Callan drabble: "Evening the Score"
Mar. 26th, 2012 11:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kindkitTitle: Evening Up the Score
Fandom: Callan
Characters: Toby Meres/Simon Gould, David Callan
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Violent imagery
Word count: 200
Summary: Callan oughtn't to be smug. No one is normal in their job.
Notes: Set during "Let's Kill Everybody" and spoilery for that episode. It also won't make sense if you haven't seen the ep.
"I can always spot your trainees, Meres," Callan says. "They're pretty."
It's true that Meres will pick a handsome boy over an ugly one. True that he fucks some of them. It's as safe as a fuck can be for Meres; in the department, blackmail is mutually assured destruction.
But Callan oughtn't to be smug. No one is normal in their job.
Meres goes from Simon Gould's cold body to Callan's flat with news of his dead girl. Callan shakes and Meres wants to kick him for his presumption. Grief's no prerogative of his, no special nail in the cross of Callan's conscience. Meres could break his ribs, crush his finger bones, puncture his eyes. Show him the awful ordinariness of pain.
But he sees the girl's picture in its cheap frame and feels a strange deep weariness that must be pity. Simon never smiled like that, unguardedly. Simon was cynical and fierce, moderately clever, pliant in bed and ruthless in the field.
Meres will forget him before too long.
But when Meres aims his gun at Goodman's cover agent, and Callan raises his, their eyes meet with their fingers on the triggers. They have something in common after all.
Fandom: Callan
Characters: Toby Meres/Simon Gould, David Callan
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Violent imagery
Word count: 200
Summary: Callan oughtn't to be smug. No one is normal in their job.
Notes: Set during "Let's Kill Everybody" and spoilery for that episode. It also won't make sense if you haven't seen the ep.
"I can always spot your trainees, Meres," Callan says. "They're pretty."
It's true that Meres will pick a handsome boy over an ugly one. True that he fucks some of them. It's as safe as a fuck can be for Meres; in the department, blackmail is mutually assured destruction.
But Callan oughtn't to be smug. No one is normal in their job.
Meres goes from Simon Gould's cold body to Callan's flat with news of his dead girl. Callan shakes and Meres wants to kick him for his presumption. Grief's no prerogative of his, no special nail in the cross of Callan's conscience. Meres could break his ribs, crush his finger bones, puncture his eyes. Show him the awful ordinariness of pain.
But he sees the girl's picture in its cheap frame and feels a strange deep weariness that must be pity. Simon never smiled like that, unguardedly. Simon was cynical and fierce, moderately clever, pliant in bed and ruthless in the field.
Meres will forget him before too long.
But when Meres aims his gun at Goodman's cover agent, and Callan raises his, their eyes meet with their fingers on the triggers. They have something in common after all.
