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Entry tags:
crossover fic: Rumpole and the End of the World, PG
disclaimer: not mine.
fandoms: Rumpole of the Bailey and Battlestar Galactica 2003
character: Horace Rumpole, barrister at law
rating: PG
length: 1000ish
notes: no one ELSE is going to write this for me. Told in the first person, please note there are quite probably mistakes as I've read less of the Rumpole books than seen episodes.
Rumpole and the End of the World
by ALC Punk!
It becomes a little hard to practice criminal law when the world comes to an end. One ends up with little to do aside from smoke small cigars and twiddle your thumbs. This was a state with which I discovered myself after the alarms had finished up, and the fleet had jumped. For the first few weeks, we none of us did more than subsist, until natural pecking orders fell into place.
Curiously, I was unsurprised to discover that members of the clan Timson--a large family of small-time crooks--had survived the Cylons. Even less surprising was spying Peanuts Molloy--from a rival and rather more violent firm than the Timsons--as I wandered our third-rate cruise ship, wondering what Hilda would have made of it all.
But then, She Who Must Be Obeyed, as I somewhat affectionately termed my wife, had not been on the short-range vessel headed between Libran and Caprica on a return voyage after a successful defense. I could only hope that, somewhere, she was giving the Cylons a piece of her rather formidable mind.
The life of an aging barrister of the criminal courts is usually one of ease, almost leisure. Get up in the morning, saunter into Chambers to discover whether there were any briefs laying about (if I were lucky, I was already on a case--cash rather than legal aide, preferred). Perhaps a conference with my solicitor and a client or two. Fielding one or two phone calls. Lunch when there was a break. I had been known to peruse a bit of poetry while eating, or a re-read of my dog-eared copy of Ackerman's Bloodstains. One could never read up on blood too many times--after all, hadn't my acuity been the cause of my success at the Penge Bungalow Murders, as a junior and without a leader?
If I were lucky enough, I would be in court, rising upon my hind legs to bark back at the Judges and injustice, entertaining the jury and attempting to keep my clients out of the nick.
Late evening would find me in Pommeroy's wine bar, enjoying a glass of rather ordinary red before I joined the few left to travel home to Froxbury Mansions.
But all that was gone. There was no Hilda to lay a table and make certain my chops were well-done. There were no chops come to that, and I was beginning to see rather less of Rumpole than I was wont to expect. But there was crime. It thrives in circumstances such as this, though there was very little law to make it seem precisely that.
The conditions on our little ship weren't that awful, though I could tell that with time, they would deteriorate. More scrabbling for position, less food, less everything. Already, there was less soap.
It was during the second week that I discovered I wasn't the only one from our chambers to survive the long-predicted apocalypse (somewhere, I was sure Sam Ballard was lying on the still ground of Caprica, waiting for the inevitable return of his Gods) due to our over-bearance and long lives of sin. Phyllida Erskine-Brown, nee Trant, the Portia of our chambers, had apparently been returning on the same shuttle with me, though in slightly better circumstances than my third-class seat.
"There won't be many more of these," she murmured, gaze distant as she sat next to me, a cigarette burning between her fingers.
"Trips into the unknown?" I guessed, lighting my cigar. I still had a box of them, a parting gift from my client. They weren't my usual Caprican brand, but they were doing, in a pinch.
Portia made a gesture, then half-shrugged. "Cigarettes. Unless one of the ships in the fleet is entirely given to the production of tobacco products."
"Yes, well, I'm savoring them," I assured her. And I was, generally. But there was little else to do besides smoke, eat, and wonder how long it would take to find this Earth. I had my doubts about Earth, of course. I understood the way humanity worked, and I figured the distant and probably-illustrious Commander Adama of claiming things he wouldn't dare repeat under oath in the witness box.
We were silent, then, and I wondered at the despair in her eyes. I didn't feel it. As much as this had been the end of so much, we were still alive. There was still a chance, a hope at survival. Perhaps that wouldn't be much of a life.
Of course, unlike I, Portia had lost more than a middling practice and a wife. It occurred to me that she was one of those who had lost everything: husband, children, rather promising turn on the bench when she wasn't practicing law with an eagle eye and an iron knowledge.
Sometimes, it pained me to consider that she might be rather better at it then me, but then, what did I care for the law. Aside from which, she had been my pupil, so instead I was always rather proud.
"Portia," I said, in an effort to distract her. "We need to perhaps consider ourselves as guides to these mortals."
"Guides, Rumpole?" her brow went up, arching that way it could in court.
I briefly considered standing to present my sudden thought, but was saved the effort when she continued.
"You mean, should we organize and start practicing law for pennies and trinkets?" She drew on her cigarette, then regretfully put it out, letting the butt rest in our makeshift ash-tray for a moment. "We're still a civilization."
As though that were in doubt. I puffed for a moment, then agreed. After all, who was I to contradict the formidable Phyllida Trant? "Perhaps we could put together some sort of..."
"Briefing?" A flicker of a smile touched her lips, "Shall we be our own solicitors in this action? I rather think that would have been beneath us, once."
Responding to the still-dark look in her eyes, I blurted, "Look, Portia, I am sorry about Claude and the children."
"Yes. You rather would be."
We were silent again until she gave a soft laugh, "Claude would have wanted me to pine into nothing, I imagine, like an heroine from one of his operas. Well, I shan't."
"I never thought you would," I murmured.
"But I will miss them. And I won't forget them."
She left me, then, returning to her scant seat and pillow, leaving me to contemplate what could happen in the coming months. It was against my nature to be organized. I had always had Henry, our clerk, for that. But there was nothing for it. To adapt to this strange new world, organized, I would have to be.
Even if that meant soliciting for myself. I shuddered at the thought even as I began to marshal the arguments that might be required to convince the government that business had to go on as usual in the criminal courts.
I just hoped that we weren't setting ourselves up for failure.
-f-
fandoms: Rumpole of the Bailey and Battlestar Galactica 2003
character: Horace Rumpole, barrister at law
rating: PG
length: 1000ish
notes: no one ELSE is going to write this for me. Told in the first person, please note there are quite probably mistakes as I've read less of the Rumpole books than seen episodes.
Rumpole and the End of the World
by ALC Punk!
It becomes a little hard to practice criminal law when the world comes to an end. One ends up with little to do aside from smoke small cigars and twiddle your thumbs. This was a state with which I discovered myself after the alarms had finished up, and the fleet had jumped. For the first few weeks, we none of us did more than subsist, until natural pecking orders fell into place.
Curiously, I was unsurprised to discover that members of the clan Timson--a large family of small-time crooks--had survived the Cylons. Even less surprising was spying Peanuts Molloy--from a rival and rather more violent firm than the Timsons--as I wandered our third-rate cruise ship, wondering what Hilda would have made of it all.
But then, She Who Must Be Obeyed, as I somewhat affectionately termed my wife, had not been on the short-range vessel headed between Libran and Caprica on a return voyage after a successful defense. I could only hope that, somewhere, she was giving the Cylons a piece of her rather formidable mind.
The life of an aging barrister of the criminal courts is usually one of ease, almost leisure. Get up in the morning, saunter into Chambers to discover whether there were any briefs laying about (if I were lucky, I was already on a case--cash rather than legal aide, preferred). Perhaps a conference with my solicitor and a client or two. Fielding one or two phone calls. Lunch when there was a break. I had been known to peruse a bit of poetry while eating, or a re-read of my dog-eared copy of Ackerman's Bloodstains. One could never read up on blood too many times--after all, hadn't my acuity been the cause of my success at the Penge Bungalow Murders, as a junior and without a leader?
If I were lucky enough, I would be in court, rising upon my hind legs to bark back at the Judges and injustice, entertaining the jury and attempting to keep my clients out of the nick.
Late evening would find me in Pommeroy's wine bar, enjoying a glass of rather ordinary red before I joined the few left to travel home to Froxbury Mansions.
But all that was gone. There was no Hilda to lay a table and make certain my chops were well-done. There were no chops come to that, and I was beginning to see rather less of Rumpole than I was wont to expect. But there was crime. It thrives in circumstances such as this, though there was very little law to make it seem precisely that.
The conditions on our little ship weren't that awful, though I could tell that with time, they would deteriorate. More scrabbling for position, less food, less everything. Already, there was less soap.
It was during the second week that I discovered I wasn't the only one from our chambers to survive the long-predicted apocalypse (somewhere, I was sure Sam Ballard was lying on the still ground of Caprica, waiting for the inevitable return of his Gods) due to our over-bearance and long lives of sin. Phyllida Erskine-Brown, nee Trant, the Portia of our chambers, had apparently been returning on the same shuttle with me, though in slightly better circumstances than my third-class seat.
"There won't be many more of these," she murmured, gaze distant as she sat next to me, a cigarette burning between her fingers.
"Trips into the unknown?" I guessed, lighting my cigar. I still had a box of them, a parting gift from my client. They weren't my usual Caprican brand, but they were doing, in a pinch.
Portia made a gesture, then half-shrugged. "Cigarettes. Unless one of the ships in the fleet is entirely given to the production of tobacco products."
"Yes, well, I'm savoring them," I assured her. And I was, generally. But there was little else to do besides smoke, eat, and wonder how long it would take to find this Earth. I had my doubts about Earth, of course. I understood the way humanity worked, and I figured the distant and probably-illustrious Commander Adama of claiming things he wouldn't dare repeat under oath in the witness box.
We were silent, then, and I wondered at the despair in her eyes. I didn't feel it. As much as this had been the end of so much, we were still alive. There was still a chance, a hope at survival. Perhaps that wouldn't be much of a life.
Of course, unlike I, Portia had lost more than a middling practice and a wife. It occurred to me that she was one of those who had lost everything: husband, children, rather promising turn on the bench when she wasn't practicing law with an eagle eye and an iron knowledge.
Sometimes, it pained me to consider that she might be rather better at it then me, but then, what did I care for the law. Aside from which, she had been my pupil, so instead I was always rather proud.
"Portia," I said, in an effort to distract her. "We need to perhaps consider ourselves as guides to these mortals."
"Guides, Rumpole?" her brow went up, arching that way it could in court.
I briefly considered standing to present my sudden thought, but was saved the effort when she continued.
"You mean, should we organize and start practicing law for pennies and trinkets?" She drew on her cigarette, then regretfully put it out, letting the butt rest in our makeshift ash-tray for a moment. "We're still a civilization."
As though that were in doubt. I puffed for a moment, then agreed. After all, who was I to contradict the formidable Phyllida Trant? "Perhaps we could put together some sort of..."
"Briefing?" A flicker of a smile touched her lips, "Shall we be our own solicitors in this action? I rather think that would have been beneath us, once."
Responding to the still-dark look in her eyes, I blurted, "Look, Portia, I am sorry about Claude and the children."
"Yes. You rather would be."
We were silent again until she gave a soft laugh, "Claude would have wanted me to pine into nothing, I imagine, like an heroine from one of his operas. Well, I shan't."
"I never thought you would," I murmured.
"But I will miss them. And I won't forget them."
She left me, then, returning to her scant seat and pillow, leaving me to contemplate what could happen in the coming months. It was against my nature to be organized. I had always had Henry, our clerk, for that. But there was nothing for it. To adapt to this strange new world, organized, I would have to be.
Even if that meant soliciting for myself. I shuddered at the thought even as I began to marshal the arguments that might be required to convince the government that business had to go on as usual in the criminal courts.
I just hoped that we weren't setting ourselves up for failure.
-f-