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lastbluetardis · 3 years

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Sacred New Beginnings (1/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong.

Ten x Rose AU, @doctorroseprompts

This Chapter: Teen, ~5500 words

Note: Er... surprise? This idea has been in my head for months but my brain took it and ran with it this weekend. I plotted the whole thing and am gonna try to update every weekend. I don’t anticipate this being more than like... 7-10 chapter? I’d love to keep it under 5 chapters but that might be trimming things down too much for my liking. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this little story!

AO3

Flashing lights and shrieks of his name greet James the moment the back door to his armored car is opened. His head of security ducks out first and James can only see a mass of feet and legs but it’s more than enough to let him know it’s a heavier than usual crowd. Not surprising, considering the news of his latest break-up just dropped while he’d been flying back from a visit to America.

He slides out of the car, helped by hands that pull him as much as guide him through the throng. He ignores the shouts of his name—telling him to look left or right or up or down or every combination therein—and the barrage of questions and jokes that aren’t funny.

Was it you or him that ended it?

Three weeks, is that a new personal record?

Another notch in the bedpost, eh James?

Got another beau lined up yet?

If you’re looking for candidates, what do we have to do to get our names in the running?

“Ignore them,” he mutters to himself, too quietly for anyone except his security team to hear.

In answer, one of them gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they reach his front door. Someone has already unlocked it for him and the darkness within is a blessing he’s all too willing to be shoved into. The cacophony muffles once the door shuts, and finally he’s alone, a rarity for him. If it’s not his security, it’s personal assistants and writers and producers and photographers and the paparazzi.

Or his lover of the month, as the papers have taken to calling his partners.

But nope, his home is empty and quiet and bloody freezing. A shiver ripples up his spine as he treads to the thermostat controller. Summer finally released its hold on London, and the muggy heat has been replaced with a damp chill that burrows down into his bones.

Several button-presses later, James hears the familiar clank of the radiator and he can smell the heating kick on. It’ll take a while for his house to warm up, so James keeps his peacoat on for the time being as he putters around his home, checking the fridge and the cabinets. As always, they’re well-stocked. He hasn’t had to do anything as mundane as grocery shopping in the five years since his YouTube channel full of acoustic covers of popular songs went viral and landed him a lucrative deal with a prestigious record label. Only in his wildest dreams had he expected to find fame and fortune in the hobby he loved so much—for it to have actually happened still took him by surprise, as though any minute he’d be told “it was fun while it lasted, but it’s time for you to leave wonderland now.”

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he goes to the antique dining table that can easily seat ten people, which is great for holidays or in-home meetings, but just plain depressing every other day of the year. A stack of mail has piled up, and he spends the next five minutes attempting to sort it before giving up and telling himself he’ll look at it in the morning, once he’s not quite as groggy—transatlantic flights always take it out of him.

Instead, he rootles around his fridge until he comes up with the necessary items to make himself a ham and cheese sandwich. With the prospect of food in front of him, James realizes he is starving. He shoves a whole slice of ham in his mouth while he assembles his pitiful meal, heaping on lettuce and sliced tomatoes as though that’s enough to negate the pile processed protein and greasy chips he layers in for crunch.

It’s tastier than any sandwich as a right to be, and he nearly makes himself a second one before catches sight of his phone screen and the slew of incoming notifications. His work is never finished, is it?

There are several texts from his publicist, Donna, welcoming him home and congratulating him on not making an arse of himself just by trying to walk up the front drive of his home. (To be fair, he felt entitled to channel his inner crotchety old man and tell reporters to get off his damn lawn if they encroached on his personal property.)

“Though some photos are surfacing of your trip to New York… Anything you need me to get ahead of?”

He rubs his fingers into his eyes, knowing she’s probably referring to his last night out in the city, where he went bar hopping until the wee hours of the morning to try to forget the text his subsequently-ex-boyfriend had sent him.

Thanks for everything, but I need to focus on my career. Cheers mate.

The career that James had kickstarted for him by introducing his rising actor boyfriend to several of his friends in the film industry, because James had been so damn desperate for affection that he’d once again let the wool get pulled in front of his eyes.

And so James had reached out to mates who lived in New York and they’d all gone out and acted half their age and had a wonderful time once James forgot about why he’d gone out in the first place.

But none of that now. Nope. No sir.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies. “Let me know if you catch wind of anything.”

Despite the fact that he only just got home and he’s jetlagged and still feeling the effects of his night out in New York, James can’t stay in his house right now. It’s so quiet that his brain is creating its own white noise. He can’t stand being in his head on a good day, and today is not a good day.

He grabs his keys and wallet and makes for the back of the house. His property is landlocked with the back gardens of other houses; the paps have learned the hard way that James is dead serious about protecting his neighbors’ privacy and will not hesitate to phone the police to arrest and sue anyone caught trespassing on private property to snag a photo of him. James hosts dinner for his neighbors several times a year and buys them gifts any chance he can to show his appreciation for their patience and tolerance.

In the dead of night, he slips out into his back garden, the crisp October air burning his lungs in the best way as he ducks his way through the neighborhood, his feet taking him far away from the crowd of reporters that are still stationed in front of his own home. Hopefully they’ll all have dispersed by the time he gets back. Perhaps he should have turned on music or a movie or something, made them think he was settled in for a lazy night in.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, enjoying this taste of freedom and trying to remember the days when he could leave out the front door of his flat without any fanfare.

It’s dark, and thick clouds obscure whichever moon phase they’re in, but the street lamps glow yellow on the damp pavement, lighting his way forward. A crisp autumn breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves, sending them tumbling around him and skittering across the residential street that’s so much quieter than the bustle of New York. It’s good to be home, though.

He arrives at a bus stop and catches one headed into the city proper. It’s no secret that James lives in London, and therefore the general population has gotten used to glimpsing him on the tube or walking on the street or frequenting pubs. He knows people snap quick photos of him, and he’s always happy to stop and pose for a selfie with respectful fans, but mostly he’s left alone when he’s out by himself like this.

Nevertheless, he hears the excited undertones of people trying to inconspicuously point him out to their oblivious friends. He keeps his head down, mindlessly opening and closing apps on his phone for something to do as he pretends he doesn’t notice them. He won’t be on the bus much longer anyway.

Several people get off the bus with him, including a group of teenage girls who are whispering heatedly among themselves. It’s almost funny, watching them debate amongst themselves before one of them approaches him.

She’s red-faced but determined as she blurts, “Can we get a photo?”

“Sure thing,” he says good-naturedly, inclining his head for them to come closer. “Need me to take it?” He holds out a lanky arm and flops it around a bit. “Got a longer reach than any of you.”

He’s certain one of the girls is about to start crying with joy as they all nestle into his side and hand him a new-model iPhone. Damn, it’s fancier than his own. When he was their age, he had an old flip phone that lost reception if he breathed on it wrong. It was a tank though—he’d dropped that thing hundreds of times, and nary a scratch.

“Do me a favor,” he says, handing the phone back to its owner, “and don’t ping our location if you post to social media, yeah? I appreciate it.”

“You’re my favorite person ever,” one of the girls squeaks.

His face splits into a grin and he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Is that so?”

The girls spend the next five minutes chatting with him about music and how they’ve been following him ever since his YouTube days. He listens and chimes in every now and then when they ask him a direct question, but he prefers being passive in exchanges like this, content to hear peoples’ stories. It makes him feel normal, if only for a little while.

Finally, they take their leave, and James turns in the opposite direction even though the destination he had in mind is down the street the girls had just taken. But he’s been burned far too many times by encounters with seemingly innocent fans, only for them to begin following him around and showing up outside his house to talk to him again. He makes a point of not drawing out public encounters with his fans.

He wanders down a street he’s vaguely familiar with, figuring he can backtrack in a couple blocks. The night is too beautiful for him to be upset about needing to take a detour.

Everything looks different in the dark, the glow of neon signs bathing everything in hues of greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Shops and restaurants are mostly shut up for the night, their windows dark or blinds drawn. Dingey motels with pay-by-the-hour rates are in full swing, as are the pubs that have a revolving door of people in varying states of intoxication.

Deep bass that he can feel all the way in his chest catches his attention, and he gets turned around a few times, but he eventually finds the establishment: Bad Wolf Brews. At first, he doesn’t think it’s open, and that he must be mistaken about where the music is coming from, but the heavy front oak door opens, and he realizes the glass on the door is tempered so that the interior lights don’t shine through. The music is clear and heavy and vibrating in his bones. He doesn’t think twice before catching the door before it closes and slipping inside.

The air is humid and smells of sweat and stale beer. Bodies are writhing and gyrating to the rhythm blasting through invisible speakers. The acoustics are phenomenal; none of the layers are lost and the sound quality is nearly as good as if he were listening to the record at home on his own stereo system.

The lights are low, and he’s sure he trips into a few people in the minute it takes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but finally, he’s at the bar. There are three open stools, and he claims one between a blonde woman and a red-haired man as he wonders what the hell this dive bar serves. He can see beer taps, but he’s more of a cocktail guy. He must look as lost as he feels, because the bartender hands him a menu that looks like it was hand-written and then photo-copied. It jives with the overall vibe of the pub.

The bartender checks in with him a minute later. James opens a tab and orders a sidecar sans sugar, and is pleasantly surprised by the quality. Not to make assumptions, but he’d figured an establishment such as this would have cheap liquor. If the alcohol in his drink is cheap, it’s well masked.

When he’s drained the last drop and about to signal for another, a hand rests on his shoulder. “Can I buy your next round?”

James looks up into the face of a stranger. It’s a woman with striking green eyes and a disheveled pixie cut. Judging by her crimson cheeks and glazed eyes, she’s three sheets to the wind. There’s buzzed, then there’s drunk, and then there’s plastered. He prefers not to let himself get to that last category, and by extension, he doesn’t really like to associate much with people who won’t remember the night come morning.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says with his most charming grin. “G’night.”

He has no idea if the woman knows who he is, but the way she shrugs and saunters to the gentleman sitting beside James, he doubts it.

He gets clumsily propositioned a few more times and always politely declines with a smile. So far, nobody here seems to recognize him and he is going to ride out this anonymity for as long as it’ll last. It has been too long since he’s been able to sit in a pub and drink quietly. Well, quietly, insofar as crazed fans or paparazzi aren’t harassing him—the music is loud enough that he’s sure to have ringing in his ears for a few hours once he gets home.

But he’s not really in any rush to get home, and so he orders his fourth cocktail before making his way to the loo. Alcohol goes right through him, and it’s nearly gotten him in trouble on tour a time or two.

There’s no line, but the loo is crowded, and he tries to ignore the double-takes as he stands in front of a urinal to take care of business. If he wakes up tomorrow morning to find that someone snapped a photo of him having a piss, he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Bladder tended to, James keeps his head ducked and shoulders his way back into the bar. His stool is unoccupied, and when he steps forward, he realizes why. A purse sits on it, seemingly reserving the seat but he can’t figure out for whom. He’s about to take the cocktail the bartender hands him and stand against the shadowed wall when someone picks up the purse.

It’s his blonde-haired stool mate. She flashes him a broad grin that lights up her entire face and squeezes something deep in his stomach.

“Saved your seat for ya,” she says with the ease and confidence of someone who’s known him his whole life.

“Thanks,” he manages through a suddenly dry mouth.

Feeling like an idiot for standing and gaping, he slips into his seat and downs half his new sidecar in one go. It’s as though the ice has been broken now, and she turns to him, her elbow on the counter and her cheek propped on her fist.

“Pretty sure you could outdrink a fish, mate,” she drawls, smiling again in that easy way that does too many strange things to his insides. “You’ve been knockin’ ‘em back for over an hour now.”

Has it really been that long? James checks his watch, and yup, it’s half past ten. The paps should be gone from his house by now, but he feels no draw to leave this place. The alcohol has left him pleasantly tipsy and warm, but he’s more drunk on the fantasy that he’s just a normal bloke having a nice night out in a newly-discovered dive bar.

“Fish don’t really drink though, do they? They absorb water through their gills via osmosis,” he replies, and he wants to bite his tongue off because what the fuck was that??

This woman, whatever her name is, doesn’t seem to mind his answer though, because her face scrunches in a giggle. His body is hot and throbbing with more than drink now, and he wants to hear that sound again but his brain has stopped working.

“Is that so different from you absorbin’ alcohol through your bloodstream?” she muses, finishing off whatever is in her short tumbler.

“Can I buy your next round?” he blurts rather than responding to her question, which he’s almost certain was rhetorical.

Her smile melts into something softer, something private and a little shy. “If you’d like.”

“I do.” He flags down the bartender and glances at his new companion expectantly.

“Gin and tonic,” she says. She thanks the bartender, then James when she takes her first sip. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

“James,” he says, feeling stupid because his face is plastered all over London, which likes to boast that it’s the home of international celeb James Noble. But wouldn’t he seem more of an arse if he just assumed this gorgeous woman knew who he was?

Nevertheless, his stomach sinks a bit when she snorts into her drink and says, “I thought it was you.”

“Yup, it’s me,” he forces, his voice flat. He hides his frown with his glass, knocking back the rest of his sidecar like it’s a shot. The room sways slightly with the violent motion of his head, and maybe he’s slightly drunker than he’d thought.

If Rose catches on to his sudden sour mood, she doesn’t mention it. “What brings you here to Bad Wolf?”

He shrugs and blows out a noisy breath. “I dunno. Went for a walk, ended up here.”

“Those are the best sort of adventures.” She hums wistfully. “Sometimes you find what you didn’t know you needed when you let yourself get lost.”

That observation is far too astute for his current state of mind, so instead he says, “Would you like to dance with me?”

Her eyes flicker across his face for a brief moment before she says, “Okay.”

He hops down from his stool, but Rose hesitates, clutching her purse and coat awkwardly. The bartender helpfully tells her to keep them on her stool, and he’ll keep an eye on it. Rose flashes him a grin that James would rather she flash at him, but he realizes that is utterly absurd, so he simply rests his coat on top of her things to better hide them from view. He then holds out his hand for her. Her palm is soft and warm against his as he leads her to the crowded dance floor.

They find space towards the back of the pub, hidden in the shadows of a hallway that states it’s closed off to patrons. And of course, of fucking course, right when he rests his hands on her hips to find the rhythm of the song, a new one comes on, and his own voice belts from the speakers.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. He loves his music—he made it, after all—but he can’t help but feel pretentious and more than a little silly to dance to it like this.

Rose, however, grins and says, “Oh, come on, this is one of my favorites.”

She catches his hands where he’d loosened them at her waist and forces him to grab hold of her. She’s wearing high-waisted trousers and a top that leaves a sliver of her belly exposed. His thumb grazes the skin of her bare side, and it’s enough to send tingles through his body. Rose, meanwhile, slings her arms around his shoulders and begins to rock her hips from side to side in sync with the bass, embellishing the motions until she looks absolutely ridiculous but so, so beautiful.

He can’t help but grin and laugh, and he mirrors her movements until they’re both dancing like idiots to his music.

“This is how my baby brother dances,” she explains, bouncing up and down while twisting her hips. “We have regular dance parties together.”

“How old’s your brother?” he asks.

“Just turned four.”

He blinks, and blood rushes from his face. “And… and how old are you?”

“A perfectly legal twenty-four,” she drawls, reaching up to flick his nose. “You can start breathing again.”

Thank fuck.

“That’s quite the age gap.”

“My mum got remarried when I was nineteen,” Rose says with a shrug. “She and my stepdad didn’t waste much time.”

“Clearly,” he mutters under his breath.

“It does feel a bit like they’ve started over,” Rose confesses with a too-stiff shrug. “New family, new life, and I’m the interloper.

There is no way this vivacious woman in front of him could ever be considered an interloper, but before he can tell her that, she continues, “Mum does her best to assure me otherwise, but still. It’s hard to watch all the things Mum and Dad are able to do for Tony—that’s my brother, Tony—when Mum struggled so much as a single mum with me.”

“Your dad’s not in the picture?”

A sad smile pinches her face, and he regrets asking.

“No, I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”

“I… I’m so sorry.” Well, he’s totally buggered this all up, hasn’t he? He wracks his brain on how to salvage the easy banter they’d had at the bar, but draws a blank.

Rose seems to realize they’ve lost the mood, but she breaks out into a lazy grin and says, “Since you seemed so opposed to dancing to your own music, it’ll please you to know a new song’s on. C’mon, show me your moves.”

He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so he follows her lead, watching her dance her heart out until her cheeks are pink and her hair is damp with sweat. He’s sure he doesn’t look much better, since he can feel the perspiration beading down his back and beneath his arms, but he can’t bring himself to care. Tonight has been the most fun he’s had in a very long time. Clubbing in New York had been a lark, but he’s been swarmed by his American fans half the night, and had been busy drowning his latest heartbreak to fully enjoy it. But here, now, with Rose, it’s like he’s any other bloke in a pub, chatting up a pretty girl he wants to get to know.

Their bodies are wrapped around each other with the ease and grace of partners who have known each other for years, and he forgets that he has known Rose for all of a few hours. He never wants this night to end. He wants to cling to this fairytale and pretend that the clock isn’t about to strike the proverbial midnight.

But time marches on as always. The clock really does strike midnight, and the bartender begins to clear people out of his establishment. James is as exhausted as he is exhilarated, no longer drunk on booze but rather the company of Rose and the magic they made together by simply dancing the night away.

They head back to the bar to retrieve their coats and her purse, and to close out their tabs. James slides his credit card to the bartender and asks him to charge everyone’s tab to his card. If the bartender is surprised, he hides it well. A few minutes later, James is signing off on the receipt of purchase of several thousand pounds-worth of alcohol. His personal assistant is sure to be confused as hell when she wakes up to see the charge. He fires off a quick warning text to her so she doesn’t open up a fraudulent charge claim.

James salutes the bartender, knowing he’ll come back to this pub as often as he can until he’s found out and this place once again becomes somewhere that’s overrun with his fans.

The night is refreshingly cold when he and Rose emerge into it, a nice change after the stifling, sweaty heat of the bar. However, she hunches her shoulders against the chill, prompting him to wrap his arm around her waist and tug her into his side, all too eager to lend her some of his body heat.

“Can I walk you somewhere?” he asks, glancing around the street that is now full of the drunken patrons who’d been in the pub with them. They all disperse in different directions, stumbling home or to a different bar that is still open. “Or wait with you ‘til you catch a cab?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, pulling up her phone to order a ride. She taps on the screen for a few quiet moments then says, “Done. Should be here in a few minutes.”

They descend into a slightly awkward silence that James wants to break, but he can’t think of anything clever to say. So he says nothing, and finally headlights wash over them, momentarily blinding them before a taxi pulls up.

“D’you wanna share?” she asks, opening the door to the back seat.

Is she as reluctant to leave him as he is to leave her? Or is she being polite and eco-friendly by ride sharing? Nevertheless, he nods and slides into the back seat beside her.

There is something incredibly intimate about sitting with Rose in the dark interior of the taxi, and he feels like he’s fifteen and wondering how to hold his date’s hand after a cheap night out at the cinemas. He fists his hands together, knotting his fingers until his knuckles pop.

The driver goes to the address Rose provides first, and all too soon they’ve arrived.

“I’ll cover the fare,” he says when she makes to hand over some bank notes to the diver. “It’d be my pleasure.”

She hesitates, but nods, then opens the door to climb out of the car. His pulse quickens as he watches her walk away with nothing but a, “Goodnight.”

“Can you wait just a minute?” he asks the driver.

“Meter’s still runnin’,” he grunts.

“That’s fine.”

James scrambles out of the taxi. “Hey, Rose?”

She turns back to face him, frowning.

“I… er… I had a great time tonight,” he says lamely, but her frown relaxes into a smile. “It was fun. With you. I had fun.”

“Yeah, me too,” she answers.

He licks his lips; his mouth is bone dry and his pulse pounds in his ears, making his vision throb with each frenzied beat.

“Do you… do you maybe wanna do it again some time? Hang out together? I… I’d really like to see you again,” he says, cursing his clumsy, fumbling words.

She scrutinizes him for a long moment, her expression indecipherable. His stomach sinks. Maybe this was a one-off, a story for her to tell her mates.

You’ll never guess who I met at the pub last night. James Noble! He paid for all my drinks and we danced like idiots.

He stews in his misery of doubt, and just when he’s about to tell her to forget about it, she slowly nods.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

“Really?” he asks, a hopeful edge creeping into his voice.

She laughs. “Really.”

“Brilliant!” James fumbles in his pocket for his phone, and he thrusts it at her. “Give me your number? I’ll text you. Or call.”

He rocks back and forth on his toes and heels, waiting for her to finish up with his phone. He has a sudden, potent bolt of panic that she’s snooping through his private messages or photographs for something to use against him to make a quick profit, but before that panic can take root, she hands his mobile back to him. It’s open to a new texting conversation.

From: 🌹 Bad Wolf Girl 🌹

Now I’ve got your number too 😉

He beams at the name she’s given to herself in his contacts, then he pockets his phone.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You better,” she replies with that knee-weakening smile he’s grown to love over the course of the night. “See ya.”

“Bye.”

He stands there like a moron until she’s safely inside, then he turns back to the taxi and climbs in. The deserted streets streak by as the driver takes him to his neighborhood. He never gives his address though; he always chooses a destination a few streets away, just in case.

James generously tips the driver and bids him goodnight before slipping into the night to his home. He was right: the paparazzi are gone. There is no fanfare as he slips his key into the lock and lets himself into his house. It’s warm and cozy, but still too quiet for his liking.

Between the plane ride and his night out, he feels greasy and disgusting, and indulges in a hot shower before bed. He washes Rose’s scent off of his body, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that’s as sweet as it is musky.

He’s groggy by the time he crawls into his giant, king-sized bed and burrows deep into his mounds of pillows and duvets. One of his ex-girlfriends once teased that he turns into the marshmallow man when he sleeps.

His sleep is deep and dreamless, and when he awakes with the sun the following morning, he feels more refreshed and invigorated than he ever remembers being. He’s got a full day of meetings with his songwriting team to brainstorm his next album, and he is ready.

But first, he checks his phone. There’s nothing from Rose, which makes him a little sad, but also nothing from his publicist, which is always a good sign. If ever she messages or calls him first thing in the morning, it always means there’s some sort of dumpster fire to put out. Usually a dumpster fire full of compromising photos of him.

He makes a point of not Googling himself, but he does occasionally check his social media pages for new posts about him, wanting to know when, where, and how his fans came across him in the wild. He easily finds the photo that he took with the group of teenage girls, and makes a point to like the original post and type a quick, “Nice to meet you all. Thanks for chatting with me last night - J” in the comments section. He snorts to himself as his comment blows up within seconds.

But other than some grainy photos of him riding the bus, he can’t find any other photos of himself. Nothing of him wandering the streets or drinking in the pub or even having a wee in the mens’ room. And best of all, there’s nothing of him and Rose. No photos of them dancing together or sharing a cab. If Rose has a social media account, it didn’t post any sneaky photos or bragging stories about dancing all night with James Noble.

He can’t quite believe it; he managed to have a fun night out drinking without it all being thrown back in his face the next morning. Within seconds, he’s grinning to himself and pulling up Rose’s contact information. It’s still in his phone, further proof that his night with her wasn’t some sort of jetlagged fever dream. She was real.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well. Thanks for last night.”

She responds almost instantly. Good morning to you too. I should be thanking you for paying my drink tab and taxi fare 😉 And for being an excellent dance partner.

“The pleasure was all mine, on all counts.” He sends that message, then types out a new one, “I’m gonna be in meetings all day (yes, I know it’s Sunday), so please don’t be discouraged if I don’t reply. But I’d really like to see you again. Want to do dinner or drinks or coffee or something?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, needing to make himself presentable for when his driver picks him up in an hour. Yet he can’t help but check his phone every three seconds, until finally there’s a message from Rose.

Yeah, I’d like that. I work ‘til five most nights, but I’m free after that. Or we can wait ‘til the weekend.

With spirits lighter than they’ve been in months, James steps out of his house with a broad, stupid grin that the ever-present crowd of paparazzi are all too happy to photograph.

#ficandchips #dwfic #doctorroseprompts #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #james x rose #yet another iteration of james and rose lmao #romance #meet cute #light angst #musician au #my fic #sacred new beginnings

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Text

Aspec Martin Week – Day 4

Martin's first Pride ft. OG Archive Crew. Set sometime during S1.

Martin hangs close to Sasha near a stand selling gaudy accessories and spinning fans while Tim bounds off, shoving cheerfully through the mass of people, promising to search out somewhere that might have something approaching alcohol.

He's been gone a while now, and Martin's been anxiously adjusting his scratchy, over-loose bow-tie to try and distract himself, feeling sweaty and visible and uncomfortable. Sasha and Tim, in their early morning marshalling of their small group, had convinced him to paint his nails in some gauche glittery material that ripples rainbow when the light strikes it. He doesn't like the colour, and he's half ruined it anyway with his picking and fussing. Someone hasn't adjusted the volume controls on whatever system they've set up, and the next song blares out screaming-loud before someone lowers it, and Martin winces at how much it all it, every time someone gets hold of a garbling microphone and hollers something in the distance that gets muffled by a feedback whine.

He keeps checking his phone to make sure his mum hasn't called. He still isn't sure what excuse he'd try.

“What do you think?” Sasha angles her neck up to half-shout in Martin's ear. “For your first one?”

She's better dressed for the day, that's for sure, a flowing cotton summer dress with sewn-on streamers like some particularly striking maypole. She has a fake flower crown and it makes her look like a wispy fae creature. Her earrings dangle and chime, and Martin's glad he's not here on his own.

“Loud,” Martin complains back, and he thinks she laughs and nods in agreement before he's glancing around again at the masses of people. “Are you sure Tim's ok, I really think he should have been back by – ”

“Oy, over here!” comes the shout, and from the assembled gaggle, Tim emerges, looking delighted and smug and red-faced, his cheeks and the top of his nose having caught the sun. He adjusts his cap from where it's been jauntily knocked, and he's somehow gained the most tacky pair of rainbow sunglasses and at least five new roughly slapped on stickers since he vanished.

“Finally!” Sasha shouts back to him. “Took your time!”

“OK!” Tim says, clearly having not heard her or chosen not to. “Firstly, very important, on the alcohol front, ta-dah!” he gestures at his now bulging backpack. “Who's the man, huh, who delivers on his promises?”

“Like some sort of boozy Santa,” Sasha agrees, and unzips the bag to get a better look. “Someone's had a few on the job already!”

Tim makes a face. “Only one!”

“Tim, are you thirteen, what you doing buying us this shite!” Sasha rootles around, pushing the Heineken cans out of the way and pulling half-out the three litre bottle of Frosty Jack's.

“They don't sell White Lightning any more!”

“For good reason!”

“C'mon, it'll be a reminder of old times! A misspent youth...”

“Not all of us hung about the parks getting wankered off cheap cider, Timothy.”

Martin's letting the rhythm of their conversation wash over him. Someone gave him a big beaming grin two minutes ago as they passed, an easy and appreciative look-over, and the heat of that interaction hasn't quite left his cheeks.

“And secondly, if I can be allowed to get a word in edgeways – ”

“You may.”

“A kindness, m' lady.”

“Get on with it, serf.”

“Secondly, guys, look, they were giving them out for free!”

Tim presents his snaffled haul, his palms full of colours and patterns. A collection of cheaply-made paper flags, clearly printed and folded over and stuck onto cocktail sticks. There's a good number of them Martin doesn't recognise, but he doesn't want to feel ignorant by asking, so he keeps quiet.

“Sash, Sash, Sash,” Tim sing-songs at her.

“Tim, Tim, Tim,” she warbles back in a faux operatic voice.

“Got this one 'specially.”

“Charmer,” she smiles, but she allows Tim to stretch up to the height she's achieved with some seriously fuck-off heels, to plant the little flag behind her ear like a flower. She makes a show of preening, twirling it dramatically so the blue, white and pink of the stripes blur together for a moment. “It's acceptable.”

“You're too gracious,” Tim gives a mock bow. He's already stuck his blue, purple and pink flag into one of the belt loops of his jeans, the corner of it already bent slightly at the rough treatment.

He then turns to Martin.

“Let's spruce you up then Marto!”

Martin's in half a mind to refuse. It took a lot for him to even come here, and he's still not quite gotten rid of the tension that's strung across his shoulders. But he sets his jaw and knows he can always pocket them so no-one can see later.

He shyly grabs a multicolour pride flag from Tim's open hands. Then, daring, almost surprising himself, he grabs a second flag.

Sasha gives him an elbow nudge and a smile. Tim gives a whoop and a cheer and attempts to crush them both into a poorly aimed hug, before he shoves the rest of his haul into his trouser pockets.

Martin doesn't stick his own flags anywhere. He holds them fisted in his palm all day, over-aware of them, doing his best to protect them from the tides of people even though they eventually get a bit bashed and crumpled.

Tim's all for spending the night out on the town. But they spend most of the afternoon baking and hot, covered in glitter and day-drinking, finding a park along the way and casting themselves limblessly on the grass, so it's early yet when they start away from the street parties and thumping dance music. Tim ends the day with one cheek striped blue, one pink and his forehead purple, with some face-paint he's somehow gotten somewhere, waxing effusive about someone he danced to Taylor Swift with and didn't get her number: 'stunning, honestly, Martin, she was like one of those hot 1940's Hollywood people.'

“Didn't know you were into grandmas, Tim,” Sasha mumbles, half the words directed into Martin's ruin of hair. She's taken off her heels – which Tim is now holding, having tried and failed to get them to fit – and as the most sober one, Martin's carrying her on his back as she half dozes, sleepy and headachy from the music.

Martin hasn't checked his phone in hours. He's still got the little flags crushed in his grip. Tim keeps trying to hide a bear pride flag on Martin when he's not looking, and giving a giggling squawking protestation whenever he gets caught.

It's been a good day. Martin's head is buzzy on shit cider, and he's lost his bowtie, but he keeps looking at his little flags and smiling.

It's been a really good day, he thinks.

Restored from their dramatic hangovers, Monday comes. Martin arrives huffing and delayed from the Tube to see Tim's stuck his flag so it stands battered and proud over the lid of his laptop. Sasha's made her small desk teddy bear hold hers. And it's the memory of the day, the sun and the heat and the wild dizzying lack of expectations of it all, that gives him the courage to bring the flags he carefully preserved in on Tuesday, to put them jutting out of the mug on his desk that holds his stationery.

Honestly, he doesn't expect anyone to comment on them. It's not like anyone else comes down to their offices anyway.

So it's a surprise when Jon, striding past their desks, stops. Looks at the multicolour flag with its bent edging. Its sister flag, the stripes of grey, white and purple only a little sun-faded.

Tim has been lost to Archive Storage for hours now, Sasha hard cross-referencing over at another department. Martin always feels like he's failed some sort of test he didn't know he was taking, when he's in the room with Jon alone.

Martin stiffens but Jon just looks for moment.

“Where did you get them?” he asks briskly, gesturing.

“Oh!” Martin says, relieved that Jon's not stopped to tell him how poor his filing skills are again. “It was, erm, Pride? At the weekend. Tim, he got some for all of us.”

“Hm,” Jon nods. Still staring at Martin's flags. Especially the one Martin had hesitated over, held that bit tighter in his grip. He has an expression on his face, but Martin doesn't know what it is. He rarely knows how to read Jon.

“I think Tim might still have some!” Martin says, anxious to add something in this interaction he doesn't quite know how to navigate. “If you – you wanted any of your own?”

Jon pauses, gives Martin a sharp look as though annoyed he'd mentioned it, but then his face softens, and he looks at the flags again.

“I'll ask him,” he says, giving a short, hard nod. “No need to disrupt him when he's doing something productive.”

“Right,” Martin says weakly.

Jon gives him another nod, and then he vanishes back into his office, leaving Martin unsure of what's just happened.

(Later that week, Martin sees the flags struck into the soil of Jon's beleaguered desk cactus. The blue, pink and purple flag like Tim's. The grey, purple and white flag like Martin's. He doesn't comment, doesn't think Jon would like the attention. But he smile to see it nonetheless).

#AspecMartinWeek #martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives #og archive crew #ace!Martin #ace!Jon #bi legend Tim #trans!Sasha #minor mentions of Martin's mum #ask to tag

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eclecticstarlightconnoisseur · 6 years

Text

Edinburgh to Boston - Chapter 3 The Flight - Part 1

Hello all,

As promised here is Chapter 3. Just so that you know part of my real life leaked into this chapter. I have been studying for my Advanced Cardiac Life Support recertification this week. I have been practicing with the simulations and going through the algorithms all week including shocking the characters. So Claire is acting out for me in the story. I have ACLS on the brain.

I hope you enjoy the Chapter.

I give you:

Edinburgh to Boston

Chapter 3 - The Flight - Part 1

James found Claire standing by their seats struggling to put her carry on into the overhead compartment.

"Here, Beauchamp, let me help ye with that." James took the suitcase and easily slid both their cases into the compartment.

"Thank you, Fraser. That was most kind of you. I don't know how I would have managed." Claire looked up at James coquettishly through her eyelashes and flashed a charming smile.

"Ah...yer welcome. Anytime at all." Christ, is she flirting with me?

May as well be a gentleman. "Beauchamp, umm, which seat would ye like, the window or the aisle? It doesna matter to me which seat I have."

"Oh no, James you must take the aisle seat. You would have more leg room it wouldn't do to be uncomfortable during such a long flight." Claire placed her hand over his squeezing gently.

She felt it in an instant, the heat of the man as well as something else altogether. It was an intense feeling, coursing through her hand, snaking up her arm, centering in her chest diffusing outward warming her body. It was like a radiant glowing sun growing, expanding, discharging heat and energy. Then there was something else. Something she could not put a name to but it pulsated, throbbed feeling primitive, primordial, something more...something dangerous, perhaps, possessive. She never felt anything like it before. The sensations threatened to consume her, devour her. Isn't that what the woman said, he wanted to devour me? Could the old lady have been right? Could there be something between us?

Claire quickly removed her hand from James as if she had been burned. No, Claire decided. No, she decided she had let the old lady get into her head and she had to stop those thoughts now before things got out of hand.

She is flirting with me! Tiny beads of sweat formed on James forehead and upper lip. He ran his finger along the collar of his blue dress shirt trying to let a little air in.

"A bit warm in here is no’ Beauchamp?" James asked as he took his suit jacket off feeling the cool air of the cabin brush across the sweat-dampened shirt molding to his back. His hands were damp too. Surreptitiously he rubbed them against his suit leg hoping that she wouldn't notice what he was doing. He dropped gracelessly into his seat placing his jacket over his lap, his head slumping back against the headrest.

Claire turned to look and her eyes went wide with shock. James had turned a rather unhealthy pasty color much like the color of day-old parritch. Sweat formed on his face and he looked a right mess.

"James, are you ill?" Claire asked a worried expression splayed across her face. "Do you feel faint?" "Are you having a heart attack? Do you feel chest pain?" She was becoming nervous and concerned. "Here let me see if you have a fever."

Her cool hand came to rest on his brow causing him to shiver at her touch. The man was a furnace, not with fever, but with his own body heat. She swiftly took his wrist checking his pulse, fast but regular. Breathing deep but again regular.

"Here let me help take off your tie." Nimble fingers made quick work of removing James' tie and opening his collar. She began to fan James furiously with the magazine in the pocket of the seat. If she fanned any harder, she would have caused a tornado.

The woman will no’ stop touching me! "I'm fine, Beauchamp."

Her hand is sae soft, sae cool. I wonder what her bonny wee hand would feel like on my…

It was in that moment that James understood that settling his jacket across his lap was a very fortunate thing, as his traitorous anatomy would have put him in a very embarrassing and compromising position.

James closed his eyes, exhaled a deep, low, anguished groan. In an effort to gain control over himself, he began to mentally pray. Lord, I need ye guidance for the challenge I am to face. Grant me ye wisdom, strength, and direction.

Claire took James’ groaning to mean he was worsening. He didn’t look any better either. It seemed that he was growing paler by the second.

“James?” There was no response. “James!” Claire gave him a little shake. He still did not respond. His pulse was strong and regular.

Fearing that the worst might happen, she signaled the flight attendant who popped up next to her like the jack-in-a-box.

Adopting her surgeon's persona, "I am Dr. Claire Beauchamp and this is Dr. James Fraser. Dr. Fraser is not well. I need your assistance." Claire proceeded to tell the attendant what she would need and gave her an imperious look sending the young woman scampering off.

With all her strength, Claire grabbed the blue button-down dress shirt and yanked it open sending the buttons flying in all directions like tiny projectile missiles. James' chest was exposed; it was toned, well muscled with copper-colored hair lightly furring his chest. I want to touch him.

By this time the flight attendant returned carrying the AED.

The sound of tearing fabric prompted James swift return to consciousness; he looked at Claire, saw what she was doing and grabbed both her wrists.

"Beauchamp," James said very calmly, "What in hell are ye about? Have ye gone mad?"

Claire startled as if she was watching Lazarus rise from the dead. Her eyes glistened with tears creeping toward the edges.

Her mouth quivered, moving wordlessly at first, "You...You're alright then?" Her face contorted with relief. Claire’s hands cupped his cheeks tenderly and stared at his face searching for an answer to her question. "I thought...I thought I would lose you," she said in a shaky voice. "I thought you were going to die. I had the AED here just in case." One hot fat tear escaped her eye striking James on the chest.

"Hush lass, dinna weep, it's alright, it's alright," he soothed."I was just taken queer for a moment, but I’m alright now. But does that mean if I am taken so again, ye'll try tae undress me once more?" he said while quirking an eyebrow at her and giving her a little chuckle.

Claire took hold of herself, appreciating James’ effort to try to make light of the whole matter allowing her time to regain her composure. She blotted at her eyes and sniffed.

"Don't get any ideas in your head from this Fraser. It just means that I am relieved you're not dead. I wouldn't want to have to go back to the chief and try to explain this. And by the way, be very grateful I didn't try to shock you," Claire huffed glaring at him as if this were all his fault.

“Aye, Claire, I am truly grateful ye did not. It would have hurt like hell,” he smirked.

Both she and James profusely thanked the flight attendant for her assistance and watched her walk off grumbling.

James stood took down his suitcase, rootled about, found a new shirt and marched to the lavatory with all the dignity he possessed. He passed by where Harry and Maizie were sitting. Harry raised his hand signaling James to stop.

"A moment lad after ye've made yerself presentable, aye?"

James really did not want to talk to Harry again. He thought that Harry was trying to fill his head with ridiculous ideas. He decided he would just walk by.

No such luck. Harry was waiting for him outside the door. Harry gave James a firm push back inside the lavatory, stepped in and locked the door. There was barely enough room for both large men to stand. James standing at 6' 4" and Harry at 6'; the room was positively claustrophobic.

"Ye ken horses lad?"

What does that have to do with anything? "Aye, I do. And what of it?"

"The lass loves ye, that I ken; it's just that she's scairt, like a young filly that's been misused ye ken. Someone has hurt her, and hurt her bad. Ye ken what ye need to do with a scairt hurt filly? Be gentle with her."

"Mr. MacLennan, may I ask ye what ye do for a living, sir? Are ye a matchmaker? If so, I dinna require yer services."

"Why I'm a kilt maker,” replied Harry proudly. “And to answer yer other question, no, I am no’ a matchmaker. Just a man who believes in the power of love. May I ask the same of ye sir, what is yer occupation?"

"I'm a heart surgeon."

"Weel lad, ye may ken how to repair other people's broken hearts. But ye have a long way to go to fix yer own and that lass. Mind what I say to ye." Harry gave James a look imploring him to heed what he said and left.

A kilt maker was giving James love advice. He thought he must be going soft in the heid.

*************************

As Harry pushed James into the lavatory, Maizie took off from her seat rushing up to speak with Claire. She found Claire picking up the buttons from James’ shirt that had been scattered literally everywhere. The buttons not only contained the threads in the holes but pieces of the shirt itself was still attached.

Maizie spoke to Claire tenderly, “Lass, are ye alright? And yer lad, is he alright then?”

Claire looked up taking in the genuine concern written across Maizie’s face. “Yes, we’re alright. I guess you saw what happened.”

Maizie chuckled, “Ye caused such a stramash that I think the whole plane kens what happened.”

Claire was mortified. Her face glowed a lovely shade of rose reaching to the tops of her ears. She covered her face and uttered a small sob.

Maizie, in her best grandmotherly gestures, pulled Claire to her bosom and gently cradled her head against her shoulder. “There, there lass, ye meant well. Ye were only protecting yer man.”

“He’s not mine,” Claire said whimpering against Maizie’s shoulder.

“Aye, lass he is. Ye just dinna ken it and neither does he. What kind of work do ye and yon man do?”

Claire looked at Maizie, tears running down her cheeks, “We’re heart surgeons.”

“I kent ye for a smart lass. I’m going to give you a bit of advice, be yerself, lass, no’ his doctor. Hmmm? All he wants is ye. He loves ye, I am certain of it.”

“But what if he doesn’t like what he finds? I’m afraid I could lose him as my friend.” Claire did not know why she was confiding in this woman who she had known for all of 10 minutes. There was something about the force of her personality that compelled trust.

“Claire, give the lad a chance. He is a special one. Lads like him dinna come along every day.” Maizie gave her a knowing look, “I ken his type well. Trust him.”

Maizie lifted Claire’s chin up. She inspected Claire’s face, removed a clean but crumpled tissue from her sleeve and wiped away Claire’s tears. Maizie held the tissue to Clare’s nose, “Now blow.” Claire did as she was told.

“Besides, ye are building memories with the lad. Even if ye dinna think them to be good just now. Ye will laugh at them in later years. On this ye can be sure.” Maizie smiled and winked at Claire.

Claire leaned toward Maizie, gave her a kiss on the cheek, “Thank you Maizie, for everything.”

“‘Twas nothing Claire. Here,” Maizie handed Claire the buttons she was holding.

“I needta get back to my seat or Harry will worry I ran off with another man.” Maizie gave her a wink and turned hurriedly walking back toward her seat.

Claire sat down, wondering how she would apologize to James.

*******************

Maizie made it back to her seat before Harry came out of the lavatory. Harry took his seat next to Maizie and nodded his head.

“Ye spoke with the lass?”

“I did and ye were right. She was hurt by someone. Who, I dinna ken. I think she was hurt bad though. She is afraid to lose him. I told her to just be herself. Did ye speak with him?”

“Aye told him I thought she had been hurt before and was scairt. I told him that he needs to be gentle with her.”

“I think we gave them the best advice we could have. It’s all up to them now,” said Harry with a shrug.

“Aye, ‘tis,” Maizie agreed. All we can do now is hope for the best.” Harry and Maizie’s hands intertwined. Harry raised her hand to his lips and kissed her wedding ring. “Tha gaol agam ort, mo chridhe.” Maizie looked Harry with such love and devotion and said, “And I you.” She kissed him sweetly on the lips.

*********************

James returned to his seat making himself comfortable after a harrowing start to his trip.

He found Claire sitting there serenely, although it looked as if she had been crying before.

“Fraser, I want to apologize for all the trouble I caused you. Of course I will pay for the shirt I tore.” Claire blushed at the mention of the shirt.

“Dinna fash, Beauchamp. It’s nay bother. I ken ye were trying to help. I’m glad of it. Always kent ye would be there for me. Even if ye kill me in the process.”

Claire gave him a wry smile and gently jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Thank you for understanding.”

He laughed, smiled graciously at her, and patted her hand ending the matter.

The jet made its final turn on to the runway. With a roar of the engines the jet began to gain speed, gaining momentum leaving the terminal buildings behind in a blur. The jet thrust forward, cutting through the air freeing itself of its earthly bonds and suddenly it was airborne.

Finally. They were on their way. James relaxed into his seat sinking down as deeply as he could and he drifted off into what would become a fitful sleep.

Claire, too, yawned and stretched. Sank down into the cushioned seat, curling into herself as best as she could. Soon she was carried off by Hypnos into the land of sleep.

There was music and dancing. Claire was in the arms of a tall red-headed man dancing around the room with the other couples. The music was fast; she was spinning and twirling about. The man took hold of her by the waist, lifting her up spinning them around. Her head tossed back in a joyful laugh. He stopped and lowered her down, sliding her body over his. Her messy curls damp from exertion clung in ringlets to her face and neck. “I love you,” she whispered bringing her lips down to meet his. His lips were soft, warm, and tasted of whisky. The kiss warmed her to her core, setting her body on fire for him, only him. She knew she never wanted to be anywhere else, with anyone else for the remainder of her life. James.

#curlsgetdemgurls #jmoonrise #takemeawaytocamelot #edinburgh to boston #chapter 3 #the flight part 1 #fate and destiny #fate is not done with them yet #here goes nothing

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Endeavour: Saluting the Wit and Constancy of Dr Max DeBryn

https://ift.tt/3iGhYqy

A rummage. A rootle. A grub about. A fillet. The hors d’oeuvres. Getting him unzipped… Coming from anybody else, the irreverence with which Endeavour’s Dr Max DeBryn describes performing post-mortems would suggest callousness. From DeBryn though, it’s just DeBryn – playful, teasingly provocative and clever. The man’s a master of words as well as the scalpel. He may delight in making his squeamish colleague Morse green around the gills with descriptions of corpses being “as ripe and runny as a rancid Roquefort”, but underneath the mischief sits unarguable decency. DeBryn’s language is light-hearted, but his heart – unlike those of the patients on his slab – is in good working order.

That much is clear from brief earnest moments DeBryn lets escape his dry-witted façade. He often remarks with compassion on the thankful small mercies in his clients’ violent deaths. In Endeavour series four episode ‘Game’, he instructs the uniforms carrying away a murder victim, “Gently, if you would gentlemen, she’s been through quite enough.” In series six episode ‘Confection’, he’s gentle and kind when a distraught ACC Bright visits him at his club for medical advice on Mrs Bright’s cancer diagnosis. When a child is shot by a stray bullet in Series 5’s ‘Quartet’, DeBryn drops his coolness to do everything to save him – and succeeds. When Morse congratulates him, the praise is shrugged off with characteristic detachment: “Makes a change to work on a live patient, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.”

Detachment, one feels, is the key to understanding Dr DeBryn’s offhand manner. Morse may see more than his fair share of murder victims in his line of work, but he has the privilege of looking away at some point. Not Dr Debryn. It’s his job to look more closely at things from which the rest of us would avert our eyes. As a Home Office pathologist, the constant parade of victims – men, women and children – across his surgical table would take too heavy an emotional toll without a distancing strategy. That surely explains DeBryn’s arch humour and lurid references to having someone’s “tripes in a tub”.

DeBryn explains it best when he tells Morse in series five’s ‘Cartouche’ that’s he’s no fan of scary films, “Cruelty, torture and Kensington gore? For some of us, it’s horror season all year round.” When Morse compliments his charming country home in series six’s ‘Pylon’, DeBryn tells him, “Something has to be lovely, doesn’t it?” In DeBryn’s day job, loveliness is in short supply. Between his seed cake and tea roses, it’s comforting to think the character has built himself a refuge of sorts.

Loveliness may be absent from his work, but loneliness DeBryn seems well acquainted with in Endeavour. There’s a melancholy to James Bradshaw’s earlier incarnation of the character that’s less detectable in Peter Woodthorpe’s more cantankerous bon viveur in Inspector Morse. While both are exacting professionals who give not an inch to lesser men (“I couldn’t possibly say,” is Woodthorpe’s character’s catchphrase when asked to use guesswork instead of science. Like a fairy tale wizard, he demands to be asked the right question – a not unintelligent one – in the right format before he’ll deign to respond) more space is allowed for vulnerability in Bradshaw’s performance. There’s more space in general, with Bradshaw appearing across the prequel’s 33 films, instead of only the seven appearances Woodthorpe made in Inspector Morse before ill health forced his retirement.

Endeavour Theory: Has Morse Already Crossed Paths With Nemesis Hugo de Vries?

By Louisa Mellor

Endeavour: The Beautiful Poignancy of Series 8’s Last Lines

By Louisa Mellor

That’s one joy of a prequel like Endeavour, to push deeper under the skin of characters we know and love, to peel it back and probe the wounds beneath. Actor James Bradshaw, writer Russell Lewis, and Endeavour’s many directors have created a Max DeBryn whose curtness and dry wit masks a tugging sense of loss. When Morse asks DeBryn what he makes of love in series four’s ‘Game’, he bats the enquiry away before quoting the line, “And one was fond of me and all are slain.” Morse, recognising the work of his favourite poet A.E. Housman, completes the verse. “Ask me no more, for fear I should reply.” In that same episode, DeBryn remarks, “Love and fishing. Sooner or later it all comes down to the same thing: the one that got away.” There was once somebody fond of DeBryn, it’s hinted, but whether slain, or perhaps unable to love him at a time when not all love was legally accepted, they got away.

Loneliness, or at least the pall of it cast over the prequel by our knowledge that Morse remains a bachelor, is one of many things shared by DeBryn and Endeavour. They’re fellow outsiders whose friendship is one of our greatest assurances of DeBryn’s decency. Amused as he is by Morse having no stomach for blood, DeBryn recognises a kinship there. Educated, cultured, with an appreciation of the finer things – food for gourmand DeBryn, opera for Morse, poetry and booze for them both – they’re out of place among the Jim Stranges of Thames Valley Police. (The lack of poetic soul in DS Strange puts him on the receiving end of DeBryn’s acid tongue more than once. When Strange remarks in series six’ ‘Confection’ that a victim “choked on his own puke”, DeBryn wryly comments, “Been at the Keats again, Sergeant?”)

Though DeBryn and Morse’s fondness for each other is more likely to express itself in gentle ribbing over a gin and Campari in Inspector Morse, there’s a smidge more tenderness and sincerity between them in Endeavour. It’s easy to feel that they care about each other, nowhere seen better than in DeBryn’s performing a bit of his finest broderie anglaise on Morse’s knifewound, or even in his explosive reaction to Morse and Thursday having a stand-up fight over the body of a young victim in series seven. Not only are DeBryn’s professional standards insulted by their behaviour, but he appears incensed by how destructive Morse is being. The same could be said for his series eight comment – about a victim but indirectly about Morse’s drink problem – that alcohol is a notorious depressant and “we rarely make wise choices when inebriated.” Dr DeBryn, no stranger to drink, must also be talking from personal experience.

A sharp wit, a dapper dresser, a good man, and an elegant speaker with more inventive euphemisms for death than Monty Python’s Dead Parrot sketch, it’s no wonder Dr Max DeBryn has become a fan-favourite character in the world of Morse. He may not be one of the leads, but even in the briefest of scenes, he never fails to leave an impression. In Colin Dexter’s novels, but particularly as played by James Bradshaw and Peter Woodthorpe, he’s somebody we’d all stand a drink for at The White Horse. So here’s to you, Max. Should we say two o’ clock?

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Endeavour series 8 is available to stream now on ITV Hub and Britbox.

The post Endeavour: Saluting the Wit and Constancy of Dr Max DeBryn appeared first on Den of Geek.

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