'Poolside' - a story based on Episode One of 'Mad Dogs' starring John Simm, Philip Glenister, Marc Warren, Max Beesley and Ben Chaplin.
NB: Contains scenes of an adult nature.
Title: Poolside (4/?)
Author: Edzel2
Genre: ‘Mad Dogs’
Rating: Adult
Summary: After the day from hell, in which a boat is stolen, his glasses are broken and the boys are left wondering exactly why Alvo invited them, Baxter hopes for an hour of two of quiet solitude before they take Alvo to task. It’s not too late to salvage the holiday, he hopes...
Previously.... "He's just joking, Bax," Rick claps a mortified Baxter around the shoulders, pulling him into a brief hug. "We didn't really think you two were having it off up there." he lets Baxter go and pushes ahead, childishly eager to get through the door after Alvo.
Baxter can only swallow and straighten his shoulders resolutely as he follows. He doesn't look at Quinn.
Author’s note: If it seems as if I missed a whole chunk of stuff, it’s because I didn’t feel it necessary to repeat the whole stealing-the-boat-and-walking-back-being-bitchy scenario – let’s just take it as read that’s all happened and it’s now approaching dusk at Alvo’s villa on the evening of the murder...
Part Four:
Lunch (or more correctly tea, since its gone five in the afternoon by the time they’ve showered and slept off the afternoon’s events) is eaten separately – perhaps sensing that he has pushed his old friends too far with the ‘borrowing’ of Jesus’ boat, Alvo prepares a smorgasbord of cold cuts, salad and fruit and leaves them to it, driving off in his Jeep with a cheery “¡Voy a hasta luego, muchachos!”
‘Where’s Alvo buggered off to, then?’ Rick enquires as he and Baxter mooch around the table, filling their plates. Alvo might be lacking the manners of a good host, but he certainly knows how to lay on a good spread, Baxter thinks as he considers Rick’s question.
‘No idea,’ he takes a piece of what smells like fresh bread, ponders the butter and goes without. ‘He said something about laying in more supplies, I dunno.’
‘Hope he’s gonna get some more beer,’ Rick mutters, popping an olive into his mouth and pulling a face. ‘Never did like olives,’ he confesses as he swallows with a grimace.
Then why’d you take it in the first place, you Prat? Baxter thinks but doesn’t say. He watches from the corner of his eye as Rick puts his plate down, goes over to the cooler and helps himself to another beer. That’s three he’s had since breakfast, he thinks. Not that any of them had actually had breakfast that is, apart from Woody; unless you can count a cappuccino. He helps himself to a bottle of water (he worries that the evening will be another boozy one and wants to keep his wits about him; Rick, in spite of their agreement to stick together on the Alvo problem, seems to have no such desire, the idiot) and takes his meal through to the soothingly dim lounge where he picks up the book he’d been reading at breakfast. He casts around for a reading lamp and finding one settles himself under it, relishing the chance to spend time alone.
He’s startled awake by the sound of cutlery hitting the tiled floor and for a moment he doesn’t know where he is – he feels his chest tighten and gulps for air, trying to recall if he’d even packed his inhaler. It had been so long since he’d last needed it he doesn’t even think of it these days. Where the hell is he?
‘Sorry, Bax... you were asleep and I didn’t wanna disturb you, mate.’ The voice is close by and Baxter flinches before recognition sets in.
‘Woody... fuckin’ ‘ell man, you scared the life out of me there!’ he relaxes, realises he won’t need his inhaler and laughs with relief.
‘Sorry,’ Woody emerges from the shadows, holding Baxter’s empty plate in one hand and the empty water bottle in the other; evidently he’s decided to be the considerate guest. Baxter feels a surge of gratitude for Woody’s quiet sensibility, so unlike Rick’s lunatic abrasiveness or Quinn’s morose humour. ‘Thanks,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Don’t be daft, mate. It’s nothing – I came in to see who’d left a light on and saw you, sparko. If I hadn’t been so clumsy you wouldn’t know any better.’ He puts the plate down on the coffee table and grins, his teeth white in the gloom.
‘Yeah... well, I’m knackered. That shit with the boat really took it out of me...’ Baxter removes his glasses, rubs his eyes and puts them back. It doesn’t make any difference since the room is dark to see anything in detail anyway but it’s something to do, something to fill the sudden quiet in the room. Somewhere a clock ticks ponderously and Baxter is reminded of his Gran’s house – her grandfather clock had always freaked him out when he was small child. He shivers, suddenly chilled. ‘Is Alvo back yet?’ he asks, wondering why Woody is still staring at him.
‘No. Are you okay, Bax?’ Woody plonks himself down beside Baxter on the couch; the scent of his deodorant is strong and Baxter wonders if he’d sprayed it all over. You could die from doing that, couldn’t you? Something to do with blocking up all the pores....
‘What?’ he says, suddenly aware that Woody has asked him a question but having no idea what it might have been.
‘I said, are you okay? You seem... I dunno, worried, or distracted or sommat. I don’t wanna pry, you know... just... I’m a bit worried about youse, that’s all.’ Unlike himself and Quinn, Baxter realises, Woody has never attempted to smooth out his accent. He’s been through some crap, has Woody, but he’s always stayed true to himself – at least as far as Baxter knows him. He shakes his head, smiles weakly and tries to quell the sudden feeling of loneliness welling up in his chest. How long had it been since anyone had really asked him how he’s feeling and meant it, he wonders.
‘I’m okay, Woody. What about you?’
Woody grins but the speculative look in his eye tells Baxter that he hasn’t fallen for the old distraction technique – he’ll come back to it. He fights a sudden fluttering of nerves in his stomach.
‘I’m good – not working but working out, you know?’ Woody flexes his biceps and Baxter laughs out loud, genuinely amused.
‘It’s good to see you laugh, Bax,’ Woody says quietly. ‘I just want you to know that what Alvo said to you earlier about your divorce... that was well out of order. I wish I’d said something to him, to be honest. Not proud of letting that go, mate.’ He reaches forward a fist and touches Baxter on the forearm, gently, miming a punch.
‘Yeah... well... he’s probably right if I’m gonna be honest,’ Baxter says, and is startled to realise that he means it. ‘It wasn’t... amicable... shall we say?’ He blinks and resists the urge to whip his glasses off and wipe them. If he does that then Woody will see the tears welling in his eyes and he doesn’t want that, no way. The whole bloody thing had been his fault from start to finish – he doesn’t deserve or want anyone’s sympathy or pity or anything else. He just wants to forget about it. Move on. Except he can’t, can he? He absently fingers his wedding ring, never entirely at ease with it on the right hand. He’s always putting it on the left hand without even thinking about it – has already done it once since they’ve been here. He doesn’t think anyone but Alvo noticed, and the bastard just had to needle him about it, didn’t he... he gulps.
‘Bax... it’s okay for men to cry, y’know. You shouldn’t bottle it all up, mate – it’s not good for you. Trust me, I know.’ He gives a sad half-smile and Baxter gulps again, fighting the urge to leg it as he feels the tears spill over, running hotly down his face.
‘Sorry...’ he fumbles for his cracked spectacles and nearly pokes himself in the eye; they’re not there. ‘Shit...’ he sniffs and looks around him, runs nervous fingers around his legs and the couch; even though he doesn’t have to wear them all the time he likes to know where they are.
‘Here. Looked like you were gonna lose 'em anyway – they’d have gone on the floor, mebbe got stepped on when you got up, so I took ‘em off.’ Woody holds out his hand – the one broken lens looks up at him from Woody’s broad palm and Bax tries to smile his gratitude but breaks into a sob instead.
‘Come ‘ere you daft sod,’ Woody puts the glasses on the coffee table beside the plate and pulls Baxter into a hug. ‘Don’t be embarrassed – it’s not unmanly to cry, I told you Bax. Let it all out, come on...’
And Bax does; he sobs for ten long minutes, in between almost incoherent ranting about his own stupidity and the unfairness of it all; ‘one mistake and I l-lose everything... even the g-girls treat me like sh-sh-shit,’ he stammers, feeling stripped bare and as vulnerable as a ten year old. Bloody grandfather clock...
‘I know... I know...’ Woody murmurs soothingly as he holds Baxter tightly, one hand circling slowly on the other man’s back, slow soothing circles designed to reassure, calm.
The Jeep headlights startle them both, sweeping across the room and away as Alvo returns. Woody relaxes his hold and Baxter pulls back, his expression startled and embarrassed in equal measure. He takes the proffered spectacles and shoves them on, adjusts them, looks anywhere but at Woody.
‘Sorry, sorry...’ he stammers, jumping to his feet. ‘I’d better....’ he leans down to pick up the empty plate but Woody stops him, takes it from him. ‘I’ll do it. You go up and sort yourself out. Don’t want to give Alvo any excuse for another go...’
‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right. Look, thanks...’ Baxter is ill-at-ease, shuffling with the fear of being discovered weeping.
‘Don’t mention it mate. You were there for me when Jenny... you know. Least I can do.’
Baxter nods jerkily and hurries from the room and up the stairs. Woody emerges from the lounge with the plate and heads for the kitchen just as the door opens and Alvo walks in with a crateful of wine and beer bottles. He heaves it onto the table and grins at Woody.
‘Are you playing house maid, Woody? That’s very sweet of you...’ Alvo emphasises the word in a way which makes the hairs stand up on the back of Woody’s neck, but he simply smiles.
‘Well, someone needed to...’
‘Igracias, amigo!’ Alvo smiles and it seems genuine. Woody shoots a wink back and continues on to the kitchen and Alvo takes up the crate again, following him through the narrow doorway.
‘So how long did it take you to learn the lingo, Alv?’ Woody asks as he dumps the plate in the dishwasher, adds powder and switches it on.
‘Not that long, actually – it seems that I have a natural flair for languages,’ Alvo says grandly, and Woody feels his hackles rise. Not more boasting, please.
‘Mebbe you can teach us, then, before we go back...’ Woody wipes his hands on a cloth and turns to look at Alvo, who is staring at him with an expression of such desolation on his face that it leaves Woody momentarily speechless.
Alvo sees Woody’s expression and laughs; a short bark which isn’t humour but Woody couldn’t have said exactly what it is.
‘Yeah... maybe I will...’ Alvo murmurs; but neither of them believe it.
TBC
Author: Edzel2
Genre: ‘Mad Dogs’
Rating: Adult
Summary: After the day from hell, in which a boat is stolen, his glasses are broken and the boys are left wondering exactly why Alvo invited them, Baxter hopes for an hour of two of quiet solitude before they take Alvo to task. It’s not too late to salvage the holiday, he hopes...
Previously.... "He's just joking, Bax," Rick claps a mortified Baxter around the shoulders, pulling him into a brief hug. "We didn't really think you two were having it off up there." he lets Baxter go and pushes ahead, childishly eager to get through the door after Alvo.
Baxter can only swallow and straighten his shoulders resolutely as he follows. He doesn't look at Quinn.
Author’s note: If it seems as if I missed a whole chunk of stuff, it’s because I didn’t feel it necessary to repeat the whole stealing-the-boat-and-walking-back-being-bitchy scenario – let’s just take it as read that’s all happened and it’s now approaching dusk at Alvo’s villa on the evening of the murder...
Part Four:
Lunch (or more correctly tea, since its gone five in the afternoon by the time they’ve showered and slept off the afternoon’s events) is eaten separately – perhaps sensing that he has pushed his old friends too far with the ‘borrowing’ of Jesus’ boat, Alvo prepares a smorgasbord of cold cuts, salad and fruit and leaves them to it, driving off in his Jeep with a cheery “¡Voy a hasta luego, muchachos!”
‘Where’s Alvo buggered off to, then?’ Rick enquires as he and Baxter mooch around the table, filling their plates. Alvo might be lacking the manners of a good host, but he certainly knows how to lay on a good spread, Baxter thinks as he considers Rick’s question.
‘No idea,’ he takes a piece of what smells like fresh bread, ponders the butter and goes without. ‘He said something about laying in more supplies, I dunno.’
‘Hope he’s gonna get some more beer,’ Rick mutters, popping an olive into his mouth and pulling a face. ‘Never did like olives,’ he confesses as he swallows with a grimace.
Then why’d you take it in the first place, you Prat? Baxter thinks but doesn’t say. He watches from the corner of his eye as Rick puts his plate down, goes over to the cooler and helps himself to another beer. That’s three he’s had since breakfast, he thinks. Not that any of them had actually had breakfast that is, apart from Woody; unless you can count a cappuccino. He helps himself to a bottle of water (he worries that the evening will be another boozy one and wants to keep his wits about him; Rick, in spite of their agreement to stick together on the Alvo problem, seems to have no such desire, the idiot) and takes his meal through to the soothingly dim lounge where he picks up the book he’d been reading at breakfast. He casts around for a reading lamp and finding one settles himself under it, relishing the chance to spend time alone.
He’s startled awake by the sound of cutlery hitting the tiled floor and for a moment he doesn’t know where he is – he feels his chest tighten and gulps for air, trying to recall if he’d even packed his inhaler. It had been so long since he’d last needed it he doesn’t even think of it these days. Where the hell is he?
‘Sorry, Bax... you were asleep and I didn’t wanna disturb you, mate.’ The voice is close by and Baxter flinches before recognition sets in.
‘Woody... fuckin’ ‘ell man, you scared the life out of me there!’ he relaxes, realises he won’t need his inhaler and laughs with relief.
‘Sorry,’ Woody emerges from the shadows, holding Baxter’s empty plate in one hand and the empty water bottle in the other; evidently he’s decided to be the considerate guest. Baxter feels a surge of gratitude for Woody’s quiet sensibility, so unlike Rick’s lunatic abrasiveness or Quinn’s morose humour. ‘Thanks,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Don’t be daft, mate. It’s nothing – I came in to see who’d left a light on and saw you, sparko. If I hadn’t been so clumsy you wouldn’t know any better.’ He puts the plate down on the coffee table and grins, his teeth white in the gloom.
‘Yeah... well, I’m knackered. That shit with the boat really took it out of me...’ Baxter removes his glasses, rubs his eyes and puts them back. It doesn’t make any difference since the room is dark to see anything in detail anyway but it’s something to do, something to fill the sudden quiet in the room. Somewhere a clock ticks ponderously and Baxter is reminded of his Gran’s house – her grandfather clock had always freaked him out when he was small child. He shivers, suddenly chilled. ‘Is Alvo back yet?’ he asks, wondering why Woody is still staring at him.
‘No. Are you okay, Bax?’ Woody plonks himself down beside Baxter on the couch; the scent of his deodorant is strong and Baxter wonders if he’d sprayed it all over. You could die from doing that, couldn’t you? Something to do with blocking up all the pores....
‘What?’ he says, suddenly aware that Woody has asked him a question but having no idea what it might have been.
‘I said, are you okay? You seem... I dunno, worried, or distracted or sommat. I don’t wanna pry, you know... just... I’m a bit worried about youse, that’s all.’ Unlike himself and Quinn, Baxter realises, Woody has never attempted to smooth out his accent. He’s been through some crap, has Woody, but he’s always stayed true to himself – at least as far as Baxter knows him. He shakes his head, smiles weakly and tries to quell the sudden feeling of loneliness welling up in his chest. How long had it been since anyone had really asked him how he’s feeling and meant it, he wonders.
‘I’m okay, Woody. What about you?’
Woody grins but the speculative look in his eye tells Baxter that he hasn’t fallen for the old distraction technique – he’ll come back to it. He fights a sudden fluttering of nerves in his stomach.
‘I’m good – not working but working out, you know?’ Woody flexes his biceps and Baxter laughs out loud, genuinely amused.
‘It’s good to see you laugh, Bax,’ Woody says quietly. ‘I just want you to know that what Alvo said to you earlier about your divorce... that was well out of order. I wish I’d said something to him, to be honest. Not proud of letting that go, mate.’ He reaches forward a fist and touches Baxter on the forearm, gently, miming a punch.
‘Yeah... well... he’s probably right if I’m gonna be honest,’ Baxter says, and is startled to realise that he means it. ‘It wasn’t... amicable... shall we say?’ He blinks and resists the urge to whip his glasses off and wipe them. If he does that then Woody will see the tears welling in his eyes and he doesn’t want that, no way. The whole bloody thing had been his fault from start to finish – he doesn’t deserve or want anyone’s sympathy or pity or anything else. He just wants to forget about it. Move on. Except he can’t, can he? He absently fingers his wedding ring, never entirely at ease with it on the right hand. He’s always putting it on the left hand without even thinking about it – has already done it once since they’ve been here. He doesn’t think anyone but Alvo noticed, and the bastard just had to needle him about it, didn’t he... he gulps.
‘Bax... it’s okay for men to cry, y’know. You shouldn’t bottle it all up, mate – it’s not good for you. Trust me, I know.’ He gives a sad half-smile and Baxter gulps again, fighting the urge to leg it as he feels the tears spill over, running hotly down his face.
‘Sorry...’ he fumbles for his cracked spectacles and nearly pokes himself in the eye; they’re not there. ‘Shit...’ he sniffs and looks around him, runs nervous fingers around his legs and the couch; even though he doesn’t have to wear them all the time he likes to know where they are.
‘Here. Looked like you were gonna lose 'em anyway – they’d have gone on the floor, mebbe got stepped on when you got up, so I took ‘em off.’ Woody holds out his hand – the one broken lens looks up at him from Woody’s broad palm and Bax tries to smile his gratitude but breaks into a sob instead.
‘Come ‘ere you daft sod,’ Woody puts the glasses on the coffee table beside the plate and pulls Baxter into a hug. ‘Don’t be embarrassed – it’s not unmanly to cry, I told you Bax. Let it all out, come on...’
And Bax does; he sobs for ten long minutes, in between almost incoherent ranting about his own stupidity and the unfairness of it all; ‘one mistake and I l-lose everything... even the g-girls treat me like sh-sh-shit,’ he stammers, feeling stripped bare and as vulnerable as a ten year old. Bloody grandfather clock...
‘I know... I know...’ Woody murmurs soothingly as he holds Baxter tightly, one hand circling slowly on the other man’s back, slow soothing circles designed to reassure, calm.
The Jeep headlights startle them both, sweeping across the room and away as Alvo returns. Woody relaxes his hold and Baxter pulls back, his expression startled and embarrassed in equal measure. He takes the proffered spectacles and shoves them on, adjusts them, looks anywhere but at Woody.
‘Sorry, sorry...’ he stammers, jumping to his feet. ‘I’d better....’ he leans down to pick up the empty plate but Woody stops him, takes it from him. ‘I’ll do it. You go up and sort yourself out. Don’t want to give Alvo any excuse for another go...’
‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right. Look, thanks...’ Baxter is ill-at-ease, shuffling with the fear of being discovered weeping.
‘Don’t mention it mate. You were there for me when Jenny... you know. Least I can do.’
Baxter nods jerkily and hurries from the room and up the stairs. Woody emerges from the lounge with the plate and heads for the kitchen just as the door opens and Alvo walks in with a crateful of wine and beer bottles. He heaves it onto the table and grins at Woody.
‘Are you playing house maid, Woody? That’s very sweet of you...’ Alvo emphasises the word in a way which makes the hairs stand up on the back of Woody’s neck, but he simply smiles.
‘Well, someone needed to...’
‘Igracias, amigo!’ Alvo smiles and it seems genuine. Woody shoots a wink back and continues on to the kitchen and Alvo takes up the crate again, following him through the narrow doorway.
‘So how long did it take you to learn the lingo, Alv?’ Woody asks as he dumps the plate in the dishwasher, adds powder and switches it on.
‘Not that long, actually – it seems that I have a natural flair for languages,’ Alvo says grandly, and Woody feels his hackles rise. Not more boasting, please.
‘Mebbe you can teach us, then, before we go back...’ Woody wipes his hands on a cloth and turns to look at Alvo, who is staring at him with an expression of such desolation on his face that it leaves Woody momentarily speechless.
Alvo sees Woody’s expression and laughs; a short bark which isn’t humour but Woody couldn’t have said exactly what it is.
‘Yeah... maybe I will...’ Alvo murmurs; but neither of them believe it.
TBC
