Thinking about Hurt/Comfort, Post #9
Mar. 23rd, 2024 10:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
usedtobeljsAs an itinerant in fandom these days, passing through the distant byways of various rarepairs in small fandoms but never tarrying, I have a problem when I want hurt/comfort fic. (Or when I want to write it.)
I don't know who to write, basically.
Much as I love Giles/Anya, I wrote them for so long that I don't have any hurt/comfort scenarios left to explore. (I wrote fics where Giles is hurt, I wrote fics where Anya is hurt, it was a whole subgenre.) My last fics were Dalgliesh/Kate, but I don't know that I want to do h/c for them. Who should it be?
I am craving hurt/comfort fic because I am tired and burned out, basically. I wonder why and when other readers (or writers) seek h/c, too, but that's always been my impetus. It then matters who's getting the comfort, too. I always loved it when Anya was valued enough to comfort, for instance.
It makes me think too about Sayers's "Vane Quartet," especially Have His Carcase, where Harriet is the one who needs soothing but who resents it mightily when Peter tries. Some characters just have to get to a point where they'll accept it, and it takes a while....
So here's a teeny ficlet for a character who has a surprisingly hard time accepting care (Mycroft/Anthea, established relationship, guess which one...):
Anthea knew something was up with Mycroft, but she couldn't figure out what.
In between meetings at Six with M and Eve, meetings at Five with Harry Pearce, and intransigence from one of her field-agents, all in the service of finding a profoundly dangerous Russian asset who'd escaped surveillance in Warsaw and made her way to London, Anthea checked her husband's diary and internet activity. Now that he was no longer an official servant of the Crown but instead influenced affairs through his shadow-organisation Diogenes Ltd, she would have expected a full schedule of meddling and meditation, but there was a hole in his schedule for today.
After co-signing a quick memo Tanner had put together for reallocation of resources to find Jelena Sokolov, then, she checked on Eurus and Sherlock's whereabouts. The sister was still incarcerated, the brother surprisingly not in more trouble than usual. Mycroft's parents grew frailer every day, but they were well enough.
"Damn the man," she whispered to her laptop and then rubbed her eyes.
God, she was bloody exhausted. The past year had been rough, with so many crises, so many bad actors, so much shit--
"All right, Anthea?" M said from behind her.
"Yes. Do you have news for me?" she said, looking over her shoulder.
"I do. Bond and Eve are taking over the Sokolov case, and you need to go home. You've done enough on this one," M smiled.
She checked her watch. 3 pm, far too early for such a gift.
"That's an order from on high," he added.
It was a mark of her exhaustion that she decided to let it go. Her own diary was clear enough, and perhaps she could find her wayward man. She closed tabs, powered down, and then sat for a long moment, gathering energy for what would come next.
"See you in a day or so," M said as he left.
Once packed up, she checked her phone as the lift took her downstairs. Nothing from Mycroft, no news from her informants. Should she drag Sherlock's little Irregulars into the case? Or--
A light, melodious horn sounded from outside the building. Alert, she scanned the street as she exited.
Mycroft's Range Rover idled at the kerb.
When she opened the passenger door, she saw her husband in his country gear: thick cashmere rollneck, soft corduroy trousers, his favourite casual boots. A glance revealed two bags in the backseat, hers as well as his, a Fortnum's hamper, a bag from Hatchard's bulging with books, and his tweed country jacket. "Are we going somewhere?"
"Yes, darling," he said. "You're absolutely shattered, don't think I haven't noticed. So I thought we'd take a few days on the Dorset coast, I've taken a house for us. What do you think?"
She slid inside the Range Rover, shut the door so that London noise faded away and it was only the Mozart on the car stereo and the soft sound of her beloved's breathing, and kicked off her Louboutins before leaning over to him.
"I think you're an absolute genius," she whispered, and took his mouth for a sweet instant. Then, after letting her hand drift over the bulge in his trousers, she sat back. "And I'll express my gratitude once we're where we're going."
"Caring is absolutely an advantage," he murmured, and pulled away from the kerb.
...........
Cheers for your weekend, and may you find the comfort you need!
I don't know who to write, basically.
Much as I love Giles/Anya, I wrote them for so long that I don't have any hurt/comfort scenarios left to explore. (I wrote fics where Giles is hurt, I wrote fics where Anya is hurt, it was a whole subgenre.) My last fics were Dalgliesh/Kate, but I don't know that I want to do h/c for them. Who should it be?
I am craving hurt/comfort fic because I am tired and burned out, basically. I wonder why and when other readers (or writers) seek h/c, too, but that's always been my impetus. It then matters who's getting the comfort, too. I always loved it when Anya was valued enough to comfort, for instance.
It makes me think too about Sayers's "Vane Quartet," especially Have His Carcase, where Harriet is the one who needs soothing but who resents it mightily when Peter tries. Some characters just have to get to a point where they'll accept it, and it takes a while....
So here's a teeny ficlet for a character who has a surprisingly hard time accepting care (Mycroft/Anthea, established relationship, guess which one...):
Anthea knew something was up with Mycroft, but she couldn't figure out what.
In between meetings at Six with M and Eve, meetings at Five with Harry Pearce, and intransigence from one of her field-agents, all in the service of finding a profoundly dangerous Russian asset who'd escaped surveillance in Warsaw and made her way to London, Anthea checked her husband's diary and internet activity. Now that he was no longer an official servant of the Crown but instead influenced affairs through his shadow-organisation Diogenes Ltd, she would have expected a full schedule of meddling and meditation, but there was a hole in his schedule for today.
After co-signing a quick memo Tanner had put together for reallocation of resources to find Jelena Sokolov, then, she checked on Eurus and Sherlock's whereabouts. The sister was still incarcerated, the brother surprisingly not in more trouble than usual. Mycroft's parents grew frailer every day, but they were well enough.
"Damn the man," she whispered to her laptop and then rubbed her eyes.
God, she was bloody exhausted. The past year had been rough, with so many crises, so many bad actors, so much shit--
"All right, Anthea?" M said from behind her.
"Yes. Do you have news for me?" she said, looking over her shoulder.
"I do. Bond and Eve are taking over the Sokolov case, and you need to go home. You've done enough on this one," M smiled.
She checked her watch. 3 pm, far too early for such a gift.
"That's an order from on high," he added.
It was a mark of her exhaustion that she decided to let it go. Her own diary was clear enough, and perhaps she could find her wayward man. She closed tabs, powered down, and then sat for a long moment, gathering energy for what would come next.
"See you in a day or so," M said as he left.
Once packed up, she checked her phone as the lift took her downstairs. Nothing from Mycroft, no news from her informants. Should she drag Sherlock's little Irregulars into the case? Or--
A light, melodious horn sounded from outside the building. Alert, she scanned the street as she exited.
Mycroft's Range Rover idled at the kerb.
When she opened the passenger door, she saw her husband in his country gear: thick cashmere rollneck, soft corduroy trousers, his favourite casual boots. A glance revealed two bags in the backseat, hers as well as his, a Fortnum's hamper, a bag from Hatchard's bulging with books, and his tweed country jacket. "Are we going somewhere?"
"Yes, darling," he said. "You're absolutely shattered, don't think I haven't noticed. So I thought we'd take a few days on the Dorset coast, I've taken a house for us. What do you think?"
She slid inside the Range Rover, shut the door so that London noise faded away and it was only the Mozart on the car stereo and the soft sound of her beloved's breathing, and kicked off her Louboutins before leaning over to him.
"I think you're an absolute genius," she whispered, and took his mouth for a sweet instant. Then, after letting her hand drift over the bulge in his trousers, she sat back. "And I'll express my gratitude once we're where we're going."
"Caring is absolutely an advantage," he murmured, and pulled away from the kerb.
...........
Cheers for your weekend, and may you find the comfort you need!
no subject
Date: 2024-03-23 03:39 pm (UTC)Lovely little fic. I wish I were more familiar with that ship. All I know is that Mycroft is Sherlock Holmes brother, right? I could use some new shipping.
no subject
Date: 2024-03-23 05:51 pm (UTC)Anyway, happy Saturday!
no subject
Date: 2024-03-23 05:49 pm (UTC)Have a cheering and comforting weekend yourself. I offer Giles with tea instead of a Fortnum’s hamper :)
no subject
Date: 2024-03-23 05:53 pm (UTC)Hugs for your weekend!
no subject
Date: 2024-03-24 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-03-24 10:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-03-28 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-03-28 11:14 pm (UTC)Hugs!