of times then the words tumble out "She'd been called into the office by Mr Meredith, one of the constables ran up and yelled for them when the siren went off I thought she'd be behind us, with Himself." He stares up at the building pile for a moment ,"I should have gone back for her, was too busy herding the new constables," Brooke's lips draw back in an angry half-snarl at himself, contrasting with the agony in his tone.

You should, a small part of Foyle's mind says, even though he knows it's uncharitable, unfair."You did your best, Sargeant - if you'd gone back, who's to say you would have made it to the shelter in time?"

Brooke did not look comforted, Foyle turns back with him to see Milner being marched back down the rubble pile, one ARP on either side of him, the sargeant's hands dusty, bleeding from brick scratches, shouting back at the rescue workers "Down the far end, the last room- let go of me."

The other policemen, once his men, have gathered around him and Brooke as they each file out from the shelter with the rescue workers, a flock of bruised and bewildered individuals 

On the ground, Milner jerks his arms freefrom restraining hands, and comes to them, oblivious to his hands. Foylr hears Brooke and one of the WVS talking to him, something about getting them seen to. He watches the careful ant-line of heavy Rescue and ARP assistants stretching on to the rubble, starting to pass bricks down one by one in a chain, others passing up supports.

“Register please -anyone of those in the building un-accounted for?"

“Two, DCS Meredith and Mrs Foyle, in the DCS office.”

He wishes it would stop, but it’s protocol. Count them off, and confirm, and confirm again Sam's been in bad scrapes like this and got out of it, her first billet was bombed, that near scare in the fuel depot and the woods, she'll be fine., But even the luckiest run out of luck.

Not Sam, please, not Sam.

The hammer of running feet jolts him from the dull bubble of waiting. Frantically running feet, at that. Training turns him towards it, to head off an outsider from interfering with the rescue work.

It's Andrew. His son hares towards the group, eyes darting over it, quickly. Looking for Khaki in the dusty-dark uniforms. "Sam?" He shouts ahead of himself; “Sam?"

At least one person shifts towards the wreckage, because Andrew almost stops, then twists to keep going. "Sam!"

Constable Willis reaches out to try and stop Andrew's rush towards the rubble, and gets shoved away for his pains, stumbling, nearly falling.

"Andrew!" Foyle tries to call to him, but there's a tight focus on his son's face, he won't hear or see anything beyond what he wants to right now. But Willis has done some good, for another figure in RAF blue catches up with Andrew and bodily grabs him, halting the rush.

"Whatthe- let me go! My wife's in there" Andrew thrashes in the grip of his fellow serviceman, nearly getting free. The sergeant hooks a leg around Andrews and the pair of them tumble to the ground, the sargeant ending up uppermost, pinning Andrew down. Foyle goes to them

"Let Me Up!" Andrew is shouting, struggling to get up. "I'm an officer, your senior officer, you can't behave like this."

"I can, Sir." The sergeant says, containing Andrew's movements "WingCo's standing orders, any young officer behaving without due sense of his own safety may and should be restrained, by means necessary."

Andrew makes another effort, then stops fighting. Slowly after a few moments, the sargeant rises, keeping a wary hand on Andrew's upper arm. Foyle reaches down, putting a hand on his son's shoulder as Andrew picks himself up, barely focused on what he is actually doing, eyes only for the rubble of the station, the workers on it.

When Andrew looks over to him, his son's eyes are wide, dark and broken.

"You promised you'd take care of her." It's a plea, more than a condemnation, a vent of feelings rather than a sensible attack.

He can only nod, keeping his hand on Andrew's arm, ready to stop him if he made another mad rush for the rubble. But whatever desperation gave Andrew the impetus to try a few moments ago seems to drain out of him. So they stand there, bleak, waiting.

Waiting.

The top ants in the chain have disappeared down into the rubble now. Someone still on the outside holds up a hand, and what little noise there is drops away. The hand drops, the nurses checking everyone over and the WVS with their teas begin to murmur again.

The hand goes up again, another segment of silence then there's noise from somewhere in the pile, a muffled shouting- there is a frantic flurry of activity, one man coming down, a stretcher being passed up the chain.

Found someone, or two maybe. But the stretcher - that could go either way.

"What is it? How many have you got?" It's Brooke who calls the words to the Rescue man, but the man ignores him, going to the nurses actually ignores him.

He locks his eyes on the top of the pile, feeling Andrew rigid beside him.

A dark helmeted head pops up, just visible. Then next to it, higher, a head without a helmet, appearing taller, being handed over and helped by the next man in the chain. Khaki, not a suit , distinctive hair made a strange colour by the dust.

Andrew makes an odd yelping noise next to him, as if he's tried to shout, but failed, and Foyle finds he can't muster the breath to call out. It's all stuck.

She's in one piece, somehow, she's in one piece.

Not ‘Alright’, that would be going too far until she’s been checked over, and no doubt she’s shaken up, who wouldn’t be in that circumstance. 

She’s having difficulty picking her normally nimble feet through the ruins, needing a lot of help from the chain of men, but she’s up.

“SAM!” Andrew finds his voice, and bolts. This time Chrtistopher doesn’t stop him, merely lets him go, then follows at a swift clip. Andrew stops at the bottom of the pile, just as Sam is helped down onto the ground. His son reaches for her, but there’s already a nurse stepping in, practised hands guiding a pale - very pale - Sam along, touching; beginning the check for injury. Andrew yanks off his great coat, offering it out to a reaching hand in lieu of a blanket  Then the two of them can only walk at the nurse’s heels, over to the ambulance, where Sam is seated on the back ledge

The nurse turns sharp eyes on them, clearly about to shoo them off. 

“They’re family,” Sam says behind the white apron, and the nurse relaxes a fraction “Sir,” Sam continues, addressing him around the nurse, her tone formal “DCS Meredith is dead… I tried to get him to leave when the siren went, but he wouldn’t,” Her eyes are grieved 

“That doesn’t matter now, Sam… you’re alright.” And I’m not your senior officer anymore, but I’ll let that matter slide

“I did try,” she insists, leaning towards him, tear streaks on his face in the dust “I really did.”

Andrew has dropped to his knees by his wife, reaching out to take her hands. It seems to Foyle than she leans into his touch, never flinching, still talking as the nurse dresses a cut on her forehead 

“I didn’t have time to get to the shelter by then, I heard it coming down” she shudders, “Just threw myself under Meredith’s desk. Seemed the strongest thing there was in the room. Then everything came in on us.”

It’s the shock, Foyle thinks, jarring her into talking like this. 

Andrew makes soft noises, drawing the coat more firmly around her, then gently slipping up next to her and easing an arm around her shoulders protectively. Sam leans into his son, taking the support, and she doesn’t seem pained in doing so.That’s a good sign, not injured inside apparently, “You did what you could Sam.” You’re safe. Oh there were a great many more official things which could matter, and the death of an officer would make life difficult for those at the station - but I’m a civilian now, and that’s not my business, but my family is.

[avoteforme]

thinking about how s1 is jack helping phryne to foil her worst nightmare murdoch foyle and thereby rescuing phryne from a lifetime of ongoing nightmares

and s2 is phryne helping jack to get out from under those corrupt/faithless sandersons (george and rosie) thereby rescuing jack from a lifetime of being chained/complicit with a corrupt constabulary

even if they never embark on a romantic relationship they have done each other a huge service and they are each other's unsung heroes, the best part of this being that they know this about each other even though they never voice it aloud-- siiiigh their gratitude for each other's existence is so loud in its silence and somehow that makes it all the more profound

[laiqualaurelote]

Phrack Pirate AU

so I'm a huge fan of taking phrases in Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries literally (e.g. "you are fox spirit", "there's something wild about you, child") so I'd have loved to make the Pirate Girls of Collingwood a thing, but it's hard for me to reconcile the show's tone and dynamics with historical context here. BUT! this is an ask game, so I needn't do that. So: instead of going to England to become an 18th-century Lady, Phryne runs away to sea. It starts off as a quest to avenge Janey's murder at the hands of notorious pirate Murdoch Foyle and evolves into her commanding her own ship ("the Silver Lady") and robbing wealthy merchantmen on the high seas (she continues to go about in disguise in high society so she can get hold of shipping schedules and plot her raids). Mr Butler is her quartermaster. Mac is the ship's doctor, because it's the only place where she can practise medicine without stigma. Cec and Bert were poached from whalers, Bert because of the better remuneration, Cec because whaling really was not for him. Dot was being transported for murdering John Andrews (most historical Australian pirates were escaped convicts) before Phryne and crew snaffle her. She's not actually any good at piracy but she keeps the Silver Lady ship-shape. Jane just stows away on board and never leaves. Jack is the unfortunate naval officer tasked with bringing the Dread Pirate Fisher to justice, but she always escapes him at the last minute, and he's beginning to wonder if he really wants to bring her in (his subordinate Hugh gets kidnapped by the Fisher crew at one point and somehow completely suborned, to Jack's chagrin). There's a lot of erotic swordfighting. It'll probably end with Phryne killing Foyle but getting captured as a result and sent to face the King's justice but Jack has a last-minute change of heart, rescues her from the gallows and they sail off into the sunset to, I guess, commit more piracy. Someone else can write this

Leave an AU and a pairing in my ask and I’ll give you the plot of the fic I won’t write for it.

[plasticmantalk]

the first and most important part to decide is how plastic man should be portrayed. a lot of elastic characters can be uncanny so I would do a Roger-Rabbit style cartoon character in a live-action environment.

The general plot of the movie is Plastic man trying to reconnect with his wife and son he left behind 15 years ago for a life of crime. And because it's a superhero movie, he also needs to save the kid from being a hostage in some villain's revenge scheme against him.

The villain in question would be Gulliver Foyle. Originally conceived as a disgruntled coworker, but reimagined here as a former FBI agent tasked with tracking O'Brien. He lost his job when the case was declared cold and is bitter about it. (Plastic Man doesn't let anyone know he's O'Brien, so as far as the world knows he just up and disappeared. But Foyle finds out, obviously.) His demands are simple: either Eel turns himself in, or Luke (the kid) dies. He's a representation of O'Brien's old life in general. How much of your past can you leave behind when you reinvent yourself?

The crux of the climax is Eel grappling with his own cowardice. He's spent his whole life running away from trouble. From his family, from the police, from any sort of consequences. Is his attempt to rescue his child just another way of running away from consequences, while putting his son's life at risk? Or would it be the coward's way out to yield, and let Foyle walk all over him?

Interesting!

[frogsinpotplants]

୨ৎ My after school routine ୨ৎ

I'm rlly just making this post to journal/for me lol bc ik no one's asking for this loll.

Bbvs this is all flexible, I'm not a robot lollll.

~ 3:15 to 5:00 Library

OR

~ 3:15 to 6:00 Art rooms

My school lets out at 3:15 and so after school I go to the library where I try and get most of the homework that was assigned that day done or things due the next day but i don't get *everything* done obviously.

I try and stay after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays (Wednesdays if I feel like it) and Thursdays if I don't have clubs, sports or band practice.

────୨ৎ──── what I take to the library ────୨ৎ────

My school bag with all of my books and pencils

Laptop charger

Drink bottle

Earphones

~ depending what time I get home I'll either make a snack, do some homework or just chill.

~ Dinner with my family + dishes.

~ After tea we usually watch some TV together which I like because it's a good time just to chill with my family and chat. (My current favs that are on are The Block, Bondi Rescue, Dr Who, any of the english Murder Mysteries loll (Death in Paradise. Father Brown, Endevour, Inspector Morse, Foyle's War ect ect) and then maybe just the random SBS programs).

~ if i'm totally swamped with work i'll just go straight to my room after tea and keep working.

~ Get out of uniform/Shower + get ready for bed.

~ Before bed i like to do some exercises but i don't always do them lol.

────୨ৎ──── My current routine ────୨ৎ────

20 sit ups

20 ab crunches

stretches (idk what i do lol)

30 second plank

20 second in cobra pose

10 pushups (i'm weak lol don't judge)

20 on each side, side leg kicks lying down (my descriptions are kind of rubbish lmaoo)

3 x 20 second lunges on each side

10 sumo squats

20 arm curls on each side using weights (I use 'General Mathematics VCE Units 1 & 2' as my weight)

*this is kind where it gets weird lol*

20 seconds balancing on each leg with lifted leg at right angle, with book on head

2 x 20 second arabesques with book on head

i usually end my workout with a prayer before getting into bed but you can just do gratitude or nothing if you'd like/aren't religious

~ After exercising I get into bed and just have some chill time to read or go on tumblr and stuff.

~ sleep!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ya :P

this was wayyy longer than I meant lmao.

[byronicherobracket]

Byronic Hero Bracket Round Of 128 Batch C #13

Gully Foyle from The Stars My Destination vs. Vegeta from Dragon Ball

Reasons under the cut (spoilers for both)

(All sources from TV Tropes)

Gully Foyle:

Gully Foyle in Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination, a The Count of Monte Cristo set in a future where people can teleport, starts out as this: he lives entirely to take revenge on the ship that declined to rescue him from his own crippled spacecraft (not the crew, just the ship; he's not that bright) and stops at nothing to do so, including raping perhaps the one completely likable character in the whole book. However, he gradually becomes more of a traditional hero and a messiah of sorts.

Previously Beaten: Dr. Percival Cox

Vegeta:

Vegeta fits this role like a glove during the Namek Arc of Z. Having essentially been a slave working under Frieza from the age of 12, he was hell-bent on surpassing Frieza in strength and eventually overthrowing him so that he and the Saiyans could, in his opinion, rightfully claim their position as the dominant force in the universe. Following Frieza bringing the Saiyan race to the verge of extinction, despite the Saiyans loyalty to Frieza, Vegeta became even more determined. His first step in achieving his goal was to gain immortality, and he was willing to do anything to gain immortality, ranging from slaughtering innocent men and children, fighting dirty and swallowing his pride and teaming up with the heroes. After failing to achieve immortality, his goal then turned to surpassing Goku, no matter how bad of a situation he would have created, if it meant he got one-up on Goku, it was worth it. Ironically, his drive to surpass Goku led to him pulling a Face–Heel Turn in the Buu Arc and killing 200 people just to coax Goku into fighting him again so that he could prove that he was stronger than him.

Previously Beaten: The Punisher

[jomiddlemarch]

For the fluff asks, might I respectfully request "I’m lost.” for Foyle & Andrew?

“I’m lost,” Andrew repeated. He’d said it first when he’d rung, the call itself a rare enough event Foyle had known to pay close attention to not only his son’s words but the pauses between them, the subtle alterations in tone, the kind of observation he generally reserved for a suspect who was close to a confession. When Foyle had offered to come round and try to help, the alacrity with which Andrew accepted was both alarming and a relief; it had been years since Andrew had asked for any assistance, let alone welcomed it.

“Tell me again what you’ve done,” Foyle said, hanging up his coat on a peg by the door. It was a short walk to the kitchenette, the flat Andrew shared with Sam close quarters, even by the standard of an effusive estate agent. Andrew squinted down at the French cookery book splayed open on the scrubbed oak table like a corpse to be autopsied and then looked back at his father and shrugged. 

“I wanted to surprise Sam with a nice dinner when she comes back from her parents and you know the university doesn’t pay much, so I thought I could make something, one of Mum’s favorite recipes, but it’s all gone horribly wrong and all I want right now is a whiskey,” Andrew said. Foyle took in the indeterminant color of the smear on Andrew’s shirt and the furrow in his brow, the early grey at his son’s temples, the similar limpness of his collar and the dishtowel he’d slung over his shoulder in lieu of Sam’s capacious pinafore. It wasn’t the time to offer money, though he suspected Sam would be delighted with fish and chips or a meat pie at the local pub, the treat the company and not having to face the washing up. 

“Do you have a good bottle of red?” Foyle asked.

“I said whiskey, dad.”

“I meant for the meal,” Foyle said. “And some onions?”

“There’s some wine, but the recipe doesn’t call for either of those,” Andrew said. “It goes on and on about folding in, but I haven’t the foggiest clue what that means.”

“She’s been a fortnight at her father’s vicarage, Andrew, eating creamed swedes and rissoles. Being served her Uncle Aubrey’s homemade wine. Sauté some onions in butter, brown the chicken, and be liberal with the Burgundy,” Foyle said. “She’ll say it’s the best coq au vin she’s ever eaten. She won’t even miss the garlic.”

[thealmightyemprex]

The Stars My Destination :Chapter 1 thoughts

1.I love the description of out main character,Gulliver Foyle cause his main trait, is he lack ambition,has no real connections,he's not that bright (Though he does have potential ) ,and his only real thing he has going for him is he's pretty strong .BAsically in this society he is considered lowest of the low ,a nobody....And I must confess I love tales of the nobody ,for they can be dangerous ,for let us remember in the Odyssey the name Odysseus took when he met the Cyclops ,Polyphemus was "Nobody"....And thus when he blinded him ,Polyphemus could only screm"Nobody Blinded Me "

2.So the ship Gully is on is called Nomad .....I dont know if that is clever or lazy but I like it anyway

3.God you really feel Gully's joy at the possibility of rescue....Then his heart sink at being left knowingly by the crew to die ....Then his vengeful rage

@ariel-seagull-wings @metropolitan-mutant-of-ark @princesssarisa

[ilvero-love]

1.13 Summer Solstice: Thoughts on MFMM 1.13 King Memses Curse

The evolution of Jack and Phryne across Season 1

The heart of this episode is about Phryne and the resolution of her backstory and that is as it should be. Yet, when considering this episode, I cannot do it without looking at the evolution of the relationship between Phryne and the Inspector that has occurred over the previous 13 episodes.

In many ways, the relationship we have watched evolve, continues as per usual in this episode. Jack attempting to lay down the rules and Phryne defying them. The difference in their characters is beautifully revealed through Jack’s determination to get a handle on the Foyle case. He is calm and methodical as he revisits all prior evidence in a logical order on his butcher’s paper wall. Meanwhile, Phryne, understandably, is running on instinct and emotion.

The scene where Jack attempts to control Phryne by arresting her is a delightful revelation. Stunned that Jack would attempt to curtail her in this way, she kicks him leading to the charge of assaulting a police officer being added to withholding evidence as he locks her away for her own safety.

I love that our spirited heroine kicks Jack just as much as I love Hugh apologising “I’m sorry Miss, I’m sorry Miss” as he carries her to the cells.

Phryne’s distress as she realises she is trapped in a cell while two people she loves (Jack and Jane) are in danger is hard to watch. It is lightened by Hugh ‘assisting’ Dottie to break Phryne out. 

Having given herself to Foyle in an attempt to save Jack and Jane, it is actually Jack and Jane who come to her rescue. 

And who didn’t swoon as Jack carried our unconscious heroine from the building? 

But it is the closing scenes that are the most compelling when considering Jack and Phryne’s relationship. The scene at the graveside is one of the most intense of the series and it is fitting that Jack stands by Phryne’s side.

There is a gorgeous moment, almost lost within the scene, that subtly consolidates Jack’s importance to Phryne. As she sits by the graveside crying, it is Jack she reaches for. 

At a time of deep despair, she reaches for the man who has stood beside her as she sought to solve the mystery of her sister. It was this simple, understated act that confirmed for me that this pairing was at the heart of the series. 

Whilst Kerry Greenwood may not have wanted her literary character Phryne to be tied down to any man, thankfully our writers/producers saw an opportunity to develop one of the great love stories.  This simple clasping of hands brings together two characters that, whilst on the surface appear disparate, when one looks at them as the sum of parts across the 13 episodes, it is undeniable that they are the yin to each other’s yang. But I’ll come back to that point soon.

The final scenes at Phryne’s party only serve to reinforce the pairing. There has been a decided shift in their relationship. What Jack and Phryne have shared has forged a bond that goes beyond physical attraction. There is no teasing, just a deep connection. Importantly, there is no judgement. Jack recognises the role the loss of Janey has played in the development of Phryne’s character and he acknowledges it, saying to her, “You owe it to her to keep living to the hilt”. Jack and Phryne are lost in each other’s gaze, as if both are aware of the shift in their relationship. 

I’d like to think this is the moment Phryne recognises that Jack is a man who may just allow her to be herself, free from the confines of societal expectation. The unspoken exchange as they stare into each other’s eyes is only broken by Dot.

As Phryne reaches across the table to ask Jack to stay and help her celebrate, she acknowledges his importance to her. But, as she returns to the party, Phryne once again dons her carefully manufactured facade. 

Only Jack sees through her. The look that passes between them from the doorway across the room is deeply charged. The slight smile he gives her, aside from setting my heart aflutter, belies the significant shift in their relationship that has occurred. Jack never takes his eyes off her and Phryne herself is obviously aware of him in a way that is not trivial or sexualised as many of her male suitors are. 

Which brings me back to my earlier comment regarding the consolidation of their relationship. Over the course of the series, we have watched both Jack and Phryne evolve from the characters we met in Cocaine Blues. Consider Phryne: carefree, sexually liberated, uninterested in being tied down to anyone or anything. Indeed, it is only her desire to solve what happened to her sister Janey that has seen her return to Australian shores. Meanwhile Detective Inspector Jack Robinson is serious, withdrawn and in all honesty, we know very little about him. 

But as the episodes unfold, we learn more about the vivacious lady detective and her protagonist inspector. We learn that the scars of World War 1 run deep as does Phryne’s sense of guilt over her sister’s disappearance. Nothing in Phryne’s backstory is an excuse or justification for her licentious behaviour, her experiences merely inform her current choice of actions. As she herself states she hasn’t taken anything seriously since 1918. She is determined to enjoy the good life and that seems to be primarily through the more sensual aspects of life.

Similarly, Jack’s experience of the war has informed his choices. To Jack, who holds family and honour close, the failure of his marriage coming on top of the horrors of the war, has led him to withdraw into himself. It is only as the episodes roll out that we see the spark creep back into Jack. To begin with, it is characteristic snark but by the end there is distinct humour in his exchanges and an openness to Phryne that would never have occurred to the Jack we met in episode 1.

But the evolution of both characters is not an accident, rather it is carefully nurtured. The writers/producers took a huge risk when they deviated so significantly from the original characterisations of Kerry Greenwood. But to their credit through the careful and consistent development of the characters across the series, through narrative that guides and develops the relationship in a realistic and valuable way, I believe they have retained the integrity and value of the literary Phryne and, at the same time, laid the groundwork for a believable relationship that the commitment-phobe Phryne of Episode 1 would have run a mile from.

For us to accept and to even care about a relationship between Jack and Phryne, it needs to be beneficial to both. Phryne cannot stop being the strong independent heroine we all love her to be. If her love interest pulls her down we either devalue her or reject the love interest. Instead any worthy suitor needs to build her up, strengthen her, improve her. But it must be a two-way street, she must also bring value to her love interest. She must view him as her equal intellectually and morally. If she doesn’t then he is no more than a diversion, retained only for the amusement he provides her. The writers have indeed provided us such a relationship. Jack and Phryne stand alone as individuals: both strong and independent but together they are even better and therein lies the true attraction of this relationship and the reason it works without detracting from the literary Phryne. They are, in short, the yin to each others’ yang.

A quick search through Google defines this as :  “ The simple meaning is: You complete me. However, there is more to it. It's also about balance. So the other meaning would be : You balance me out. In Chinese philosophy, Yin and Yang represent how two even opposites can compliment each other and should be considered as a whole” (www.Quora.com). A perfect summation really of the relationship we see in this episode.

As Jack and Phryne exchange that loaded glance across the room at the end of Season 1, it is clear that the relationship between them has changed. I don’t think either Jack or Phryne are quite aware of how yet but there is no denying the resultant undercurrent. For those of us watching, we are in for a delightful ride as they, as well as us, navigate the new levels the relationship has moved to. 

And what a delightful ride it shall be. 

All screencaps taken from cap-that.com

[mercurygray]

For the place swap, Andrew from Foyle's War into Band of Brothers

It usually follows that when one has rescued a girl, one is allowed to offer to buy her drink and at least ask her name. It was good to know that the same rules applied to BEF paratroopers and amphibious rescues.

"So, where's home for you, then?" Smokey Gordon asked, taking a sip of his beer and waiting for the Brit, a young man named Foyle, to finish his own drink. They'd been swapping hometowns and joining-up stories for the last hour, after everyone had been read in on what, exactly, "Wai-ho, Muhammed!" came from.

"A little place called Hastings - south of England. Dad's a Detective Inspector with the police there."

"What, really? Goes around solving crimes like, ah, like Dick Tracy?" Joe Liebgott was all over this. "No shit."

Foyle smiled awkwardly. "Something like that, yeah."

[darkhorse-javert]

A meet 'Queue-te'

When the Queue for the Lying in State was going on, someone suggested the idea of a, meet cute in the Queue- a meet 'Queuete' as it were (Their name, not mine.) -

if anyone can find this post, please let me know, I'd like to attribute this idea properly.

I thought I'd give it a go, for Sam and Andrew, it is distinctly less disasterous than their meeting in Canon.

"So where have you come from?" She addresses the man- about her age- queued in front of her. It seems a safe enough question to ask, an easy touchstone of politeness, while breaking the very British silence and reserve.

“Anglesey,” he answers as he turns towards her- and yes, thinks Sam that is an RAF uniform, there’s a flash of silver from his flying-wings as the lapel moves-  "Although I'm from Hastings." He tips his head, eyes on her, possibly looking her over. "You?" 

"Lyminster- it's a little south of Arundel, just off the coast." Sam hurries to place it in context, at the slight blankness on the young man's face. Lyminster, little village with a knucker hole that no one has ever heard of. 

"Ah," he says, "Then we're neighbors by coast, of a sort." He smiles, a fun, rather boyish smile.

Boldly she holds out a hand and he shakes it neatly, politely, not stiffly. “I'm Andrew Foyle."

"Sam Stewart,” She replies Samantha really, but I like Sam." His brown eyes sparkle at that, something close to fellow feeling, or certainly understanding.

“What do you fly in Anglesea?' Her curiosity won't be contained, even if she is guessing that he flies.

"Planes- Fighter Jets, F22- and no, I never met Prince William, he'd left before I was posted, before I even had my commission. Anyway we were in different sections. He was air-sea rescue

There’s an air of recitation to the second bit, and she nearly laughs at it,"You get asked that a lot then?”

The man, Andrew, rolls his eyes heavenward dramatically "You have no idea. It seems to be the main fact civilians have retained about the RAF in Anglesea. Now if they asked me about running the Mach Loop, that would be another matter.

"The Mach Loop?" Mach is something to do with speed, the speed of sound she thinks

“Oops, he drops his head a little, a slight bashful twist to his face smile "It's part of the Welsh valleys where we practise low flying, the photographer-lot love it.” his eyes gleam "So do I."

“It sounds,” she says slowly trying to keep her words sensible, Manners, Samantha “Rather dangerous…”

“You mean you think we’re utterly mad.” Andrew says easily, “It is dangerous, but then so is anything with one of those Jets, they’re so quick and powerful. The Brass don't let you run it until you're trained enough.”  His eyes are distant for a moment, caught somewhere. The Welsh valleys probably, or elsewhere in the sky, then his expression clears and he glances along the flow of people, ahead of them and back down the river. Then shakes his head ever so slightly.

She knows what he’s thinking, So many people, so so many people come to pay their respects. It’s not a surprise, not really, but the sheer scale of it in reality is something else. She was loved, and a part of all our lives forever, something we could  be sure of, through all the changes the world threw at us. And yet, now she’s gone- and we'll never see her again. 

“Not sunk in yet?” Andrew says softly

She shakes her head slowly, “No.” Her voice is slightly unsteady to her ears  It should have, surely, we’ve known for a week now, prayers memorial and the condolence book in the church, Dad out at all hours consoling people. “Not properly.”

“Me neither.”

They stand there in quiet silence, a dull humm of chatter, the rush of the wind, noises around them. In the distance, a flag pole, it’s contents at half-mast, shifting slightly in the air, then move forwards with the shuffling flow of the queue.

“Did you ever meet her?” She asks quietly.

Andrew shakes his head sharply once “Nope.” But his face curls into a smile. “One of my mates did though, just after he’d got back and been given his DFC. Said she made you feel like you were the one that mattered, even in a room full of people… and that she teased him about how he fitted into a cockpit-” Sam threw him a look, but Andrew was already carrying on, heedless “Which given Rex is 6’ 2” in his socks, never mind his dress shoes, is a fair question to ask.” 

“What did he reply?” Sam felt her lips turning up in a smile at the mere thought, the mental image of the fairly diminutive queen with a much taller RAF man.

“That he was very good at folding up.”

The laughter splutters out of her, even though it feels undignified in this circumstance, and when she looks at her new friend, his eyes are alight too, “Apparently Her Majesty found it quite amusing as well, she had a good sense of humour.”

“That’s what you’ve heard isn’t it, in all the comments, in all the stories people have told; her sense of fun, her kindness…” Her smile, the brightness, in all the pictures, even to the very end, last Tuesday…  She gives herself a little shake, tears can wait until later. 

They shuffle a few steps further forwards, and the wind off the river nips her cheeks sharply with its ice.

“Would you like some coffee?”

Andrew’s head swivels, that’s really the only word for it, towards her,. “You have hot coffee?”

Sam opens her bag, and tugs out the battered old thermos from the side, holding it up triumphantly. Andrew’s eyes widen, focusing closely on the flask “Yes… Please.”

She has to pass the Thermos over in order to rescue a spare plastic mug from her bag, glad she had thought to pack them.  Andrew passes it back, and takes the mug instead, holding it out to be filled. She watches around her own rim as he curls his fingers around the mug, and takes a long sip.

“MMmm… Ten times better than the Naafi stuff, and that in the Mess.”

“Naffi?” Sam queries 

“‘Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes’, they run the base shop, run most of them in the country actually.” Andrew takes another sip of the coffee, looks back at her with a slight frown, his tone careful “You do realise you’re going to lose that Thermos at the Bag Check, don’t you? It’s clear bottles only.”

She nods with her mouth full, then swallows as soon as she can, to answer “It's the oldest, most battered Thermos in the vicarage, we’ve got half a dozen others. That's why I brought it… it doesn’t matter.”

Andrew’s nod seems to be approving,with a little humm in his throat, “The coffee does though,” he toasts her with the mug, “Thanks.”

Sam finds herself smiling broadly at his enthusiasm “You’re welcome.”

[paulinedorchester]

Mosley, Leonard. Backs to the Wall: London Under Fire, 1939-1954. London: George Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1971; reprint, as Backs to the Wall: The Heroic Story of the People of London During World War II, New York: Random House, 1971.

Each generation gets the history that it needs — or wants, or demands. That’s what kept going through my head as I read Backs to the Wall, which appeared three years after France’s youth explicitly rejected both Charles de Gaulle, the self-appointed leader of the Free French during World War II, and the political ideology that he represented, and amidst ongoing unrest over the Vietnam War. (It’s also worth mentioning that it was published in the same year as Norman Longmate’s How We Lived Then: A History of Everyday Life During the Second World War and two years after Angus Calder’s The People’s War.) This book gives up a World War II narrative in which Churchill was an improvement on Chamberlain only in that he wasn’t an appeaser, de Gaulle was worse than both of them put together, the Allied leaders all cordially loathed each other, half the British public wanted to sue for peace, and there was across-the-board mutual dislike between London civilians and American troops (and British dismay at the way African-American troops were treated by their white counterparts was far from universal). Do I exaggerate? Only slightly. Backs to the Wall is a sort of distant, city-specific pre-echo of Juliet Gardner’s sour 2004 book Wartime: Britain, 1939-45.

As with Wartime, however, this book does have the virtue of introducing us to a number of very interesting people. I became interested in reading it because it brought Vere Hodgson’s wartime diary to public attention. Mosley quotes or paraphrases Hodgson’s writing from the beginning of the war through its end, and also seems to have interviewed her extensively. His primary villain, meanwhile, is not Chamberlain but Chamberlain’s chief acolyte, Henry “Chips” Channon, from whose diary he quotes widely (and who turns out to have been born and raised in the United States, to my surprise). We hear a great deal from the chemist and novelist C.P. Snow and follow the misadventures of two civilians, Jenny Martin and Polly Wright, whose consistency in both bad luck and bad choices meant that neither of them was able to stay out of serious trouble for any length of time.

There are many glimpses of the London home front through the eyes of two boys, both eight when the war began: John Hardiman, of Canning Town and later of Aldgate, who was evacuated in 1939 but soon returned to London, and Donald Ketley of Chadwell Heath, who was never evacuated at all. Donald, who thoroughly enjoyed himself during the war, had an experience that speaks to our own recent reality:

Another good thing: quite early in the Blitz, his school had been totally destroyed by a bomb. Since Donald was shy, a poor student and unpopular with his teacher, he was overjoyed when he heard the place was gone. Thereafter he went each day to his teacher’s home to pick up lessons, which he brought back the next day for marking. In the following months he changed from a poor student to an excellent one, and although he was aware that his teacher rather resented it, he didn’t care. 

Mosley also introduces us to Archibald McIndoe, the real-life counterpart of Patrick Jamieson, Bill Patterson’s character in the Foyle’s War episode ‘Enemy Fire.’ Art seems to have imitated life pretty accurately in that instance: he and his burn hospital in East Grinstead were apparently exactly like what was depicted, the only difference being that the hospital was set up in an existing hospital building, not in a requisitioned stately home.

Backs to the Wall seems to have been one of the earliest books to make substantial use of Mass-Observation writings. Most M-O diaries are anonymous, but there are two named diarists here who stand out. John James Donald was a committed pacifist whose air of lofty detachment as he observes the reactions of those around him to air-raids and other wartime event and prepares for his tribunal — which, in the end, he decides not to attend — quickly grows irritating. More interesting is Rosemary Black, a 28-year-old widow, in no small part because she differs markedly from what I had thought of as the archetypical M-O writer. Here’s her self-description on M-O documents: “Upper-middle-class; mother of two children (girls aged 3 and 2); of independent means.” Mosley continues:

She lived in a trim three-story house in a quiet street of the fashionable part of Maida Vale, a short taxi ride from the center of the West End, whose restaurants and theatres she knew well. She was chic and attractive, and lacked very few of the niceties of life: there was Irene, a Hungarian refugee, to look after the children; Helen, a Scottish maid, to look after herself and the house; and a daily cleaning woman to do the major chores.

Black took her children out of London at the beginning of the war but quickly brought them back, and when bombs began falling she kept them in place — air raids might be disruptive for them, but apparently relocation had been worse. She was very much aware that she was riding out the war in a position of privilege, and she often expressed guilt feelings; but this tended to fade away before her irritation at the dominance of “the muddling amateur or the soulless bureaucrat” in the war effort. Offering her services, even as a volunteer, proved very frustrating. “She was young, strong and willing; she typed, spoke languages, was an expert driver and had taken a course in first aid,” Mosley tells us, “but finding a job even as a chauffeur was proving difficult” in September 1940. (She actually wasn’t all that strong physically: as we learn, she suffered from rheumatism which grew worse during the war years and probably affected her outlook.)

Black was greeted with “apathy and indifference” by both A.R.P. and the Women’s Voluntary Service. Early in 1941 she was finally able to get a place handing out tea, sandwiches, cake, and so on to rescue and clean-up workers at bomb sites from a Y.M.C.A. mobile canteen. She was a bit intimidated by the women with whom she found herself working:

Their class is right up to the county family level. Nearly everyone is tall above the average and remarkably hefty, even definitely large, not necessarily fat but broad and brawny. Perhaps this is something to do with the survival of the fittest.

And the work did bring her some satisfaction, even if it was of the type that lent itself to being recorded with tongue placed firmly in cheek:

We had a pleasant and uneventful day’s work serving City fire sites, the General Post Office, demolition workers and Home Guard Stations, etc. We were complimented at least half a dozen times on the quality of our tea ... I think the provision of saccharine for the tea urns to compensate for the mean sugar allowance is my most successful piece of war work. What did you do in the Great War, Mummy? Sneaked pills into the tea urns, darling.

For all her good humor and astute observations, Mrs. Black was far from immune to tiny-mindedness. After an evening out in 1943 she wrote:

I had to wait some time for the others in the cinema foyer, and I was much struck, as often before, by the almost complete absence of English people these days, from the capital of England. Almost every person who came in was either a foreigner, a roaring Jew, or both. The Cumberland [Hotel] has always been a complete New Jerusalem, but this evening it really struck me as no worse than anywhere else! It is really dismaying to see that this should be the result of this war in defence of our country.

Indeed, Mosley cites the results of a multi-year Mass-Observation study that showed a marked increase in anti-Jewish views London’s general population over the course of the war. Since it’s just one study, and since I haven’t seen that study mentioned anywhere else, I am reluctant to trust blindly in its accuracy; and there’s also this:

The small flat which George [Hardiman] had procured for [his family] ... in Aldgate was cleaner and airier than the old house in Canning Town [which had been bombed], and the little Jewish children with whom John now went to school seemed to be cleaner than the ones in Elm Road; at any rate, he no longer came home with nits in his hair.

On the other hand, Mosley himself gives us only a fragmentary view of London’s wartime Jewish population: everyone seems to be either a terrified refugee or an impoverished East Ender. We hear nothing about the substantial middle- and upper-middle class population — mostly of German descent and in some cases German birth — that had already taken shape in Northwest London; and while we are briefly introduced to Sir David Waley, a Treasury official, in connection with the case of an interned Jewish refugee, we aren’t told that Waley himself was Jewish, a member of “the cousinhood.” On yet a third hand, Mosley also quotes other M-O surveys from the same period that indicate largely hostile attitudes to most foreigners in London, with Poles at the bottom of the ladder and the small Dutch contingent on top. (Incidentally, the book’s extremely patchy index identifies Vere Hodgson as a Mass-Observation diarist, which she wasn’t.)

Backs to the Wall closes with a very brief, remarkably non-partisan account of the 1945 general election and its immediate aftermath. “Neither side had any inkling of the way the minds of the British voters were turning,” he writes.

When [Churchill’s] friends suggested that he was a victim of base ingratitude, he shook his head. He would not have such a charge leveled against his beloved countrymen. Ingratitude? "Oh, no," he said quietly, "I wouldn’t call it that. They have had a very hard time."

The book is worth reading for the primary materials that it includes, but it probably tells us as much about the era in which it was written as about the period that it covers.  

[laiqualaurelote]

The MFMM one, for the WIP ask meme 👀💕

Both @justplainsalty and @glamorouspixels asked for this! It's actually the continuation of there's something wild about you, child, the fae!Phryne AU. The title is a line from the Ballad of Tam Lin, which is my absolute favourite Child Ballad.

It would basically be a canon-divergent AU of the show. I got exhausted inventing fae plotlines for each episode, but here are some:

- Jane is half-fae. Her birth mother, who is human, is thought to have gone mad and walked into the river. When she later reappears, it is revealed she has spent years wandering the faerie roads, lost

- Phryne has a higher tolerance for iron than most fae because Aunt Prudence trained her to handle it from a young age. This is why she can take trains and use guns (her pistol is wood-lined)

- at some point Dot acquires a unicorn

- Phryne, Jack and Dot still go to a Gilbert & Sullivan opera, but instead of Ruddy Gore, it's Iolanthe

- Camellia Lu is a hugupo, or Chinese tiger spirit. A lot of this is just me taking phrases in canon literally, e.g. "Camellia fought like a tiger"

- Murdoch Foyle is the original King of the Winter Court, dethroned through the machinations of the King of the Summer Court (a.k.a. the Gentleman with the Plucked Eyes, Phryne's real father). His summer solstice ritual is an attempt to restore himself to his seat of power by sacrificing four changelings, including Phryne

- Sidney Fletcher is the Erlking. He continues to engage in child trafficking

- the S3 archvillain is the Gentleman with the Plucked Eyes, who will at some point kidnap Jack and Phryne will have to reprise the Tam Lin myth to rescue him

- the fic would end with Phryne giving Jack her real name, and Jack introducing her to his grandmother

So I'm probably never going to get round to writing this because it would require so much lore research, AND a total rewatch, but here you go.

[bergdutt]

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[vagabondtrousers]

And so now your watch ends!

Perhaps some of these from “The French Drop” will help, @foyled-again​.

Eye crinkles? ✅

Sideways eyebrow glances? ✅

There are many more to be compiled, I’m sure ( @flybybee​???!!!) but TFD seems to have more than its fair share of sideways glances.

In future, if there’s anything you’d like to see posted, just shout 📣

[byronicherobracket]

The Byronic Hero Bracket: Qualifying Round Batch F #9

Gully Foyle from The Stars My Destination vs. Dr. Percival Cox from Scrubs

Reasons under the cut (spoilers for both)

(All sources from TV Tropes)

Gully Foyle:

Gully Foyle in Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination, a The Count of Monte Cristo set in a future where people can teleport, starts out as this: he lives entirely to take revenge on the ship that declined to rescue him from his own crippled spacecraft (not the crew, just the ship; he's not that bright) and stops at nothing to do so, including raping perhaps the one completely likable character in the whole book. However, he gradually becomes more of a traditional hero and a messiah of sorts.

Dr. Percival Cox:

Dr. Percival "Perry" Ulysses Cox of Scrubs is a comedic example. He's a brilliant doctor with an extremely antisocial personality, a fervent hatred of his superiors, a succession of very self-destructive relationships, a drinking problem, and an abusive childhood.