#England: we will fight this war we will do this unsavory thing and with a stiff upper lip 🫡😤

[ameliafuckinjones]

Christopher Nolan, half British and half American, creating two WWII films from the perspective of the British and the Americans, respectively. The former is very blue and green, using elements of earth (Dunkirk) and water (English Channel), sturdy and fluid. The latter is red and orange, using elements of fire. Blinding flashes of pure white light; wild and beautiful and dangerous flame. The former is a tale of isolation yet resilience, vulnerability coupled with bitter resolve and endurance in the face of possible annihilation. The latter is the exceptionalist mindset that led to the unleashing of a powerful transformative force, harnessing the cosmic power of a star to wreak havoc of biblical proportions in a desperate -almost childish yet noble- attempt to bring about the end of yet another fatalistic total war while preventing future wars of a similar nature from occurring. And because i must tie this to hetalia, I think this reflects perfectly where England and America were mentally during WWII. British pragmatism vs. American pragmatism.

[handeaux]

13 Curious Cincinnati Streets And How They Got Their Names

Over the years, Cincinnati has accumulated a collection of curious street names. Here are just a few of them, and the backstories to some of the more bizarrely christened thoroughfares in town.

Antique Street

In the upper reaches of Over-the-Rhine, a mere two blocks long, Antique Street was originally known as Eden Street. When Cincinnati celebrated its Centennial, in 1888, Eden Street was selected as the cobblestone-paved exemplar of the streets our pioneer forefathers walked, a sort of living museum. It was renamed that year as Antique Street to recognize its role as an official Centennial exhibit.

Cinnamon Street

In 1916, residents of O’Bryonville lobbied City Council to change the name of Cinnamon Street. Cinnamon was too risqué for their proper sensibilities and residents complained about wiseacres cracking jokes at their expense. The street’s name has nothing to do with spices. It commemorates pork packer and commission merchant John Cinnamon, who owned property in the area. Cinnamon was among the founders of Children’s Hospital.

Coral Sea Drive

Mount Washington was among the Cincinnati neighborhoods that blossomed during the  population boom following World War II. The new subdivisions sprouting like mushrooms not only housed veterans, but were often built by veterans. So it was with U.S. Navy veteran Joseph Graue, who developed a subdivision off Beechmont Avenue in which all the streets were named for aircraft carriers: Coral Sea, Ticonderoga, Bunker Hill and Shangri La.

Dartmouth Drive

While there’s nothing obviously unusual about this Westwood street, a glance at the map suggests it’s misplaced. Radiating northward from Daytona Avenue between Glenmore Avenue and Cheviot Avenue are Sheridan Street, McLelland Avenue and Dartmouth Drive. Two Civil War generals and a college. One of these things is not like the other. Dartmouth was originally named for General Joseph “Fighting Joe” Hooker. By the 1940s, battlefield glory was forgotten and unsavory connotations led residents to petition for the change.

Deronda/Adnored Courts

Two tiny streets in Mount Auburn share a link that you can discern if you read their names backwards. It is believed that Deronda Court is named after George Eliot’s novel, “Daniel Deronda,” with Adnored being its mirror image. When the streets were named in 1908, an irate city councilman suggested that developers consult the Ohio Historical Society to find appropriate historic names for streets instead of the nonsensical names they regularly proposed.

Dixmyth Avenue

There are volumes of Cincinnati’s journalism history encoded in the weirdly spelled Dixmyth Avenue. Obviously, the name refers to Dick Smith, but who is that? Irish-born Richard Smith, known as “Deacon” to his colleagues, was the editor of the “fiery and untamed” Cincinnati Commercial Gazette, from which pulpit he vented his anti-Catholic diatribes and gained fame for insightful financial coverage. The street was unnamed when Cincinnati annexed Camp Washington in 1870, so City Council baptized the street as a nod to the irascible editor, who lived nearby on Whitfield in Clifton.

Effluent Pipe Street

Although since renamed, Effluent Pipe Street still exists. We now call it Elsinore Avenue, which runs along the Mount Adams hillside to Elsinore Tower, a decorative valve house of the Cincinnati Water Works. Before the Shakespeare-inspired tower was constructed to disguise them, the terminus of Effluent Pipe Street featured an unsightly but functional tangle of valves and pipes. The street got its highly unflattering name from the water main. Since many of the people who lived on the street belonged to the notorious Nutter Gang, the city had no interest in renaming the street until it gentrified around 1900.

Error Place

Can you guess why this street (actually a decrepit alley) in Fairmount got its name? An error, evidently, but what kind? When the J.A. James Subdivision was platted between Harrison Pike and Lick Run Pike (later Queen City Avenue) in 1876, the surveyor neglected to provide an outlet from some lots to the nearest public street as required by law. To resolve the error, the developer set aside a six-foot-wide strip along the back of the property and called it Error Alley. A neighboring subdivision added another six feet to widen the alley and it became the 12-foot-wide Error Place.

Hidden Street

As the name implies, it is rather difficult to find Hidden Street in Madisonville. No street signs mark this stretch of asphalt connecting Vendome Place and Chippewa Street behind an apartment complex. But obscurity is not the origin of its name. The street honors Otis B. Hidden, partner in Hidden & Lounsberry & Co., dealers in upholstery materials, cabinet makers' supplies and carriage trimmings. He was a Madisonville resident and landowner and died in 1904.

Monteith Avenue

Why name a street for a silver bowl? A monteith is just that – a silver bowl with a crenelated rim, used to rinse glassware. The bowl was named, apparently, for a Scots laird who wore a crenelated cape. But none of that has to do with the street in Hyde Park. The street began as the driveway to the mansion of George Barger, a wealthy Cincinnati developer. It appears Barger named his estate Monteith because he claimed it was an American Indian word meaning “more to eat.” Barger sold the place to Col. William “Policy Bill” Smith, an even wealthier gambling tycoon. Smith’s parties at Monteith were renowned, and diners certainly got “more to eat.”

Pica Street

Cincinnati was, for many years, almost as famous for printing as it was for pork packing, so it’s surprising more printing terms haven’t appeared in our street names. Patrick Tracey was not among the larger printers in town, but he did alright. He and his wife Kate invested in Price Hill property and platted a subdivision in 1889 just north of Mount Echo Park. The subdivision had only two streets, Pica and Nonpareil, both printer’s measurements. A pica equals one-sixth of an inch and a nonpareil is half a pica. Nonpareil Street has vanished and Pica Street survives only on paper.

Pickbury Drive

There’s a certain English elegance to the name of Pickbury Drive in Westwood, but England had nothing to do with it. Lang Brothers, who developed Pickbury and neighboring streets in the 1940s, were tired of researching new street names for their many subdivisions. They made up a bunch of novel – and therefore unused – names by randomly combining words from a long list of four-letter candidates. Voila! Pickbury.

Zan Court

Cincinnati has a lot of streets that clearly involve spelling somebody’s name backwards, including Semloh, Leumas and Relleum. Less obvious is Zan Court in Mount Lookout. Although John A. Naz developed the one-street subdivision in 1941, he objected to naming the cul-de-sac after himself, so his surveyors just reversed the spelling of his name.

[womanoflettersinthebunker]

John felt like he was wearing someone else's clothes and skin, shifting in his seat and making his suit wrinkle slightly. To try to keep himself calm he smoothed out the wrinkles, staring at the ring on his finger.

His father had gone to the council yesterday morning and that evening, he had been summoned to join them. He still hadn’t seen his father, although he was told that he was still inside with the others, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He tried to tell himself that it was a good thing, it had to be a good thing.

After what seemed like an eternity the door opened, his attention immediately snapped to it, and a man appeared. He dimly recognized him, he was another Letter, just a few levels above his own, stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

“They’re waiting for you.” was all he said as he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside to give John the room to enter.

John allowed himself one more moment to look himself over to make sure that he was presentable and to steady himself with a deep breath, before he continued forward, entering the room.

There was a single chair in the middle of the room and to the back was a row that sat the council, all men, all wearing the same disapproving looks on their face as John entered and took his seat in front of them. He had no idea of any of their names, it was done like that on purpose to ensure that no one really knew who they were or which family they were aligned with. They all had different numbers pinned to the fronts of their jackets, that’s how they differentiate between them.

He sat straight up in his seat, letting his eyes go from one to the other council member, but didn’t say anything just yet, waiting for them to make the first move.

His father wasn’t in the room.

“John Eric Winchester.” One of the men finally spoke, the one wearing a number Fifteen, breaking the silence. He had a folder in his hand and was looking through it. “Only son of the Winchester bloodline. Top of his class among all his lessons, including weaponry. Considering for legacy status pending his formal initiation into the ranks.”

The folder was closed and tossed to the side. “And willing to throw it all away for a hunter's daughter.”

“That’s not what this is about-” John started to say, only to be interrupted.

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard.” the member that had Twenty-three on his jacket injected. “Your father attempted to explain everything, quite a Romeo and Juliet situation.”

“He tried to paint it with love and affection and every other word that he could use that held the same meaning.” number Twenty-nine said. “He tried to prattle on and on about it, ultimately not realizing that his words meant nothing.”

“What Mary and I have-”

“Regardless of whatever feelings you think you may have to this hunter's daughter, it's irrelevant and unimportant.” number Forty-eight said. “You have your duties to think about, which should have remained your top priority and nothing else.”

“Her only saving grace is her own bloodline.” number Twenty-four said. “And even then, it's not a pure bloodline. Regardless of what they say, a hunter's blood is...'' he searched for the right word. “Unclean.”

“You are going too far.” John said, not letting any of them interrupt him again, speaking over their voices instead. “What Mary and I have is none of your business and none of your concern. What right do you have to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

“And what right, boy, do you think you have to try to destroy generations and generations of traditions?” number Fifteen demanded. “What makes you believe that you are deserving to break our rules, set forth by our ancestors?”

“Those rules were set by people that didn’t believe we’d even survive two generations.” John reminded them. “It is a different time and everything is changing, we would be foolish not to change with it.”

“Twenty-four.” number Thirty-five said, stopping the both of them from speaking. “You spoke of this girl's bloodline, what of it?”

Twenty-four snorted at that. “She’s a Campbell.” he said, upper lip curling in disgust at the name. “A direct bloodline herself, Samuel Campbell's only child.”

“She’s a legacy in her own right.” Thirty-five said, rubbing at his chin. “Not to mention, despite our attempts we cannot and have not monopolized all the information out there. I have no doubt that her circles and her family have their own array of books and methods with the supernatural that we do not.”

Twenty-four stared at him incredulously. “So what are you suggesting? That we continue to allow this so long as we get that information?”

“It's not as if we are the first to decide to create an alliance in such a way.” Thirty-five said. “An arranged marriage of sorts.”

“You’re suggesting that they marry? And what of children? Do you wish for that as well?” Fifteen demanded, not noticing how John tensed up at that. “To bring their damaged genes and blood into our ranks?”

“You’re going off things you don’t know, just because the Hunters are...of the unsavory type, doesn’t mean that there is anything wrong with their blood. It is as red as ours.” Thirty-five said. “The point of the matter is this, John Winchester is right, times are changing and we are suffering because of it. Either we change with it, or we perish.”

“There are always other options than to have to go completely off the rails and allow just anyone to join.” Forty-eight said. “Our brothers in England-”

“Our brothers and sisters in England have gone a completely different path, complete with entrapment and murder.” Thirty-five injected. “We are above them. Europe...is not to be discussed here, nor the other branches of the world. What works for them is meaningless to us.”

“I don’t agree with it.” Thirty-five added. “I also don’t enjoy seeing the possibility of our ranks joining the hunters in such a way. But if we don’t do something, we will suffer the consequences. If not John's generation then the next, I don’t think I have to say that his generation is the most rowdy one we’ve had so far. How many of our former students didn’t even make to their initiatives due to leaving? Some even joined the armies to fight in the governments wars. A handful have...killed themselves to get away from their responsibilities. We’re losing more and more, we cannot survive doing what we’ve been doing.”

Twenty-three heaved a giant sigh. “The biggest concern is children.” he said, his voice tense. “There’s no guarantee of children even if we allow this. For all we know the hunters are too damaged to do such a thing.”

“The concern is not needed.” John spoke, hoping that his voice wasn’t shaking as much as he felt himself shaking inwardly.

Thirty-five sighed as well. “John, it is necessary for you to continue your line. It's one of the oldest, you cannot let it die out.”

“When I say that it's not a concern, I mean that that’s already taken care of.” John told them. “Mary and I have had a son, and she’s pregnant with another child right this moment.”

[hj-creates]

C’est Frustrant- Chapter Three

The third and most likely final chapter of my Laurens/Lafayette story where Laf grows increasingly worried about his dear friend John and decides to try to snap him out of his bad mood.

The full story can be found here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18090695

Lafayette directed his men to charge forward. The sound of shouting and hoofbeats pounding on damp earth filled the air.  There was a metallic whoosh as he unsheathed his sword and rode toward the enemy. The thunder of canons rumbled all around him.

He saw a familiar face on the front lines surrounded by a gang of redcoats. He had managed to relieve them of their muskets and was now besting three of them with only his sword and a ferocious tenacity.

“Laurens.” Lafayette whispered and rode fast to him, slashing at the loyalists and British who dared get in his way.

“Laurens!” He quickly dispatched one of his friend’s assailants while John cut down another. The third quickly turned and ran, disappearing over the grassy hill.

“Ha!” Laurens taunted him. “Run all the way back to England you fucking coward!”

Lafayette dismounted and clapped his hand on John’s shoulder. Laurens turned around with a smug grin on his face. “I could have handled them by myself, you know.”

“What the hell were you doing- running into them like that?”

“Just singlehandedly winning the war, I suppose.” He gestured to the scores of men on the opposing side who were now retreating.

“Oh, I apologize.  I didn’t realize my men and I were no longer needed. I’m sure they’ll be grateful to know they can go home to their families now that you don’t need our assistance.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help.” John agreed, placing his sword back in his scabbard. “I don’t want anyone’s help.” He looked up at his friend and Lafayette could see the steely coldness that had been there for a while now. He longed for the tender, warm gaze of days gone by.

“John, your fearlessness was always one of my favorite things about you. The way you always led your men from the front, never hesitated to get down in the muck with any other soldier or how you challenged anyone you thought was wavering from the cause.” Laurens started walking away from him, uninterested in hearing Lafayette finish. “John! You are one of the most courageous men I know but your bravery has turned into recklessness!  Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Laurens paused and turned back to his friend. “Don’t be overly dramatic, Laf. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“You don’t have to throw yourself into enemy territory during every little skirmish. What we need is our best men alive.”

“This is how I choose to fight. It really is none of your concern.”

“You are my friend! Of course I’m concerned!”

John stepped close to his face. “Well stop it.” His eyes were fiery. “I don’t need it.”

“John, I- “

“What?” Laurens shot back at him. “What are you going to do? Write another letter to my father regarding my behavior?”

“Pardon moi?”

“You sent him a letter after the Battle at Brandywine. Telling him I was acting like a reckless fool.”

“Well, I believe my exact words were ‘It was not his fault that he was not killed or wounded, he did everything that was necessary to procure one or the other.”

Laurens frowned. “I didn’t teach you English so you could tattle on me.”

“I don’t see why it upsets you so much. It obviously didn’t have much affect on you.  The very next time you were in front of the enemy you charged forth so furiously your own horse was shot out from under you.”

“I instill courage in my men with my valor.”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

John stepped even closer, seething. “I am fighting for the freedom of MY people and MY country.”

Lafayette knew what he was hinting at but was not in the mood to argue. Instead, he tried a different tactic. “John, listen. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“You’d be fine.” Laurens started to walk away again. “Everyone will be just fine.”

Lafayette cuffed his hand around John’s upper arm. “No. I would not be fine. I would be utterly heartbroken. But,” he released his grip. “I am not going to fight with you in front of OUR men. If you wish to further converse with me, I will be in my tent.”

He walked in silence, but he could hear Laurens stomping behind him. John could barely wait until they were inside before throwing his hat on the table and standing with his arms folded.

“You know, John, there used to be a time when I found your company very pleasant.” Lafayette walked across the room and poured two glasses of dark red wine.

“No one is forcing you to be in my company at all.”

Lafayette drank the entire contents of his glass and set the other one on the table near his friend. He sauntered up to him and without saying a word, shoved his hands hard into John’s chest.

John looked up at him confused. “Did you just push me?”

Lafayette pushed him harder. “Oui, mon ami.” He shoved again, so forcefully this time that John staggered back. “Are you gonna just take it or are you gonna push me back?”

“What?”

“Go ahead.” He pushed him hard again. “All that anger and frustration. Let it out. I’d rather you fight me here than lose your head on the battlefield.”

Laurens stepped up to him and narrowed his eyes. “I told you I was fine.”

“Fine? You are like a ship full of gunpowder ready to ignite at any second.” He tipped John’s head up with one long finger under his chin. “Let me be the match.” With this, he shoved Laurens so hard John would have fallen had he not caught himself on the table. He surged forward and pushed back at Lafayette. Laf’s broad chest easily withstood the blow and he smirked. Angry at his ineffectual shove, Laurens raised his fist, landing a solid punch across Lafayette’s mouth. Laf took a step back then grabbed the lapels of John’s coat thrusting him up against a wall. Laurens let out a feral grunt and kicked him in the stomach, causing Laf to let him go and fall to his knees. The Frenchman licked at the blood on his lip and John charged at him. The two of them dissolved into a flurry of hands pushing and punching and tugging until they were both on the floor. John was scrappy but his opponent was fast and after a few minutes, Lafayette was on top of Laurens, holding onto his wrists to prevent another assault of his fists.

John looked up at him with all of hell’s fury in his eyes and Lafayette slowly released his grip. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Laurens, we have been friends for a very long time. You can tell me anything.” John said nothing so Laf continued. “Is this still about Alex getting married?” John’s response was to try to get to his feet. Lafayette easily kept him pinned down. “John, you yourself have a wife. How is this so different?”

Laurens turned his head to the side and bit the insides of his cheek. Laf slowly stood up and offered his hand to John. Laurens scrambled to his feet on his own and grabbed the other goblet of claret. He took a long swig. “I was FORCED to make an honest woman out of someone I barely knew.  I wasn’t skipping around like a damned schoolboy telling everyone who will listen about how much better my life is now that I’m marrying Eliza.”

Lafayette poured them both more wine. “John…” Lafayette’s voice was calm. “What did you honestly think would happen? How long did you think it would last?  We all have to have families eventually.”

“I know that. It’s just…” He took a long sip. “The things he would say to me. The letters he wrote. I thought…”

“What?  That he loved you? I’m sure he did, my darling Laurens.  I have a hunch he still does. But he also loves Eliza. Much like I have a great affection for Alex and I also love my Adrienne. And you.”

John looked up at him, ignoring the last part. “Yes, yes, I know.  And I was happy for him. I thought him getting married would cure both of our feelings. He was maturing, moving on. He could go off and be happy with her and I would be at peace knowing he was well taken care of. And I would, in time, learn to be happy without him. But it didn’t cure anything. The affectionate letters from him didn’t stop. And now I…” He swallowed the rest of his wine. “Now I’m in the damnedest state.”

“Well that certainly is one way to describe it.” Lafayette smiled but instantly winced as the action caused the cut on his lip to sprout fresh blood.

“Oh no.” John’s expression immediately softened. “Your face.”

Laf smiled and touched his thumb to his fresh injury, looking at the blood on his finger. “It is nothing, I will wear the mark of the mighty John Laurens with pride.”

John snorted a laugh. “Yeah… so mighty.”

Laf affectionately placed his hand on John’s cheek. “Emotions are complicated, Laurens. They are not able to be turned on and off like a faucet, you know.” John shrugged and Lafayette peered down at him.

“What?” John wasn’t sure he liked the smirk on Lafayette’s face. He had a slight spark of deviousness in his eyes that Laurens was all too familiar with.

“You know what you need? A distraction.”

“Please no… I do not want another night in some tavern drinking until I find myself in an alley with some unsavory woman.”

The gleam in his eyes grew. “That is not what I had in mind.”

John arched an eyebrow and Lafayette turned, pouring the rest of the wine into the glasses and extinguished all but two of the candles in the small tent. He walked back over to John and handed him his cup. He shook off his jacket and started unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Laurens watched him and drained the crimson liquid from his goblet. “What are you doing?”

Laf unbuckled his belt and let his sword fall to the floor then loosened the ties of his shirt. “I am going to make you forget about Alexander for one goddamn night.” He gripped the collar of John’s shirt and pulled him roughly to him, kissing him fiercely. Laurens responded with a fire of his own, dropping the chalice on the floor and quickly wrapping his arms around the Lafayette’s neck.

They shed the rest of their clothing as they made their way to the bed, sinking onto the mattress. John laid on top, allowing Lafayette’s hands to roam down his back and squeeze his supple backside. John hissed in his breath and wrapped his fingers around Lafayette’s erection.

They teased each other, tongues tasting exposed flesh of shoulders, chest, and neck before lust forced them to seek each other’s mouths again. Lips crashed together with moans and desperate cries. When Laf felt he could no longer take the pent-up desire he reached for a small bottle of oil he kept next to his bed. It was typically for the nights he pleasured himself, fending off the boredom of another night alone, but tonight he eagerly drizzled it onto John’s pulsing prick, making him slick and harder and aching for more attention. He swiped his thumb over the tip, already dripping with arousal and pumped him with his fist.

Laurens arched his back into the feeling and let out a guttural moan. His lips kissed up Lafayette’s throat and nipped at the scruff on his chin. His hips sped up and he could feel the fingers on Laf’s other hand digging into his upper thigh.

Lafayette shifted on the bed and took John’s swollen cock and guided it to his entrance. Laurens’ eyes widened slightly. “Laf…I’ve never done that… with a man…”

Laf seemed unbothered. “We could switch if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Switch?”

Laf shrugged then smiled. “It is whatever you want, mon amour.”

John bit his lower lip and stared down at Lafayette. His eyelids fluttered closed and he pushed inside, instantly seized with intense pleasure.  “Oh… Fuck.”

Lafayette was glad the darkness of the room meant Laurens probably couldn’t see the look on his face. He clenched tight as John slid in and out, forehead glistening with sweat. One of John’s hands was fisted in Laf’s hair and he yanked on it forcefully when his lover rolled his hips underneath him, coaxing him deeper. His hands were resting on John’s waist as he looked up at him. Laurens’ face was partly obscured by shadows, but he could his eyes were closed, his mouth slack, and his curls, usually secured tightly with a ribbon had become free of their bondage and were cascading around his face. His own erection twitched with need and he guided John’s free hand to it.

Laurens curled his fingers tight around him and Lafayette clenched his teeth tightly to keep from crying out. John continued to fuck him, thrusting faster now, and his hand kept the same pace bringing his lover to the brink. There was a desperate whimper of his name followed by a string of French expletives and straining to take John deeper inside.

John let out a loud, low growl that was instantly shushed. “Hush my Laurens!” Lafayette chuckled. “You will wake up the whole camp.”

John pressed his forehead against his. “Don’t. Care.” He breathed out.

A final, strangled cry that sounded half of pain, half of ecstasy could not be silenced and Laurens collapsed on top of him with a violent shudder. Lafayette pulled the small blanket over both of them as John rolled onto his back and slung his arm over his head. Lafayette turned onto his side and stole a last glance at him. Laurens was staring at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling as his breathing returned to normal.

He gazed at him as sleep started to overtake him and saw the limpid, satiated look in John’s eyes was starting to be replaced by the haunted quality that Laf had seen earlier in the day. He ached for his friend to find peace. For once he had not the perfect words and decided to let his tired eyes close. He hoped John could at least find solace in a quiet night, the warmth of the friend who shared this bed and peaceful repose spurned on by copious wine and vigorous love making.

Laurens took longer to fall asleep, the familiar doubts and demons creeping into his head. He was finally lulled into slumber by the soft, rhythmic breathing of Lafayette beside him.

The Next Day        

John was awoken by a soft pair of lips pressing gently to his own. He opened his eyes and saw Lafayette smiling down at him, lightly combing his long fingers through John’s messy curls.

“Bon matin, mon Laurens.”

John grinned sleepily at him. “Bon matin, Lafayette.”

“We will, unfortunately, need to get up soon.”

“I’d really rather not.”

Lafayette chuckled softly and wrapped his arms back around him. “Ten more minutes.” Laurens didn’t protest and Laf indulgently pressed a kiss to his forehead before laying his head back on the pillow.

“Lafayette?” His eyes snapped open and he froze when he heard a voice calling from outside the tent.

“Hamilton?” Lafayette whispered the name under his breath like a curse.

Alexander burst through the entrance without waiting for an invitation inside. “Lafayette have you seen John?  He’s not in his tent and I-“ His eyes followed Lafayette’s gaze to the heap of rumpled sheets and blankets and the man curled up beside him. “John?”

“Alex?” Laurens’ voice was raspy with sleep as he tried to sit up.

Hamilton looked from one of his friends to the other, not taking long to surmise what had gone on. “Right.” He started to back out.

“Alex, wait!” Laurens quickly got out of bed and threw his clothes on. “I’ll join you for breakfast.” Lafayette watched stoically, a benign expression on his face.

As John finished pulling on his boots and hastily fixing his hair, Lafayette got up, not caring to get dressed. “Laurens,” He laid his hand on John’s shoulder.

“Laf, I- “ John looked up at him, not sure what to say.

“Shhh.” Lafayette cut him off. He lowered his voice and looked beseechingly into John’s green eyes. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, mon ami.”

John nodded and gave him a small smile. “See you on the battlefield.”

Lafayette watched him go and let out a long sigh.

[vagrantblvrd]

Triptych (1/3)

Summary: Everything is in motion

Notes: @miss-ingno​ is to blame for this one. Totes.

Chapter 1 - Gavin

Gavin’s made mistakes in the past, but none quite like this. Stupid enough that he hasn't quite shed the arrogance of youth, and ends up paying for it for a long, long time.

AO3

It’s a silly little whim, bit of curiosity, that has Gavin hacking a system no one in their right mind would even think about before they’ve learned enough to do it cleanly and it lands him in the worst kind of trouble.

Changes his damn world when he wakes up one morning to his door being kicked in and armed men in body armor and big damn guns aimed at him.

A man in a suit and bulletproof vest and this smirk as he looks Gavin over like he’s nothing. (Less than nothing.)

A flick of his hand and one of the men moves forward to cuff Gavin. They march him past his gawking neighbors and shoved into the back of an unmarked van, driven down to the FIB building.

Plunk him down in an interrogation room for what has to be bloody hours.

Handcuffed to the metal table facing the two-way mirror and all the time in the world to pick apart the how of him ending up there.

Every little misstep, thing he’d done or not done when he was poking around their files and other bits of interest, thinking the would never notice.

He loses track of time, too-bright lights and changing of the stone-faced bastards watching him, stomach growling and mouth dry and aware – so very aware – that things in Los Santos work differently than anywhere else he’s seen in his short life. (Anything he’s been told about, knows people like him go missing all the damn time in this city.)

Gavin’s starting to wonder if he’s just going to rot in the interrogation room. Up and waste away without anyone knowing what happened to him when the agent from his apartment walks in.

Perfectly pressed suit and slicked back hair, pair of horn-rimmed glasses and this too-calm air about him.

Voice this smooth, controlled roll and pitch.

Soothing, mesmerizing.

“Gavin Free,” he greets. “I’m Agent Harris.”

He’s holding a simple manila folder in his hands with Gavin’s name across the little tab. Blocky font, last name first, first name last and a string of numbers and letters under it Gavin can’t quite make out.

His record, Gavin assumes. Various files and whatnot documenting his misdeeds over the years. From England to certain areas across Europe to where he’d crossed the ocean to the US and eventually Los Santos.

Small things here and there, nothing serious enough to land him jail time. Most easily explained away as the indiscretions of youth and all that. Running with the wrong crowd and he’d make an excellent candidate for rehabilitation and on and on and on.

Gavin knows it by heart, all the times he got off lightly, and knows this won’t be one of them.

Agent Harris tosses Gavin’s file on the table, and he watches it slide across the smooth metal until it stops in front of him.

“Go on,” Agent Harris says. “Open it.”

Gavin gives him a look, but Harris gives him nothing to go on, so Gavin opens the folder to reveal a stack of photos placed on top of his file.

The top photo isn’t that old, and Gavin’s heart stops in his chest as he studies it.

He knows where it was taken, when.

Gavin headed back to his terrible little apartment a few weeks back a few weeks back as he was coming back from a job. Head down against the cold, chin tucked into the collar of his jacket, hands shoved into his pockets and so damn oblivious.

The cuffs are just long enough for him to reach for the folder, move that photo aside to see the others.

Some go back months, almost a year and not once had he noticed. (A few with Dan in them, when the idiot had visited him on leave, new rank insignia and boyish grin and this pride about him, because he was thriving and it kills Gavin a little seeing those photos.)

“You’re an interesting young man,” Agent Harris says as he takes a seat across from Gavin. Folds his hands together. “Uniquely talented.”

Gavin swallows thickly and puts the photos down. Flips the folder shut and leans back in his chair. Wants away from this man with his too-calm manner and calculating look in his eyes. Smug in his position of authority, knows he has Gavin exactly where he wants him.

“But you’ve made...questionable choices in your life,” he says, like he regrets such a waste. “This latest incident of yours is quite serious, you understand. You’re no longer considered a minor.”

Gavin’s careful not to let his hands curl into fists. He’s met more than his share of people like this agent since coming to Los Santos. Knows what a mistake that would be.

The agent smiles, a mockery of kindness, sympathy.

“My superiors have an offer for you to consider,” the agent says. “We could use someone with your talents.”

And there it is, trap closing around him of his own making.

“If you decline the offer, well. You did hack into the FIB’s database.” The agent spreads his hands. “I doubt your country will fight us over this.”

If they even find out about it, Gavin knows. Got a peek at all sort of unsavory things before he ducked out of their systems, thought he’d managed to do it cleanly.

“Well,” he says, keeps his eyes down. Tone of voice resigned, defeated. “When you put it that way.”

There’s a quiet laugh, a sense of good boy to it that plants a little seed in Gavin’s mind, sets down roots.

“You’re making the right choice, Mr. Free.”

========

Gavin keeps his head down, plays meek and mild. Lets them think they’ve broken his spirit with threats of what will happen to him if he puts a toe out of line. All these laws he’s broken, the case against him they were building for ages before he gave them the perfect opportunity.

Plays by their rules and as time goes by they get complacent, comfortable in their belief he would never dream of doing something about the pretty little cage they’ve built around him.

It gains him small freedoms, privileges, and he’s so, so careful with them. Hoards them like precious jewels and makes sure not to do anything to have them revoked. (Or really, get caught doing anything that would get them revoked because he’s nowhere near broken, defeated the way they assume he is.)

Gavin learns so much working for the FIB. Goes up against other hackers out there, cyber threats and the like and all it does is sharpen his own skills, hones them. Teaches him to be better, smarter, than those he catches fumbling like blind fools.

He snares the worst of the lot, the ones with plans to hurt and kill for the joy of it, because it sounds like fun to them.

Runs them to ground, wraps them up nice and neat for the FIB and feels a vicious sort of satisfaction because they’re monsters, nice and simple.

He takes warning swipes at the young and stupid, too curious for their own good. Sends them scurrying away before the FIB catches onto them. Teaching them the lesson he learned the hard way.

Things shift a little sideways on him when he finds himself staring at a chat window one day. A chat window for a program he knows for a fact wasn’t installed on his machine when he came in that morning.

Simple enough message, too. Quote from a classic eighties movie. One of the Matthews, if he recalls correctly.

Shall we play a game?

He stares at it for a long, long time, aware it could be a trap. Some clever new way for his handlers to extend his so-called contract with them, but he’s feeling reckless enough at the moment not to care.

Love to. he types, but leaves off the rest because he’s not to the point where thermonuclear war sounds like an appealing option.

Yet.

Tell me who I am. his mystery pen pal types, and Gavin’s never really been one to leave that kind of mystery unsolved.

It takes him two weeks of sleepless nights in between his work for the FIB and his own side projects before he finally discovers who he’s been tracking. Sniffing out little clues here and there until he gets his answer.

A hacker known as Axial who is rumored to have ties with the Fake AH Crew. Group of notorious criminals known to be a thorn in the FIB’s side, and an offer.

Feed them information regarding the FIB’s operations focus on the Fakes and they’ll make it so the FIB can never touch Dan or their families again. Remove that ugly bit of leverage the FIB has on Gavin, and the promise of help if he ever wants to escape his cage.

It’s too good of an offer to be true and one Gavin can’t refuse all in one.

There’s little enough Gavin can do to protect Dan or their families from the FIB in his current predicament. Not the way he wants to, and he’s heard about the Fakes.

Best of a bad lot, as far as these things go here in Los Santos. Known for being an honorable enough bunch who keeps their word and the sort who will deal honestly with you so long as you do the same.

And to be fair, Gavin’s been looking for a prime way to get back at the FIB for trapping him the way they have. Holding him here with ugly little threats against people who have nothing to do with this mess he’s made of things all on his own.

It’s easy to slip the Fakes information when his handlers and other FIB agents talk freely around him. Don’t stop to think he would resent their treatment of him, that he could do anything with the information he gathers easy as anything and passes along to Axial and the Fakes.

He gets curious, though, Gavin does. Looks into the FIB and their previous attempts to bring the Fakes down. (It pays to know what to look for in case the FIB get it into their heads to try another go at the Fakes. Give them a heads up long before things get off the ground, or so he tells himself.)

It makes for an interesting read. Gavin learns when the Fakes were first setting up shop in Los Santos the FIB sent several agents to infiltrate the crew.

Agent after agent over the course of a year, sent them in at random points in time in order not to make it seem suspicious. None of them were successful. A few were killed, some simply went missing, and the rest resigned soon afterward.

There was one recent attempt, a few few weeks before the FIB snatched Gavin up.

Promising young agent that everyone seemed to like, talent for charming anyone he met and their best chance at bringing the Fake AH Crew tumbling down.

The files about it are sparse, but there’s a note in one of the files Gavin gets his hands on. References the archives room in the basement because even in this day and age the FIB hasn’t fully done away with hard copy files, things they don’t want hackers getting their grubby little hands on.

Gavin’s not allowed access, of course, but he’s got light fingers and stubborn determination on his side.

It doesn’t take him long to discover who does have access, and in what manner their paths might intersect. How their keycard might end up in his possession long enough to clone it and slip it back to them without being noticed.

There’s a bit more work involved in getting himself down to the archives without being seen on the cameras or caught by anyone, but he’s only gotten better working for the FIB. It’s tense, nerve-wracking, Gavin all too aware of the risk he’s taking with this.

Realizes he’s never really learned his lesson when it comes to satisfying his curiosity, but for the moment things are going well.

The cloned keycard works beautifully when he swipes it, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the door shuts behind him before he gets to work.

Sets down the folders he’s carrying. Perfect props for playing the role of a lowly peon handling shuffling along, and digs into the files he’s after.

He gets bits and pieces, long sections redacted and no closer to finding answers he doesn’t have the questions for. (Knows the shape of them well enough to have a starting point but not much else.)

His phone buzzes in his pocket after half an hour has gone by. Convenient little warning to get out before he’s notices. Agents and staff returning from meetings, lunch, other business and the odds of him being discovered rising the longer he dallies.

Someone bound to see him, wonder what he’s doing down here and so on and so on and so on.

He almost forgets his folders on his way out. Just as he gets to the door he hears the lock disengage and looks up to see it swing open. He has a split-second to register the look of surprise on the face of the agent in the open doorway before they run into each other, stumbling back into the archives room.

“Oh, God,” Gavin hears, hand on his arm to help steady him, actual concern in the agent's voice. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Gavin blinks, arms tightening around the folders as he bumps up against a filing cabinet, and realizes the agent’s looking at him closely.

He’s trapped, the heavy door having shut behind the agent when he stepped inside to check on Gavin, and -

“Uh,” the agent says, and there’s no snap of anger in his voice when Gavin fails to answer right away, no suspicion darkening his eyes as he cocks his head. “Really, are you alright?”

Gavin opens his mouth to speak and flushes as he squeaks, voice betraying him.

The agent’s eyebrows go up, corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

“Sorry,” he says, and he sounds amused of all things, but not in the malicious manner Gavin’s come to expect. “I didn’t get that?”

Gavin clears his throat, runs a nervous hand through his hair and startles when his hand brushes the glasses he’s forgotten he decided to wear for this little mission of his.

Poor attempt at a disguise, but people tend to look for signifiers and the like, gaze drawn to the things the expect to see first and all that.

“I’m fine,” Gavin says, tries for a smile. “Just didn’t expect to bump into anyone down here. Are you alright? I’ve been told I have a hard head.”

The agent laughs, and laughs again as he realizes he’s still touching Gavin, as he pulls his hand back.

“Nah, I’m good,” he answers, and then, “You’re sure you’re okay, though?”

Gavin nods, anxiety easing a bit as the agent shows no signs of hostility towards him, the resentment at his mere existence in such hallowed halls.

“Okay,” the agent says, “Good, good.”

Unexpectedly awkward, and shy?

No.

Something like it, though, and Gavin finds his smile turning a little more genuine in the face of it.

“Well, this has been lovely,” he says, and strangely it has, if only because this particular agent has so far shown he’s not the typical sort Gavin’s dealt with in his time here. “But I need to get back to work.”

The agent finally seems to notice the files he’s holding, and steps aside with an apologetic laugh.

“Oh, yeah, Sorry again!” he says, as Gavin sidles past. “And, uh. Have a nice day?”

Gavin laughs in spite of himself.

“You too,” he calls back, and hurries the hell away before something else unexpected happens.

========

It’s sad, really, that the small bit of kindness the agent extended towards him should have such a strong effect on Gavin. Have him oddly restless, this little itch in his bones to do something, but he’s been working for the FIB for a while now. Forgets what something like that looks – feels – like.

Not to say all the FIB agents are complete bastards, but the ones who are seem to be the ones in positions of power. Arrogant with it, having had it all this time, and it makes them stupid.

Gavin cracks his knuckles – literally and metaphorically – and does his research.

Learns that the agent is one Alfredo Diaz out of San Andreas. Enlisted in the Army out of high school and portions of his records are highly classified. Require clearances higher than anyone in the building can access and that is definitely interesting, isn’t it.

The sections that aren’t paint him in a good light. High marksmanship scores and commendations from his superior officers and so on.

Decided on the FIB after his enlistment was over and did well at the start. Seemed to be on his way to building a successful career, until an incident around a year ago involving some kind of altercation with fellow agents.

Conflicting reports and redacted information, and it’s one of the most suspicious things Gavin’s happened upon in his time with the FIB. Endless hours scraping together suspicious files, reports. Any evidence he can get his hands on of the corruption that’s taken root in the agency sure as any police department in Los Santos and this void surrounding this incident is the most suspicious thing he’s seen yet.

And it doesn’t stop there, incidents on cases Alfredo was assigned to. Reports of tension among the agents. Injuries and close calls in the field that shouldn’t have happened. Suggestions in between the line that Alfredo be reassigned due to his incompatibility with other agents that resulted in him being bounced around until he ended up in Los Santos.

It’s -

Something is very clearly going on with Agent Diaz, and Gavin can’t let well enough alone, can he. Five minutes of kindness from someone who wasn’t a complete bastard to him and Gavin’s setting aside his own priorities to look into things on his behalf.

Finagles things so that he’s the one handling the comms when Alfredo’s in the field. The one sifting through data to bring him vital intel that could mean the difference between life and death.

He doesn’t think Alfredo remembers him until Gavin’s sitting in a surveillance van with a pair of bored agents. One sitting behind the wheel humming tunelessly to himself and the other listening in on their target’s phone lines while Alfredo sits in an unmarked car a few blocks over.

“You sound familiar,” he says, like it’s something that’s been bothering him for a long time. “Have we met?”

Gavin blinks, eyes darting to the agent next to him, engrossed in what she’s doing so she doesn’t notice the incredulous look on Gavin’s face at could have been a pickup line any other time. (Surely he hadn’t meant it that way, surely.)

“Don’t think so,” Gavin murmurs, better not have him put two and two together, realize Gavin had no reason to be down in the archives that day. “Think I would have remembered meeting you.”

There’s a long pause, Gavin dragging his focus back in time to realize what he just said, and presses his hand over his eyes in mortification. Waits for the disgust, derision, but instead -

“Oh, nice,” Alfredo says, laughing in delight. “You got any others like that one? It’s boring as shit over here.”

Gavin snorts, sneaking a glance at the other agent who gives him a dirty look before focusing on her job.

“Did it hurt,” Gavin says, makes sure to keep his voice as carefully neutral as he can to see how long it takes for the agent to notice what he’s doing. “When you fell from Heaven, Alfredo?”

Alfredo is cackling, this bright, breathless laughter that has Gavin smiling like an idiot at the sound.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he says when he has his laughter under control, “Let me think of one.”

Gavin adjusts his headset, turning away from the agent as he waits for Alfredo’s next terrible pickup line. He’s a bit of an idiot, but it’s not like any of this means anything. Like Alfredo knows who he is, so this.

It’s safe enough, isn’t it?

========

Only, it isn’t. Because they manage to break that case wide open, Alfredo and Gavin and the other agents assigned to it. That brings expectations of further ones from that team, Gavin included.

His handlers are loathe to let him roam too far, but someone further up the chain of command is impressed with what he was able to do. Overrules their objections, list of reasons as why it’s a bad idea.

“Hey, we have met!”

It’s the first thing Alfredo says to him when Gavin is moving his equipment into the so-called office Gavin’s been given.

It’s more of a storage closet that’s been repurposed into a workspace for Gavin. Room for his computers and other equipment and tiny and cramped and just down the hall from the where Alfredo and his team work.

Gavin looks up, overflowing cardboard box of his things in his arms.

“Er, beg your pardon?”

He’s glad for the mess of boxes and equipment between them, because he feels trapped like this. Too many lies – deliberate and by omission and everything in between and this horrible knowledge he’s made a mistake getting this close to Alfredo. (Even now he’s not afraid of him even though he has every reason to be when they’re, technically speaking, not on the same side.)

“Before, down in the archives?” Alfredo prompts, and it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that Gavin never should have been down there. “We literally ran into each other.”

He’s grinning, like it’s a good memory. Something to look back on with fondness.

“Oh.” Gavin says, as though he’d honestly forgotten. “That. Yes.”

Alfredo's smile softens as he steps around the mound of crap and helps Gavin with the box.

“Finally nice to put a face to the voice whispering sweet nothings in my ear all the time,” Alfredo says, sly twist to his moth as Gavin sputters.

“I have not!” he manages, grateful for the dim lighting as he feels his cheeks heat, because he hasn’t.

Not...okay, not all the time, anyway. And anyways, Alfredo’s always one to return the favor, laughter in his voice and Gavin smiling helplessly.

There’s been some professionalism between them as well. Gavin feeding Alfredo and his team information through his earpiece as he goes undercover. Searching premises after following up on leads and the like.  

Alfredo laughs, and Gavin realizes he’s made another mistake because he can’t look away from him.

========

It doesn’t last, because Gavin hasn’t forgotten his own mission. The reason he’s played nice all these years – a chance to repay the FIB for that they’ve done to him. What they made him into.

He keeps funneling information to the Fakes through Axial and whoever pretends to be him from time to time, thinking Gavin wouldn’t notice.

Definite shift in their interactions that makes it perfectly clear it’s someone else. This odd sense of approval from them when Gavin let them know he was on to them. Suspicious and paranoid and only the use of specific code phrases Axial had insisted Gavin learn reassured him he was dealing with one of the Fakes.

He’s careful, though, when it comes to information regarding Alfredo because Gavin’s grown regrettably fond of the man. (Regrettable only because they’re very much on opposite sides in this, and when Alfredo finds out, he imagines it won’t be pretty.)

Funny, then, that he always seems to come back to the tangled mess surrounding Alfredo. This ongoing belittling of his accomplishments and contributions, undercutting him and slow attempt to break him down.

Butting heads with his teammates and other agents on a constant basis, lack of trust that’s chilling to witness when all too often their lives rely on such a thing.

Alfredo smiles through it all and pushes on, but he fades as time passes and it all begins to weigh on him while Gavin watches on helplessly.

Offers support where he can, does his best to keep Alfredo as safe as possible in the field, but Gavin’s limited in what he can do. Hobbled by his own situation and it’s maddening watching it all play out.

“Oh, well hello then,” Gavin says, when his computer chirps at him, an alert he’s set up when his backdoors into the FIB's systems are tripped. “What’s this?”

Someone’s tampered with the security cameras placed throughout the building. Think they’ve manage to loop the footage for a bit, but Gavin’s got his little tricks and this is interesting indeed, because it’s Alfredo.

Furtive, looking over his shoulder as he picks the lock to a senior agent’s office and accesses his computer terminal. (This tension to him Gavin’s all too familiar with.)

Not so squeaky clean, it seems, and Gavin squashes the disappointment he feels watching Alfredo. There's no reason he should have expected more from Alfredo just because he was kind.

Still.

Gavin covers Alfredo’s tracks when he’s done. Erases what little evidence he left behind because he’s a sad bastard and Alfredo’s the closest thing to a friend he has within the FIB.

The incidents and accidents that predated Alfredo’s transfer to Los Santos start to happen here too, and Gavin can only do so much to help him without tipping his hand. He spends endless nights trying to find out what the root of it all is, and every trail leads back to that incident in his records that remains a blank mystery.

Around that time the FIB considers another attempt to infiltrate the Fake AH Crew, send one of theirs into the lion’s den and hope it pans out better than previous ones.

The way things are going now, it won’t be long before there’s an unfortunate accident involving Alfredo. A case of friendly fire, or backup that never comes. Pinned down elsewhere or some other flimsy excuse and goodness, what a tragedy, but he was a damn fine agent, wasn’t he.

It’s a dangerous prospect for anyone, and somehow still a better option for Alfredo than remaining where he is. Better odds for his survival, which is the worst kind of irony.

It’s undercover work that Alfredo excels in. That easy charm of his and sharp, clever mind. Backwards sort of logic that has Gavin realizing Alfredo stands a better chance of survival with the infamous criminals than with the law enforcement agents meant to watch his back.

Gavin mentions it to Alfredo one morning when they're the only two in the office. Too early for the others to venture in, and should be safe enough.

“What?” Alfredo says, not quite processing what he’s just said.

Gavin shrugs, tells him that he overheard other agents talking about it. Couldn’t be that big of a secret if they were going to gossip about it at the water cooler.

“Huh,” Alfredo says.

Gavin raise an eyebrow.

“That’s,” Alfredo snorts. “That’s something, isn’t it.”

“I’m sorry?”

Alfredo scrubs a hand over his face, and looks at Gavin.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, myriad of expression flitting across his face before he seems to settle on bemused. “I took the assignment, Gav. I was going to tell you. Let you know before the others.”

Oh.

Gavin blinks at Alfredo stupidly.

This is an unexpected development.

“The way I figure it,” Alfredo says, and Gavin winces at the bitterness in his voice. “It’ll be a hell of a lot more straightforward than what’s been happening.”

“Well,” Gavin says, awkward little laugh in there. “Criminal types, I suppose. Pretty clear what they’re all about, innit?”

Alfredo cocks his head as he looks at Gavin.

“Yeah,” he says, odd note to his voice. “It is.”

=========

When Alfredo goes undercover Gavin’s handlers seize the opportunity to drag him back to that little cage of his. Shove him back down in that office with the wonky light and broken air conditioning. Put him to work sniffing out cyber threats and keep him so busy he doesn’t have time for much else.

And yet, he still manages to slip information to Axial when he can. Does his best to glean any bit of information from Axial about Alfredo.

Figures he’s doing well enough for himself. Clearly still alive since the FIB haven’t pulled the plug on their little operation, declared it a failure and how sad it is to lose such a bright young man to the criminal scum of this city.

Axial goes quiet a few months later, and before Gavin can wonder what that’s all about everything goes to hell.

From what he can tell, the Fakes manage to stumble over another FIB operation and an agent who knows Alfredo, and it turns into a downright mess.

Building up in flames and several dead in the initial shootout. A few assumed dead in the fire, and the rest either missing. Gavin’s world grinds to a halt because Alfredo’s listed among the casualties. (No body, but it’ll be some time before they clear the rubble away to search for them.)

Gavin goes through the motions with the FIB until he overhears something he surely wasn’t meant to. Alfredo’s former superiors laughing, mean and ugly and glad about the fact he’s gone because it because it saves them the work of doing it themselves.

Five minutes of kindness and this odd sort of friendship and Gavin’s so easy, isn’t he.

No problem at all for him to burn everything he's been working toward for years down for Alfredo.

Gathers everything he’s fond on the FIB over the years and packs it all up nice and neat and gifts it to one of the reputable reporters in Los Santos. Sends copies to another in Liberty City just in case, and sends Axial one last message, a request not to look for him and disappears.

Or, rather, he plans to, really. No reason to stay in Los Santos any longer and he misses England. Misses Dan and the terrible weather and good tea and talks it up in his head because he feels hollow, aching. Directionless for the first time in a long time, and that much is something, isn’t it?

Goes to a rundown apartment he managed to hide from the FIB. Lease under a fake name and so very careful not to tie it back to himself.

Gavin dithers like an idiot, and wakes up one morning in his terrible little apartment not to his door being kicked open, but a knock.

Far less dramatic than that day years and year ago now.

“Hey, Gav.”

Gavin’s hand tightens on the doorknob, voice caught in his throat because that’s a face he never thought he’d see again.

Familiar smile, hair styled to within an inch of its life. (Alive, he’s alive.)

The knock on his door may be less dramatic, maybe, but it still manages to change Gavin’s world all over again.

[filmstruck]

Culture Clash: RUDE BOY (’80) by Kimberly Lindbergs

“We felt that the whole machine was teetering on the brink of collapse. Some amazing things went down in Britain during the ’70s—the government decided they could disempower the unions by having a three-day week, for instance. Can you imagine that? . . . There were garbage strikes, train strikes, power strikes, the lights were going out—everything seemed on the brink, and looking through youthful, excitable eyes it seemed the very future of England was at stake.” – Joe Strummer

In 1970, when Joe Strummer was just 18-years-old, the future frontman for The Clash was asked to identify the body of his older brother David who committed suicide. David’s body was found on a bench in London’s Regent’s Park where it had laid for three days after he swallowed a lethal dose of pills. At the time of David’s death, he was estranged from his family and had joined The National Front, a far-right fascist organization that enticed angry young men and promoted neo-Nazi ideologies. In the years that followed The Clash rose to prominence in Britain’s burgeoning punk music scene, but Joe Strummer rarely talked about his brother and the impact of his death.

Despite Strummer’s silence on the subject, his music tells a vivid story about the circumstances that gave rise to The National Front and why the unsavory group may have appealed to his sibling. The frontman’s grief metastasized and found expression in the reggae rhythms and punk riffs that characterize The Clash. Between 1977 and 1985 the band recorded a handful of studio albums that gave voice to the disenfranchised while railing against social injustice, criticizing nationalism, denouncing racism, condemning capitalism and mourning the victims of perpetual war.

RUDE BOY (’80), which is currently available on FilmStruck, captures the zeitgeist of the times. This loosely scripted cinema verité drama stars 18-year-old Ray Grange, an apathetic young bloke employed at a London sex shop. Ray eventually finds work as a roadie for The Clash, but he is ill-equipped for life on the road and spends most of his time in a drunk stupor spewing racist rants that demonstrate how ill-informed he is. In response, the band members barely tolerate Ray’s presence. Drummer Topper Headon knocks him around during a boxing workout and guitarist Mick Jones threatens Ray on several occasions, but Joe Strummer sporadically takes pity on the confused youngster and attempts to straighten him out. Through it all we witness angry riots breaking out in the streets, spurred on by Margaret Thatcher’s rightwing policies and racist attitudes advocated by The National Front that Ray has adopted. At the end of the film we are left wondering what will become of Ray while a substory involving black youths weaves in and out of the loosely defined narrative in an attempt to further demonstrate the bigotry affecting Britain.

Jack Hazan and David Mingay (A BIGGER SPLASH [‘73]) shot the film between 1978 and 1979 but it wasn’t released until March 1980 and when RUDE BOY finally reached theaters critics were decidedly mixed about the results. New Music Express called it a “An innovative piece of cinematic art” but The Daily Mail asked readers, “Must we show off this foul view of Britain?” Worst of all, The Clash disowned the film due to its erratic editing, which makes the filmmakers inclusion of black youths rather ambiguous and difficult to follow. Strummer even suggested that the filmmakers were advocating racist government polices in a 1980 interview with Melody Maker stating, "We didn't like what they were doing with the black people, because they were showing them dipping into pockets . . . Who wants to propagate that? That's what the rightwing use, 'all blacks are muggers' which is a load of rubbish.”

It is also evident that Strummer has trouble explaining his progressive politics clearly to Ray and this has led some critics to believe that The Clash was dissatisfied with how they represented themselves on screen. But if the final product is rough around the edges, that is understandable. Punk music is dissonant, transgressive and disruptive by nature so why shouldn’t RUDE BOY embody these traits? Strummer is a lyricist and he, along with the rest of the band, can best express themselves through their music. Much to the directors’ credit, they were able to capture the confused chaos that frequently accompanied the band’s live shows as well as the political climate that inspired their songs. In turn, the concert footage is what makes this such an indispensable film.

The Clash is absolutely electric on stage. They are all raw energy and instinct with rowdy balladeer Joe Strummer leading the band through one angry anthem after another including “I Fought the Law,” “White Riot,” “Career Opportunities,” “London’s Burning” and “I’m So Bored with the USA.” Strummer is accompanied by Paul Simonon slinking across the stage like a hungry mountain lion pounding out aggressive rhythms on his low strung bass as Mick Jones wields his guitar as if he were a combat veteran looking for his next gutter fight. In the background, we catch glimpses of Topper Headon pounding on the drums while frequently appearing in a bright yellow jumpsuit that resembles Bruce Lee’s costume in GAME OF DEATH (’78). This live material was shot during the historic Rock Against Racism concert in London’s Victoria Park and their On Parole and Sort It Out tours, allowing viewers to get a varied and intimate look at the band before they found worldwide success following the release of Combat Rock in 1982.

The film’s important place in music history can’t be overlooked but RUDE BOY is also a pertinent social document that can help contextualize the current political landscape. In a bleak world where good jobs are scarce, healthcare is a luxury and upward mobility has become almost impossible for those born without a silver spoon in their mouths, fascist organizations can effortlessly take root. Hopelessness breeds anger and anger needs a target. Immigrants and ethnic minorities can easily be transformed into involuntary adversaries when governments won’t acknowledge the human cost of autonomous war and unremitting colonialism. Joe Strummer understood this unfortunate truth and the music he made with The Clash remains as relevant today as it was 35-years ago.