#North Pennines

[kalimav6]

I'm in this one, which is unusual as I'm not normally in videos.

[smellofwater]

Graham Vasey

My friend Graham Vasey is showing his work at Gallerina in Darlington. The exhibition opens at 11am on the 28th of October. It’ll be really good, get yourself there. So next Saturday (28th October) is going to be a lovely day here at the gallery, we are opening our long awaited exhibition rooms upstairs with a James Paterson exhibition and we are also holding a Graham Vasey photography…

[jumpneoshoots]

Autumn Calm

Nov0324

[northumbria-ghost-lore]

Barnard Castle. County Durham

[link-of-asgard]

The English countryside is severally underrated when it comes to beautiful places. I can stare for hours at the lush green fields, and hills.

It's also very relaxing watching it go by while on a train.

[ghminerals]

Excellent color change Fluorite. Old Rogerley Mine, Frosterley, Weardale, North Pennines, Co., Durham, England. 25 year old specimen. https://goldenhourminerals.etsy.com/listing/1603879671

[hairtusk]

i love this village; i love the north of england; i love the rugged beauty of the south pennines. i love that this land seems to know me as well as i know it; i'm grateful to have spent my whole life here.

[thesilversun]

The as in tags, the moors. First two images are on Ilkley Moor, the third is walking between Gordale Scar and Malham Cove in the dales.

Say in the tags what you voted for and if you live in or outside of the UK

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

How extra am I?

Well I got bored at work so I decided to use a UK map to plot out locations from Cursed based off what little of their maps we do see so I could do reasonable travel distances and scenery etc...

(I then found a whole host of continuity errors in terms of distance and their maps are wildly inaccurate as per the time period BUT what I've done at least works for the most part)

Here Dewdenn is likely at the base of the River Severn, so a touch North of where I placed it, because I decided Yvoire Abbey needed to be right by the river (since Nimue boated out) and Hawksbridge should be at a port, yet the journey needs to be feasible in a day, whilst Gramaire and the Encampments needed a forest, open plains, and to be near enough to Hawksbridge and Dewdenn as travel between would take no more than 1-2 days)

(Red line at the bottom of that pic = 20 miles)

Sooo Dewdenn is now a little further South 20 miles from Gramaire and Yvoire Abbey, and Hawksbridge is 15 miles or so from Yvoire Abbey (wanted it to be closer but alas)

The Minotaur Mountains are now the Pennines, as it's the only ridge of mountains across the center that really works, and Nemos is in the base of the Pennines in Sherwood Forest, whilst Moycraig- the last farm supplying Nemos- is 5ish miles outside Sherwood Forest.

Beggar's Coast was definitely filmed on the south coast, and makes sense for a nickname for the English Channel, so I chose the closest viable point for the battlesite at the end of Cursed/King Uther's ships. It would have taken at least 2 days to get there from Gramaire, but both the book and series are loose on how long it actually took, soooo this will have to do.

Since the Paladins were "from the south", needed easy access to the English Channel to be able to travel to Rome (Likely via France), and Dorset was featured so heavily on their map, I've chosen that as their "main" base, though I plan to add Red Paladin Encampments, Human towns and cities and Fey Villages throughout.

Now to add their journey by Chapter because I am a fucking ass who can't visualise and needs to be able to see it to make sense of it!

If you read all this, you're a legend- or very bored. Or both. (Probably both after this)

Horizons to Battlegrounds

(Chapter 1) (Masterlist)

[scotianostra]

The Battle of Preston was fought between August 17-19th, 1648.

This was a major battle in the English civil war which saw the Duke of Hamilton cross the border into England at the head of a Scottish army in support of King Charles I.

Earlier in the year in April a small force of Scots had taken Berwick and Carlisle. On July 8th, a much larger force commanded by the Marquis of Hamilton marched into Carlisle. By mid-July, 12,000 men (8,000 Scots and 4,000 English Royalists) looked poised to march south in support of Charles. However, there were delays in the Scottish advance and this allowed a Parliamentarian force cross the Pennines east to west to confront the invaders. Pembroke Castle had fallen to Cromwell on July 11th and freed up men to march north in support. They met at Wetherby.

However, they were confronted by a much larger force: Hamilton’s army numbered 20,000 men while Cromwell had 9,000 men of whom only 6,500 were experienced soldiers.

What Cromwell had on his side was discipline. In some respects the Scots had become a very undisciplined unit. Hamilton had allowed his army to spread itself over twenty miles – a distance far too great to allow for good communications between all parts in it. Without good communications, Hamilton had little ability to fully control his force. Hamilton’s cavalry was in the front while the infantry trailed behind. Therefore, each was unable to support the other. While Hamilton’s cavalry had the advantage of travelling by horse, the terrain in the area was not conducive to speedy travel and the rain that had been falling made the ground even more boggy than normal.

On August 17th Cromwell attacked the infantry in the rear of Hamilton’s greatly extended force.

The Battle of Preston was fought in boggy terrain and the skill and power of the New Model Army was severely restricted in such terrain as it relied very much on its cavalry. The battle was initially fought with little finesse as Cromwell used his horse to simply bludgeon the Scots into submission. He then turned on Hamilton’s main force, many of whom had based themselves actually in Preston.

The fighting in Preston was bloody even by the standards of the English Civil War. It was now that it became clear to Hamilton that keeping his force spread out over such a large distance was a fatal flaw. Cromwell fought mainly foot soldiers. Hamilton had to get his horse to Preston but they were mainly in Wigan, some miles away. The fighting on August 17th at Preston cost the Scots 8,000 men – 4,000 killed and 4,000 captured. The battle continued on August 18th.

The night of August 17th/18th had been blighted by rain. The Scots who were still in the field were both wet and hungry, as many had not eaten properly for days. To make matters worse, a lot of their ammunition had become damp and unusable.

On the 18th, about 4,000 Scots laid down their weapons at Warrington rather than fight a smaller Parliamentarian force. Men under the command of Hamilton marched south away from Preston. Hamilton’s plan was to march south and then back north away from Cromwell’s men and back to Scotland. The plan had some credibility to it but Hamilton’s men were unwilling to follow him and he surrendered his forces at Uttoxeter to John Lambert. Hamilton himself was sent to Windsor.

The fighting during the Battle of Preston was particularly vicious and as a result of this those who had volunteered to fight for Hamilton and had been captured or surrendered were harshly treated. They were sent as virtual slaves to the plantations in Barbados and Virginia.

The loss of the Scots and the accompanying Royalists who had fought at Preston was a devastating blow for Charle I. He now had no decent power base in England, Wales, Ireland or Scotland.

Hamilton, after a futile attempt to escape, was beheaded in March 1649.

[thedreadvampy]

Apparently we have quite different ice cream experiences

so followup question (one which I expect to be extremely regional)

how about ye olde lemontop

you can get them in shops and kiosks but not ice cream vans

not to do a remember when mother put the kettle on post but

does anybody (UK, child of the 90s) remember ye olde Punky Penguin?

such mediocre ice cream. such thrilling packaging.

[northumbria-ghost-lore]

Brancepeth Castle. County Durham

[pvffinsdaisies]

Northumbria Headcanon Masterpost

The artwork used was created by @ladybrainrot

Continuing on with my master posts for my portrayals of different characters, I’ve decided the next one would be for my OC portrayal of Northumbria. Since I did one of these for Scotland, I’ve been wanting to create another one, but I’ve not known which character to choose. Bria just happens to be my brainrot atm, though she’s not as developed as I thought.

Northumbria is an old kingdom that consisted of modern day northern England, and southern Scotland, through the 600s-900s. In my eyes, Northumbria stayed alive and in modern day represents the north of England- the cultural and the class difference. With that in mind, and also noting that I am not a big history fan, please do be weary that many choices made take into account modern day northern England, rather than the former kingdom of Northumbria itself. This is also just my take, as someone from the north of England. I am also aware that she is not 100% accurate- Bria originally started out as a 2p nyo England over four years ago, but as I grew up, I decided to revamp her a little, and she became my oc portrayal of Northumbria. Keep in mind, had I originally set out to make a northern England oc, not a 2p nyo England, she would probably be quite different than she is today.

PHYSICAL

Northumbria’s hair is a mousy brown colour, and it lies somewhere between blonde and brunette. This was done intentionally to show her similarities to both Scotland and to England, and how she’s the awkward space in between the two of them.

When left down, her hair reaches down to her mid back, but it’s frequently worn up to keep it out of her face.

Bushy eyebrows runs in the family, and she didn’t manage to escape this gene either.

Northumbria has softer, though not rounded, features. She has droopy/downturned eyes, a heart face shape, and a button nose.

She has dimples in her cheeks, which represent the Yorkshire Dales, and a few freckles which represent the Lake District

She is one of the shortest of her siblings, standing at 5’3 or about 160cm

Bria is chubby, with a pear body shape. A lot of her weight is in her stomach and waist, and she has a smaller top half.

Northumbria’s breasts represent the Pennines, a mountain range which runs through the centre of Northern England. The mountains are, objectively, not that big.

Northumbria has very bad hay fever, and she takes tablets every spring and summer, but they don’t do much for help. She loves the outside, though, and thinks a runny nose and itchy eyes are worth it to be out in the countryside.

She has problems with her lungs from spending so many years of her life working as a coal miner, she uses an inhaler to help her.

She doesn’t wear make up very often, only if she’s going out or if attending a formal event- and she’s not very good at it! Mostly, she just hasn’t had much practice, and finds most days she can’t be bothered with it.

Despite this, Northumbria is incredibly skilled with plaits and buns! Her hair is most often seen in just a simple three strand plait for simplicity, but she can do some beautiful techniques if she wants to.

She has a pink rose necklace which she wears all the time. It represents the red rose of Lancashire and the white rose of Yorkshire. Normally, these two rose come together to create the “Tudor Rose”, but for a little necklace, a pink rose will do fine.

Speaking of roses, she likes to smell like them! She always buys rose scented perfumes. It’s fair to say, these flowers mean a lot to her.

As well as her rose necklace, you will almost always see Northumbria wearing a flat cap. She owns a dark green one, but also a brown one. She takes a lot of pride in these hats.

PERSONALITY

Out of her and Arthur, Northumbria is definitely the friendlier, more extroverted one. If she sees someone she knows on the street, she will stop and say hi, have a little chat to them, before heading off on her way. Moments like this brighten her day.

Even if you are not yet friends, she prides herself as being someone you can stop and talk to, if you need it. She’s also not shy to striking up a conversation with someone new. She will talk to you like you know one another, even during small talk.

She takes the position of the mum friend, and she can be extremely comforting for when you’re upset. Guaranteed, if knock on the door and ask to talk, she’ll hurry you inside, make you some tea, and if you’re lucky, she’ll make you her favourite comfort food. She’ll always be sure to provide a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, words of encouragement, and some advice once you’re feeling better.

Bria is a very loyal person, especially to those she considers herself closest with. She will stay by the side of those she loves through no matter what. This is one of the reasons she has never seriously considered trying to gain independence.

However, she can also be very indecisive, she can change her mind and stance pretty frequently. This meeting her loyal nature can be conflicting sometimes. She finds constantly switching between being more loyal to England, and being more loyal to Scotland (who she’s (debatably) closer to.)

Northumbria is incredibly passionate, but her passion can come out quite aggressive. You can notice a significant flip from her usual calmer, motherly personality, to her yelling and shouting curse words. It can be quite intimidating if you’re not used to it.

Selfishness is probably Bria’s worst trait. She will always think about herself and her own situation first, and sometimes might never even consider someone else’s perspective on things. This can and has lead to her stabbing people in the back to try and better herself if she gets desperate enough (sorry Wales.)

She regularly feels ignored and overlooked, mainly by England, but she hasn’t figured out how to make herself be taken seriously by others, so no matter how much she shouts, nothing much will change.

Because of this, she has an intense desire to prove herself. She had a tendency to be vocal and brag about anything important or anyone successful who comes from the north of England. It can seem like she believes she’s superior to Arthur, but it’s more a desire to prove herself to be an equal. That, and just a good amount of pride and patriotism.

Northumbria has a hard time letting go of the past. She struggles to move on, now matter how far away it was. She still clings to her old coal mining job especially to define her identity. She won’t stop there. She’ll go back as far as the Viking age if she has to.

She’s incredibly humble and modest, which means she sometimes dismisses the bad things that have happened to her in the past, choosing to focus on the positives. This can give her a tainted view of her own history, and she looks back on many things with a far more positive outlook, her nostalgia can blind her to the hardships she faced in the past.

Northumbria likes to credit herself as being a realist, and being fairly down to earth. She is not blinded to current situations from nostalgia. And, whilst she finds some fantastical stuff appealing, she is not blinded to the reality of the world and the position she’s in.

She can be a bit of a hopeless romantic, but not in the sense that she has an unrealistic expectation of love. She’s more just looking for someone to see her, understand her, and settle down with her as her partner. She loves the idea of love, but she’s also aware of what it does and doesn’t actually look like.

Bria heavily values politeness and manners. A simple please and thank you never cost anyone anything, she finds it very rude and demanding to not use them, and she will remind her family if they forget!

She holds a lot of respect for people who are honest and who speak their mind. She doesn’t like when she feels people try and hide how they feel about something. She may be a bit shocked sometimes at bluntness, but eventually she’ll come round and admire the honesty. She makes sure to tell people who are like this that she appreciates it.

HOBBIES & INTERESTS

Northumbria loves to go out on walk around the countryside, however, given her lungs she has to really pace herself and try not to go too fast. She also avoids hikes that are going to be too challenging for her. But still, nothing will stop her from getting outside.

She enjoys cycling too, but again, has to pace herself and try not to do anything that exceeds her limits.

Whilst she doesn’t play, rugby is her favourite sport by a mile! She is extremely passionate about it, and she gets far too into the games. She also insists that league is the better, and rougher version. Her entire family disagrees.

Something she and her family can agree on, is a strong love for music. Bria’s preferred taste is pop music, she especially loves boy bands and girl groups. She is the world’s biggest Take That fan.

She actually used to play an instrument herself! The Northumbrian pipes, a smaller (and quieter) variant of bagpipes that come from the north of England. She and Scotland used to play together, but she gave it up in the 19th century, and hasn’t picked them back up since.

Whilst Northumbria is no top-quality chef, she’s actually very good at warm, comforting foods to fill you up. Her favourite to make is mince and dumplings- which also happens to be her comfort food- but she also makes a good shepherd’s pie or cottage pie. She also makes a brilliant yorkshire pudding.

She is a savoury girl all the way! Too much sweet stuff can make her feel ill. She is a devout fan of greggs.

She is not much of a baker herself, however, she does love to treat herself to a baked pastry or pasty. She especially loves Cornish pastries, and when her old sister, Cornwall, bakes them herself, she will never be able to resist them.

Whilst she no longer works as a farmer, she did used to, and she found a love for gardening from it. She grows vegetables and flowers, and gifts any spares that she had no need for to one of her siblings. Her garden is not large by any means, but it is very pretty.

Much like the rest of her siblings, Northumbria enjoys a night out on the town, venturing into pubs. She has a bias towards Irish bars especially, due to the surplus of them in Liverpool thanks to mass Irish immigration.

She loves reading, and she has a massive passion for Beatrix Potter and her novels. She has original copies of all of them on her shelf, as well as other pieces of merchandise like fridge magnets or garden ornaments.

Northumbria has a knack for poetry, especially nature themed poetry. Influenced by the amount of poets that come from or moved to the Lake District.

She attends the Viking Festival that takes place in York every year.

She enjoys watching soap operas, her favourites being Emmerdale and Coronation Street- which she keeps up with regularly. She gets overly invested in the storylines sometimes. Though, she’s aware they’re not the best quality.

Northumbria has some skill regarding sewing. She can fix a button or a zip on a dress, but she’s not skilled enough to be making her own clothes. She just repairs old ones.

However, she is very skilled at knitting. From the 1980s-2005, the world’s fastest knitter was a woman from the north of England. Northumbria herself is pretty fast!

LIFESTYLE

Northumbria uses the human name Ivory Ailith Kirkland, with Ivy or Ives as her nickname. I would’ve used a Cumbrian name, but alas with the language being extinct, there’s no websites online.

She has two pet hedgehogs who run around her house and her garden, they’re called Charlotte and Peach.

Ivory currently resides in Newcastle Upon Tyne, and she has the thickest geordie accent you’ll ever hear, although for many years of her life she lived in York. The city is still one of her favourites, and it’s very special to her, but she now only visits once a year.

Despite this, she considers the Lakes the place where her heart lives. She tries to visit at least once or twice a year.

Thick as her accent is, it’s really flexible. It changes quickly, if she talks to someone from a different area for even an hour she accidentally starts to mimic their speech. If she spends a week somewhere, she could probably pass as a native.

Northumbria speaks English, British Sign Language, French and Scots. She used to speak Cumbrian, Latin and old Norse. The latter two are long gone and forgotten, but she’s still convinced if someone spoke Cumbrian to her, it would come flooding back. Despite her flexible accent, she’s never been the great at studying new languages. They fly right over her head! She is, however, extremely prone to picking up new slang words upon meeting someone, even if she’s never heard said words before.

Since Ivory is not recognised as a country, nor is she self-reliant, she doesn’t actually have much nation work to do- if any at all! She travels down to Manchester if there is anything in the north she is needed for, and sometimes she will step in as England for Arthur is needed. Generally though, she has a lot of time to herself to explore the north.

She technically lives in a shared house in london, too, with the rest of her siblings (besides Ireland), but she doesn’t like it down there and isn’t needed there often at all.

Ivory’s wardrobe is simple, but still pretty. She prefers more earthy tones like greens and browns, but she’s never shy to a floral detail. Her clothes are comfortable and easy to move around in- generally. She’s a big fan of pinafores, simple tops and t-shirts, and cardigans. You’ll rarely ever find her in anything slim fitting.

Deep down, Ivory longs simply for a life of comfort. And, even though she’s a morning person, and she loves her morning walks, her favourite part of the day is sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea in the evenings.

However, due to her longing for comfort, she’s developed a fear of the unknown. She doesn’t like stepping outside of her comfort zone if she doesn’t absolutely have to, and even then she may try and ignore it as much as she can.

She has a complicated relationship with the subject of potential independence. Her fear of the unknown prevents her from taking the idea seriously, even if she’s not comfortable with the current situation- and is constantly complaining about how ignored she feels and how she wants better. She identifies as northern before she does as English, and she is always making a point that she has way more in common with Scotland than with the south, but to her, complete independence is something she is too afraid to take seriously. It’s easier to joke about, which she has no problems doing.

Whilst Bria is pretty well-off now, she’s had some very low points financially in the past, and has gotten used to being poorer one out of her and Arthur. As a result, she is extremely money conscious. She is constant scouting for discounts, trying to get things at the lowest possible price, and checking her bank account after every single thing she buys. She gets nervous whenever she has to buy something that’s a bit more expensive than she’d like. She might miss out on fun opportunities with other people if she feels the cost will be too high.

This means that even through the winter, she’ll try her best to save as much money on heating and on electricity as possible. If it’s cold, you don’t turn on the heating, you put a blanket over you. If it’s dark, you can turn on some smaller lights, but by no means can you turn on the big one!

Due to her budgeting, she can get extremely defensive about her choice to always go cheap. If someone try tell her that she doesn’t need to be counting every penny anymore, that she can let loose a bit and can now afford nicer things, they can expect a whole lecture from her about how money doesn’t grow on trees, and it’s always good to have a bit of extra cash on you.

Ive is a surprise visitor, and is always dropping in on her family members unannounced, even though they all live hours away from her. It really can annoy her siblings, and you’ll find them complaining, “I wish she’d just let me know first.”

She is a heavy meat eater, and she will pour thick & heavy gravy over every meal she has until it’s swimming in it. Despite her fondness for gardening, she does not eat nearly enough vegetables.

Out of all of her siblings, she is the most non-religious, and at this point her relationship with her faith is very weak. She is the only sibling who doesn’t have a mythical creature who resides with her, and she feels she doesn’t see them as often as she used to do when she’s out and about. She still sees her brothers’ friends, like flying mint bunny for example, when visiting them, but outside of that they don’t really cross her mind much at all.

[mwphotoimages]

Welcome to my photography blog, which I created on World Photography Day 2024.

Originally from North Wales, I now live in a town in the Pennines, with my wife Jane (also a keen photographer)

As a Photographer, I particulary enjoy landscape photography, especially in dramatic and wild locations in the great outdoors.

Here's an interesting one I captured on Deer's Gallows - a gritstone rocky outcrop, near Skipton, UK.

I hope you will enjoy my photo blogs on here. :-)

Martin

Photo © Martin Williams 2024

(No copying or printing without prior permission).

[notasapleasure]

The world turning at his pace

aka that time in the back of the van

Cassian Andor/Brasso (Andor TV series), Explicit, modern AU, friends with benefits, idiots in love, plot what plot/porn without plot. i.e. the same fic I write every time, Pinky. Title inspired by lyrics from Elbow - An Audience with the Pope. 6,988 words. *julia dreyfus haha what the fuck.gif* CW a smidge of setting typical homophobia, but don't worry there's also gratuitous insulting of Rupert Murdoch.

I was tired from van driving and demanding Brassian smut, or prompts for it, and @distressednoise obliged in the most ingenious way. THANK YOU FOR ENABLING ME, FRIEND.

Not on ao3 yet, this is a special treat(??) for my tumblr sickos until I can be bothered uploading it properly.

---

It should have been a simple job. Brasso picked up the van - full - and drove it to all the addresses on the list he was given until it was no longer full. Then, in the darkness, he turned back towards the depot, which lay a straightforward few hundred miles down the motorway, and anticipated being back in his own bed by dawn.

He was somewhere around Penrith when a ringtone interrupted the Shipping Forecast on the van radio. He'd forgotten his damned mobile phone was still charged; no matter how long he left it in the depths of his jacket pocket it never seemed to die. And when it rang, it was only ever one person calling - the same person who had set the ringtone to a tinny electronic version of Auld Lang Syne in honour of Brasso's rum-fuelled rendition last December.

With the phone beeping incessantly, Brasso cursing, and the ubiquitous Border rain lashing down on the windscreen, the van pulled into the hard shoulder of the M6 with its hazards flashing. For a moment, Brasso sighed at the percussive beat of the wipers and the indicators, then the ringtone started up again, grinding out its stately rendition of the Scottish ballad with the kind of patience - the kind of necessity - that didn't hang up early.

After a swift rummage in the hi-vis jacket lying on the passenger seat, Brasso raised the little device to his ear. "Yes? What's up?"

A lorry steamed past in the outside lane and Brasso felt his teeth rattle as the road shook beneath it.

On the other end of the line a familiar voice smirked directly into his ear: sweet, sharp and vicious as tequila with all the chasers. "Heard you were on a job up north?"

"How did you hear that?" Brasso shook his head, figuring Cassian would pick up the gesture well enough by his tone.

"Word travels," came the cryptic answer.

"What word? I only left this - yesterday morning."

"And you've been busy, lots to deliver, I know..."

"What is it you want, Cass...?"

"I thought if you were in the area..."

"What area?"

"If you were in the area I could really use a lift. I'm out of cash and I've got to get back to London..."

"What area, Cassian?"

The answer, sheepish, was mumbled so Brasso had to think hard to work it out.

"Stockton? On Tees? What the fuck, Cassian..."

"I mean, I'm near there. Trying to get a lift to - " as another lorry rumbled past Brasso's van he heard a horn honk down the line and Cassian unleashed a barrage of colourful curses in English and Spanish. "Yeah well fuck you too! I'm already in the ditch! Hello? Yeah, Brasso, I'm heading to Darlington. On the main road. How long will you be?"

Brasso mentally totted up the extra miles, the slow roads over the Pennines to the other side of the country. At least there'd be fewer rude freight vehicles that way, he supposed, as another one buzzed him with an indignant honk of its own.

"An hour and a half?"

"An hour?! I thought you were in the area!"

"Cass, 'the North' is a pretty big area. I'll come as quick as I can."

"Well do," Cassian pouted down the line. "It's wet, my socks are soaked already. You should break the speed limit or I might die of hypothermia."

Brasso let out a sigh. "If you get there first, wait at the petrol station on the bypass, ok?"

"If I'm not killed in a hit and run before then..."

"All right, Cass. See you soon."

"Yeah. Yeah, fine. Thanks..." there was warmth and genuine gratitude in that last word, at least.

Brasso flung the phone aside and rubbed his face. It never did to ask why with Cassian - it was best just to pick up the pieces and see what could be salvaged afterwards. He flicked the dial of the radio along until some sort of cheesy commercial station replaced the sober tones of the BBC. Penrith to Darlington, in a storm, as fast as he could go - this required power ballads.

Humming along to the closing bars of Total Eclipse of the Heart, he switched off the hazards and pulled out into the dark, momentarily quiet lane of the motorway. He cycled through the van's gears with ruthless efficiency until the engine sounded like a Formula One racer and the chassis began to rattle. Empty, the van sure could move, but the faster he went the more he expected to take off at the slightest bump.

Ten songs and one cursory news bulletin later, with the same handful of adverts repeated time and again between them, and Brasso was bringing the van in a loop around Darlington's centre, slipping beneath the sulphur-orange street lights as the fuel light glowed sadly up at him. He was running on fumes, but he'd said to meet at a garage, and his employers had given him a cash bonus to cover the cost of fuel.

There was no sign of Cassian there, however, and Brasso worried Cass had found a completely different place to wait. He checked the time again and filled the tank. He bought an assortment of foodstuffs and drinks from the kiosk when paying for the fuel and looked around as though all it would take to summon Cassian was a tube of Pringles, an energy drink, and a packet of gummy sweets.

Under normal circumstances, Brasso wasn't convinced it wouldn't have worked, but Cassian evidently hadn't reached the garage yet and remained stubbornly absent. Brasso got back in the van, peered into the drizzly night, and slowly continued onwards towards Stockton.

Trust Cassian to be walking along a duel carriageway on a night heavy with fog and rain. Would he be wearing hi-vis? Would he hell. Brasso switched the radio off and leaned over the steering wheel to stare at the edge of the road. He slowed to a speed that would really annoy his fellow road-users, only there were so few about at this hour of the morning.

He was starting to wonder if he'd missed Cass in all the spray and the spume when something caught his eye on the other side of the road - a bedraggled scarecrow loitering at a bin in a layby. Frowning, Brasso pulled into the inside lane to try to get a better look - and got undertaken by a furious white Audi for his troubles.

He took the next exit and followed the convoluted directions that would lead him back onto the road going in the other direction, and was soon approaching the layby.

Cassian fell upon the door to the passenger seat and was inside, dripping on all Brasso's stuff, before the van had even stopped.

"Jesus what took you so long?"

"What were you doing over here?!"

"What?"

"I was coming from the west, why were you on this side of the road?"

"I told you, I was trying to get a lift!"

"But you knew I was coming, and I'd be on the other side!"

Cassian was rummaging in the glove compartment and finally found what he'd been looking for: Brasso's tobacco, papers and filters. "Oh my god, I need this..."

The instant turbulence inside the cabin when Cass arrived meant Brasso hadn't noticed the van's grumpy beeping until they were up to 80, heading back towards the dull orange glow of Darlington and its corona of light pollution. "Cass - seat belt."

Cassian made a sound - acknowledgement, oral eye roll, impatient sigh all rolled up together - and fidgeted, speedily rolled fag hanging from his lips as he sought the end of the seat belt.

Brasso swore he could hear Cass's clothes squelch. That long trenchcoat hadn't been waterproof since before Cass inherited it from his foster-father. It was like Cass thought that even repairing or properly maintaining it would cause it to lose its connection with Clem.

He settled, though, and the windows started to mist with condensation as the van's heating warmed him up.

By the time they were back at the junction for the A1 some unfortunate HGV driver had aquaplaned themselves into a horizontal position across both lanes, which were closed until the lorry could be moved. Thwarted, Brasso tried to give a good-natured nod to the police officer redirecting them - as Cassian kept his head down and his collar up - and speculated on a new route through the countryside, meandering a way over to the A19.

It was gone 3am by the time they passed Thirsk; Cassian's teeth were chattering though the heating was all the way up and the van cabin smelled of burning dust and hot plastic. The air was tropical with the moisture still steaming off him, but the heat was making Brasso sleepy as hell, and between them he and Cassian had already finished the bag of gummies and the energy drinks. Cassian hadn't told Brasso what he'd been doing in the North East and Brasso hadn't asked.

"Back in London tonight?" Brasso stifled a yawn against the back of his hand as they drove past a picnic spot, thinking wistfully that he could pull over there and sleep in the cabin if he didn't have a soggy passenger in the other seat.

Cassian made an ambivalent noise. His arms were wrapped tight around his torso, his elbows gripped in his hands. "No...just before tomorrow." Noticing Brasso's incredulous look, he added "I mean, this afternoon? He won't be looking for me until then."

Best not to ask - always best not to ask. But Brasso gave Cassian another sideways look that said he was very much tempted to ask.

"Shall we stop?" Cass released an elbow so he could chew on the fingernails of the hand that had been holding it.

"What?"

"That's why you're asking, right? You've been driving for hours. We should probably stop."

Brasso had been trying very hard not to think about stopping or sleeping, lest the very idea of either be so tempting he'd just succumb then and there. "No B&B's gonna be open at this time of night, Cass."

"We can sleep in the back of the van!"

The suggestion was so immediate Brasso guessed Cassian had been considering it for some time already.

"Have you seen back there? It's filthy. Last job was a bunch of reclaimed garden gnomes, they came with half the bloody garden!"

"I guess the other option is you drive till you pass out and then we get beds in A&E," Cassian hissed as Brasso had to blink and swerve when someone in the other lane sped past without dimming their headlights.

With a curse, Brasso assented. He told Cassian to keep an eye out for laybys, though now they were back on the motorway he figured they'd just have to wait for a truck stop that wasn't already full. They were past Wetherby and had finished the Pringles too by the time they found one, and made a dash from the cabin to the rear of the van through rain that was thinner but no less persistent than it had been further north.

Cassian hopped into the back as Brasso was still hoisting himself up and trying not to hit his head on the roof. He wrinkled his nose and crouched to rummage through the crumpled pile of packing sheets, looking for something dry, clean and comfortable to lie on.

Nothing met all three criteria, but a combination of loosely folded sheets made a sort of pillow and a cover for the cold metal base of the van. Everything smelled of mud and oil and antifreeze, but that was soon disguised by the smoke of the cigarettes Brasso rolled for them while Cassian wriggled out of his wet trousers. In the dark of the van he didn't bother hiding the fact he was watching Cassian, and Cassian didn't pretend not to notice. An ember-lit outline of sharp limbs, his eyes glittering and fathomless, Cassian sat there in his boxers and t-shirt, smirking around his fag at Brasso as he waited on the simply arranged square of bedding, his knees drawn up and his arms draped loosely around them.

Taking his time, Brasso dragged his eyes away from Cass and unlaced his boots. He left his socks on, but in an unspoken concession to Cass's continued shivering, to the goose-bumps on his legs and the way his body hair stuck out from each one, he pulled off his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt.

The cold air made his own hair stand on end and his nipples harden, but the light of their cigarettes was almost as warm as the looks they each cast across the cramped space.

"Budge up then," Brasso muttered, stubbing out his fag end against the metal roof and chucking the butt aside.

Cassian stubbed his own cigarette out and plunged them into darkness as Brasso shuffled in close beside him. He pulled his hi-vis over the both of them, though it left his legs cold, and tucked himself around Cass's back - bare chest against the still-damp fabric of his t-shirt, knees to the back of Cass's knees, and Cass's round little arse perched neatly against Brasso's crotch. Brasso dutifully buried his cheek against Cass's neck and closed his eyes - though it was so dark inside that he couldn't tell the difference if he opened them again.

The rain outside continued its dance on the flat metal roof, not thunderingly heavy, but in loud, fat drops that always seemed to come and jolt Brasso's eyes open just as he thought he was finally relaxing into sleep.

Then again, he didn't feel tired anymore. The nictotine buzz was coursing through him, and Cassian had warmed up in his arms - mostly, though ice-cold toes sometimes curled round to prod at Brasso's shins. It was obvious by his breathing that he wasn't asleep either, and with a contrived cough to clear his throat he pushed back against Brasso in a way that compelled Brasso to bite his lip.

It was always going to come to this from the minute his phone rang, Brasso knew. It happened off and on, the way Cassian came and went in and out of the lives of those around him. It had been happening off and on for some years now, actually. If Cass needed a favour, Brasso obliged when no one else would be soft or daft enough to do so; Cassian, perpetually broke and perennially aware of the effect his big brown eyes had on people, paid Brasso back in love bites and nail marks. It would have made Brasso feel like just another of Cass's lovelorn, disposable conquests -only with him, Cass did one thing he never did with the others - he kept coming back when he needed Brasso. By now they had both become quite good at knowing the steps that would ensure things continued this way and Cass would keep on coming back as long as Brasso kept on releasing him so he'd return again. It was a simple sort of dance with very little discussion involved and a lot of implicit assumptions - it needed to be, given the darkness of the back of the van.

Once more, Cassian wriggled against Brasso until he forced a grunt of acknowledgement from Brasso's lips. Brasso fidgeted in turn, trying to make sure nothing essential was trapped under Cass's bodyweight.

Cass twisted his head around, his messy hair catching in Brasso's nose and mouth. "You still awake?"

"Yes I'm still awake, you won't stay still for five seconds!"

Inevitably, with the pressure of Cass's arse against him, Brasso had already felt the first stirrings of heat in his groin. When Cass detected it too, he shuffled back against Brasso's twitching cock, ensuring it would harden between his arse cheeks. Again, Brasso bit his bottom lip and turned his face towards Cassian's neck. His arm tightened around Cass's body and he breathed in the smell at the nape of his neck - sweat and rain and cheap laundromat detergent, cigarette smoke and ground spice and something astringent: counterfeit ink? Cleaning fluid? Machine oil? Probably a palimpsest of all three.

Cass gripped onto the arm round him with one hand and reached behind him with the other, fingers questing for Brasso's arse to give it a squeeze and pull him closer.

Finally, Brasso let himself open his mouth against the back of Cass's neck and scrape his teeth over clammy skin, placing a kiss on each protruding vertebra he could reach, nuzzling his way down the back of Cass's t-shirt until he felt the vibration of a whine in Cass's chest beneath his arm.

When Cass moved with the kind of urgency that followed no force on earth could hold him - he shuffled his hips round and his arms snaked across Brasso's side and under his neck as Cass pressed close to him in the dark, his nose bumping against Brasso's cheek and his lips seeking out Brasso's lips. Salty flavouring from the crisps they'd shared and a hint of sugar from the energy drink coated his tongue as he thrust it into Brasso's mouth, kissing him hard and hungrily.

Brasso let himself be turned half onto his back by the attention, Cass pushing aggressively down on him, his hands clamping Brasso's jaw to hold him just how he wanted, before one restless set of fingers trailed down the open front of his shirt, raking through chest hair, carelessly catching at the ticklish curls on his belly and then plunging into the waistband of Brasso's boxers.

Brasso's hips bucked into the touch, but he could feel a rivet on the floor of the van's uneven surface digging into his shoulder blade, and it wasn't quite the juxtaposition of pleasure and pain that did it for him.

Cass didn't understand that from the sound Brasso made in his mouth though and redoubled his efforts down Brasso's underwear, fingers crooking deep under his balls and palm rubbing down on his cock. For a moment it did actually balance the pain in his shoulder quite well, and then Brasso managed to break free of the kisses, a hand gripping the back of Cassian's hair like he was dragging an overenthusiastic dog away from last night's takeaway on the street floor.

Cass bared his teeth in a similar way to a dog, too - Brasso knew because they dragged on his lip as he pried Cass away and shoved him over onto his back with a grunt.

Cass released his cock and dug fingernails into Brasso's chest instead, tangling in the thick dark hairs there and tugging so Brasso's skin prickled with sore heat.

Swearing as he kissed the squirming, sharp-toothed thing beneath him, Brasso fumbled for Cass's face in the dark, raking his own fingers through Cass's beard and hair. He dropped his hips heavily against Cass's and was in no doubt that the noise Cass made was a sign of appreciation at the rough handling. Brasso moved his grip from Cass's face to his hips and ground his body down against Cass's, groaning at the friction between his boner and the two layers of thin cloth separating it from Cass's equally hard cock.

It made Cass release another sound, and he didn't bother disentangling his fingers from Brasso's chest hair before ripping one hand away to yank the back of Brasso's boxers down and land an open-palmed slap on the arse cheek he exposed.

"Fuck!" Brasso muttered in surprise as the stinging sensation lingered while Cass's restless hand worked at pulling his boxers further down.

It just gave Cass another opportunity to clamp down on his lower lip and suck until it felt bruised, so Brasso relented and freed a hand to assist in the removal of his underwear.

The boxers were barely off his arse cheeks when Cass started wriggling away anew, slipping down beneath him towards the doors at the back of the van.

"What're you - ? Cass, where are you going?" Brasso had to hold still and listen to the hollow banging of Cassian's shoulders and arse squirming against the floor of the van as he shuffled beneath him.

The first indication he had of where Cass had ended up was the hair tickling his navel, then a breathy giggle against his stomach, followed by lips, teeth, lips, and a hand between his legs as Cass tried to manoeuvre the two of them so he could get Brasso's cock in his mouth.

It wasn't easy to prop himself up how Cass wanted without hitting his head on the roof of the van in the dark, and Brasso was only partially successful in the endeavour, but he wasn't going to spend long contemplating the bruise on the back of his head when Cass was insistently whining "Come on Brasso, fuck my mouth, I'm right here!" between swallowing as much as he could of Brasso's cock and tugging on his arse, trying to get a rhythm going.

Scrabbling in the pitch black for a hand hold, Brasso eventually found one of the straps for securing cargo and got his weight on his knees so he could thrust down into the darkness and the invisible, wet warmth of Cass's mouth. Without being able to see what was happening he could only concentrate on the sensation of tongue and pressure, sucking and - more often than he meant to cause it - gagging. Cass's fingers would tighten on his arse and he'd try to hold Brasso close even as he spluttered and choked. Brasso could feel the back of Cass's throat pulse defensively against the pressure of his cock and always slowed down afterwards, tried more measured movements, but Cass would crane his neck and bear down on him until he could dictate the angle of Brasso's hips - with just the softest threat of teeth as he did. The third time Brasso had to listen to him retching in the dark he pulled back and sat down heavily on what turned out to be his hi-vis jacket.

"Where'd you go?" Cassian said sulkily, but Brasso was already rummaging by touch for the pockets of the jacket. He found the lube and condoms first, then his lighter.

"Here," he flicked his thumb over the spark wheel and held the plate down, squinting past the little blue flame to meet Cassian's eyes.

His cheeks were flushed deep red and his lips were shining with spit. His hair was a wreck and his beard was tousled against its natural growth, his t-shirt was half shucked up and his boxers were peaked like a circus tent.

Brasso stifled a sigh at the sight of him, but Cassian didn't hide the flash of lust in his own eyes at whatever the light had revealed of Brasso himself. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and moved like he was about to pounce.

"Wait! Wait wait wait!" Brasso held a hand up with a condom held between his fingers and offered Cass the lighter.

He pulled a face and took the condom instead, raising the corner of the foil to his mouth.

"Don't you fucking rip it," Brasso held the lighter steady and glared at him, eyebrows raised in warning.

Cassian's own eyes widened - as if! - and he daintily tore the corner before opening the packet with his fingers. "Can't believe you don't trust I'm clean," he muttered around a smirk as he leaned forwards to fit the condom on top of Brasso's prominent boner.

"Like I even want to know where you've been," he answered, feeling his throat tighten with longing as he watched Cassian's fingers move nimbly down his cock, rolling the sheath over it. "Besides, you never even ask where I might have been."

Cassian looked up at him quickly, sharply, his lips hidden by his moustache and his eyes cast into uncanny darkness by the side-lighting of the little flame. He seemed so alien to Brasso when he looked like that, like a creature from another world entirely. "I can only imagine," Cassian purred, lavishing Brasso's cock with a series of firm strokes.

He leaned over then and blew out the flame of the lighter, which Brasso didn't bother holding onto and chucked aside into some hollow corner of the van.

His eyes were confused by the afterglow of the flame, but he knew where Cassian's pants were anyway and dived for them with both hands, pulling them away as Cass flailed his legs to speed up the process. It didn't really achieve the desired effect, just earned Brasso a fat lip from the knee he took to the chin, but with a crack of stitches stretching the offending item of clothing was removed and Brasso fell upon Cass guided by smell alone, following salt and sweat and musky warmth. He pushed his tongue into the base of Cass's cock and worked it against his balls, sucking the loose skin on them and then running his mouth up the taut underside of his cock.

Cass whined and squirmed and grasped at Brasso's hair, his shoulder, his arm, seeking the hand with the lube in it so he could take the bottle and open it. He poured it - mostly - on Brasso's fingers, though some dropped onto the skin of his hip and he wriggled and flinched as it trickled a cold track over his body.

Brasso felt his way between Cass's arse cheeks as he mouthed Cass's cock, probing the darkness for the place that gave way to him, eager and accommodating to the first finger, tighter around the second.

Cassian made a desperate sound and bucked his hips up into Brasso's touches. "Come on, come on..." he complained, then sucked in a sharp breath as Brasso pushed the pair of fingers deep inside him. Cass moaned, and the sound made Brasso feel like he'd been kicked in the solar plexus by a velvet boot. He made his own grunt of pleasure against Cass's nutsack and lowered his hips to the van floor, his knees bent and feet kicking absurdly in the air because he was too close to the door to lie down flat. The van floor was cold and hard under his cock and he squirmed his hips again and pushed his fingers inside Cass to help prop himself up.

Cass's body clenched round him and Cass let out a hoarse cry - "Oh, fuck, do that again!"

Brasso tried, but the pressure wasn't as great now he was stable, so he pulled his fingers out and slapped his hand on Cass's hip. "Lube - where is it?"

"Oh, do you have to? Just fuck me..." Cass's knees knocked against his sides and he tried to draw him closer with legs tangling around his torso.

"I think some would be a good idea, Cass."

"There was some on your fingers already. I threw it over by the lighter. It's not worth going looking, just come here," he got his ankles crossed behind Brasso and tugged him forwards until their stiff cocks were trapped together between them and Brasso's tongue was somewhere halfway down Cass's throat again.

He made the most of it while he was there, rolling his hips and rubbing against Cass until the sounds Cass was making in his mouth grew desperate and high-pitched.

Abruptly, ruthlessly, Brasso pulled away from him and grasped for the inside of his thighs, squeezing soft, sparsely haired flesh aside and pushing forwards with his cock. He released one of Cass's legs so he could guide his head up to Cass's hole and test the resistance of his body.

He was tight, but still keen, insisting he wanted Brasso to fuck him hard even as Brasso began to ease inside him.

He shuffled forwards on his knees as best he could, realising there was no packing sheet beneath him, wherever they'd ended up. His head and shoulders were bowed so he didn't knock the roof with his head again, and he braced himself with one hand against the roof and the other on Cass's hip, holding him steady as he pushed deeper in a careful, slow way that brought guttural sounds of impatience from the darkness where Cassian lay.

Once he was all the way in he heard Cass release a shaky breath and felt him bring his hips up towards Brasso's carefully.

"You good?" Brasso moved his body in a small pulse against Cassian's just to make sure he got a genuine response, feeling him clench and force himself to relax.

Cass whimpered, but it was lust more than discomfort that made his voice shake when he replied "Yes, fucking come on!"

Brasso grunted acknowledgement, like it made no odds to him, but he thrust carefully, in measured movements that would feel hard to Cass but kept much of Brasso's power in reserve for now. He got in as close as he could, his knees splayed to either side of Cass's body and Cass's cock held gently but firmly in his hand as he bucked his hips against him.

Bit by bit, Brasso let his hips and hand speed up and put more power into the cycle of his thrusts, and he felt Cass's body rock and slide beneath him, his attempts at getting purchase somewhere on his surroundings failing as Brasso's body pounded solidly against his. Cass's legs floundered at Brasso's sides, his knees knocking against his ribcage, and he struggled to assert any control over the pace or rhythm from where he was, caught and held by the movement of Brasso's body.

He was getting louder with each moment too, helpless sounds and the back of his throat turning to hoarse, choked repetitions of "Ah!" that got louder the harder Brasso managed to thrust inside him, the more in time he could make the pumping of his hips and of his hand on Cass's cock.

Brasso's eyes fell shut in the darkness as he focussed on the rhythm and the feeling of Cassian's insides, hot and tight, yielding yet strong around him. Behind closed eyes, Brasso imagined what he couldn't see in the dark: Cass's open mouth and his eyelids falling heavily over a heated gaze; his chest rising and falling intermittently as he gasped for breath, but jerking with each coming together of their bodies; his nipples showing hard through the threadbare fabric of his t-shirt and the hair on his belly starting to gleam with sweat where it appeared at the hemline.

Brasso's eyes were still closed when Cass came hot and gushing, spilling over Brasso's hand and spattering his belly and navel. The feeling of it - a surprise in the dark, no matter how inevitable it had been - made Brasso himself come, heat digging deep in the pit of his body and rolling up like a riptide, dragging him away from himself, rushing him into some abyss where he forgot, for a moment, that the back of the van was dark, and thought he'd gone blind with ecstasy.

He let himself lie against Cass for a while afterwards, and Cass held him tight too, his legs tangled around Brasso's and his fingers holding the back of Brasso's head like, Brasso imagined, he'd hold a man beneath water until he drowned.

Sleepily, Brasso mouthed kisses along Cassian's neck, and Cass ran fingers over Brasso's skull. Brasso fidgeted and wrung out the last remnants of pleasure from his hips with little movements that didn't do much more than allow his soft cock to slip out of Cass's arse. Cass moved his head to nose and chin Brasso's face aside until he could be kissed, now with less use of teeth, with more sweat in Cass's moustache, with even more left unsaid than went unsaid during foreplay. Brasso imagined it was the kind of kiss the heroes of cheap romance novels got at the end of the story, and, like them, he prepared for the closing of this little fantasy they shared - until the next time Cass needed him. For now they'd sleep well, wrapped round each other like weeds, and when they woke they'd finish the drive, maybe get breakfast somewhere and bitch about the morning headlines like nothing had happened, and Brasso would drop Cassian off, and they wouldn't meet again for weeks or months, and then they'd do it all over as and when they needed to.

This had been a particularly good encounter though, Brasso admitted to himself as he pulled the condom off and knotted it before slinging it away into the darkness. Probably meant it would be a while before they did this again, each one nervous of what it meant that the most satisfying fuck they knew was someone they'd never publicly acknowledge as more than a well-worn old friend. Really, Brasso thought with a degree of relief as he nuzzled his face into Cass's shoulder, it was a good job they didn't talk about this. He'd only go and say something stupid, after all, like telling Cass he'd leave the rest of the world to rot and serve no one but him if the self-sabotaging little bastard ever cared to ask.

He didn't need to though - that was the point. He already knew - didn't he?

Too sleepy to worry overly about this, Brasso fumbled around for the hi-vis again and swept it over their shoulders, shuffling until they lay brow to brow, shoulder to shoulder, their lower legs twisted one on top of the other. Cass's breath tickled his face, and Cass's wrists sandwiched the arm Brasso lay on protectively between them.

He didn't remember lying awake or agonising about a thing - next he knew there was a cool, silvery dawn light in his eyes and a cold breeze on his feet. The van's doors were open and voices sparred tetchily outside.

Brasso sat up and cast about for his boxers, pulling them on as he tried to pick up the words being spoken outside. His back and shoulders ached from sleeping on the hard, uneven bed of the van, and he longed for coffee and a cigarette to clear the fog in his mind and his mouth.

"I said come over here, you little poof! I've got a sausage bap right here for you!"

Brasso sighed at the sound of a trucker yelling across the layby and quickened his work as he pulled his boot laces tight. Peace had been nice while it lasted.

He didn't catch Cassian's reply to the provocation, but he did step out of the van in time to see him turn, quick as a snake, and, with a little hop for extra height, smash his forehead into the taller man's nose.

The first thing Brasso noticed was how filthy the back of Cassian's t-shirt was where he'd been pressed against the van floor last night. Then he admired the shape of Cass's arse in his thigh-hugging boxers and the expanse of wiry, muscled leg leading down to his bare ankles and loosely pulled on Docs, muddied yellow laces trailing. Then, belatedly, he caught himself and sauntered over to pull Cass back from the trucker by a fistful of that grotty t-shirt.

The other man wasn't about to come for more though - if Cass's Glasgow kiss hadn't dissuaded him the sight of Brasso would have done. He cupped his bleeding nose and looked at the pair of them incredulously. "Pervs," he snarled, stepping back.

"What did you do?" Brasso couldn't help but ask as Cassian turned back towards the van, chewing on the cuticle of a finger with no nail left to gnaw on.

"I was just having a pee behind the bin! I asked where to get breakfast round here," he huffed, grabbing after Brasso's hi-vis and looting the pockets for baccy and papers.

"There'll be somewhere at the next services," Brasso told him, sweeping up the discarded fag ends, used condom and some of the other detritus from the van and taking it to the overflowing bin in his cupped hands.

On reviewing the state of the van and of Cassian, he saw they'd missed the messy pile of packing sheets entirely, and Cass's t-shirt had rubbed a section of the floor nearly clean. The streaky patch of grot made it look like they'd dragged a corpse out of the back, and Brasso wondered whether his employers would prefer to hear that excuse rather than learn their van had been repurposed as a '70s style shagmobile.

He retrieved his lighter and his lube and chucked the hi-vis at Cassian. "For your dignity."

Cassian pulled a face but nestled himself inside the large jacket. Inside the cabin he arranged his socks and trousers across the over-worked air vents so they'd have a better hope of drying and sat in the passenger seat - all fluorescent orange and bare legs - smoking his way through Brasso's tobacco.

They agreed to skip the first few service stations they passed - there was a chain of diners further south that Brasso knew would feed them well enough to compensate for the lack of sleep. They probably wouldn't even ask Cass to put his trousers on either.

As it turned out, his trousers were dry enough to pull on by the time they stopped to eat, and Brasso watched Cass fall upon an obscenely stacked breakfast burger from over his vat of coffee, wondering where Cassian was putting the mountains of hash browns and black pudding that he guzzled down. It was for the best that they were both reasonably decent as the morning crowd included holidaying families, but Cass didn't modify his language when he flipped through a copy of the Sun someone had left on the table.

"Mum, what's 'scrote-faced misery pornographer'?" a young girl asked in the next booth after a particularly forceful outburst, so Brasso kicked Cassian's shins under the table.

"Can it! No one here cares what you think of the editorial."

Cass rolled his eyes and pointed again to the story that was vexing him - increased police powers, a change the paper wholeheartedly supported - and launched into a defence of his outburst, as if Brasso needed convincing of the argument against giving the pigs a free rein to stop and search at taser-point. He was thinking instead of how accurate his prediction for the morning had been, and how this was simultaneously reassuring and a little unnerving. It was like he'd already cut himself off from this time with Cass, and was just counting down until their next run in, however many weeks or days in the future it would be.

"Want me to drive?" Cassian asked him as they walked back to the van, the wind whipping his unkempt hair across his face and his smirk half-hidden by his moustache.

"You're not insured," Brasso rolled his eyes. He hadn't recovered from the last time he'd been in a vehicle with Cass at the wheel - the van was not made for the kind of ruthless speed Cass specialised in.

In any case, ten minutes down the road Cass was asleep in the passenger seat, head back against the seat and snoring lightly in a way that raised a fond smile to Brasso's lips. When he noticed himself smiling he rubbed his face and gave his cheek a tap or two, telling himself to snap out of it.

He drove straight to Sal's - it had probably been someone at the yard who had told Cassian he was up north on deliveries anyway.

Brasso drank too-hot instant coffee from a polystyrene cup in Sal's office and listened to the next itinerary. Sal wasn't mad, or surprised, that Brasso had turned up late with an extra passenger - Cassian was now rummaging through Sal's wares while Bix kept a close eye on him, making sure nothing pocketable got pocketed.

When he had his new list of addresses and orders, Brasso went out to hand it over to Bix for loading. "You want a lift somewhere?" he asked Cassian.

"First delivery of the day," Bix raised an eyebrow.

"I like to get the awkward ones out of the way first."

Cassian gazed coolly at the two of them, waiting for them to finish. "Apparently the Swede isn't pleased with the last job I did for him."

"He did not sound happy this morning," Bix confirmed, folding her arms and glancing at the perspex windows of Sal's office. "We could hear him bawling at Sal all the way at the far end of the yard."

"Guess I could stay at Maarva's storage unit for a bit," Cassian tore another strip of cuticle off between his teeth.

"Why don't you take him with you?" Bix looked over at Brasso, mischief in her dark eyes. Like Cassian, she could smirk without moving her lips at all.

"So when this pissed off Swedish guy goes looking for him, I get found too?"

Bix shrugged. "How will he know Cass is with you? Besides, you'll have a navigator and a hand with unloading."

Brasso eyed Cass and Cass eyed Brasso. Brasso wondered if Cassian was thinking the same thing as him - what if the time apart was necessary to the functioning of their benefit-heavy friendship?

But Bix punctured the seriousness of Brasso's considerations with a casual addition: "Maybe the whole of Sal's van will be clean by the time it's safe to come back."

Brasso looked at her in surprise, Cass looked casually at the inside of the van, and Bix shrugged.

With that secret not, apparently, a secret, maybe it was best to skip town for a while, Brasso conceded.