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Viper generator
Aaand... it's Sunday night, which means I got to watch another "Lewis" episode. I don't seem to have done much today but post fic and read fic; my bad knee got worse in a different way and walking is currently tediously painful. So is trying to get to sleep, which is why I'm here.
Anyway, here's this week's little microfic coda, very literally right after the action this time.
Remind you of anybody?
Lewis heard the words; it didn't take clever deduction to know what was meant by them. The trademark Hathaway smirk showed it was a joke; and yet not a joke, because the expression under the smirk meant I'm worried about you, sir. At least Lewis thought that's what it meant.
"Me?" Or rather, he decided too late, both of us. Except with not enough career success on Hathaway's part. "I'm not lonely, lad. I've got you."
The smirk faded, and something flared in Hathaway's eyes before he looked away. "Do you now, sir," he said quietly.
"You know what I mean. And I wasn't like those two, yearning after a lost love that never went anywhere. I had Val, and..." He trailed off. No need to get maudlin.
"Now you don't," Hathaway said, still muted and distant. "No, I'm sorry. It's the case, still racketing about in my head. O false Cressid," he mused. "We seem to be fated to investigate murders with parallels to Shakespeare's plays."
"Think how bad it must be for the coppers in Stratford-on-Avon. Oh, that reminds me: I had a question for you, clever boy."
"I should be happy to assist you with my cleverness, sir."
"Stuff it, sergeant. It was that bit on the play recording. The generation of vipers. First I thought... well, that group that was all at Oxford together. They were vipers, if you ask me. Some of them the sort that bite from instinct, and some with real venom. And they were all part of the same generation. Bit older than you, a lot younger than me. But I didn't think that's what Shakespeare meant."
Hathaway shook his head. "In modern parlance we'd say 'a generator of vipers.' Or, if that evokes electricity too readily... simply 'generates.' Love generates vipers. Creates them; gives birth to them."
"Yes, I know what 'generate' means, thanks. D'you think it does?"
Hathaway looked taken aback to be asked such a question. "I think it can. How many of our murders have had to do with love?"
"Well, quite a few. Too bad they don't all come with viper bites; it'd make our jobs easier. Laura's, too."
"Not unless the bites contained saliva not of the viper but of its... generator."
"True; we don't often know which suspect loved enough to kill. Or... too little. You'd think..."
"What, sir?"
"If you really loved someone... no. What nonsense I'm talking. Must be tired."
"True love and murder don't go together. Is that what you meant?"
Yes. But sometimes the truly loved die anyway. "I meant it's time to be going, sergeant. Fancy a pint?"
"I could murder one, sir."
Anyway, here's this week's little microfic coda, very literally right after the action this time.
Remind you of anybody?
Lewis heard the words; it didn't take clever deduction to know what was meant by them. The trademark Hathaway smirk showed it was a joke; and yet not a joke, because the expression under the smirk meant I'm worried about you, sir. At least Lewis thought that's what it meant.
"Me?" Or rather, he decided too late, both of us. Except with not enough career success on Hathaway's part. "I'm not lonely, lad. I've got you."
The smirk faded, and something flared in Hathaway's eyes before he looked away. "Do you now, sir," he said quietly.
"You know what I mean. And I wasn't like those two, yearning after a lost love that never went anywhere. I had Val, and..." He trailed off. No need to get maudlin.
"Now you don't," Hathaway said, still muted and distant. "No, I'm sorry. It's the case, still racketing about in my head. O false Cressid," he mused. "We seem to be fated to investigate murders with parallels to Shakespeare's plays."
"Think how bad it must be for the coppers in Stratford-on-Avon. Oh, that reminds me: I had a question for you, clever boy."
"I should be happy to assist you with my cleverness, sir."
"Stuff it, sergeant. It was that bit on the play recording. The generation of vipers. First I thought... well, that group that was all at Oxford together. They were vipers, if you ask me. Some of them the sort that bite from instinct, and some with real venom. And they were all part of the same generation. Bit older than you, a lot younger than me. But I didn't think that's what Shakespeare meant."
Hathaway shook his head. "In modern parlance we'd say 'a generator of vipers.' Or, if that evokes electricity too readily... simply 'generates.' Love generates vipers. Creates them; gives birth to them."
"Yes, I know what 'generate' means, thanks. D'you think it does?"
Hathaway looked taken aback to be asked such a question. "I think it can. How many of our murders have had to do with love?"
"Well, quite a few. Too bad they don't all come with viper bites; it'd make our jobs easier. Laura's, too."
"Not unless the bites contained saliva not of the viper but of its... generator."
"True; we don't often know which suspect loved enough to kill. Or... too little. You'd think..."
"What, sir?"
"If you really loved someone... no. What nonsense I'm talking. Must be tired."
"True love and murder don't go together. Is that what you meant?"
Yes. But sometimes the truly loved die anyway. "I meant it's time to be going, sergeant. Fancy a pint?"
"I could murder one, sir."