Chapter Text
You could still feel the sting.
The burn of tear gas wasn't really something you could blink away. It wasn't something you got use to. It hurt everytime.
And that's why they kept using it. But the protests wouldn't stop.
Eventually, you all were going to win. Eventually. But for now, London seemed unrecognizable. A miserable hell-hole and a shell of it's older self.
Two years ago, Parliament had been dissolved overnight. Not long after, the Prime Minister took to TVs to declare himself 'President-for-life' - the making of a dictator.
Before that, politics had been at a stand-still, a stalemate for months. After it, everything changed.
First, it was the curfews. Then the censorship. Soon the courts were handing out prison sentences by the dozen. And after a while, people just started to disappear, no trial at all.
The surveillance got tighter. The police got more armored. And the curfews got earlier. But the protests didn't stop.
You all didn't believe in giving up.
Your feet ached from the marching and your throat felt raw from the chanting.
You could still feel the sting in your eyes. The protest had gone on at Piccadilly Circus, a thousand people protesting for the end of state surveillance and the right to vote - a privilege that had fallen with Parliament.
Anyone there knew that it would end in violence, because it always did. But you still turned up, even if it meant you'd have to take the worst of it, or even if it meant you'd walk home alone.
After curfew.
When the curfew had hit at 11, the police had started to clear the square the way they always did. The way they liked to most - fear and violence. First with tear gas, then when that didn't clear you all, rubber bullets. And if they were really enjoying themselves, they'd bring their buffed up mutts.
Tonight had been a frenzy, nearly a protest turned riot. The only one who had stopped it was Spider-man. And because of him, you'd been lucky enough to leave with your life and only the sting to remind you. But luck wasn't something you could run on in London these days.
The streets were deserted, every one locked inside their homes until sunrise, and this late after curfew, the walk home seemed excruciating. Walking down the curving streets of London's East End, you couldn't tell what's louder - your footsteps in the silence, or your heartbeat in your ears.
You know the precautions. You always walk with your hood up, and you never take the same way home - and even now you can tell you're close, if only a km away.
You wonder if it'd be worth it to run the rest.
You hit the intersection and took the last turn towards home, turning down one of East Ends' rougher streets.
Though as soon as you do, you stopped, your shoes planted to the concrete. It's as if your body could tell something was wrong.
And there was.
The street isn't empty, and you aren't alone.
At the end of the street, you could make out the shape of a car. Parked, headlights off.
It's a basic make. An average black sedan no more than ten years old. It's not new, but it looks untouched - out 4 hours past curfew. And it's parked at the end of the street, turned towards you. Headlights off, but idling.
When you look down, you see no license plate. It could only be the cops.
'Fuck.' An undercover patrol.
You immediately about-face and walk the other way, away from your flat. You walk back the way you came, out of their line of sight, but it's too late. You know it is, you know they'd seen you before you'd even seen them. You knew this for sure.
You didn't need to look back to check. Behind you, the headlights came on, and you could already hear the tires on the asphalt.
You speed up. Your heartbeat sounded louder than your footsteps.
The sirens kick on. The sound is piercing in the silence, the red and blue lights illuminating the dark street as the cruiser pulled around the corner.
Finally, you break out into a run. You could still feel the sting in your eyes and the pain in your muscles, but you booked it as fast as you could, as the engine of the cruiser revved.
You worked your legs as hard as they could go, the sirens getting louder and louder behind you as your lungs struggled for air. You were terrified to look back at the cruiser, at tripping up even a little, so you didn't try at all. The cops were shouting out the window. You just keep going.
Until, someone grabs you, and pulls you right off your feet.
Two hands reached out to grab you, one on your arm and the other on your bag, and they yanked you to the side, into the darkness and safety of an alleyway.
The cruiser went flying by. Soon, the sirens began to fade in the distance.
You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Your knees buckled from exhaustion and adrenaline as the alley faded back into darkness, the only sound being your heavy breathing.
Without thinking, you pressed your back to the brick wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, as your breath finally evened out. For a second, you almost forgot you weren't alone.
"Oi. Fights not over, love. Can't stay here."
The voice across from yours is calm and deep - and cockney, surprisingly.
"Fight's never over, is it?" You asked, sighing in both relief and frustration as you rested your head against the wall, eyes closing as you fought off the threat of a migraine.
And when you open your eyes, their laces are blue. The sight brings a smile to your lips. You kicked their boot with the toe of your own spiked boots, taking the hand that'd been extended towards you.
Combat boots and blue laces, a heavy accent and out past curfew. Whoever it was, they had saved your ass. So you figured they were an ally, a comrade even.
But when you looked up at them, you realized they were a lot more than that.
They were handsome - and they were someone you knew.
"Hobie?" you asked, eyes squinted in skepticism. The guess was a shot in the dark, but something about the name felt right, even in the haze of your drunken memories.
"You say that like it's a question." He asked, pocketing his hands. And he made sure he kept his voice low in the narrow alleyway, words barely above a whisper. "You asking me or telling me?" he said, and when he grinned, you were sure it was him. It had to be.
"Hobie - Is that your name?" you asked, head tilted as if you were suspicious. In the small gap of the alleyway, he was practically leaning over you, even without meaning to. And the boots didn't help.
He snickered.
Hobie turned away, heading deeper into the darkness of the alley, away from the main road. And you watched him, before giving in and following. He seemed to know where he was going.
"Depends on who's asking." he said, clearly amused. Hobie about-faced to turn towards you, walking backwards as a grin grew on his face.
"I know you? 'We've shagged before?"
You scoffed. "Well, no." You said, fighting urge to roll your eyes. "'Hobie' was just the name the bouncer was yelling at you when your arse got thrown out of the pub last weekend. Not that I expect you to remember that." You said. "You were plastered."
Hobie stopped, and so did you, and he rested his long arm on the brick wall, blocking your way. Up close, you could see the tiny '1312' pin on the lapel of his vest.
"Must've been some other Hobie." he said with a shrug, and within seconds of knowing him, you could tell when he was taking the piss.
"No. I don't think so." you assured him, and his grin grew, as if he were happy to be challenged. The expression only makes you more convinced.
"Why?"
"I don't know. You just look like the type to beat a skin-head's arse." You said, crossing your arms in front of him. "Am I right, Hobie?"
For a second, he didn't say anything, neither of you did. And then he chuckled, biting his lip at the edge of his lip ring.
You were right.
"Alright then." he said. "Maybe I am that Hobie."
Hobie hadn't gone out Saturday with the intention of bashing in facist skulls, but somehow, it always came to that. That seemed to happen when you were black, queer, and punk.
That had been your first impression of him. A couple nights ago at the pub, Hobie punching the shit out of a guy who had dared to turn up with a pair of SS lighting bolts on his jacket. Hardly a fight, it had mostly been an ass-kicking. A well-deserved one at that. All your friend had told you was that his name was Hobie, and he was the lead guitarist. Guitarists were always trouble.
"Glad I made an impression." Hobie said, happy with himself, before turning the topic from him to you. "You shouldn't be out here."
"Says the bloke who punched a nazi. Since when do you care about the law?" you asked, ducking under Hobie's arm as you continued down the alleyway. And now it was Hobie's turn to follow you.
"I don't." he said. "Also as far as I'm concerned punching the d*ck head was a civil service. And so was saving your arse. Which, you're welcome by the way. You looking to make it home?" he asked. "You're not gonna make it on the main roads."
"Figured that." you sighed." Then exactly how are you planning to get home?" You asked him as behind you, you heard Hobie stop again.
"I'm not." he said. "I'm heading somewhere better."
You scoffed again, turning around to face him. "Question: You get off on being painstakingly cryptic all the time, or is that just with me?" you asked.
The two of you were standing under a light in the alleyway, aged and yellowing, a loose bulb dangling weakly above a stained green door in the brick wall.
And as he leaned against the wall, as if he had no place to be, you could see Hobie wink at you.
"If I answered that I wouldn't be so crytic now would I?" he said, lips tugged into a smirk. "You coming?"
You're standing in an alley, 4 - maybe 5 hours after curfew. And you can't imagine what he means. "Coming where?" you ask, finally.
Hobie stood up straight, and he grabbed the handle of the door, giving the knob a yank. And with ease, the heavy metal door popped open with a clang.
"Like I said. Somewhere better."
You watched him as he sung the door open, heading inside the building and leaving you there in the alleyway. Through the doorway, the place is dark, Hobie's heavy boots echoing on the floor.
You hesitate, and his footsteps stopped. He's waiting for you. "Promise there's something in it for you." he chuckled.
Maybe there was. So you headed inside.
Hey hey! Please tell me what you think!
I'm really curious on if I got Hobie right so please tell me what you think of his characterization, also I’m not bri’ish so please say how you liked the slang! thankksss <3
[And if you're curious about TCATBND - just know I was waiting for ATSV for a reason, and I'm happy to add that aforementioned character in ;) Happy to say my life has opened up a lot and I have a lot more time to write! ]