On my feet as far as I can tell

[lapacifidora]

Title: On my feet as far as I can tell

Author: lapacifidora

Spoilers: Set pre-, during & post- ‘Pillar of the Community’

Rating/ Warnings: G

Word Count: 3,077

Disclaimers: Not mine. Sadly. Title is from Paul Westerberg's "Waiting for Somebody."

Author’s note: For eva_aftagrl, who is sick and rude and odd.

***

Isobel met Flora’s eyes and bit back a sigh as Vicki rattled off the details of some choir she’d arranged for the ceidleh.

She wondered briefly whether other towns in the highlands, similarly beset by dwindling tourism and an ever increasing stream of incomers, were turning to historical reenactments and celebrations to compensate for the shabbiness of their pubs and farmlands.

She wondered if there was a story to be found for one of the bigger papers regarding the increased demand for singers who performed in the classic style.

She wondered who’d convinced Vicki the tartan tam and ruana combo was a good idea.

She wondered if Hamish would be at the ceidleh.

“Don’t you think, Isobel?” Vicki’s voice broke through her musings, and Isobel shot a glance at Flora, who shrugged and nodded.

“Of course, Missus Jeffreys.”

“Oh, please, dear, call me ‘Vicki.’” The other woman smiled, at once patronizing and sweetly oblivious.

“Of course, Vicki.” Isobel nodded and smiled, taking the pause as Vicki reviewed her agenda to pull a stack of old newspapers toward her. “Now, you’ll want to speak with Esme about some of those other items.” She fished blindly under the counter for the jar of paste, as she nodded to the basket by the door. “And you should show her the posters.”

“Of course, of course.” Vicki nodded and folded her agenda and tucked it into her pocket. “Now, can I-”

“And as much as I’d love to join you in research this afternoon,” Isobel interrupted, patting the stack of newspapers, “I’m afraid I’ve been sticking Flora with the task of putting all the old copies of the Lochdubh Listener into the books for the archives, and she’s busy with her other duties.” Isobel saw Flora quickly stuff her knitting down the side of her chair and shuffle some papers on the desk she occasionally used. She smirked as Flora feigned a shrug of helplessness when Vicki glanced in that direction.

“Certainly.” Vicki patted Isobel’s hand where it lay atop the newspaper stack. “The last thing I want to do is take you away from your responsibilities, especially when you’re ensuring the preservation of our written history.”

“Yes.” Isobel felt her smile stretch even as her brow furrowed a little: The only event of note in the stack under her fingers was a series of stories about Lachie Jr. leaving the latch on a gate undone overnight and the resulting trail of smoldering sheep pies down a string of front lawns.

“Well, in any case, I shall see you Thursday, dear.” Vicki walked to the door, stooping to retrieve her basket and tucking the handle into the crook of her arm. “And do arrive promptly: It’s one of the few times we’ll have the complete committee present.”

“The complete committee?” Isobel asked trying, and failing, to suppress the flutter of nerves she felt as her mind carried on to its inevitable “I thought we had everyone: You, me, Barney and Agnes, Mr. Dicks, Rory, Esme…”

“And P.C. MacBeth, dear.” Vicki put a hand to her hat, patting her hair beneath the ribbed band. “We simply must have someone for public safety. Cheers.” She nodded to Isobel and Flora as she exited the newspaper office.

“I’m sure you’ll be very prompt.” Flora said after several minutes of silence, as she retrieved her knitting and Isobel fiddled with the jar of paste. She smiled knowingly as the brunette flushed.

“Of course I will.” Isobel glared at the smug older woman. “I take my responsibilities for Lochdubh Day seriously.” She huffed indignantly when Flora simply raised an eyebrow and stared back at her.

***

The wardrobe doors hung open, mocking Isobel with its meager offerings. She slumped onto her bed and ran a hand through her hair before falling back among the shirts and jumpers she’d tossed earlier as she evaluated and discarded outfits.

With a sigh, she lifted herself onto one elbow and looked at her alarm clock, grimacing when she saw she had only about an hour to make herself presentable for the meeting that evening. She sat up fully and reached for her mug, sipping the lukewarm tea she’d left on her bedside table. The ringing of the phone startled her, and she returned the mug to the table with a hollow thunk as she stood and hurried downstairs.

“Hello?” Isobel answered as she caught up the receiver, sucking in a breath that caught in her throat.

“Hello, Isobel? It’s Vicki.”

“Oh, hello.” Isobel didn’t bother to fight the frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth, but forced her tone to remain upbeat. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she wondered what the woman could possibly want when Isobel would be there in less than an hour. “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, no, dear.” Vicki chuckled and Isobel felt if they’d been in the same room, the older woman would have chucked her under the chin. “Actually, I had a thought, and I thought I’d run it by you first. Now, you know I want the focus of our celebration to be the history of Lochdubh and the Highlands as a whole, but I see no reason why we can’t acknowledge the present culture, as well, don’t you agree?”

“Yes?” Isobel replied, feeling a faint sense of dread growing. “I suppose.”

“Excellent. I was wondering if we might not contact Miss MacLean and ask her to come up for a special recitation.”

“Oh.” Isobel slumped onto a nearby chair and fiddled with the phone cord. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with the Major.”

“Oh, dear me, no.” Vicki’s voice went a little higher in embarrassment Isobel supposed was, at most, fifty percent sincere. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Major MacLean yet, though I’d very much like to.”

“Oh. Um, well.” Isobel sighed and tucked the handset between her cheek and shoulder as she brought her other hand to unwind a tangle she’d discovered in the phone cord. “I’m afraid Alex is unlikely to come up if I ask her. I’m not certain that even Esme would have much luck, and she was Alex’s favorite teacher.”

“I didn’t know Esme was so close to Lochdubh’s rising young star.” Vicki sounded thoughtful for a moment before she continued. “But I was thinking of asking Hamish to speak with her. I rather understood that he and our native authoress had something of an understanding, if you follow me.” Vicki barked out a laugh, an unusual sound from the normally poised southerner. “But I rather imagine you do follow, as you’re a native yourself. So,” She continued, her tone all business, “do you think Hamish would be willing to exert a little charm to bring Miss MacLean up for a few days?”

“I really couldn’t say.” Isobel replied, her tone carefully neutral even as she let go of the phone cord and took up a pencil, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m afraid I don’t know more than the idle gossip we all hear. I don’t know if P.C. MacBeth would be able to help you.” She took a deep breath, knowing she was likely to regret her next words. “I suppose you’ll just have to ask him yourself. Sorry.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, dear.” Vicki, if she sensed any of Isobel’s discomfort, said nothing to indicate as much. “Well, I’ll ring off so you can leave on time. See you soon!”

“Bye.” Isobel stared at the wall for a moment as the dead line buzzed in her ear, and then replaced the receiver in its cradle. She stood and walked back upstairs, coming to a stop in front of her wardrobe. Among the few items left on their hangers was an old red plaid flannel shirt, a holdover from her university days when she’d flirted with the club lifestyle, spending long nights in dark basements while punk music blared. She reached forward, pulling the shirt free of its hanger and brought it to her nose, imagining she could still smell the smoke and stale beer that had been the hallmark of her favorite haunts. While her younger self had worn it with a short black baby doll dress and a heavy jean jacket, both long consigned to the village rummage sale, the shirt itself was shapeless and drab. With black jeans and boots, it was an outfit guaranteed not to draw attention.

“Good enough.” She muttered to herself, throwing the shirt on her bed and turning to walk into the bathroom where she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She ran a hand through her dark hair, unable to look away from the flyaway strands that sprung back again like wires. She poked at her cheek, her skin perpetually pale and prone to sallowness when she was overly tired or ill.

A sharp crack echoed off the tiled walls, and Isobel flinched, looking down at her hand, which was clenched into a fist. She uncurled her fingers and watched the pencil she’d been playing with downstairs drop into the sink basin, the two halves roughly splintered where they’d snapped.

***

Despite the presence of both Cameron Dicks, who seemed to divide his time between glaring at the records from previous years Lochdubh Day festivities and the assembled committee, and the atrocity that was clapshot, Hamish couldn’t write the evening off as a total loss.

Certainly, he could have done without wondering where Esme’s hand had disappeared to or why Rory consequently got so chatty. And he was more amused than concerned by the murderous glares Agnes kept directing at poor Barney, who couldn’t seem to figure out how to say yes to both his wife and Vicki without disappointing one, the other or both.

Still, he was hoping he’d have a chance to speak with Paul about the latest book toward the end of the evening, assuming he didn’t simply pass out from the third glass of heather beer Vicki had pressed on him.

Hamish shook his head, not sure where that thought had come from: If anyone could hold his drink, it was him.

A muffled snort drew his attention to his right, where Isobel was muffling her laughter at Barney’s latest misstep with her own glass. Hamish rested his cheek on a fist, dividing his time between watching Barney unhappily accept another helping of clootie dumpling and Isobel, who was doing a poor job of hiding her delight at the barkeep cowering between the figures of his wife and the southerner.

Isobel met his eyes briefly, rolling her own as she downed the last of her beer. She moved the glass away from her face and blinked at it stupidly, seemingly surprised that she’d finished it. She tried to carefully set the glass down, but the glass made a louder noise than she’d anticipated. Vicki’s head snapped up, her attention drawn like a hunting dog that’d caught the scent of prey. Before he knew what their host was about, Vicki was leaning forward, refilling Isobel’s glass with one hand while the other landed on his own shoulder.

“Hamish! I’d nearly forgot: I had something I wanted to ask you.” Vicki slipped into the empty seat next to Agnes, not seeming to realize the danger in presenting her back to the blonde. To his right, Isobel seemed to choke on the sip she had taken, prompting Esme to thump the brunette between the shoulder blades. Turning his attention back to Vicki, Hamish blinked quickly, trying to coordinate his mouth with his thoughts.

“Anything I can do to be of service, Vicki, all you need to do is ask.” Hamish picked up his own glass, swirling the dregs around before tipping them back, doing is best to ignore the glare Agnes was now directing at him and not to wonder at Isobel’s sharp inhalation.

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it!” Vicki clasped her hands together and leaned in as she lowered her tone conspiratorially. “I was hoping you’d say that. You see, I want Lochdubh to be a celebration as much of the modern village as of its history, in recognition of the talent of our native sons and daughters.” She looked at him expectantly, and Hamish simply nodded, having a sense of where she was headed. He reached for the beer pitcher more to have something to do with his hands than because he wanted another.

“Of course.” Hamish refilled his glass, set the pitcher back and nodded. “That’s an excellent thought. How can I help?”

“Well,” Vicki put a hand on his arm, a beaming smile on her face. “I understand you’re rather close with Alexandra MacLean.”

***

Isobel groaned as the early morning sun warmed her face as it came through the window, and she shifted onto her back, throwing an arm up over her eyes. She sighed and settled into the corner of the mattress beneath her and the mattress at her si-

The arm over her eyes fell away and Isobel forced her eyes open slowly, waiting as the ceiling came into a blurry kind of focus. She frowned as she realized several things: Her bedroom window did not admit morning light; partly because of the heavy drapes she closed before turning in and partly because her bedroom was at the back of the house, which faced west. The ceiling above her was not the pale cream of her bedroom, but the stark white of her sitting room. And, perhaps most importantly, her bed did not have mattresses standing up at the sides.

She rolled her head, which felt uncomfortably heavy, to the side and blinked slowly at the back of her sofa. Rolling her head in the opposite direction, she could make out the shapes of her coffee table and the armchair and desk on the far side of the room.

Isobel frowned, wondering what could have possessed her to fall asleep on her couch, which while long enough to accommodate her wasn’t terribly comfortable. She swallowed, her frown turning into a grimace as the cottony, clogged feeling of her dry mouth intensified, and she parted her lips, licking them with a tongue that felt both too large and strangely unwieldy. Running a hand over her face, she then reached down to pull at the collar of her pyjama top, jolting upright as she realized she was still in her clothes from the last night. The flannel shirt was wrinkled and her jeans felt stiff, both observations that were quickly thrust aside as her sudden change in altitude caught up with her and her vision swam before her.

With a groan, Isobel put a hand to her head, as much to ensure it wasn’t literally spinning as to make certain it was still attached. With her other hand, she pushed off from the sofa, stumbling as one foot caught on a boot, lying on its side and half under the coffee table. She caught herself against the arm of the sofa and waited for the floor to stop its tilting. After a long moment, she let go of the sofa and shuffled forward, catching hold of the doorway into the kitchen and wincing as her bare feet met the cold linoleum. Gritting her teeth, Isobel pushed away from the doorframe and made it to the sink, where she braced herself with a hand on either side of the double basin.

Swallowing hard against the roiling of her stomach, Isobel concentrated on taking deep breaths in through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. She was on the cusp of congratulating herself for not gagging when a faint waft of sewer gas came up through the drain, and she coughed, retching and emptying the contents of her stomach into the basin. With the conditioning born of a few ill-advised benders during her university days, she had the presence of mind to twist the handle on, letting the faucet wash away the foul contents of the sink, and tucked her hair behind her ears.

When her insides stopped seizing, she cupped a hand under the stream of water, lifting it to her mouth and swishing it around before spitting it back into the sink. Isobel repeated the process several times before she reached blindly for a tea towel, which she held under the water before turning off the faucet. She rang the towel out and mopped the perspiration from her face, then held the cool, damp towel against the back of her neck.

Turning carefully, she slumped back against the counter, closing her eyes and shifting in her clothes. She silently cursed Vicki and the damned heather beer, as well as herself for not having the presence of mind to at least try and remove her bra before passing out last night: There were few things she hated more than sleeping in her bra. She tossed the towel onto the counter and ran a hand through her hair, loosened from its partial ponytail from last night (Thankful she’d at least had the foresight to remember that, as her hair was unruly under the best of circumstances.), and hoping she wouldn’t find any stray globules from her rather spectacular vomiting just now.

Relieved that her hair had escaped contamination, she straightened a little and reached her hands behind and under her shirt to release the clasp of her bra, sighing when the band around her ribs loosened. One hand came up to tug the band away from her skin, grimacing slightly at the sticky pull indicative of fabric fusing to sweaty skin, while the fingers of her other hand dipped below her waistband in back to rub against the skin chaffed by the label of her jeans. Closing her eyes, she rolled her neck and drew a breath, bracing herself for the climb ahead of her to reach her bathroom.

Determined not to confront the sun now streaming into her sitting room, Isobel relied on her familiarity with her home to guide her toward the stairs. At the base of the stairwell, blessedly still shrouded in the grey of predawn, Isobel raised one foot to the first step, fidgeting as the inseam of her jeans rubbed uncomfortably.

In the next moment, Isobel realized she was sitting on her stairs, hands gripping her knees tightly as she absently wondered if there was anything left to come up if she retched again.

And wondered less absently where her knickers were.

***

Comments

Comments

[eva-aftagrl.livejournal.com]

So is this just a one shot, or is this part of the fic that we talked about where Hamish and Is sleep together and don't remember?

If it is the latter then I suggest for Is's attire not all her buttons line up, and possibly her bra is on but not hooked or not hooked properly.

Also we should then get a glimpse of Hamish waking up. Is's knickers still at his place mixed in with the sheets.

If Hamish is at Is's then her bed and she finds him there.

If she was at Hamish then she had a walk of shame without realizing it, and the whole or almost all the town knows about it. They talk about and inform Jr. or something ate the bar. Of course when either of the two walk in then it is silence.

O.k. back to my paper, but I might have more later.