Write About Love

Annabelle Rogers ((Independent RP blog. I do not claim any images posted unless stated otherwise. Tracking annabellerogers. FC: Rooney Mara))

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[seb--moran]

“Not with you.” She closes her eyes and bows her head for a moment, her will to go through with this wavering. She’s not trapped with Andreas. She’s been happy with him–happier than she deserves, happier than she thought she could ever be. But as emotionally involved as she is, she’s canny enough to know where this is headed. If she doesn’t go through with this now, they’ll stick together for the sake of the baby, and drag their child into this mess. She owes it to her child, to protect them. “Not yet.” She lifts her head and looks him straight in the eye. “I love you, you know that. And–Jesus fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying something so corny–maybe we’d get it right in another world. But for now, the way things are…it’s not going to work. Not in the long-term. And I think we’re fooling ourselves if we try to carry on with it.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas is seized with the painful, irrational thought that if he asks her to stay and she listens to him, she will hate him for it later. He imagines the two of them two, three years in the future: his career blown to hell, MI6 knocking on their door. He has not been fooling himself all of these years, he knows that Sarah is a creature of fight-or-flight. It looks as though she needs to flee now so that she would not have to fight later.

He can’t think of anything to say or do that would solve this somehow. He only looks at Sarah, hurt. A few times, he opens his mouth and shuts it, not quite forcing out any words. I love you. Please don’t do this. We can fix it. There has to be a way. It all sounds straight out a script, and theatre has never been his calling. So he stays silent.

[seb--moran]

The longer she stays, the more exquisite of a torture this becomes. So, her face blank and unreadable only to hide the turmoil and pain within, she reaches up and kisses him on the cheek–betrayed with a kiss, she thinks, remembered vaguely from some otherwise long-forgotten Sunday sermon. Sarah steps away and grabs her bag; it’s heavy, but nothing she can’t handle. “I’ve got to go now,” she half-whispers. “I’ve got a flight to catch.” Her hand on the doorknob, she tries to think of something else to say, some other way to end this. In the end, she settles for shitty sarcasm. Christ, she hates herself. “Think of it this way.” Sarah tries to smile, but fails. “At least your mum’ll be happy.”

[annabelle-rogers]

It’s a cruel thing to say, and Andreas flinches as if she’d burned him. But if their relationship has been about anything, it is reciprocation; Andreas has never known anything more intimately than how to react to Sarah. It might as well be a law of motion. So he doesn’t hesitate to be cruel in return, and stops her only long enough to press a firm kiss to her mouth. It lasts for a second, two, and then Andreas is stepping away and turning to face the opposite wall, tears stinging his eyes. Please. “Let me know where you end up, alright?” His voice shakes.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

They do finish the job off–and much more, as a matter of fact, stretching all through the dark hours of the night. It’s almost dawn by the time they finally come to a stop; Andreas falls asleep quickly, and Sarah at first makes to follow him. But she’s only just dozed off when she’s jerked awake again by a sickening tide of nausea. She carefully slides out of bed and slips down the hallway to the bathroom, locking herself in just in time for the vomiting to start. When it’s over, she slumps with her cheek on the cool edge of the bathtub, exhausted and sore and still feeling vilely ill–and her mind working into overdrive. It can’t be.

But six pregnancy tests, taken and discarded in anonymous public bathrooms throughout the day, all say otherwise. And Sarah’s not one to wring her hands and cry. With the clarity of thought and purpose that only comes with real desperation, she makes her plans. It only takes her another day to put everything together–she’s had contingency plans in place for years. She doesn’t cry as she drives to the airport and buys her ticket out. She doesn’t cry as she scrubs the apartment clean of any trace of her. She doesn’t cry as she packs her bag and moves it to the door. She doesn’t cry as she waits, silent and pale and still in a clean, empty flat for Andreas to come home. Originally, the plan was to simply vanish without saying anything. But she finds now that she can’t do that to him. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can say something, at least.

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas crosses the doorstep as the clock ticks closer to nine o’clock, and knows immediately that something is off. He looks at the bag packed and waiting by the door. He looks at it for so long that he almost stops seeing it; he is trapped in a stare-off with Sarah’s suitcase for a fucking eternity and then some. Then, slowly, he walks into the depth of the flat. “You’re leaving,” he says.

It sounds like such a simple, natural thing. Of course Sarah is leaving. Andreas does not know how he could not have seen this coming, how this managed to catch him so entirely by surprise. He is so floored that he’s not certain that he will ever touch the ground again. He looks young, and tired, and adrift. He has just finished drafting the search and seizure bill; he wants to sleep for years.

[seb--moran]

Sarah’s flight is scheduled to leave at eleven, and she’s just made a deal with herself to leave at 9:15 if Andreas isn’t back by then. But then she finally hears her fiance’s familiar tread on the stairs, and knows she won’t be given such an easy way out. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as the door opens, but even so, it’s a nail-biting wait, looking at him looking at her suitcase. She wishes he would do something, anything, except look so Goddamn lost–yell, scream, cry, hit her. But she realizes, with a painful twist of her stomach, that she wouldn’t love him, and this entire situation wouldn’t be half as painful, if he did. He’s a good man, and now she has to hurt him. She should have known it would come to something like this. “I have to,” she says simply, rising from where she was sitting on the arm of the couch. Her arse and upper thighs are sore from the hours of sitting immobile and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t even notice it as she takes a half-hesitant step towards him. “You need me to.”

[annabelle-rogers]

It’s an impossible thing, to find the connection between Sarah’s leaving and his own need. He knows that he has never said that he wanted her away. “You don’t have to do this.” Later, he will wonder why the hell he didn’t say that he doesn’t need her to go. It should have been the first thing to come out of his mouth. But it isn’t. “The shit with the IRA is not the end of the world; we can deal with this.” 

[seb--moran]

“No, we can’t,” she corrects gently. “We might be able to deal with it for now, but we can’t build a future on it. Can’t build a family.” She nearly does break down crying at that, but she manages to control it by looking away and reproaching herself violently for hinting at the truth. “And you can’t build a career on it. When the truth comes out, you’ll be ruined. I can’t do that to you.” She looks at him again, manages to crack a faint ghost of a smile. “I always used to hate it when people said they were doing something for my own good. But that’s what I’m doing, alright?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, heavy and unyielding. “And what about your good?” he manages at last. “Where will you even go, what will you do?” Until two days ago, he had a small but lovely flat in his battered but beloved city, and a woman that he loved had his wedding ring on her finger. Now the flat is stripped clean of any traces of Sarah, and Sarah herself has her suitcase by the door. The reality of this isn’t settling in like it should; it’s crushing him. “You know that I’m not doing this for my career, we can figure this out, I promise.”

[seb--moran]

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got some ideas. I’ll be fine, I promise.” She sounds convincing enough, but Sarah knows she’s facing an uphill battle. She’s got seven months, more or less, until the baby’s born. Seven months to establish a stable and financially viable enough life in a new country to support and bring up a child single-handedly, across the ocean from her friends, family, and the father of her child. The immensity of it almost–almost–threatens to overwhelm her. But somehow, she digs in deep and pushes through. “Working things out means we have to make compromises. And that’s just not going to work for you. You would start to hate me, and I would feel trapped.” She realizes she hasn’t been breathing, and forces herself to take a deep breath before continuing. “So let’s end it while we’re still on top.”

[annabelle-rogers]

This feels as far from the top as it possibly could, and Andreas’ face says as much. He rests his hand on Sarah’s elbow hesitantly, leaning one hip against the wall. It does nothing to ground him. “Is that how you feel now?” he asks, too quietly. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “Are you trapped here?” It is very difficult, suddenly, to not cry.

[seb--moran]

“Not with you.” She closes her eyes and bows her head for a moment, her will to go through with this wavering. She’s not trapped with Andreas. She’s been happy with him–happier than she deserves, happier than she thought she could ever be. But as emotionally involved as she is, she’s canny enough to know where this is headed. If she doesn’t go through with this now, they’ll stick together for the sake of the baby, and drag their child into this mess. She owes it to her child, to protect them. “Not yet.” She lifts her head and looks him straight in the eye. “I love you, you know that. And–Jesus fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying something so corny–maybe we’d get it right in another world. But for now, the way things are…it’s not going to work. Not in the long-term. And I think we’re fooling ourselves if we try to carry on with it.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas is seized with the painful, irrational thought that if he asks her to stay and she listens to him, she will hate him for it later. He imagines the two of them two, three years in the future: his career blown to hell, MI6 knocking on their door. He has not been fooling himself all of these years, he knows that Sarah is a creature of fight-or-flight. It looks as though she needs to flee now so that she would not have to fight later.

He can’t think of anything to say or do that would solve this somehow. He only looks at Sarah, hurt. A few times, he opens his mouth and shuts it, not quite forcing out any words. I love you. Please don’t do this. We can fix it. There has to be a way. It all sounds straight out a script, and theatre has never been his calling. So he stays silent.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

They do finish the job off–and much more, as a matter of fact, stretching all through the dark hours of the night. It’s almost dawn by the time they finally come to a stop; Andreas falls asleep quickly, and Sarah at first makes to follow him. But she’s only just dozed off when she’s jerked awake again by a sickening tide of nausea. She carefully slides out of bed and slips down the hallway to the bathroom, locking herself in just in time for the vomiting to start. When it’s over, she slumps with her cheek on the cool edge of the bathtub, exhausted and sore and still feeling vilely ill–and her mind working into overdrive. It can’t be.

But six pregnancy tests, taken and discarded in anonymous public bathrooms throughout the day, all say otherwise. And Sarah’s not one to wring her hands and cry. With the clarity of thought and purpose that only comes with real desperation, she makes her plans. It only takes her another day to put everything together–she’s had contingency plans in place for years. She doesn’t cry as she drives to the airport and buys her ticket out. She doesn’t cry as she scrubs the apartment clean of any trace of her. She doesn’t cry as she packs her bag and moves it to the door. She doesn’t cry as she waits, silent and pale and still in a clean, empty flat for Andreas to come home. Originally, the plan was to simply vanish without saying anything. But she finds now that she can’t do that to him. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can say something, at least.

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas crosses the doorstep as the clock ticks closer to nine o’clock, and knows immediately that something is off. He looks at the bag packed and waiting by the door. He looks at it for so long that he almost stops seeing it; he is trapped in a stare-off with Sarah’s suitcase for a fucking eternity and then some. Then, slowly, he walks into the depth of the flat. “You’re leaving,” he says.

It sounds like such a simple, natural thing. Of course Sarah is leaving. Andreas does not know how he could not have seen this coming, how this managed to catch him so entirely by surprise. He is so floored that he’s not certain that he will ever touch the ground again. He looks young, and tired, and adrift. He has just finished drafting the search and seizure bill; he wants to sleep for years.

[seb--moran]

Sarah’s flight is scheduled to leave at eleven, and she’s just made a deal with herself to leave at 9:15 if Andreas isn’t back by then. But then she finally hears her fiance’s familiar tread on the stairs, and knows she won’t be given such an easy way out. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as the door opens, but even so, it’s a nail-biting wait, looking at him looking at her suitcase. She wishes he would do something, anything, except look so Goddamn lost–yell, scream, cry, hit her. But she realizes, with a painful twist of her stomach, that she wouldn’t love him, and this entire situation wouldn’t be half as painful, if he did. He’s a good man, and now she has to hurt him. She should have known it would come to something like this. “I have to,” she says simply, rising from where she was sitting on the arm of the couch. Her arse and upper thighs are sore from the hours of sitting immobile and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t even notice it as she takes a half-hesitant step towards him. “You need me to.”

[annabelle-rogers]

It’s an impossible thing, to find the connection between Sarah’s leaving and his own need. He knows that he has never said that he wanted her away. “You don’t have to do this.” Later, he will wonder why the hell he didn’t say that he doesn’t need her to go. It should have been the first thing to come out of his mouth. But it isn’t. “The shit with the IRA is not the end of the world; we can deal with this.” 

[seb--moran]

“No, we can’t,” she corrects gently. “We might be able to deal with it for now, but we can’t build a future on it. Can’t build a family.” She nearly does break down crying at that, but she manages to control it by looking away and reproaching herself violently for hinting at the truth. “And you can’t build a career on it. When the truth comes out, you’ll be ruined. I can’t do that to you.” She looks at him again, manages to crack a faint ghost of a smile. “I always used to hate it when people said they were doing something for my own good. But that’s what I’m doing, alright?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, heavy and unyielding. “And what about your good?” he manages at last. “Where will you even go, what will you do?” Until two days ago, he had a small but lovely flat in his battered but beloved city, and a woman that he loved had his wedding ring on her finger. Now the flat is stripped clean of any traces of Sarah, and Sarah herself has her suitcase by the door. The reality of this isn’t settling in like it should; it’s crushing him. “You know that I’m not doing this for my career, we can figure this out, I promise.”

[seb--moran]

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got some ideas. I’ll be fine, I promise.” She sounds convincing enough, but Sarah knows she’s facing an uphill battle. She’s got seven months, more or less, until the baby’s born. Seven months to establish a stable and financially viable enough life in a new country to support and bring up a child single-handedly, across the ocean from her friends, family, and the father of her child. The immensity of it almost–almost–threatens to overwhelm her. But somehow, she digs in deep and pushes through. “Working things out means we have to make compromises. And that’s just not going to work for you. You would start to hate me, and I would feel trapped.” She realizes she hasn’t been breathing, and forces herself to take a deep breath before continuing. “So let’s end it while we’re still on top.”

[annabelle-rogers]

This feels as far from the top as it possibly could, and Andreas’ face says as much. He rests his hand on Sarah’s elbow hesitantly, leaning one hip against the wall. It does nothing to ground him. “Is that how you feel now?” he asks, too quietly. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “Are you trapped here?” It is very difficult, suddenly, to not cry.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

They do finish the job off–and much more, as a matter of fact, stretching all through the dark hours of the night. It’s almost dawn by the time they finally come to a stop; Andreas falls asleep quickly, and Sarah at first makes to follow him. But she’s only just dozed off when she’s jerked awake again by a sickening tide of nausea. She carefully slides out of bed and slips down the hallway to the bathroom, locking herself in just in time for the vomiting to start. When it’s over, she slumps with her cheek on the cool edge of the bathtub, exhausted and sore and still feeling vilely ill–and her mind working into overdrive. It can’t be.

But six pregnancy tests, taken and discarded in anonymous public bathrooms throughout the day, all say otherwise. And Sarah’s not one to wring her hands and cry. With the clarity of thought and purpose that only comes with real desperation, she makes her plans. It only takes her another day to put everything together–she’s had contingency plans in place for years. She doesn’t cry as she drives to the airport and buys her ticket out. She doesn’t cry as she scrubs the apartment clean of any trace of her. She doesn’t cry as she packs her bag and moves it to the door. She doesn’t cry as she waits, silent and pale and still in a clean, empty flat for Andreas to come home. Originally, the plan was to simply vanish without saying anything. But she finds now that she can’t do that to him. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can say something, at least.

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas crosses the doorstep as the clock ticks closer to nine o’clock, and knows immediately that something is off. He looks at the bag packed and waiting by the door. He looks at it for so long that he almost stops seeing it; he is trapped in a stare-off with Sarah’s suitcase for a fucking eternity and then some. Then, slowly, he walks into the depth of the flat. “You’re leaving,” he says.

It sounds like such a simple, natural thing. Of course Sarah is leaving. Andreas does not know how he could not have seen this coming, how this managed to catch him so entirely by surprise. He is so floored that he’s not certain that he will ever touch the ground again. He looks young, and tired, and adrift. He has just finished drafting the search and seizure bill; he wants to sleep for years.

[seb--moran]

Sarah’s flight is scheduled to leave at eleven, and she’s just made a deal with herself to leave at 9:15 if Andreas isn’t back by then. But then she finally hears her fiance’s familiar tread on the stairs, and knows she won’t be given such an easy way out. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as the door opens, but even so, it’s a nail-biting wait, looking at him looking at her suitcase. She wishes he would do something, anything, except look so Goddamn lost–yell, scream, cry, hit her. But she realizes, with a painful twist of her stomach, that she wouldn’t love him, and this entire situation wouldn’t be half as painful, if he did. He’s a good man, and now she has to hurt him. She should have known it would come to something like this. “I have to,” she says simply, rising from where she was sitting on the arm of the couch. Her arse and upper thighs are sore from the hours of sitting immobile and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t even notice it as she takes a half-hesitant step towards him. “You need me to.”

[annabelle-rogers]

It’s an impossible thing, to find the connection between Sarah’s leaving and his own need. He knows that he has never said that he wanted her away. “You don’t have to do this.” Later, he will wonder why the hell he didn’t say that he doesn’t need her to go. It should have been the first thing to come out of his mouth. But it isn’t. “The shit with the IRA is not the end of the world; we can deal with this.” 

[seb--moran]

“No, we can’t,” she corrects gently. “We might be able to deal with it for now, but we can’t build a future on it. Can’t build a family.” She nearly does break down crying at that, but she manages to control it by looking away and reproaching herself violently for hinting at the truth. “And you can’t build a career on it. When the truth comes out, you’ll be ruined. I can’t do that to you.” She looks at him again, manages to crack a faint ghost of a smile. “I always used to hate it when people said they were doing something for my own good. But that’s what I’m doing, alright?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas feels his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, heavy and unyielding. “And what about your good?” he manages at last. “Where will you even go, what will you do?” Until two days ago, he had a small but lovely flat in his battered but beloved city, and a woman that he loved had his wedding ring on her finger. Now the flat is stripped clean of any traces of Sarah, and Sarah herself has her suitcase by the door. The reality of this isn’t settling in like it should; it’s crushing him. “You know that I’m not doing this for my career, we can figure this out, I promise.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

They do finish the job off–and much more, as a matter of fact, stretching all through the dark hours of the night. It’s almost dawn by the time they finally come to a stop; Andreas falls asleep quickly, and Sarah at first makes to follow him. But she’s only just dozed off when she’s jerked awake again by a sickening tide of nausea. She carefully slides out of bed and slips down the hallway to the bathroom, locking herself in just in time for the vomiting to start. When it’s over, she slumps with her cheek on the cool edge of the bathtub, exhausted and sore and still feeling vilely ill–and her mind working into overdrive. It can’t be.

But six pregnancy tests, taken and discarded in anonymous public bathrooms throughout the day, all say otherwise. And Sarah’s not one to wring her hands and cry. With the clarity of thought and purpose that only comes with real desperation, she makes her plans. It only takes her another day to put everything together–she’s had contingency plans in place for years. She doesn’t cry as she drives to the airport and buys her ticket out. She doesn’t cry as she scrubs the apartment clean of any trace of her. She doesn’t cry as she packs her bag and moves it to the door. She doesn’t cry as she waits, silent and pale and still in a clean, empty flat for Andreas to come home. Originally, the plan was to simply vanish without saying anything. But she finds now that she can’t do that to him. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can say something, at least.

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas crosses the doorstep as the clock ticks closer to nine o’clock, and knows immediately that something is off. He looks at the bag packed and waiting by the door. He looks at it for so long that he almost stops seeing it; he is trapped in a stare-off with Sarah’s suitcase for a fucking eternity and then some. Then, slowly, he walks into the depth of the flat. “You’re leaving,” he says.

It sounds like such a simple, natural thing. Of course Sarah is leaving. Andreas does not know how he could not have seen this coming, how this managed to catch him so entirely by surprise. He is so floored that he’s not certain that he will ever touch the ground again. He looks young, and tired, and adrift. He has just finished drafting the search and seizure bill; he wants to sleep for years.

[seb--moran]

Sarah’s flight is scheduled to leave at eleven, and she’s just made a deal with herself to leave at 9:15 if Andreas isn’t back by then. But then she finally hears her fiance’s familiar tread on the stairs, and knows she won’t be given such an easy way out. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as the door opens, but even so, it’s a nail-biting wait, looking at him looking at her suitcase. She wishes he would do something, anything, except look so Goddamn lost–yell, scream, cry, hit her. But she realizes, with a painful twist of her stomach, that she wouldn’t love him, and this entire situation wouldn’t be half as painful, if he did. He’s a good man, and now she has to hurt him. She should have known it would come to something like this. “I have to,” she says simply, rising from where she was sitting on the arm of the couch. Her arse and upper thighs are sore from the hours of sitting immobile and uncomfortable, but she doesn’t even notice it as she takes a half-hesitant step towards him. “You need me to.”

[annabelle-rogers]

It’s an impossible thing, to find the connection between Sarah’s leaving and his own need. He knows that he has never said that he wanted her away. “You don’t have to do this.” Later, he will wonder why the hell he didn’t say that he doesn’t need her to go. It should have been the first thing to come out of his mouth. But it isn’t. “The shit with the IRA is not the end of the world; we can deal with this.” 

[ichabod-tom]

“Listen, Harriet. When I was in the desert, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of you… You don’t owe me anything. I want you to understand that.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

They do finish the job off–and much more, as a matter of fact, stretching all through the dark hours of the night. It’s almost dawn by the time they finally come to a stop; Andreas falls asleep quickly, and Sarah at first makes to follow him. But she’s only just dozed off when she’s jerked awake again by a sickening tide of nausea. She carefully slides out of bed and slips down the hallway to the bathroom, locking herself in just in time for the vomiting to start. When it’s over, she slumps with her cheek on the cool edge of the bathtub, exhausted and sore and still feeling vilely ill–and her mind working into overdrive. It can’t be.

But six pregnancy tests, taken and discarded in anonymous public bathrooms throughout the day, all say otherwise. And Sarah’s not one to wring her hands and cry. With the clarity of thought and purpose that only comes with real desperation, she makes her plans. It only takes her another day to put everything together–she’s had contingency plans in place for years. She doesn’t cry as she drives to the airport and buys her ticket out. She doesn’t cry as she scrubs the apartment clean of any trace of her. She doesn’t cry as she packs her bag and moves it to the door. She doesn’t cry as she waits, silent and pale and still in a clean, empty flat for Andreas to come home. Originally, the plan was to simply vanish without saying anything. But she finds now that she can’t do that to him. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can say something, at least.

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas crosses the doorstep as the clock ticks closer to nine o’clock, and knows immediately that something is off. He looks at the bag packed and waiting by the door. He looks at it for so long that he almost stops seeing it; he is trapped in a stare-off with Sarah’s suitcase for a fucking eternity and then some. Then, slowly, he walks into the depth of the flat. “You’re leaving,” he says.

It sounds like such a simple, natural thing. Of course Sarah is leaving. Andreas does not know how he could not have seen this coming, how this managed to catch him so entirely by surprise. He is so floored that he’s not certain that he will ever touch the ground again. He looks young, and tired, and adrift. He has just finished drafting the search and seizure bill; he wants to sleep for years.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

If Andreas didn’t love her, none of this would have been an issue. Maybe he’s saying it again because he wants to remind her that she’s been lying to him in spite of it. Yet he has little moral high ground here. “Yeah.” He drapes the blanket over the arm of the sofa, sits with his knees spread apart and his elbows resting on his thighs. Somewhere in the duration of their walk home, the reflexive disgust and horror have drained away and left him feeling hollow. He follows the movement of Sarah’s hands with his eyes. “Sarah,” he begins, comprehension and a hint of warning in his voice; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s doing. “Fuck. Look, you’re right, it isn’t going to be settled tonight. Which means that no matter what, we’ll wake up tomorrow and this will still be a mess.”

[seb--moran]

“If the problem’s still going to be there when we wake up, then there’s no point in thinking about it in the mean time.” She tells herself she’s too proud to plead, that there’s no trace of begging in her voice. But something in her knows that tonight is a turning point. Tomorrow, she’ll be an adult and make the hard choices she knows she needs to. Tomorrow, she’ll face the consequences and shoulder the burdens. Tonight, she wants to be reckless and thoughtless and carefree. To let go of herself one last time before she knows she’ll have to assume complete control again. She takes a step closer to him, but waits for him to take the next step. “You know neither of us is going to sleep tonight anyways.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas reaches out and takes her hand in his, turning it over. Sarah has held a gun in this hand, killed people with it. Objectively, Andreas knows that he is at least somewhat in shock. It hasn’t really hit him yet; for now, this is just his fiancee’s hand. He kisses her palm and closes his eyes, holding it loosely enough that she could pull away with ease. “What I mean is that this doesn’t fix anything. Or even begin to fix it. We cannot pretend that fucking is a solution.” He half-smiles, tired. “I suppose that we can’t go to bed angry if we don’t go to bed at all.”

[seb--moran]

She looks at him strangely, as if he’s speaking a language she doesn’t understand. Sex was never a solution. It’s both the cut and the Band-Aid placed over it, the burn and the cool water run over it. Pain and relief in equal measures. She thought that was obvious. But she doesn’t say anything about it; doesn’t say anything, in fact. She leans down and kisses him, hard and rough–if they’re doing this tonight under these circumstances, making love is not on the menu. “I don’t think this is what whoever came up with that stupid line had in mind,” she reminds him, her cheeks already flushed faintly by the time she stops. “But I’m not complaining if you’re not.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas decides that if they’re going to have inadvisably rough sex as a way of burying the emotional mess of their breaking relationship, they are not about to do it on a couch. He kisses Sarah on the mouth quickly, then rises to his feet and grips her hand. “Come on, let’s finish what you started.” He tugs at the next button of her shirt in explanation. Does this make him a traitor to his principles? He is so damn tired of thinking.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

If Andreas didn’t love her, none of this would have been an issue. Maybe he’s saying it again because he wants to remind her that she’s been lying to him in spite of it. Yet he has little moral high ground here. “Yeah.” He drapes the blanket over the arm of the sofa, sits with his knees spread apart and his elbows resting on his thighs. Somewhere in the duration of their walk home, the reflexive disgust and horror have drained away and left him feeling hollow. He follows the movement of Sarah’s hands with his eyes. “Sarah,” he begins, comprehension and a hint of warning in his voice; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s doing. “Fuck. Look, you’re right, it isn’t going to be settled tonight. Which means that no matter what, we’ll wake up tomorrow and this will still be a mess.”

[seb--moran]

“If the problem’s still going to be there when we wake up, then there’s no point in thinking about it in the mean time.” She tells herself she’s too proud to plead, that there’s no trace of begging in her voice. But something in her knows that tonight is a turning point. Tomorrow, she’ll be an adult and make the hard choices she knows she needs to. Tomorrow, she’ll face the consequences and shoulder the burdens. Tonight, she wants to be reckless and thoughtless and carefree. To let go of herself one last time before she knows she’ll have to assume complete control again. She takes a step closer to him, but waits for him to take the next step. “You know neither of us is going to sleep tonight anyways.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas reaches out and takes her hand in his, turning it over. Sarah has held a gun in this hand, killed people with it. Objectively, Andreas knows that he is at least somewhat in shock. It hasn’t really hit him yet; for now, this is just his fiancee’s hand. He kisses her palm and closes his eyes, holding it loosely enough that she could pull away with ease. “What I mean is that this doesn’t fix anything. Or even begin to fix it. We cannot pretend that fucking is a solution.” He half-smiles, tired. “I suppose that we can’t go to bed angry if we don’t go to bed at all.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

“If you’d get into Thatcher’s bed, you needn’t get into mine.” It’s probably a lie–if he were to initiate anything, she’s pretty sure she’d reciprocate. But she’s hurt and angry, and she needs to be rigid and brittle, or else everything will fall apart. “This country won’t survive if we stop fighting. And people want to fight. Thousands and thousands of them, giving money or sons or safe-houses. Because that’s what you do when you love something, Andreas. You fight for it, no matter what the cost.” Her lips twitch with a faint, humourless smile. “We’re not that different, actually. Two sides of the same coin.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“I’ve had one foot in Thatcher’s bed for years, you knew that. And you let me love you anyway.” Except Andreas didn’t know whom he was loving, and he feels the betrayal of it smack him in the face all over again. Will he ever get used to the fact that he’s in love with a woman who is ready to sacrifice Ireland to keep its freedom? Or will he only love her for it more? He is scared, suddenly, of growing to hate Sarah. It turns out that he doesn’t really know himself either.

[seb--moran]

“You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have, love. I don’t think I could bear seeing old Maggie in her nightgown.” She folds her arms over her chest again, her fingers grasping at the familiar worn leather of her jacket. Something solid and comforting to hold onto. Sarah sighs as they turn into their street, dark and shadowy because of the legions of burned out street lamps. “I wish things were different,” she confesses, the vulnerability of the statement offset by the reserve in her tone. “I wish you’d found me years ago, before any of this happened. It’d have made things so much easier, y’know?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas has no immediate answer to that. He does not think that it wold have changed much if they’d met sooner than they did. They’d have to go back to nineteen, eighteen for any of it to matter – before the British soldiers laid their hands on Sarah, before the IRA reached out their own hand to her. Back then, Andreas was just a quiet boy who didn’t like guns. What was Sarah like? Would they have even spoken to one another? “I had wanted to leave,” he confesses into the stillness. “Years ago, right before uni, I had wanted to go away from Ireland and study something else, somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder what would have been different if I’d done it.”

[seb--moran]

“Same here. I applied for uni in America and England. I could have gone anywhere, could have done anything.” An image of her old self comes, unbidden, into her mind. A skinny girl sitting on her bed in a damp room in a crumbling old house, rifling through a sheaf of acceptance letters on stiff, creamy university letterhead–Harvard, Oxford, Yale, UCL, Edinburgh, LSE, Columbia. Each letter offering a different life, a different place she might have ended up. Sarah aches for the girl she used to be, the opportunities she’d thrown away out of anger and hurt. She was an idiot. “I did try leaving. I went to Paris for a year after I graduated. But I missed this stupid fucking place too much.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“At least you tried,” Andreas points out, with an exhaustion that suggests that he did not. Now he realizes that it isn’t Ireland he wanted to get away from – it was his mother, his house, things that he loved and things that made him feel like he could never be bigger than he was. But back then all he knew is that he wanted to go. “I can’t imagine you in Paris, though.” Even as he says it, Andreas realizes that he’s wrong. Sarah could fit anywhere; she could blend in with the walls of hell if she tried. “I do love this country, you know,” he says, quieter. “Whatever you may think.”

[seb--moran]

“That’s the problem,” she answers in the same tone, stopping and looking at him properly. “We both love Ireland. And we’ll tear it apart between the two of us.” When the anger’s crumbled and stripped away, she’s sick of it all. Sick of Ireland, sick of Belfast, sick of everything, sick to her stomach, even–almost on a constant basis, these days. It’s just fear and stress taking their physical toll, she’s sure. “But there’s nothing we can do about that tonight.” She reaches her hand out and touches his arm lightly. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. It’s late, and the army patrols are scheduled to come through in a few minutes.” 

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas follows her silently, quiet as they make their way up the stairs and quiet as he shrugs off his jacket in the hall. He looks at Sarah for a long moment, thinks, I could kiss her and she’d probably let me. It might feel like healing. It might feel like they could be alright after this.

But that’s once step closer to forgiveness, and he’s not ready to give it. Not that she’s even hinting at asking for it. “I love Ireland,” he repeats, reaching for the spare blanket in the closet. “But I love you, too.”

[seb--moran]

She pulls her jacket off in the doorway and tosses it blindly in the direction of the bedroom door, her gaze reserved for Andreas. Her fingers move mechanically as she undoes the top buttons of her shirt, still watching him. “I know. It would be a lot easier if you didn’t,” she says flatly, her tone making it clear that she’s not interested in discussing this anymore. They’re only going in circles. “But it is what it is. We’re not going to settle anything tonight.”

[annabelle-rogers]

If Andreas didn’t love her, none of this would have been an issue. Maybe he’s saying it again because he wants to remind her that she’s been lying to him in spite of it. Yet he has little moral high ground here. “Yeah.” He drapes the blanket over the arm of the sofa, sits with his knees spread apart and his elbows resting on his thighs. Somewhere in the duration of their walk home, the reflexive disgust and horror have drained away and left him feeling hollow. He follows the movement of Sarah’s hands with his eyes. “Sarah,” he begins, comprehension and a hint of warning in his voice; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s doing. “Fuck. Look, you’re right, it isn’t going to be settled tonight. Which means that no matter what, we’ll wake up tomorrow and this will still be a mess.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

“If you’d get into Thatcher’s bed, you needn’t get into mine.” It’s probably a lie–if he were to initiate anything, she’s pretty sure she’d reciprocate. But she’s hurt and angry, and she needs to be rigid and brittle, or else everything will fall apart. “This country won’t survive if we stop fighting. And people want to fight. Thousands and thousands of them, giving money or sons or safe-houses. Because that’s what you do when you love something, Andreas. You fight for it, no matter what the cost.” Her lips twitch with a faint, humourless smile. “We’re not that different, actually. Two sides of the same coin.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“I’ve had one foot in Thatcher’s bed for years, you knew that. And you let me love you anyway.” Except Andreas didn’t know whom he was loving, and he feels the betrayal of it smack him in the face all over again. Will he ever get used to the fact that he’s in love with a woman who is ready to sacrifice Ireland to keep its freedom? Or will he only love her for it more? He is scared, suddenly, of growing to hate Sarah. It turns out that he doesn’t really know himself either.

[seb--moran]

“You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have, love. I don’t think I could bear seeing old Maggie in her nightgown.” She folds her arms over her chest again, her fingers grasping at the familiar worn leather of her jacket. Something solid and comforting to hold onto. Sarah sighs as they turn into their street, dark and shadowy because of the legions of burned out street lamps. “I wish things were different,” she confesses, the vulnerability of the statement offset by the reserve in her tone. “I wish you’d found me years ago, before any of this happened. It’d have made things so much easier, y’know?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas has no immediate answer to that. He does not think that it wold have changed much if they’d met sooner than they did. They’d have to go back to nineteen, eighteen for any of it to matter – before the British soldiers laid their hands on Sarah, before the IRA reached out their own hand to her. Back then, Andreas was just a quiet boy who didn’t like guns. What was Sarah like? Would they have even spoken to one another? “I had wanted to leave,” he confesses into the stillness. “Years ago, right before uni, I had wanted to go away from Ireland and study something else, somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder what would have been different if I’d done it.”

[seb--moran]

“Same here. I applied for uni in America and England. I could have gone anywhere, could have done anything.” An image of her old self comes, unbidden, into her mind. A skinny girl sitting on her bed in a damp room in a crumbling old house, rifling through a sheaf of acceptance letters on stiff, creamy university letterhead–Harvard, Oxford, Yale, UCL, Edinburgh, LSE, Columbia. Each letter offering a different life, a different place she might have ended up. Sarah aches for the girl she used to be, the opportunities she’d thrown away out of anger and hurt. She was an idiot. “I did try leaving. I went to Paris for a year after I graduated. But I missed this stupid fucking place too much.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“At least you tried,” Andreas points out, with an exhaustion that suggests that he did not. Now he realizes that it isn’t Ireland he wanted to get away from – it was his mother, his house, things that he loved and things that made him feel like he could never be bigger than he was. But back then all he knew is that he wanted to go. “I can’t imagine you in Paris, though.” Even as he says it, Andreas realizes that he’s wrong. Sarah could fit anywhere; she could blend in with the walls of hell if she tried. “I do love this country, you know,” he says, quieter. “Whatever you may think.”

[seb--moran]

“That’s the problem,” she answers in the same tone, stopping and looking at him properly. “We both love Ireland. And we’ll tear it apart between the two of us.” When the anger’s crumbled and stripped away, she’s sick of it all. Sick of Ireland, sick of Belfast, sick of everything, sick to her stomach, even–almost on a constant basis, these days. It’s just fear and stress taking their physical toll, she’s sure. “But there’s nothing we can do about that tonight.” She reaches her hand out and touches his arm lightly. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. It’s late, and the army patrols are scheduled to come through in a few minutes.” 

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas follows her silently, quiet as they make their way up the stairs and quiet as he shrugs off his jacket in the hall. He looks at Sarah for a long moment, thinks, I could kiss her and she’d probably let me. It might feel like healing. It might feel like they could be alright after this.

But that’s once step closer to forgiveness, and he’s not ready to give it. Not that she’s even hinting at asking for it. “I love Ireland,” he repeats, reaching for the spare blanket in the closet. “But I love you, too.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

“If you’d get into Thatcher’s bed, you needn’t get into mine.” It’s probably a lie–if he were to initiate anything, she’s pretty sure she’d reciprocate. But she’s hurt and angry, and she needs to be rigid and brittle, or else everything will fall apart. “This country won’t survive if we stop fighting. And people want to fight. Thousands and thousands of them, giving money or sons or safe-houses. Because that’s what you do when you love something, Andreas. You fight for it, no matter what the cost.” Her lips twitch with a faint, humourless smile. “We’re not that different, actually. Two sides of the same coin.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“I’ve had one foot in Thatcher’s bed for years, you knew that. And you let me love you anyway.” Except Andreas didn’t know whom he was loving, and he feels the betrayal of it smack him in the face all over again. Will he ever get used to the fact that he’s in love with a woman who is ready to sacrifice Ireland to keep its freedom? Or will he only love her for it more? He is scared, suddenly, of growing to hate Sarah. It turns out that he doesn’t really know himself either.

[seb--moran]

“You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have, love. I don’t think I could bear seeing old Maggie in her nightgown.” She folds her arms over her chest again, her fingers grasping at the familiar worn leather of her jacket. Something solid and comforting to hold onto. Sarah sighs as they turn into their street, dark and shadowy because of the legions of burned out street lamps. “I wish things were different,” she confesses, the vulnerability of the statement offset by the reserve in her tone. “I wish you’d found me years ago, before any of this happened. It’d have made things so much easier, y’know?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas has no immediate answer to that. He does not think that it wold have changed much if they’d met sooner than they did. They’d have to go back to nineteen, eighteen for any of it to matter – before the British soldiers laid their hands on Sarah, before the IRA reached out their own hand to her. Back then, Andreas was just a quiet boy who didn’t like guns. What was Sarah like? Would they have even spoken to one another? “I had wanted to leave,” he confesses into the stillness. “Years ago, right before uni, I had wanted to go away from Ireland and study something else, somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder what would have been different if I’d done it.”

[seb--moran]

“Same here. I applied for uni in America and England. I could have gone anywhere, could have done anything.” An image of her old self comes, unbidden, into her mind. A skinny girl sitting on her bed in a damp room in a crumbling old house, rifling through a sheaf of acceptance letters on stiff, creamy university letterhead–Harvard, Oxford, Yale, UCL, Edinburgh, LSE, Columbia. Each letter offering a different life, a different place she might have ended up. Sarah aches for the girl she used to be, the opportunities she’d thrown away out of anger and hurt. She was an idiot. “I did try leaving. I went to Paris for a year after I graduated. But I missed this stupid fucking place too much.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“At least you tried,” Andreas points out, with an exhaustion that suggests that he did not. Now he realizes that it isn’t Ireland he wanted to get away from -- it was his mother, his house, things that he loved and things that made him feel like he could never be bigger than he was. But back then all he knew is that he wanted to go. “I can’t imagine you in Paris, though.” Even as he says it, Andreas realizes that he’s wrong. Sarah could fit anywhere; she could blend in with the walls of hell if she tried. “I do love this country, you know,” he says, quieter. “Whatever you may think.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

“If you’d get into Thatcher’s bed, you needn’t get into mine.” It’s probably a lie–if he were to initiate anything, she’s pretty sure she’d reciprocate. But she’s hurt and angry, and she needs to be rigid and brittle, or else everything will fall apart. “This country won’t survive if we stop fighting. And people want to fight. Thousands and thousands of them, giving money or sons or safe-houses. Because that’s what you do when you love something, Andreas. You fight for it, no matter what the cost.” Her lips twitch with a faint, humourless smile. “We’re not that different, actually. Two sides of the same coin.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“I’ve had one foot in Thatcher’s bed for years, you knew that. And you let me love you anyway.” Except Andreas didn’t know whom he was loving, and he feels the betrayal of it smack him in the face all over again. Will he ever get used to the fact that he’s in love with a woman who is ready to sacrifice Ireland to keep its freedom? Or will he only love her for it more? He is scared, suddenly, of growing to hate Sarah. It turns out that he doesn’t really know himself either.

[seb--moran]

“You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have, love. I don’t think I could bear seeing old Maggie in her nightgown.” She folds her arms over her chest again, her fingers grasping at the familiar worn leather of her jacket. Something solid and comforting to hold onto. Sarah sighs as they turn into their street, dark and shadowy because of the legions of burned out street lamps. “I wish things were different,” she confesses, the vulnerability of the statement offset by the reserve in her tone. “I wish you’d found me years ago, before any of this happened. It’d have made things so much easier, y’know?”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas has no immediate answer to that. He does not think that it wold have changed much if they’d met sooner than they did. They’d have to go back to nineteen, eighteen for any of it to matter -- before the British soldiers laid their hands on Sarah, before the IRA reached out their own hand to her. Back then, Andreas was just a quiet boy who didn’t like guns. What was Sarah like? Would they have even spoken to one another? “I had wanted to leave,” he confesses into the stillness. “Years ago, right before uni, I had wanted to go away from Ireland and study something else, somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder what would have been different if I’d done it.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

“If you’d get into Thatcher’s bed, you needn’t get into mine.” It’s probably a lie–if he were to initiate anything, she’s pretty sure she’d reciprocate. But she’s hurt and angry, and she needs to be rigid and brittle, or else everything will fall apart. “This country won’t survive if we stop fighting. And people want to fight. Thousands and thousands of them, giving money or sons or safe-houses. Because that’s what you do when you love something, Andreas. You fight for it, no matter what the cost.” Her lips twitch with a faint, humourless smile. “We’re not that different, actually. Two sides of the same coin.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“I’ve had one foot in Thatcher’s bed for years, you knew that. And you let me love you anyway.” Except Andreas didn’t know whom he was loving, and he feels the betrayal of it smack him in the face all over again. Will he ever get used to the fact that he’s in love with a woman who is ready to sacrifice Ireland to keep its freedom? Or will he only love her for it more? He is scared, suddenly, of growing to hate Sarah. It turns out that he doesn’t really know himself either.

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

“If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.” Andreas says it mildly enough, but it’s impossible to drain the tension out of this conversation. It would be easier, he thinks, if Sarah were at least open to talking about this. If she explained and allowed him to draw out a discussion, instead of reverting to her cold and bitter routine of pretending that the entire bloody world is against her. “Is that all you do, train them?”

[seb--moran]

“I’m too good at this shit to just stick to one thing.” She shoots him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but continues. “They usually keep women to recruiting and propaganda. Which is how I started at uni. But then I proved I was good with a gun, so they trained me for real. And now I do everything. Missions, training, recon, intelligence, strategy. I’m a Swiss Army knife.”

[annabelle-rogers]

The information feels like a slap, but with an undertone of sick pleasure – the initial sting is sharp but short-lasting, and is followed with hot relief. Like ripping off a band-aid. Andreas looks at her, surprise and hurt stark on his face only after her admission that she has been doing this since university. Which means that she’s been lying to him since they met. “Did you ever…” He trails off, not sure how to say this without making it sound like an accusation. “Did it ever help you to plan, the things I told you?” He keeps his tone guarded, gaze ahead.

[seb--moran]

Sarah can feel Andreas’ eyes boring into her, and she can only imagine the hurt and anger in his gaze. But she ignores it, just as she ignores her own sharp stab of pain at Andreas’ accusation. One thing at a time. “No.” The word comes out sounding a bit surprised, as if the idea never would have occurred to her. Truth is, it had, on multiple occasions. But in the end, she’d never been quite able to bring herself to bring that information to the table. She had needed some sort of division, some sort of clearly marked separation between her two lives, just to keep herself sane. “I kept things separate as much as possible. Except when I knew you might be at risk.” Sarah pulls her jacket tighter around her as she walks, folding her arms over her chest and avoiding eye contact. Her voice is the strangely, tightly controlled one of someone trying very much not to cry. “I’ve pulled you out of trouble a hell of a lot of times, you know. And you never even knew.”

[annabelle-rogers]

That’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Andreas hates how it makes him seem indebted to her, as if there is any favor in saving his life from the organization that Sarah herself leads. His posture, if possible, tightens even further. “Can’t say that I returned the favor,” he says through his teeth. “Since assassination is not my forte.” He inhales a lungful of evening air, already mentally categorizing how much information Sarah has, regardless of whether or not she’s chosen to pass it on. “How did the compartmentalization work out for you, by the way?”

[seb--moran]

“As opposed to sitting round talking shit and accomplishing bugger all,” she replies acidly, a ‘fuck off’ lurking just in the background. She’s pushing herself into destruction, lashing out blindly. Later, she’ll regret saying these things. For now, she only wants to draw blood. “Maybe violence isn’t the answer. But at least I care enough to do something. What about you? You care about Ireland, I know you do. But all you do is talk. Nothing ever changes. Jesus fuck, don’t you see? People like me exist because people like you failed to do your job at every fucking turn.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“Your doing something is getting people killed.” Andreas’ voice breaks, but even he is ashamed to admit that it has less to do with her argument, and more with the last comment. There’s no shock in his face, no surprised hurt. Sarah, for all of her wounded pessimism, is not telling him anything that he has not already thought to himself. It is part of what makes him so excellent at his job – he feels guilt at the fact that he is failing, and guilt at the inescapability of his complicitness in that suffering. Still, he is not good enough. “What’s your plan, then, fight until the UK gets bored and leaves Ireland alone or until every Irishman is dead and there’s nothing left for them to take?”

[seb--moran]

“This is a war, Andreas, not a fucking dinner party. People die. It’s not ideal, but that’s the way it goes.” She might have been on the verge of tears a few moments ago, but not now. She’s a soldier–it shows in the steel in her voice, the determined set of her jaw, the powerful grace with which she continues to move through the darkness. The elements have been there all along, but they’re only all making sense now. For the first time, Sarah’s identities are coming together and fusing as one–and as horrible as this conversation is, she can feel herself being reborn in the ashes of it. This is who she is. “We’re here to eliminate enough high-profile British targets that holding onto Ireland becomes impractical and embarrassing for them on the world stage. And we’ve got international support and funding to back it up.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas’ hands itch for proof of that funding, for charts and names and figures. He does not know if he would really shut down the IRA if it came down to it, but he wants as much information as he can get – how many people have they killed, how many buildings did they blow up, how much money has been filtered down for weapons and shelters. His hands itch, too, to rub the tension from Sarah’s shoulders and strip away whatever she is turning into now, whatever she has always been. He stuffs them in his pockets. “Bombing for peace is fucking hypocrisy,” Andreas bites off. “Dying to live doesn’t work. I have done everything in my power to stop your war, and I am sincerely sorry that I have failed. How could I possibly compete with such capable leadership of the IRA?” He shakes his head, looking straight ahead as if the dark street will fix this for him if only he glares it into submission. His derision sounds like acid. “Even if you win – even if you somehow make Great Britain grow bored and abandon Ireland – you would have wasted thousands of lives. It is not a victory if half of your people are dead.”

[seb--moran]

Sarah’s one step of Andreas. The record he wants don’t exist. The precise details are only known to her–names, contacts, terms of agreements, bank transfers, all lodged firmly in the depths of her mind. Paper is too flimsy, too impossible to vouchsafe. Her brain is a much more reliable depository. “It is not a victory if you’ve had to do a deal with the devil first. We’re being occupied by a foreign military force, Andreas, and all you’re doing is collaborating with them.” She takes care to infuse her tone with an appropriately cutting edge. “Think of the Vichy government during the war. Collaborating with the Nazis, trying to make the best of the occupation. Getting into bed with Hitler and letting him fuck France up the arse. It’s no different here.“

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas doesn’t flinch. “I would have this country become a British province before I watch its children die under British gunfire.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is surprised that Sarah does not seem to understand; she is a survivor, after all. “I will do everything in my power to make sure that this country survives, Sarah, even if that means climbing into Thatcher’s bed. There’s no honor in death if it only leads to more slaughter.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

“If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.” Andreas says it mildly enough, but it’s impossible to drain the tension out of this conversation. It would be easier, he thinks, if Sarah were at least open to talking about this. If she explained and allowed him to draw out a discussion, instead of reverting to her cold and bitter routine of pretending that the entire bloody world is against her. “Is that all you do, train them?”

[seb--moran]

“I’m too good at this shit to just stick to one thing.” She shoots him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but continues. “They usually keep women to recruiting and propaganda. Which is how I started at uni. But then I proved I was good with a gun, so they trained me for real. And now I do everything. Missions, training, recon, intelligence, strategy. I’m a Swiss Army knife.”

[annabelle-rogers]

The information feels like a slap, but with an undertone of sick pleasure – the initial sting is sharp but short-lasting, and is followed with hot relief. Like ripping off a band-aid. Andreas looks at her, surprise and hurt stark on his face only after her admission that she has been doing this since university. Which means that she’s been lying to him since they met. “Did you ever…” He trails off, not sure how to say this without making it sound like an accusation. “Did it ever help you to plan, the things I told you?” He keeps his tone guarded, gaze ahead.

[seb--moran]

Sarah can feel Andreas’ eyes boring into her, and she can only imagine the hurt and anger in his gaze. But she ignores it, just as she ignores her own sharp stab of pain at Andreas’ accusation. One thing at a time. “No.” The word comes out sounding a bit surprised, as if the idea never would have occurred to her. Truth is, it had, on multiple occasions. But in the end, she’d never been quite able to bring herself to bring that information to the table. She had needed some sort of division, some sort of clearly marked separation between her two lives, just to keep herself sane. “I kept things separate as much as possible. Except when I knew you might be at risk.” Sarah pulls her jacket tighter around her as she walks, folding her arms over her chest and avoiding eye contact. Her voice is the strangely, tightly controlled one of someone trying very much not to cry. “I’ve pulled you out of trouble a hell of a lot of times, you know. And you never even knew.”

[annabelle-rogers]

That’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Andreas hates how it makes him seem indebted to her, as if there is any favor in saving his life from the organization that Sarah herself leads. His posture, if possible, tightens even further. “Can’t say that I returned the favor,” he says through his teeth. “Since assassination is not my forte.” He inhales a lungful of evening air, already mentally categorizing how much information Sarah has, regardless of whether or not she’s chosen to pass it on. “How did the compartmentalization work out for you, by the way?”

[seb--moran]

“As opposed to sitting round talking shit and accomplishing bugger all,” she replies acidly, a ‘fuck off’ lurking just in the background. She’s pushing herself into destruction, lashing out blindly. Later, she’ll regret saying these things. For now, she only wants to draw blood. “Maybe violence isn’t the answer. But at least I care enough to do something. What about you? You care about Ireland, I know you do. But all you do is talk. Nothing ever changes. Jesus fuck, don’t you see? People like me exist because people like you failed to do your job at every fucking turn.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“Your doing something is getting people killed.” Andreas’ voice breaks, but even he is ashamed to admit that it has less to do with her argument, and more with the last comment. There’s no shock in his face, no surprised hurt. Sarah, for all of her wounded pessimism, is not telling him anything that he has not already thought to himself. It is part of what makes him so excellent at his job – he feels guilt at the fact that he is failing, and guilt at the inescapability of his complicitness in that suffering. Still, he is not good enough. “What’s your plan, then, fight until the UK gets bored and leaves Ireland alone or until every Irishman is dead and there’s nothing left for them to take?”

[seb--moran]

“This is a war, Andreas, not a fucking dinner party. People die. It’s not ideal, but that’s the way it goes.” She might have been on the verge of tears a few moments ago, but not now. She’s a soldier–it shows in the steel in her voice, the determined set of her jaw, the powerful grace with which she continues to move through the darkness. The elements have been there all along, but they’re only all making sense now. For the first time, Sarah’s identities are coming together and fusing as one–and as horrible as this conversation is, she can feel herself being reborn in the ashes of it. This is who she is. “We’re here to eliminate enough high-profile British targets that holding onto Ireland becomes impractical and embarrassing for them on the world stage. And we’ve got international support and funding to back it up.”

[annabelle-rogers]

Andreas’ hands itch for proof of that funding, for charts and names and figures. He does not know if he would really shut down the IRA if it came down to it, but he wants as much information as he can get -- how many people have they killed, how many buildings did they blow up, how much money has been filtered down for weapons and shelters. His hands itch, too, to rub the tension from Sarah’s shoulders and strip away whatever she is turning into now, whatever she has always been. He stuffs them in his pockets. “Bombing for peace is fucking hypocrisy,” Andreas bites off. “Dying to live doesn’t work. I have done everything in my power to stop your war, and I am sincerely sorry that I have failed. How could I possibly compete with such capable leadership of the IRA?” He shakes his head, looking straight ahead as if the dark street will fix this for him if only he glares it into submission. His derision sounds like acid. “Even if you win -- even if you somehow make Great Britain grow bored and abandon Ireland -- you would have wasted thousands of lives. It is not a victory if half of your people are dead.”

[seb--moran]

Sunday Bloody Sunday - Sarah & Andreas (Irish AU)

[annabelle-rogers]

“If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.” Andreas says it mildly enough, but it’s impossible to drain the tension out of this conversation. It would be easier, he thinks, if Sarah were at least open to talking about this. If she explained and allowed him to draw out a discussion, instead of reverting to her cold and bitter routine of pretending that the entire bloody world is against her. “Is that all you do, train them?”

[seb--moran]

“I’m too good at this shit to just stick to one thing.” She shoots him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but continues. “They usually keep women to recruiting and propaganda. Which is how I started at uni. But then I proved I was good with a gun, so they trained me for real. And now I do everything. Missions, training, recon, intelligence, strategy. I’m a Swiss Army knife.”

[annabelle-rogers]

The information feels like a slap, but with an undertone of sick pleasure – the initial sting is sharp but short-lasting, and is followed with hot relief. Like ripping off a band-aid. Andreas looks at her, surprise and hurt stark on his face only after her admission that she has been doing this since university. Which means that she’s been lying to him since they met. “Did you ever…” He trails off, not sure how to say this without making it sound like an accusation. “Did it ever help you to plan, the things I told you?” He keeps his tone guarded, gaze ahead.

[seb--moran]

Sarah can feel Andreas’ eyes boring into her, and she can only imagine the hurt and anger in his gaze. But she ignores it, just as she ignores her own sharp stab of pain at Andreas’ accusation. One thing at a time. “No.” The word comes out sounding a bit surprised, as if the idea never would have occurred to her. Truth is, it had, on multiple occasions. But in the end, she’d never been quite able to bring herself to bring that information to the table. She had needed some sort of division, some sort of clearly marked separation between her two lives, just to keep herself sane. “I kept things separate as much as possible. Except when I knew you might be at risk.” Sarah pulls her jacket tighter around her as she walks, folding her arms over her chest and avoiding eye contact. Her voice is the strangely, tightly controlled one of someone trying very much not to cry. “I’ve pulled you out of trouble a hell of a lot of times, you know. And you never even knew.”

[annabelle-rogers]

That’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Andreas hates how it makes him seem indebted to her, as if there is any favor in saving his life from the organization that Sarah herself leads. His posture, if possible, tightens even further. “Can’t say that I returned the favor,” he says through his teeth. “Since assassination is not my forte.” He inhales a lungful of evening air, already mentally categorizing how much information Sarah has, regardless of whether or not she’s chosen to pass it on. “How did the compartmentalization work out for you, by the way?”

[seb--moran]

“As opposed to sitting round talking shit and accomplishing bugger all,” she replies acidly, a ‘fuck off’ lurking just in the background. She’s pushing herself into destruction, lashing out blindly. Later, she’ll regret saying these things. For now, she only wants to draw blood. “Maybe violence isn’t the answer. But at least I care enough to do something. What about you? You care about Ireland, I know you do. But all you do is talk. Nothing ever changes. Jesus fuck, don’t you see? People like me exist because people like you failed to do your job at every fucking turn.”

[annabelle-rogers]

“Your doing something is getting people killed.” Andreas’ voice breaks, but even he is ashamed to admit that it has less to do with her argument, and more with the last comment. There’s no shock in his face, no surprised hurt. Sarah, for all of her wounded pessimism, is not telling him anything that he has not already thought to himself. It is part of what makes him so excellent at his job -- he feels guilt at the fact that he is failing, and guilt at the inescapability of his complicitness in that suffering. Still, he is not good enough. “What’s your plan, then, fight until the UK gets bored and leaves Ireland alone or until every Irishman is dead and there’s nothing left for them to take?”