Fic: "John Frobisher, civil servant"
Apr. 8th, 2010 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: John Frobisher, civil servant
Characters: John Frobisher
Rating: R
Length: 1000 words
Summary: John Frobisher, civil servant, playing his role.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
touchyerwood originally, reposted here.
The door to the bathroom had always squeaked on that last half inch before falling into the lock. A comfort, something familiar and he'd meant to contact someone about it, tell Bridget to talk to someone about it, someone who could do things in this building without filling out a stack of forms, co-signed and approved by all departments.
The bathroom door. It squeaked, and then fell into the lock. John Frobisher leaned against the sink, stared at himself in the mirror to the backdrop of urinals and toilet stalls. Throat tight, his stomach pressed up against his lungs, stealing his hair and wanting out, making him gag over the sink on nothing, not even bile. Fingertips pressed to the metal of the box, pressed like heat, but it only warmed under his fingers the way metal boxes were wont to.
The door to one of the toilet stalls opened, someone stepped out. Mr Banks, George, only started a year ago, still climbing the ladder, still here doing his job, crunching the numbers for the process, when half of Whitehall was discussing around tables, the other half in breakrooms. He'd seen them, walking past the empty hallways, huddled around the tea kettles and coffee machines, whispering, speculating, eyes wide and raised voices. Decisions leaked, they always leaked, and media had to be controlled carefully, but who controlled those that tried to control.
It was mad out there. Had been. Was. And now, him, part of it all. George nodded at him in the mirror, nice chap, they'd never done more than exchange a few words on a corridor between rooms.
"John? Sir?"
John looked down, and his knees were shaking, threatening to give out underneath. He nodded at the reflection of George in the mirror like a child. Nod. I'm okay. Swallow. I'm okay. Nod. Go on, go on, George.
George washed his hands, soap and warm water, it smelled of something synthetic (love). He dried them. "We'll be through with this soon. It's going to plan. Everything is going to plan, don't worry." He smiled at him in the mirror, clapped him on the shoulder. Clap, like they'd been talking golf or football results. 'Leeds did well last night, didn't they?' Like that.
He left, and left John Frobisher with his mirror image on the backdrop of urinals and the stalls. The door squeaked on the last half-inch before falling into the lock, shutting out the breakroom conversation, leaving him with his own leaden feet, leaden stomach, leaden head, the hands on the sink holding him up and staring, just staring into the mirror.
John pushed off the sink, stumbled into one of the stalls. The door was loud, wood banged against wood and the slide-lock mechanism clanged in hard metal before he fumbled it close and remained leaned against the door, clothes hook digging into his back. The box nearly slipped from his fingers so he set it down, clang bang on tiles, and slid to the floor himself, fingertips curled around the toilet bowl someone's probably just urinated all over and it didn't matter.
Struck him, like that, it didn't matter because they'd started the process and now he was caught in it. Like a progression of images in one of those books he'd has as a child, stick figures kicking a ball or riding a bike, it followed a natural progression of details now. From A to B to Z, unstoppable dominoes once started with a word, a tip of the hand.
He could drown himself in someone else's urine, but it wouldn't do to take his domino out of the neat order of stacked soldiers. The day flickered in neat progression of images, the campaign and the solutions and the interruptions to the toppling dominoes, one by one by one he'd pull them out and stash them away.
He tried to retch into the bowl, but he couldn't vomit, couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, not even stomach acids, as much as he tried to purge something to move somewhere from there, all that came out were the choked gasps and coughs and gags. He pressed closer to the bowl, hips pressing him to it. He thumped his fist to his chest, to his stomach, to force some release of something, to steer this ball inside him somewhere. His fist hitting his body echoed through the bathroom and he listened to the reverse squeak of the opening door over it as he beat at himself, his chest, his stomach, forced his fist between bowl and body to reach his genitals, harder to force something, to force some kind of reaction.
His hips pressed him forward into the blows, taking it, wanting it, to get somewhere else, to find something that wasn't dominoes toppling inevitably, no matter the calculations, the posturing, the budget meetings and number crunching. Caught in the system once started, and again. And again. Again. Again. Again.
He waited for the blows to take him apart, but they barely registered, hard and harsh and he started on his thighs and pushed himself against the toilet bowl, crushed his testicles between ceramic and body, his penis against zipper and skin, as he struck at himself.
John Frobisher started crying then, sometime after he stopped listening for the reverse squeak, after he'd stopped seeing the metal box from the corner of his eye, before the blows to his own body were more than superficial love pats of well-done and rewards for lifelong dedication and the good of the country and humanity.
Sometime before he spilled onto the tiles in a meek leaking of semen from a bruised penis, sometime after he'd started stroking himself with every thrust of his body against something unmoving.
It was pitiful, that bit of him on the bathroom floor, drying on the tiles. Pitiful and wasted. He didn't care to look if he stepped in it when he stood and collected the box from the floor. When he turned and straightened his suit. When he stared at himself in the mirror to the backdrop of urinals and toilet stalls and the small puddle of semen on the tiles in the one two from the right.
He didn't care to look, and in his mind it was all dominoes and he could only tip them one way before they were tipped the other. The door reverse squeaked, then squeaked. He'd been meaning to tell Bridget. He supposed it didn't matter any longer.
Characters: John Frobisher
Rating: R
Length: 1000 words
Summary: John Frobisher, civil servant, playing his role.
Notes: Written for
touchyerwood originally, reposted here.The door to the bathroom had always squeaked on that last half inch before falling into the lock. A comfort, something familiar and he'd meant to contact someone about it, tell Bridget to talk to someone about it, someone who could do things in this building without filling out a stack of forms, co-signed and approved by all departments.
The bathroom door. It squeaked, and then fell into the lock. John Frobisher leaned against the sink, stared at himself in the mirror to the backdrop of urinals and toilet stalls. Throat tight, his stomach pressed up against his lungs, stealing his hair and wanting out, making him gag over the sink on nothing, not even bile. Fingertips pressed to the metal of the box, pressed like heat, but it only warmed under his fingers the way metal boxes were wont to.
The door to one of the toilet stalls opened, someone stepped out. Mr Banks, George, only started a year ago, still climbing the ladder, still here doing his job, crunching the numbers for the process, when half of Whitehall was discussing around tables, the other half in breakrooms. He'd seen them, walking past the empty hallways, huddled around the tea kettles and coffee machines, whispering, speculating, eyes wide and raised voices. Decisions leaked, they always leaked, and media had to be controlled carefully, but who controlled those that tried to control.
It was mad out there. Had been. Was. And now, him, part of it all. George nodded at him in the mirror, nice chap, they'd never done more than exchange a few words on a corridor between rooms.
"John? Sir?"
John looked down, and his knees were shaking, threatening to give out underneath. He nodded at the reflection of George in the mirror like a child. Nod. I'm okay. Swallow. I'm okay. Nod. Go on, go on, George.
George washed his hands, soap and warm water, it smelled of something synthetic (love). He dried them. "We'll be through with this soon. It's going to plan. Everything is going to plan, don't worry." He smiled at him in the mirror, clapped him on the shoulder. Clap, like they'd been talking golf or football results. 'Leeds did well last night, didn't they?' Like that.
He left, and left John Frobisher with his mirror image on the backdrop of urinals and the stalls. The door squeaked on the last half-inch before falling into the lock, shutting out the breakroom conversation, leaving him with his own leaden feet, leaden stomach, leaden head, the hands on the sink holding him up and staring, just staring into the mirror.
John pushed off the sink, stumbled into one of the stalls. The door was loud, wood banged against wood and the slide-lock mechanism clanged in hard metal before he fumbled it close and remained leaned against the door, clothes hook digging into his back. The box nearly slipped from his fingers so he set it down, clang bang on tiles, and slid to the floor himself, fingertips curled around the toilet bowl someone's probably just urinated all over and it didn't matter.
Struck him, like that, it didn't matter because they'd started the process and now he was caught in it. Like a progression of images in one of those books he'd has as a child, stick figures kicking a ball or riding a bike, it followed a natural progression of details now. From A to B to Z, unstoppable dominoes once started with a word, a tip of the hand.
He could drown himself in someone else's urine, but it wouldn't do to take his domino out of the neat order of stacked soldiers. The day flickered in neat progression of images, the campaign and the solutions and the interruptions to the toppling dominoes, one by one by one he'd pull them out and stash them away.
He tried to retch into the bowl, but he couldn't vomit, couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, not even stomach acids, as much as he tried to purge something to move somewhere from there, all that came out were the choked gasps and coughs and gags. He pressed closer to the bowl, hips pressing him to it. He thumped his fist to his chest, to his stomach, to force some release of something, to steer this ball inside him somewhere. His fist hitting his body echoed through the bathroom and he listened to the reverse squeak of the opening door over it as he beat at himself, his chest, his stomach, forced his fist between bowl and body to reach his genitals, harder to force something, to force some kind of reaction.
His hips pressed him forward into the blows, taking it, wanting it, to get somewhere else, to find something that wasn't dominoes toppling inevitably, no matter the calculations, the posturing, the budget meetings and number crunching. Caught in the system once started, and again. And again. Again. Again. Again.
He waited for the blows to take him apart, but they barely registered, hard and harsh and he started on his thighs and pushed himself against the toilet bowl, crushed his testicles between ceramic and body, his penis against zipper and skin, as he struck at himself.
John Frobisher started crying then, sometime after he stopped listening for the reverse squeak, after he'd stopped seeing the metal box from the corner of his eye, before the blows to his own body were more than superficial love pats of well-done and rewards for lifelong dedication and the good of the country and humanity.
Sometime before he spilled onto the tiles in a meek leaking of semen from a bruised penis, sometime after he'd started stroking himself with every thrust of his body against something unmoving.
It was pitiful, that bit of him on the bathroom floor, drying on the tiles. Pitiful and wasted. He didn't care to look if he stepped in it when he stood and collected the box from the floor. When he turned and straightened his suit. When he stared at himself in the mirror to the backdrop of urinals and toilet stalls and the small puddle of semen on the tiles in the one two from the right.
He didn't care to look, and in his mind it was all dominoes and he could only tip them one way before they were tipped the other. The door reverse squeaked, then squeaked. He'd been meaning to tell Bridget. He supposed it didn't matter any longer.
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-08 12:09 pm (UTC)Brilliant as always! Cheers.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-08 03:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-08 04:25 pm (UTC)Good stuff.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-09 01:20 am (UTC)I wouldn't have even looked at this but for the fact it was you who wrote it.