#Or like Charles (Just pick it up and jam it in your face hole)? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rxmanticdevil · 3 years

Text

One Shot #1 - Magicians for Sport, Trelawny’s side

Characters: Josiah Trelawny, Arthur Morgan, Charles Smith Spoilers: Through Ch. 3 Words: ~3142 Trigger warnings: Kidnapping, violence, choking Explanation for this abomination: The story mission “Magicians for Sport” from the perspective of what happened to Trelawny. Josiah is minding his own business, bounty hunters decide they want a chat. Things get better from there (just kidding, they don’t get better). This has most likely been written before but tbh I didn’t look because I wanted to write it and I’ve just done research for my degree and I don’t want to research anymore.))

Trelawny was hardly registering his actions as he placed the two small slices of bread on a plate, a small meal for the early morning. His mind was distracted, his thoughts with the gang he had grown so fond of. Those bounty hunters were quite determined to get a hold of Dutch. And Arthur. The whole gang was in danger, which wasn’t really out of the norm. But this time it felt different, those bounty hunters seemed determined in a way that put Josiah’s hair on end.

The sound of hooves on dirt caught his already heightened attention, and he glanced out his window to see familiar figures coming up the path to the small collection of caravans full of the unsavory people he had found to blend into.

Those were the bounty hunters he had spoken to by the state line. Without wasting any time he pulled the curtains closed, locking the doors as he could. His caravan only had two rectangular rooms, but two doors – two areas of vulnerability.

He held his breath, they were getting closer, there were voices: We’re looking for a guy.

Another voice. The fence who operated out of the next caravan over. He pressed his ear against his front door, straining to hear. But he couldn’t make out what was being said, there was no loyalty here and he knew what the bounty hunters wanted. He was familiar enough with people like them – he knew what they’d do to get it.

The seconds ticked by but felt like hours until he heard the sound of horses trotting away. He took a deep breath, nearly collapsing to his knees from relief.

“Thank God….” – and the fence too. It seemed he would be escaping this scenario unharmed.

He went back to his plate of food but was once more unable to focus on it, his hands trembling too violently to be useful whenever he attempted to spread the raspberry jam over the bread. His mind raced. The bounty hunters were here, in Rhodes. While Josiah didn’t know where Dutch and the others were holed up now, he did know they would be coming back this way. It was imperative that he tracked them down, any of the gang down, at least to deliver the message –stay low, for God’s sake your lives are at stake. Stay. Alert.

Advice he should have heeded himself, it seemed.

The back door was kicked open with an unparalleled violent force at the same time as the front door. The sudden actions causing Josiah’s heart to jump, near pounding out of his chest, and his body escaped to the farthest point from the most immediate intruder at his front doorway. Unfortunately, that was the edge of his bed and it was hardly any more distance at all.

“Good morning, sir,” the bounty hunter coming from the front stood in his doorway, his body filling up the door frame as he held a gun in his hand, “We just got a few questions for you, we won’t be long.”

It was one of the first times in a long time that Trelawny felt genuine fear. Trapped, his revolver by the door where the man stood– there was no way he could get it without being grabbed – or shot. He could only wait for what would happen next. A fact that the man before him seemed to savor, drinking in Trelawny’s paled face and white knuckles clinging to the edge of his bed.

The man’s face melted into a cruel grin as he neared, “You remember me, right? We spoke at the state line?” he waited a moment, taunting Josiah to respond. “You remember we were talking – about Dutch Van der Linde? My colleagues and I seem to think you left out some details.”

“You must have me confused with someone else. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t, huh?” a fist went to the framed photograph on his wall, shattering the glass as it fell to the ground. The sharp action, the threat, caused Trelawny to jump. If these men didn’t kill him soon his heart would surely do him in.

“I told you, I just got here from Oregon-” It wasn’t acting this time, how his voice pitched up, squeaking out the story he had threaded during their earlier encounter.

A hand grabbed his neck and threw him onto the ground, into the glass. His attacker wasted no time looming over him, leaning down to grab him once more by the throat, pulling Josiah up close to his face.

“Try again.”

“I don’t know anything-”

The fist came at him once. And then twice. He was seeing stars, trying to regain any sense of equilibrium before he was picked up and thrown once more, like a ragdoll, from one side of his caravan to the other. His back hit his counter, knocking the shelves down.

“I said try again.”

Trelawny felt blood coming from his wounds, and an anger building inside him. Fear dissipating for a moment – how dare these men come into his home and cause such a mess. His hand balled into a fist, and he took the moment to throw a punch.

“And I said I don’t know anything, now leave.” He swung his fist, shocking the attacker just long enough to clip the man’s cheek. But before he could follow up, he felt two arms grab him tight from behind. The other bounty hunter. But Trelawny was determined: They had made it clear that he wasn’t getting out of this unscathed whether he cooperated or not.

He brought his elbow up and swung it back in a short, sharp motion- aiming to do as much damage as possible to the gut before he used his elbow and upper arm as the pendulum to swing his fist down into a more sensitive area. The bounty hunter yelped, releasing him.

A glint in the light caught his eye, his cane! A weapon he could get! He made a move for it, pulling it up and swinging down hard with the intent to end this quickly against the man who was doubled over in pain.

Then, there was nothing.

_______

“Then the idiot went after Davey and I grabbed one of the vases and smashed it over his head,” the bounty hunter lit his cigarette and brought it to his lips, “Dropped like a rock.”

“But he didn’t say anything?”

“Not a damn thing,” the man grumbled.

Well, that all certainly explained his splitting headache. He felt the dirt on his cheek, from his face having been in it for who knew how long. But the rest of his body didn’t seem to be responding. Not wanting to alert his new… friends that he was awake, but needing to check his situation, he slowly tried to move his limbs. All he found though was his wrists bound tight together as well as his ankles. Oh, if there was ever a time he wished for the gang to show up from one of their misadventures it would be now.

“Hey, George,” a third bounty hunter spoke to the first, “Look, your friend.”

And then all eyes were on him, and he knew he couldn’t play dead any longer. The bounty hunters eyeing him from their lean-to as he struggled in vain on the ground. ‘George’ gave him a grin, a sickening grin that told Trelawny nothing good was in his future. However futile struggling was, that look made Trelawny only try to free himself faster. It was no use of course, the man stepped over him, straddling him as he pulled his head up off the ground by the throat.

“Good morning, partner,” he said, cruelty in every line on the man’s face.

“I’d brush my teeth if I were you, good sir. You might scare children like that-”

A hand came sharp across his face, “Shut up, fool. You’re in no place to talk to anyone like that.” His throat was gripped even tighter, and Josiah’s body began to panic for air. He could barely register as the man above him spoke.

“Where. Are. They? Where. Is. Dutch?”

“I don’t know any Dutch fellows.” If he wasn’t going to tell them before he certainly wasn’t going to now after they had been so rude and rough.

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, “Dammit! I know you know!” The hand squeezed his throat tighter, and he felt himself gasping – fighting for air.

“Don’t kill him, George, or we’ll never get our answer. He just needs some more persuasion. Or maybe to be kept with us a little longer. If they find out we have him, they might send someone to get him back.”

“Think he’s worth somethin’ as bait?”

The hand relaxed on his throat and he gasped for air. Trelawny was less than soothed by that idea no matter that it bought him a few more minutes (hours? Days?) of life. He despised the thought of being bait for the Van der Linde gang. Sure, they exchanged favors of bailing each other out of sticky situations, but surely this would cross a line.

“So I can’t kill him but I can….”

Trelawny realized in that moment that he had let himself get distracted by thought, George had returned to his side. His eyes read nothing less than sadistic desire.

Whack! “Ahhh!” His legs dulled with the ache of great pain.

Whack! Pain shot through his side.

Whack! His shoulder screamed.

Each hit pulled a gasp from his lips. He caught a glimpse of the weapon – his cane. It came down on him again, and again.

“Hey, George! What’d we say? You’re going to kill him!”

“Fine by me!”

And then he saw the shine from the metal head of the cane as the shaft was swung down on him. He was out again.

_____

This time when he gained consciousness, he was sitting up. His arms tied still, his legs remained bound, and his vision blurred.

“There he is, good morning sunshine,” it was that George fellow again. Trelawny realized he didn’t have much voice left at all. His body weak, pain aching through every bone and every joint.

It was a time he could genuinely say he wished they would just kill him instead of continuing this treatment.

“Look, friend,” Davey knelt next to him, “We can let you go. Just tell us where they are. We can even give you some of the money. You know how much those guys are worth. You’d never have to work a day in your life again.”

Give him some of the money? Trelawny knew Dutch’s bounty was high. That would be no small sum but- no, how could he even entertain the idea? He might not have many morals, but he certainly had friends.

“I don’t… I don’t know… who you- you’re talking about-”

“BULLSHIT,” George was back in the scene. He kicked over Trelawny’s chair and the man fell to the hard, filthy cabin floor with a hard thud. Before he could gather his bearings once more a sharp foot made contact with his gut. The foot pulled back to go at him again.

“Whoa, George! Relax. We’ll make him talk yet. C’mon, I got an idea,” and Davey gave George a glance. A knowing glance. One that Trelawny was not happy to see them exchanging. He felt himself being yanked up by his arms, each touch hitting a point of injury sending shockwaves through his body and eliciting a cry from his lips. “Let’s get you out of here, come on boy.”

“The thing is,” George spoke as they began to pull the man out of the small cabin and down the steps, “after that shack, this will be remembered like a good time.”

“Put the man down, gentleman.” And then there was the click of two guns.

Trelawny could barely focus long enough to feel the relief wash over him in a tidal wave. That voice. Oh, that dear voice. That sweet voice. George left his side, and then Davey dropped him to the ground. It was another hard fall, but he was so filled with that joyous relief that he barely registered the pain. He wasn’t even sure if the tears in his eyes were from pain or relief – most likely both.

Feet entered his field of vision, a knife too – but any fear was dissipated when he realized it was none other than Charles. Another of Dutch’s loyal knights.

“That the lot of them?”

“I… I think so.” His hands were freed in an instant. His wrists red from chafing as he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“So, you’re alive.” Arthur knelt by him with another knife, getting to work on the binds on his ankles.

“Allegedly.”

“Well, don’t worry. They won’t be for much longer.” Those words sparked that desire for revenge in Trelawny’s heart. Those bastards who broke into his home, kidnapped him, tortured him, and threatened his friends. He had no strength left but he had enough anger to help himself out of his own leg binding.

“Go get them, Arthur. I can handle this.”

Arthur met his eyes, and Trelawny took the second to drink in that familiar, gentle face. The man who was ruthless when necessary, but who had always been a kind – if a little sad – soul to Trelawny. Arthur seemed to be checking with Trelawny, to make sure he would sincerely be alright should he go off to stop the bounty hunters. In response, Trelawny waved his hand – urging Arthur onward. Not just for that desire of revenge either, should those bounty hunters escape they would escape with far too much information. They had to be dealt with accordingly.

In the next moment, Arthur had taken off to the fields. Gunshots rang out. Arthur and Charles will both be fine, he kept telling himself as he struggled to free his ankles. It would be easier if his hands weren’t having such trouble gripping things. Each movement made his body cry in pain, but at least… at least he was safe.

The rope around his ankles became slack after another moment of finicking. The gunshots were still echoing and Trelawny could only hope his friends were not on the receiving end.

Well, he couldn’t just wait here on the ground. In the dirt. His clothes were already filthy, his white shirt had blood stains on it, his beautiful vest simply torn to shreds. Lord only knew what his face looked like. His hair must be an utter mess. He would simply die of embarrassment should they return to him whining on the ground.

He tried to put a hand on the ground to push himself up to his feet, but his elbow buckled under his weight. Pain shot through the arm. His legs told him too we’re not standing. There was a chair on the patio of the small cabin, if he could just make it there he could take a seat like somewhat of a refined gentleman as opposed to a dirt dweller like he was now.

It took him longer than he’d like, and he had more crawled over the dirt than walked, but he found himself able to climb into the chair, letting himself finally take in a moment of peace despite the pain. Arthur is here. Charles is here. And because he had kept his mouth shut this time, he could look them in the face with dignity.

“Mr. Trelawny, where are you?”

He nearly felt the tears threaten again. That voice brought with it so much relief, he wasn’t sure he could ever explain to Arthur just how much it meant to him. Especially in that moment. And that was for no lack of intelligence on the other man’s part, Trelawny knew the man was quite prolific. Dutch and Hosea would have it no other way. “Over here, dear boy!”

“Put your feet up, why don’t you?” Arthur came into view on the hill, the words harsh and teasing but nothing that Trelawny would imagine taking offense to. And as Arthur approached, he could see his face soften and he could hear that kindness in his voice, “You okay?”

“Never finer.” Yes, this outlaw had probably just killed a small handful of other men. However, he had done it out of desire to protect his friends. And Trelawny was just glad that he was in that category. Trelawny tried to stand up, but pain brought him back into his chair.

“So, who was they?” The important question. Josiah couldn’t blame him for wanting to cut right to the chase. The man’s hand was gentle on his back, the other at his arm in quiet support.

“They were bounty hunters, ah, attached to Cole Stoudemire,” that was what they had told him at that camp long ago.

“Okay.”

“They weren’t looking for me, per se.”

“No…” Arthur quietly confirmed the unsaid part. They wanted you, Arthur. They wanted Dutch. “What you tell ‘em?”

Another important question. And one Josiah was glad he could answer with pride, “Not much. I… told them I was an intellectual come down here from Oregon…” He let Arthur steer him towards the horse, accepting his and Charles’ help to mount. He tried to grip the saddle, tried to pull himself up, but he knew he was fooling none of them: he had no energy, no strength left. “…looking for a job at the university. Course, they didn’t believe me. Seems you stirred up quite a hornet’s nest in Blackwater.”

“So I keep hearing.” Arthur backed slowly away from the horse, as though making sure that Trelawny could remain upright.

Josiah met his eyes once more, a little embarrassed by his own need to request yet even more from the gang. But it was how things had to be. “It might be best if I stay with you gentlemen for a while. Can’t go back to that caravan now.”

Not even a moment to think about it passed before Arthur nodded in agreement.

“Alright, Charles, you take Trelawny back to camp. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Okay.” And Charles moved his horse on, Trelawny following close behind. Their previous rides together had been full of Josiah’s stories, thoughts, and ideas. But this ride was different, it was quiet. Trelawny was lost in thought, energy spent with none to spare on a façade. And Charles’ silence was reassuring in its own right.

The bounty hunters had been dealt with. Josiah had been rescued. There would be time to worry about everything else, time to tell Dutch everything he had learned. Time to pay back the gang for saving his life. For now though, the hooves of the horses and the whistling of birds the only sound for miles, there was just time enough for peace.

#{rebloggable}#red dead redemption fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #josiah trelawny #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #{my writing}#((I might write a drabble after this when Trelawny gets back to camp with Charles))#((but this was just something I've wanted to write for a while so here #it goes right here for now haha))#((I'd also thread an rp based off of this too if anyone wants to rp! :D))

15 notes · View notes

the-angst-chronicles-fanworks · 3 years

Text

Draco’s Wish [Pt 1/14]

> | >>

WORD COUNT: 4411

PAIRING: Drarry

TAGS:

hidden identity

Down and Out Draco Malfoy

Pretty Draco Malfoy

Talented Draco Malfoy

Auror Harry Potter

Smitten Harry Potter

Harry Potter Being an Asshole (just for a while)

Angst

Fluff

Angst with a Happy Ending

Falling In Love

Torture

SUMMARY: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him

COMMENTS: This was supposed to be my take on a Christmas romcom, but I missed Christmas so now it's just my take on a romcom. This chapter is very angst, but it will get much more fluffy later on I promise

I tried new things with my writing this story. Hopefully it works out well.

CW: Sexual Assault

on FF.net

on AO3

STORY:

December 4th, 2007

Draco wakes up to a day like any other in the dull mundanity that is his life. He opens his eyes to a barren ceiling with cracks and spots in the plaster and sun shining in through the holes in his tatty curtains. His tiny apartment is freezing, containing neither a fireplace nor a built-in heating charm. Winter is Draco’s least favourite time of the year, the cold seeping into his bones and threatening to freeze them still for eternity.

There is no desire to curl up under his cover – his single blanket is too threadbare to offer any meaningful warmth, and the two minutes of warmth that his shower can manage is a much better option. Draco gets out of bed quickly and goes about his morning routine of a quick shower, his bath a race against the limited hot water. He gets out, dries off as quickly as he can before the water on his body freezes in he cold air of the apartment, and pulls on his baggy oversized clothes. He dresses fully, fingers shaking as he does up his ragged winter coat and slips on his holey gloves. Only once he’s dressed does he go back to brush his teeth, carefully avoiding getting anything on his clothes.

He glances over at his ‘kitchen’ – a battered old stove that only works half the time, a tiny ice box, with a folding table as a counter – but the only food he has left is a half-frozen loaf of bread. He weighs the effort of toasting some on the stove, but there’s no guarantee that it will turn on and he’s has limited time before he is due at work. Besides, he’d had breakfast yesterday – eating again so soon would be wasteful.

Draco slips his money pouch into his boot and gives his apartment a quick once over to double-check that he hasn’t left anything behind, then slips out into the dank hallway. He pulls his door closed firmly, jamming it as much as he can to assuage the fact that it doesn’t lock. It’s expected that the resident will use a locking charm, but Draco doesn’t have a wand. His had been lost to Potter and there was no-one willing to sell him another. When his mother died, he’d been too caught up in grief to consider asking to keep her wand, and it had been buried with her. So now he’s here, unable to lock his door or heat his apartment.

Draco shakes his head, forcibly banishing the thought. There’s no use dwelling on things that he cannot change. He tugs his hood up over his head and turns, making his way downstairs into the lobby and out into the street. It’s a cold day, and blustering, and Draco fights the wind as he makes his way down the street. It stings at the skin it finds through the holes in his gloves and lifts the ends of his coat. Draco sticks his hands into his pockets with a huff, lowering his head against the stinging snow blasting against his face in tiny pinpricks.

Then the wind catches his hood and whips it away from his head. Draco panics, grabbing at the fabric to pull it back over his head but it’s too late. From behind, he hears a snarl of “Filth!”, and then hands are suddenly shoving him roughly from behind. Draco yelps, flinging out his hands to catch himself and he lands hard against the cold cobblestones.

He feels his gloves tearing more, palms scraping against harsh stone. Draco can’t help his yelp of pain, looking wildly over his shoulder, but nobody is looking at him. With an inhaled hiss, he pulls himself to his feet, double checking that his hood is back up before bringing his hands up for inspection. As he’d suspected, the gloves have ripped and the scrape against the ground has broken through the skin and drawn bloody scratches across his palms.

He flexes them, and bites back a whimper at the pain it brings. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though, so he steels himself and braces against the wind, leaving his hands to get blasted so that he can hold on to his hood and prevent it from being blown off again.

Thankfully, it is not too much further to his job, and he’s soon slipping into the back door of Forsythe’s Potions and Apothecary. He releases a relieved breath as a wave of warm air hits him, and just takes a moment to stand and relish the feeling of comfort it brings. The sting in his palm makes itself known again after another moment, and spurs Draco to action.

He slips off his coat and gloves and hangs them on a hook on the back wall. He takes a moment to lean his head against the wall, exhausted already though the day has just begun, then turns and goes up to the door separating the backroom from the front of store. He pauses there and draws a deep, fortifying breath, steeling himself – facing his boss is never a pleasant process – and raises a hand to rap sharply on the door.

There’s a moment of waiting, then the door is yanked open and Draco is face to face with his boss, Edgar Forsythe Charles, a short, squat, beady-eyed man with a pencil thin moustache and oil-slicked black hair. “Malfoy,” he barks. “What have I told you about disturbing me?”

“My apologies Mr. Forsythe,” Draco says, making a tone to keep his tone deferent. He holds up his hand, displaying his bloodied palm. “I don’t want to handle the ingredients with bloodied hands, so I was hoping you could heal them?”

Forsythe scowls deeply. “Do you think this is St-bloody-Mungoes?” He rages. “I’m not your personal servant Malfoy. You can bloody well deal with this shit yourself!” Draco stares into his reddened face and swallows down his frustration.

“If I have to go out and buy a healing potion it will take up time. Surely it would be better to just –“

“Don’t tell me what’s best!” Bellows Forsythe. He steps forward menacingly, and Draco can’t help his own step back. “Your inability to cast a simple healing charm is not my problem Malfoy. Deal with this.” His face twists into a mean sneer. “And don’t think I’m going to pay you for any time you miss,” he hisses.

“Yes sir,” Draco grits out, vividly imagining hexing Forsythe to bits.

Forsythe gives an oily smirk. “Get to it then,” he says, “and don’t think of shirking out. If you’re not back by noon you’re fired.” Then he sweeps off back into the front room, leaving Draco standing there trembling with anger.

How he wishes he could just tell Forsythe what for and leave this ignominious job behind, but the truth is that he’s lucky to had it. When he’d been released from Azkaban, he’d found a world that had no place for him – he was hated from both sides, both for being a Death Eater and not being a committed enough one. He’d been at wits end, on the brink of starvation, when he’d found Forsythe who had been thankfully more enticed by the idea of exploitable labour than he was turned off by who Draco was. He may hate Draco, treat him like shit, underpay him – but he’d given him the job, and that was more than Draco can say of anyone else.

So, he swallows his anger and turns with a sigh to return to the chilly street. With the requirement to return by noon, there is no time to go to St. Mungo’s, and neither is there a guarantee that he’ll be seen there. It depends on who’s in front when he goes in, and which Healer he ends up with.

No, there is only once place that he can go – the only shop that will sell to him at only moderately extorted prices. It’s also Draco’s least favourite place to be.

The trudge to the shop is long, as it’s all the way at the other end of Knockturn right on the corner of Diagon. Draco spends the whole walk with his head down, hands thankfully tucked in his pockets as the wind is to his back, steeling himself.

The shop is not very large – tall and narrow and unassuming. A faded sign above the entrance declares it Ugbert’s Emporium. Draco pushes inside, the bells above the door tinkling to announce his arrival. The dark room is empty of another human presence, but a shout of “I’ll be right with you!” echoes from the back room.

Draco takes a steadying breath and walks up to the counter as the curtain to the back room is pushed aside and the shop’s proprietor enters. He is a long, spindly man with rich, thick chestnut hair and a well-groomed beard. His dark, sunken eyes dart to meet Draco’s, and a greasy smile crosses his face, revealing several gold teeth.

“Little Malfoy,” he says in an unctuous voice. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“Ugbert.” returns Draco, keeping his voice as bland as possible. “I require a healing potion.”

Ugbert steps closer, around the counter so that he can see Draco fully. “Aww, you poor thing. Are you hurt?” He asks.

Draco digs his nails into his own bloodied palm and forces down his disgust. “It is just a scratch. Nothing to worry about,” he answers shortly.

Ugbert is not dissuaded by his aloofness. “Good, good,” he says instead, running his knuckles down Draco’s cheek. Draco twitches, but resists pulling away. He’s learnt that lesson, knows what is expected of him here if he is to get anything he’s looking for.

Ugbert pulls him in closer, a hand sliding down Draco’s torso and hip to cup his behind. Draco raises his chin, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “The potion, Ugbert,” he reminds him. Ugbert leers at him.

“I will need to see the injuries, so I may determine which potion will be best,” he says. His hands are now massaging at Draco’s ass, and he shudders in revulsion.

“If you show me your stock, I can pick out what I need,” he tries.

Ugbert chuckles. “I don’t think so,” he says right against Draco’s ear, grinding his hips forward. Draco feels his erection pressing against him and shudders. He quickly brings his hands up and turns his palms to Ugbert.

“Here. It’s just scratches, as I’ve said,” he says. Ugbert pulls back, looking down at his palms. He looks almost disappointed.

“Very well, let me check my inventory,” he says, stepping around the counter. Draco waits impatiently as he ducks down and inspects the wears in the lower shelves. “I can sell you a Minor Wiggenweld for twelve Galleons,” he eventually offers, straightening up with the bottle of potion in hand.

Draco stares at him in disbelief. “A Minor Wiggenweld? That’s overkill Ugbert. Don’t you have just a Healing Potion?”

“I might have one at home,” Ugbert leers, and Draco grimaces in disgust. It’s way too much, a huge chunk of his salary that will leave his food budget for the foreseeable future considerably lowered, but –

“I’ll take it,” he says hurriedly, pulling his coin pouch from his boot. He counts out twelve Galleons, inwardly wincing at the amount as he places them onto the counter.

Ugbert slides over the potion bottle and collects his Galleons. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he says with his sleazy smile.

“Likewise,” Draco answers stiffly, collecting his potion and money pouch to his coat pocket. He tugs his hood over his head and hurries back out into the street, relieved to be away from the old pervert.

He makes it back to work with no incident, and just a single sip of the potion is enough to heal his scraped palms. He looks at the expensive and mostly full bottle dejectedly. What a waste of money. He tries to look at the bright side – at the very least he will have a stock of healing potion at home now. It doesn’t make him feel much better.

With a sigh, Draco puts away the potion and goes to wash his hands in the little sink in the corner. He stops by the door to the front room, rapping on it sharply once to alert Forsythe that he’s back. He waits for the answering thump – signalling Forsythe’s annoyance that he’s being disturbed, but now he can’t pretend he doesn’t know that Draco’s back and withhold pay – before making his way over to his desk beside which a pile of boxes sits waiting. It’s a new shipment of ingredients for him to sort and package, and with a put-upon sigh Draco pulls on his Nugskin gloves and gets to work.

The work requires practically no mental input, and Draco finds his mind wondering as he counts and packs ingredients. In the front room, Forsythe has the wireless playing as he often does, and Draco hums along to the muffled melodies he can hear through the door. Customers come in sometimes, but they rarely provide interesting conversation.

Draco does listen to their questions though, mentally criticizing where Forsythe’s answers could be improved, either with the potions he suggested for their issues or – more rarely – the brewing instructions he gave them for potions.

By late afternoon, Draco has finished sorting through the new shipment and moves on to preparing the ingredients Forsythe with need for the list of potions he’d left on Draco’s desk. There is a lull from the front of house, no customers having come in for the past forty or so minutes. The wireless fills the silence, now into a newscast about the case that Potter and Granger have presented to the Wizengamot.

The case has been on the wireless often in the past few months. The pair have been championing house-elf rights or some such, and the case has now apparently been presented and the Wizengamot is in discussion. The witch briefly recaps Potter and Granger’s journey on this objective this far, and then Potter is brought on. His voice is rich and warm, and still sends shivers down Draco’s spine as he talks about how he is confident that the Wizengamot will make the right decision.

Then a customer comes in and demands that Forsythe change the channel. She and Forsythe begin wanking each other off about how very insulted they are about Saintly Potter trying to take away their servants. Draco rolls his eyes, but he can’t help feeling a little relieved that they’ve changed the channel. It’s hard for him to hear Potter’s voice – the feeling it brings up is mostly shame at how low he’s fallen while Potter is a shining beacon for the wizarding world, but there’s also the lingering feeling of lust that thoughts of Potter always arise.

The new channel is recapping this weeks Quidditch scores, and Draco half listens as he ferries ingredients over to the cauldrons, each with their own long table on which Draco sets the ingredients for the night’s potions in the order they’re needed. It seems it’s been a good week for the Falcons and, predictably, Forsythe soon starts gloating.

“I always knew the Falcons had potential!” He proclaims loudly. “They just needed the right push. Good job that new bird joined and whipped them into shape.” Draco rolls his eyes. The ‘new bird’ – Ginny Weasley – has been with the team for over three years now. The customer opines that the Magpies are going to take back the title, and Draco tunes out the conversation as light bickering ensues.

Finished with the ingredient prep, he tidies the work area, sweeps and mops the floors and locks up the ingredient cases. As he’s finishing up, he hears the customer leave and Forsythe locking up behind him. He pokes his head into the front room and calls “I’ll be off then Mr. Forsythe!”.

Forsythe glares at him and snaps “Just go, how many times have I got to tell you not to stick your pointy little nose into my store?”

Draco pulls his head back and closes the door, rolling his eyes. It’s not like anyone will see him now that the store’s closed, so he doesn’t bother heeding Forsythe’s request. It’s in his best interest to ensure that Forsythe can’t pretend that Draco’s ducked out early.

It’s warmed up a little, so he takes his time walking back to his apartment, enjoying the fresh crisp air. He takes a little too long, because by the time he gets to his apartment Mrs. Doxley, his next-door, has also arrived home and is standing in her doorway arguing with her husband as she does every day.

Draco groans inwardly as he sees her, his steps faltering a moment before picking back up in resignation. Mrs. Doxely looks up and sees him, her face twisting in disgust. “If It isn’t Lucius’ boy,” she spits. “It’s your father’s fault I’m living in this shithole you know!”

So she’d told him every time she saw him, although he had yet to learn what exactly his father had done to cause her predicament. He likely wasn’t going to learn it this time either. “I’m sorry Mrs. Doxley,” is all he says, not wanting to antagonize her further. She leans close and spits at his face in response, and Draco doesn’t quite duck out of the way in time.

He does avoid the kick though, and she glowers at him before storming into her apartment. Grimacing in disgust, Draco lets himself into his own apartment and tiredly goes to the bathroom and scrubs his face clean. Then he returns to the main room to slump onto the bed, feeling properly downtrodden.

His life really has gone to shite, and it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. He thinks about his past self, that carefree spoilt child that he’d been, and mourns for him. He wishes he could go back to that time and stay there, suspended in cruel ignorance forever. Some days, he wishes he’d died at the Battle of Hogwarts, gotten caught up in the Fiendfyre after all or perhaps caught by a stray curse on the battlefield, or sentenced to death by the Ministry. Surely it would be preferable to struggling to eke out the miserable existence he had now.

But he hadn’t died, he was here, and so live he would. Draco forces himself to his feet, putting his potion and money pouch on his bedside crate before changing into his pyjamas and washing his clothes for the next day.

December 8th, 2007

“I’ll be heading out now Mr. Forsythe,” Draco calls, poking his head out into the front of the store.

Forsythe whips around. “No, you won’t,” he snaps. Draco stiffens, half expecting a reprimand, but Forsythe just says “I’ve got an appointment to make. You’ll have to close up front too.” He starts to leave, then pauses and turns to glare at Draco. “Don’t mess anything up or it’s coming out of your salary.” He barks, and then he’s gone.

Draco sighs but obligingly steps into the front room. He’s not allowed here often – Forsythe doesn’t want customers seeing him and doesn’t half trust him besides. But the man had always been self-serving first, so if it was in his best interest to let Draco close the front he would do so, trust or not. Draco locks up the cases here too, sweeps and mops the floor, and wipes down the windows, door, and case-fronts. He knows that Forsythe doesn’t do all of this daily, but it’s expected when Draco’s the one closing the front. He doesn’t mind, and he works languidly – he has nowhere to be after all, and the shop is warm.

He locks the front door then returns to the front counter to count the till and put the money into the safe under the counter. This is the special Draco-safe of course, here for the specific case of Draco closing the front. He isn’t to know the combination of the actual safe, or even it’s location. He isn’t complaining though – the less he knows, the less Forsythe can blame him for if there ever is a robbery.

That done, he turns to his final task of wiping down the counter, humming a tune that had been playing on the wireless earlier as he works. He picks up a crumpled-up bag that Forsythe had left on the corner, expecting it to be garbage, but to his surprise he finds that there is some weight to it. Confused, he peers inside and finds that Forsythe has discarded a pair of bagels.

Draco can’t believe his luck. Fresh bagels? All he has to look forward to at home is frozen bread – he could jump for excitement at this find. He carries them to the back room and tucks them carefully into his back pocket before returning to the front and double-checking that everything is in order. Finally, he shuts off the lamps and returns to the back, donning his coat and gloves and stepping out into the Alley, locking the door firmly behind him.

It’ s a cold evening, but not windy. Draco briefly considers the thought of going back to his apartment, but quickly discards it. He’s tired of looking at those four cracked walls, and it’s not like the apartment will be any warmer than out here. He’s been trying to learn wandless heating charms, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of them yet.

Instead, he sticks his hand in his pockets and walks down to the dead end of Knockturn, pushing on the slightly off-colour brick near his left kneecap to open the portal to Muggle London.

The Knockturn entrance is not quite as nice as the Diagon entrance. This way opens out to a rundown little street with cracks in the road, small houses with chain-linked fences, a brightly lit little corner shop, and a small park that was scarcely more than some grass and three trees. Nevertheless, Draco makes a beeline for the park, enjoying spending some time in the outdoors. It’s peaceful and serene here, the world blanketed by a layer of snow that seemed to insulate him, making it feel like he’s the only person in the world.

In moments like this, Draco can forget who he is and just exist.

He opens his eyes after a moment, sighing into the calm of the night as his stomach rumbles restlessly. He smiles slightly. He’ll have something better than stale toast tonight at least.

Turning, Draco makes his way to the only bench in the park so he can sit and eat his supper. When he gets there, however, he finds that it is not empty for the first time in the years he’s been coming to this park. There on the bench are a woman and a little girl, shivering, huddled together under a blanket for warmth. They are gaunt in a way that Draco recognizes, that he’s seen in the mirror during the bad months, and they’re clearly no more equipped for winter than Draco in his threadbare coat.

The woman looks up and catches sight of Draco. “Excuse me,” she says. “do you have any money for food? Please, we haven’t eaten in days!”

Draco hesitates. He has no muggle money on him, only the bag of bagels in his pocket, and he doesn’t want to give that over – he rarely gets much to eat and something so fresh is a treat. He has the last of his frozen bread at home, yes, but with the expensive purchase of the potion earlier he wasn’t going to have to reduce his food spending for the next little while. He has so little – surely the plight of these people shouldn’t be his to reduce?

He opens his mouth, about to tell her “No, sorry,” when something in her eyes stops him. It’s the desperation, something he has experienced so often in his own life – how often had he wished somebody would just give him a helping hand? Now it appears that he’s in the position to give the helping hand. He has little, but he has enough to help.

Draco curses quietly but stops and turns to her. “Here,” he says brusquely, shoving the bag of bagels at her. He doesn’t wait for her thanks – he doesn’t want it, not really. She calls it after his back anyway, and the sincere gratitude in it gives him pause. Somehow, he doesn’t feel too bad as he goes home and toasts the last of his frozen bread.

The night is still thankfully not too cold as he tucks himself in for bed, and he has a deep, uninterrupted sleep. The dream that comes to him is strange – he’s alone in a black place, or at least seems to be alone. His instincts ping though, with the feeling that he’s not alone.

“Hello?” He calls out, turning in a circle. “Is someone there?”

Before him, a figure blinks into existence. It at once looks human and not, bright and glowing with a shifting iridescence. Draco startles and stumbles backward.

“Who are you?” He asks.

The presence answers, but not verbally. Its answer seems to reverberate all around them, and within Draco’s own head. “I am a wish,” it says, “made by a child in her hour of need. You have fulfilled that wish. We thank your generosity Draco Malfoy.”

Draco blinks. A wish made manifest – a child’s tale from his bedtime stories. Merlin, he’d done one good deed and now his subconscious was dragging up a fairy-tale reward for his dreams. He rolls his eyes at himself.

“Great,” he says, not wanting to entertain this but also not wanting to waste time arguing with dreamt-up wish magic. “What are you here for then?”

“A wish granted is a wish given,” answers the light. It floats closer. “And your wish, Draco Malfoy, shall be anonymity. Twelve days, I grant you. During this time, you shall be recognized not, even by those looking plain upon your face. After this time, memories made of you shall not be connected to you unless the recaller lays eyes upon you. This you are given.”

Then the light grows, bright and brighter still, until Draco is surrounded by white.

#drarry #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter fanfiction #Drarry fanfic #writing #draco #harry #angst #fluff #Draco's Wish

9 notes · View notes

psychopersonified · 4 years

Text

Legend has it...

Part of the prequel series to "Are we ever going to talk about this?".

A glimpse into Bond’s shared office with the Double-Os. Explore a little more of Q’s recent backstory prior to meeting Bond. Mostly banter and fluff, but there are spots of emotional poignancy - it all ends well so it is safe.

This one was inspired by a few things: like Bond in his Naval uniform, HRH Prince William’s real life weeklong stint in the Secret Service incl MI6.

Tags: Not dating, dates. Clueless Q but getting there. Intimacy in plain sight. Naval uniforms. 006 is a bit of a cad. Banter. Humour. Q Origins.

---------------

“So you do have an office. A rather nice one in fact. Why then do you insist on doing your paperwork amidst the clutter in Q-Branch?”

Bond looks cagey, like he’s hiding something. He clears his throat and mutters, “The WiFi is better down there.”

---------------

SIS Building, Level 9 - Double-0 Division Office

Of course Bond knows where his office is, the Double-0s share a bullpen somewhere on the 9th floor. Only Agent 009 ever uses it with any regularity, so the man practically has the whole space to himself - which if you consider the square footage alone, makes his office larger than Mallory’s, even if it is not as imposing. He’s even arranged his desk so he sits apart, monopolising the fantastic view behind him.

Bond is mildly peeved. 009 had put him charge of housekeeping the Double-0 office though who made him the boss of the division is anyone’s guess. Agent 009 fancies himself Mallory’s deputy, which if you ask virtually anyone in SIS, he is - informally at least.

In all honesty Bond can’t argue with that, 009 is possessed of good leadership skills and experienced enough to carry it well. It is just that aside from 009, Trevelyan and himself, all the other agents are away on mission. 009 is with Mallory and Tanner, busy finalising the itinerary for the coming royal visit by The Royal Highnesses Prince Charles and Prince William - a weeklong visit to the British Intelligence Services (which included MI5, MI6 and GCCHQ) so they are understandably swamped with the planning and coordination.

The least Bond could do is to help out by doing this comparably small task of making the division office presentable for the visit. Alec is present in the office with him, but practically useless. He had injured his arm (bullet wound) during his last mission and it is conveniently in a sling at the moment. From the sounds if it, it was merely a flesh wound that Alec is milking for all it is worth in the face of menial labour.

What this all means at the end of the day is that 007 is on his own - it reminds him of boarding school, only this time all his roommates are gone and he is saddled with the responsibility of cleaning clean up before the professors come to inspect their dorm or they all cop the punishment.

“Would you stop your moaning?” Bond snaps irritably at his ‘roommate’. “All you have to do is feed the bloody papers into the shredder, you’re not a complete invalid.”

“I’m doing that! It keeps jamming!” Trevelyan slams the cheap plastic feed cover shut, having just unstuck the temperamental machine - possibly because it was cheap.

“Take the staples out first will you? And feed the thicker papers in one at a time.” Bond instructs.

“Arrrgh! This thing is mind numbingly slow...” Alec continues to moan.

“You have to empty it Alec. It’s not a bottomless pit.” Bond reigns in the temptation to throttle the other agent.

The childish part of Bond is indignant, it is not fair. He hasn’t stepped into this office space for almost two years, preferring to do his paperwork and research in Q-Branch where he’d cleared a small empty space on Q’s workbench. Other times he would commandeer the makeshift Q-Branch lounge with it’s well worn Chesterfield sofas. If anyone asks why he’s there, he just uses the excus that the WiFi is faster down there despite not having a shred of either empirical or anecdotal evidence.

Bond’s prolonged absence from his office means that his desk has since been converted into a catch all purgatory; collecting detritus from all thirteen agents - things that they couldn’t be bothered to decide to keep, file or dispose. There are at least two years worth of interdepartmental circulars, equipment manuals, Health & Safety reports, copies of expense claims, greeting cards, even copies of his premature obituary - piled a foot high over the entire surface of his desk. Even his chair hadn’t escaped the treatment.

Bond continues to sort through the papers, sending those that need disposal to Alec’s growing ‘to shred’ pile. The other agent shoots him a dirty look.

“Do you smell something?” There is a stench coming from somewhere around his side of the room that has been bothering Bond all morning.

“Aside from your poor choice in aftershave?” Alec’s juvenile insult is automatic.

Bond rolls his eyes even though they have their backs turned to each other. “No really, smells like weeks old bin.” He wrinkles his nose.

Alec could care less as he is wrestling with the shredder bin. He finally manages to wriggle free the overfull collection drawer with a Neanderthal yank. Strings of paper explode absolutely everywhere. “Bloody fuck!”

Bond turns around, Alec is trying to keep the mess under control by trying to shove the bin back in, which of course is now impossible. Her Majesty’s finest, ladies and gentlemen.

“James! Hand me a bin liner will you?” Alec requests with some urgency. His useful arm pressing down on the springy mess threatening to overflow.

Bond grabs the roll and lobs it in his direction. The other agent only has the use of one arm so he can’t conceivably catch the projectile. It hits Trevelyan square on his injured arm. “Oww! Bond what the hell?!”

“Stop your whining, you’ve endured worse. Now, clean it up.“

Minutes go by and countless invectives later, Alec has the situation under control. No, that’s too generous. The damage has been somewhat contained - with the majority of the shredded mess now in the bag, Alec ties it off then declares, “I need a break. I’m going to take these to the incinerator.”

“Already? You’ve only been at it for an hour.” Bond can’t believe the lazy arsehole. There are at lest four more boxes awaiting his attention.

“Try doing it with one arm, it’s hard work man.” he grouses.

“Will you stop milking it. Take the blasted sling off, you don’t even need it.” Truly annoyed now.

“How dare you! It’s medically prescribed.” Alec defends himself with exaggerated affront, hefting the bag over a shoulder.

Bond huffs in resignation, “Fine, then get me coffee while you’re at it please.”

Alec is already heading out, his back is towards the other agent, he flips him off with the hand on his supposedly injured arm, “Not bloody likely!” and disappears out the door.

A moment later, Alec’s booming voice carries down the hallway, “Oh hello Quartermaster. Come for a visit have we?”

“Hello 006. How’s the tidying up coming along?” Comes the softer reply.

“It would be quicker if 007 would pull his weight. Look at this! He’s making me do all the work. Have a word with him will you?” he shakes the bag on his shoulder for emphasis.

“Trevelyan!!” Bond warns from inside the room.

“Ah! There he goes again. Toodles Q.” Alec hurries off before 007 makes good on his threat.

Q peeks around the door into the legendary Double-0 office. “Heard that you’ve been put to task. Came to see it for myself.” Q says cheerily.

Bond is standing behind a desk, a stack of papers balanced on one forearm, another held in his other hand hovering between two piles he was making. All around him are open box files labelled with post-it notes. Agent 007 doing filing. The rumours were true - only the Queen or in this case two Princes could compel Bond to clean up his office. Either that or hell really has frozen over.

“If you’ve come to gloat, please make it a quick one - before I set this place on fire.”

Q steps further into the room. It’s a generous size. Each agent has a set comprised of a decent sized desk, high backed chair, side cabinet and a tall cupboard. There are even a little plaques on the desks engraved with their names. So very civil service.

The room itself is divided into roomy cubicles and arranged into four rows of three. However, One set stands apart, closest to the panoramic glass windows and looking ‘over’ the others - Agent 009, Q presumes.

On one wall there is a setup of communal facilities like a bulletin board, stationery cupboard, printers and a shredder. Speaking of the shredder, the poor machine is in a state; the collection bin is detached and lying on its side a few feet away. Scattered around the base of the shredder and indeed all over the carpeted floor are bits and strings of shredded paper; like someone had a fight with the machine and lost. The static from the carpet is going to make this mess an absolute pain to hoover up.

Q comes to stand in front of Bond’s executive sized desk and picks up his name plate ::James Bond C.M.G, R.N::

“So you do have an office. A rather nice one in fact. Why then do you insist on doing your paperwork amidst the clutter in Q-Branch?”

Bond looks cagey, like he’s hiding something. He clears his throat and mutters, “The WiFi is better down there.”

Q looks skeptical. He would know, he had worked with Mark to add secure repeaters all over the building’s dead spots. They had carried out WiFi speed and coverage tests all over the building and there isn’t any significant difference anymore. “That’s a common misconception, 007. We’ve tested the speeds—“

“—Yes well, it just feels that way.” Bond cuts him off before Q pokes more holes in his excuse with inconvenient facts.

Q decides to let it go. Instead, he makes a slow circuit around the room out of curiosity - observing the individual touches that each agent has added to their space, a little glimpse at their personal choices and preferences.

For example 001, their longest serving female agent, silver haired matriarch with a razor sharp wit that could cut through any armour better than depleted uranium bullets - but collects tacky porcelain teacups from her travels. Q fears she might become a politician someday and maybe even Prime Minister.

Then there is 008, who is retiring by the end of the year. Poignantly he has pictures of his family all around him. An ex-wife whom he still loves and is battling serious illness; and teenaged children that he has missed out on most of formative lives. His retirement couldn’t come soon enough.

When Q is finally done snooping, he comes to a stop at the cubicle opposite Bond’s and seats himself on the edge of the desk, “Ugh something smells ripe….”

“Yes, it reeks in here.” Then suddenly Bond looks up concerned, “It’s not me is it?”

“No…don’t think so.” Q reassures distractedly. He turns around in place, sniffing. “It think… It’s coming from around here,” he spies the owner’s name on the plaque - Alec Trevelyan. Q gets up and rounds the desk. When he bends over closer to the desk drawers the smell gets significantly stronger. “I think it’s coming from in here.”

“What is it?” Bond asks curious now.

“Well I’m not opening it! Who knows what kind of souvenirs 006 brings back from his missions,” Q backs away from the desk, images of severed ears and pinky fingers briefly crossing his mind. After all, they are all barely restrained psychopaths at the best of times. Although if that were true, what does that say about Q then; that he prefers their company to that of most people - well not all of them, just one in particular if he were to be honest.

Bond laughs, knowing exactly what Q is imagining, “No stomach for the macabre?” he crosses the short distance to Alec’s desk, gently moving Q out of the way. “Besides if he were to bring back a souvenir, he would be sure to pickle them first.”

He’s teasing of course - but nevertheless, as he hooks his fingers under the drawer pull, he braces himself for what he might find. The drawer slides out smoothly, releasing a noxious plume of rotting stench.

“Oh Christ!!” The smell nearly makes him gag. Q covers his nose with the sleeve of his cardigan and leans over Bond’s hunched shoulder to see. In there lies what looks to be the remains of someone’s putrefied lunch or lunches. A banana so rotten its has liquefied into black slush, a circle of half eaten soft cheese sitting on top of the rotting liquid that is now absolutely overgrown with mould and the piece de resistance - a quarter tray of what must have been sashimi of some kind. The rotting seafood, vegetation and cheese slurry a potent combination.

Fucking Alec is always leaving food around to the dismay of his colleagues that share the space. It is no wonder then, there is every so often the passive aggressive ‘cc all’ email from some returning Double-0 about clearing out leftover food and a reminder to consume all food in the break room at the end of the hall outside.

Bond slams the drawer back shut and retreats to his side quickly, herding Q along with him.

Q looks a little green around the gills, “I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that I ate lunch before I came in here.”

“I hope you don’t mind being one agent short, because I’m going to kill Alec when he gets back.” Bond resolves.

“IF he comes back you mean. You know him, he’s likely absconded to an early dinner by now.”

Bond dreads the implication, ”There is no way in Hell I’m cleaning that mess up.” He draws the line at that. Nope. No way.

Speaking of killing agents, there is a small stack of printed cards on the corner of Bond’s desk. Q picks them up, he’d seen these before, several years ago. It’s Bond’s premature obituary from the small ceremony the service held in his honour. Q was a senior tech then and had not known Bond other than brief glimpses when he came to pick up his kit.

“Are you shredding these?”

“Rather odd to keep them.” A curios thought pops into his mind, “Where were you then, Q? Had you joined the service?”

“I was Senior Tech, equivalent to Nish’s S position. It’s likely we never crossed paths but you would have been familiar with my tech in the field… You didn’t spend as much time in Q-Branch then as you do now.” Q tries to needle him about that again.

Bond sidesteps it with an expertly placed question, “Did you come to my funeral?”

“No, it was a small private affair. Only the old Q and R went. Besides, I was atoning for my sins then.” The question triggers Q to reminisce about those few months before he met 007 and how much his life changed within that short span on time.

——

Flashback: 3 years prior...

45 minutes before the start of The Istanbul Incident.

The phone rings down in Q-Branch’s general line. After the sixth ring, “Anyone going to pick that up?!” Engineering Minion A calls out as he wipes his hands on an oily rag. Its early, 7:30am so Q-branch is mostly deserted. Minion A is loading ammo into 008’s BMW before the agent arrives to pick up his car.

Nobody answers, so Minion A has to trudge over to the phone. For his trouble, he is rewarded immediately with a string of expletives as greeting coming through from the other end. It is too early in the morning for this, “Look either you calm the hell down or I’m hanging up.”

“Where are the cyberboffs in Q-branch?!” the voice on the other side demands.

Minion A takes a deep breath and explains that it is early, they’re not in yet but he’ll check. He finds a still sleepy Q (who is currently still Collin Mitchel, holding the S rank) in the small pantry hidden in the back of Q-branch nursing his cup of tea. Hair in a wild mess as usual. He informs him about the call and warns that the person on the other end is in a right mood.

Q picks up the transferred call to a frantic Mark of IT-Branch on the other end. “Fuck Mitchel! Please tell me its you guys messing about the Level 5 servers right now! I know we said surprise us but it’s a little early in the day don’t you think??” Mark is referring to the CyberWar games that IT and Q Branches usually play on Friday nights to strengthen MI6’s cybersecurity.

“What are you talking about? I’m hardly awake enough to operate anything more sophisticated than a kettle…” Q sighs as he removes his glasses and rubs his sleepy eyes.

“Collin…” Mark’s voice goes dead serious as he attempts to calm down, “… I’m not dicking around right now. If it’s not you or anyone in Q-Branch, then why the hell is my system logging unusually large data downloads from Level 5 severs?”.

That gets Q’s attention. Mark is one of the best in IT-Branch and and they share a mutual concern about the state of MI6’s cyber security preparedness. There have been times when Q has thought of asking Mark to transfer to Q-Branch, coaxing him to the ‘dark-side’ as they call it. So Mark’s uncharacteristic panic is like a jolt of adrenaline that wakes Q up faster than the strongest cup of tea. Q punches the speaker button and replaces the receiver before grabbing the nearest chair, spinning it around and settling in front of a console. He logs in and pulls up the data traffic log Mark is monitoring.

Over the past year IT and Q Branches have come to a truce so to speak. Q-Branch will provide the cybersecurity tools and IT will carry out the implementation. What it meant was that Q and his colleagues would build the encryption and protocols, but it was up to IT to roll it out, monitor and patch. So just like what they did for the field agents, they made the weapons but it was up to the agents when and where to use it. In the event an active threat was present, they will work together to repel the attack. IT was in the midst of overhauling the systems - but as anyone can imagine, with so many layers of legacy systems, it was a slow process. But at least it no longer resembled Swiss cheese.

They’ve secured the most sensitive files with the latest encryption at least - but that is always double edged, put too many padlocks on a door and you’re telling the burglar where you’re hiding your best stuff.

“I see it. When did it start? Q switches to his game voice. Crisp, efficient.

“15 minutes ago. I was on my morning run when the alarm came through. I ran back as fast as I could.”

“Can you shut down the server?”

“Not while Ops is running. They’ll loose access to classified files for cross-referencing. As well as the encrypted satellite feeds that run though it. We’ve got Eastern Russia running right now and Istanbul is coming up soon.”

“Has M been informed?”

“Not yet. I was hoping it was you guys mucking around.”

“Mark, I don’t have full access to the servers from Q-Branch terminals. I can hack it, but I’d rather not cause even more alarm.”

“Get up here then! M and Tanner just arrived, you can work up here and.... I’d rather you came with me to face M.”

“You’ll have to buzz me up, I don’t have full clearance.”

A second later he hears Mark’s muffled voice yell something to someone in his team.

“Davis is going down to get you now. Fuck. …Mitchel is this it?”

The question hangs heavily. They’ve been predicting something like this to happen for a few months now. In the last 18 months, there has been an increase in breach attempts on MI6 systems. Together IT and Q-Branch have managed to repel most of them or limit the extent. It’s a cat-and-mouse game. Both sides using each successive attempts to gauge skill and strength.

The elevator ride up to Q-Branch was excruciating. Q now understands why M wants to have the two branches working closer together, the bureaucracy is eating into their response time.

When Q arrives at IT-Branch, Mark is tracing the source. M and Tanner standing close by. It’s coming from an MI6 laptop - using the credentials of an Agent Sebastian Ronson who is currently on mission in Istanbul. Q slides into the station next to Mark, they fall into practiced ease. Mark will defend the keep, and Q will chase the trail.

“Contact Agent Ronson, now!” Tanner tells Mark. Mark calls the mobile number registered to Ronson in Istanbul.

*Click* an automated female voice informs them that the number is currently not in service.

They pull up the Istanbul Ops file, Ronson has three other field agents with him. He calls the other numbers with the same result. He calls the hotel next, but the front desk informs them that the men have checked out.

While Mark is trying to make contact, Q is tracing the breach, trying to identify the affected files. To his relief, the files in this partition were not just encrypted, they were protected with a copy prevention and decryption protocol that he had written. He didn’t know what the files contained, he didn’t have that security clearance. He just built the moat and the fortress that surrounded it. What the higher ups put in it was anyone’s guess. But one thing he did know was that whoever wanted the data had to physically retrieve Ronson’s authorised hard drive to to get to it.

He informs M as much.

Something about the this whole situation seems odd, ”Ma’am if the hackers anticipated that they would need an authorised laptop as a file cache, and they’ve cut off Ronson’s communication with us - the only logical assumption is that they not only know the location of Ronson and the team but they have a plan to retrieve that laptop.... and very soon. Before we re-establish communication or Ronson suspects something is amiss.”

Tanners eyes go wide, M goes very still. This would mean the hacker’s plan is live - making this a life threatening emergency.

“Do you know what files were downloaded?” M asks.

“I can show you the list of files, but I don’t know what’s in it.” Q pulls up the log and moves aside for M to look for herself.

One of the folders makes M’s heart skip a beat. It’s a summary of field reports from across NATO agencies informing each other of their activities including embedded undercover agents and informants. The idea was to coordinate efforts and reduce doubling up agents which might increase suspicion and also prevent ‘friendly fire’ so to speak from multiple agencies working independently. It’s not a list per se, but it would be fairly easy to put the information together into one.

M points out the folder to Q, absolute certainty in her voice, “He’s after this folder. Can you delete it remotely?”

Q activates remote access of the agent’s laptop and gets to work.

::ERROR. Remote access denied. Sys admin required::

Q tries 3 more times with different admin credentials with the same result. Now they’re in real shit.

“Mark I’m locked out.” Q looks to Mark. Mark tries an even higher level credential and still nothing.

“We have to pull the plug—” Mark tells him.

“—Wait till I’m done. If you do that now, the download stops, and the hacker will know we’re on to them and cut the connection.”

“Isn’t that the point?” M interrupts him sharply.

“Ma’am, if he already has the file you think he’s after, and everything else is just a blind grab, then this is the last chance we have at wiping that drive. I need him to remain connected until I can hack in and execute the delete code.”

M sees his point. Use the other files as bait, the hacker doesn’t actually know the right folder yet. Q turns back to access the laptop through backchannels, several long minutes later, he finally manages to get in. He has partial access, one of them happens to be turning on the webcam on the laptop.

“Come on, come on…” The webcam turns on, but no-one is in front of it. “Mark, the webcam! Try getting through to Ronson.” Q broadcasts the feed to the main IT room monitor and the video conferencing camera attached to it.

While Mark scrambles into action, Q continues to chip away at the hijacked laptop’s protocols to gain delete access. Over his shoulder and speakers he can hear Mark trying to make contact with their agent, accessing the laptop’s volume control remotely and cranking it up as high as it would go.

“Agent Ronson! Can you hear me?… Agent Ronson?”

There are sounds of men talking in the background, and suddenly Ronson comes into view.

“Agent Ronson! Your position has been compromised. You need to move urgently. You are to remove the laptop drive and destroy it immediately.” Mark informs him.

“What? What’s going on? We’ve just finished our morning briefing and about to head out.” These precious few seconds of confusion will cost Ronson his life.

“Abort mission, get out of there and destroy the laptop!” M steps into view of the camera and barks the order.

Ronson finally realises the severity of the situation, but it is too late. He barely has time to draw his weapon when the sound of a door being kicked open is heard. Automatic gunfire sprays into the room, including two right into Agent Ronson’s torso and its over. Ronson collapses into the armchair, as they watch, impotent. Few seconds later the assailant pushes shut the laptop screen from behind. They never get a look at the person.

In those few seconds before that, Q finally gains access. Just after he executes the secure delete code, the connection is terminated. The screen goes dark. Q doesn’t know if it worked.

All eyes are on him. Not just his superiors, but the rest of IT techs, the room is dead silent.

“I..I can’t be sure it worked. If they shut down the laptop before the drive is wiped, it would mean the data is still on it. But they will have to still break the encryption on the files to read it. That buys us time—”

M starts walking away before he is even finished talking. Tanner on her heels. Q can hear her rapid fire orders to him as they turn to enter the main Ops room and to her office.

“Where is 007?”

“On his way.”

“Who else do we have in Istanbul?”

“Eve Moneypenny, junior field agent.”

“Get her on the ground to support 007.”

“Medical evac for Ronson and the team?”

“Still trying to contact them…..” Their voices fade away as the doors close.

Mark and Q share a look. -Shit-….doesn’t even begin to cover the magnitude of this cockup. Q can’t stop the feeling of crushing disappointment building inside. They’ve lost this one.

Mark in an uncharacteristic fit of anger-filled frustration, picks up his mouse and hurls it at a wall. There is nothing they can do anymore, Ops team will handle it from here. “I’m going to shower,” he announces to the quiet floor. Q notices that Mark is still in his running gear and sweaty either from the run or the emergency.

Q waits till Mark is out the door before slowly rising and facing the rest of the IT techs staring at him wide-eyed. It’s literally first thing in the morning and they’ve just watched a field agent take two right in the chest. Not an everyday occurrence.

He takes a deep breath and starts rattling off orders even though Q isn’t technically their boss.

“Revoke Ronson’s credentials, check and update credentials of all the other agents in the field that we can contact, pull the activity logs and study the hack, comb the application code for a trojan, check the other servers to see if anything else was downloaded, request for Ronson’s laptop to be returned as soon as Ops can recover it…..” and so on. No one questions him, and the floor bursts into a hive of activity.

Weeks later, when the dust settles and the forensics completed, they would learn that Agent Ronson was never aware of the breach. Ronson’s laptop was just an entry point, they intercepted data traffic through his WIFI. It was excruciatingly simple once they examined the remains of the laptop. The hackers switched out his secure mobile hotspot and used the same network name - a moment of inattentiveness on Ronson’s part and that was it. A key logger captured his credentials and the hacker used it as an entry point to gain access to the system, releasing a virus that burrowed into deeper levels of the classified database.

———

Two Weeks later…

The young woman about his age in the monochrome pantsuit looks over at him,”What are you in for?”

Her question stops Q’s nervous pacing outside the conference room.

“I mean we’re both here for the Istanbul investigation…” she coaxes. There is no smugness - just deadpan with a hint of dark humour to her tone. She doesn’t look so great herself, her hands have kept up their anxious smoothing of the fabric covering her thighs. It somehow puts Q at ease, knowing he’s not the only one here facing the firing squad.

Might as well, she’ll hear about it in the meeting anyway, “Failed to delete Ronson’s computer hard drive in time. What about you?”

“Shot the double-0 agent who was in the middle of retrieving said drive,” the woman replies wryly.

“Ah... that is unfortunate,” was all Q could come up with. He’s heard the story. It was all everyone could talk about the past weeks. So this is the junior agent with the dubious honour of being the first field agent to kill a Double-0 through friendly fire.

Then because Q is an emotionally bumbling halfwit who thinks humour solves everything, he adds, “Do you think they’ll put us in neighbouring cells? I hear the dungeons are pretty bleak this time of year.”

Instead of the exasperated look he is expecting, the woman regards him and smiles slowly, “Eve Moneypenny, Station-T.” She eventually offers as introduction.

“Collin Mitchell, Q-Branch” he reciprocates, shaking her hand.

—

The meeting goes as expected. No intel about the drive or any sign of decryption activity. 007 is still MIA, no body was recovered - if they don’t find a body in another week, they’ll call off the search teams. There is now serious pressure to restructure how Ops is carried out. They can’t have Ops, IT and Q-Branches working separately without a clear chain of command not in this day and age.

In addition to that, the incident brings home the need to have the handlers and agents work much more closely, like a ‘hand in glove’ so to speak - instead of fobbing them off to a constantly rotating shift of support team. Ronson second guessing Mark’s information was a result of a combination of factors; the unexpected mode of communication and him not knowing who Mark was and therefore not trusting the information. Precious seconds wasted in establishing veracity of the information likely cost him his life.

Agent Moneypenney is suspended from field duty. Pending reassignment possibly to a desk job. Q is temporarily assigned to IT branch to help with securing MI6 systems - he has already been helping out Mark the past few weeks, but this order means he has to dotted line report to IT-Branch Head Timothy Hayden who hates his guts and second guesses everything Q does. It is not going to be pleasant.

Outside the SIS building in the park across from the train station, Eve and Q sit morosely on opposite ends of a bench, picking at their lunch arranged between them.

“Well, I think we got off lightly all things considered.” Eve speaks first.

“Speak for yourself. Hayden still wants his pound of flesh after the print-pocalypse I caused two years back. I’m going to be debugging applications for the rest of my life if he has any say in it.”

Eve snorts, then a few moments later very sombrely reminds him, ”I killed someone Collin.”

Q hangs his head. Perspective. “OK. You win... “ He says very gently, trying to lighten the mood. “…So much for our promising careers in espionage.”

They eat their lunch in silence for a while before Eve speaks up again. “I thought of going to see his next of kin; you know... to make amends. Tell his wife and children how brave he was, how his last moments were spent defending his country. Least I could do... Maybe even ask for forgiveness one day.” Eve’s face crumples, her voice cracking.

She draws in a long shaky breath, then through a thick sob she says,“Tanner tells me he didn’t have any. This bloody -job- was his whole life.” She gasps, a hand coming up quickly to cover her mouth and nose, muffling the earnest sobs that were wrecking through her now. Before this, she had held steady for two weeks to the day since she pulled that trigger.

He doesn’t know what to say, up to two weeks ago he had been mostly sheltered from the more gruesome aspects of his job - Ronson was the first agent he’d ever seen killed live, not a recording after the fact. One moment he was talking, the next, fatally wounded - his story ended right that moment. Ronson had an ex-wife, no child.

Not knowing what else to do, Q moves their lunch away and scoots close, wrapping his arms around Moneypenny and she does the same for him. They don’t say much after this. But it is the start of their standing Thursday lunch. A friendship forged through mutual adversity and tragedy. The both of them having to work their way back into M’s good graces.

——

Back to Present…

“Oh? Not classified is it? Would you be able to tell me about it?” Bond looks genuinely interested.

“Over dinner… if you can finish up here by then.” Q raises an eyebrow at the amount of work still to be done.

Alec chooses that moment to swan back into the room, two ladies from the secretarial pool in tow, one on each arm. They gingerly lower him into his chair and he sighs in excessive relief. The ladies coo soothingly at him, massaging his allegedly sore shoulders and back.

“Awfully nice of you to come back.” Bond says but refuses to acknowledge his theatrics.

“I had to, left my pills here. Sam dear, could I have some help with these?” He pouts pitifully at her as he hands her the blister pack of pain medication that was on the table. Then,“Ta, so kind of you,” when Sam pops the requisite number of pills into his mouth and Ginny brings his coffee to his lips.

Q shakes his head at 006’s antics. He can be such a loveable cad. Not too long ago 007 was reputed to be the same - twin terrors that made M rethink her decision on a daily basis.

“Oh, and we brought your coffee as demanded.” Ginny comes over to hand Bond his coffee - it is no longer hot but warm. She glances apologetically at Q, “Sorry we didn’t get you one, sir.”

“Well, now that you’re back, mind finishing up here?” Bond shakes a box of papers awaiting the shredding machine for emphasis.

“Ooooh… give me a moment. The meds haven’t kicked in.” Alec moans woefully, which prompts the women to renew their fussing over him.

“Really sir! Can’t you see Alec isn’t fit to do any heavy lifting?” Sam admonishes Bond.

Her audacity takes Bond aback, he glances at Q and spreads his arms in a ’look what I have to endure because of Alec’ gesture. Q smiles back at him sympathetically.

An idea forms in Bond’s mind. He makes a show of stapling a stack of papers that needs to be filed. “Oh bugger!” he proclaims loudly. “Ran out of staples. Alec do you have any refills?”

Alec still basking in the female attention pulls open his desk drawers distractedly before turning to look. Within seconds, the stench of his past meals come back to haunt him as it wafts intrusively into the room. He slams the drawers back shut again.

“Oh! What is that smell?!” Ginny straightens, alarmed. Sam recoils as well. Both women stepping away from his desk instinctively.

Alec shots to his feet, eyes wide, “Whoops! Looks like break time is over. I ought to get back to finishing the housekeeping.”

006 quickly usher the women out, sending them on their way with a wink and a flirty quip, “I’ll see you ladies later this evening. 5:30? I shall count down the hours.”

When they are out of earshot, he rounds on 007, “You bastard!”

Bond’s infantile snickering turns into outright uncontainable laughter. “How is it my fault? Throw your dammed leftovers away.”

“Oh I’ll throw something alright,” Alec grabs his empty coffee cup and is about to pitch it at Bond’s head when Q slides in front of him. Q levels them both with his Quartermaster stare, quelling any further childish escalation of hostilities.

“Well now, if the both of you are quite finished sabotaging each other, perhaps you’d like to bring those boxes and the offending drawer down to Q-Branch?”

Twin looks of confusion.

“We have an industrial shredder and a power washer down in the lair... If you gentlemen would like the use of it.” Q smiles and nods his leave.

——

Day of HRHs Prince Charles and William’s Visit

Q-Branch is abuzz with activity, even more than usual. The labs are cleaner than they ever will be again. Not pristine, but not quite the mad scientist lair and far less a safety hazard than it usually is.

Everyone has on their cleanest lab coat, overalls and PPE. Q’s even had a haircut and attempted to tame it with ‘product’ this morning.

Center stage for this portion of the visit is the modified Aston Martin V8 Vantage recovered from 007’s latest mission - with a battered front end and deep gouges along its flanks. On top of Bond’s decorative additions - it was also generously riddled with bullet marks, much of it concentrated on the pockmarked windscreen and windows, none of which penetrated the bulletproofing thankfully.

Q nearly had a fit, it would have been impossible to repair the damage in time; but Moneypenny had the brilliant idea to turn the narrative in their favour - a gritty, uncensored example showcasing the dangers their agents face in the line of duty and the tech used to keep them safe. And what better way to bring the message home than to have the actual agent that survived the ordeal; Commander James Bond aka 007 regale the Royal Highnesses with the story himself.

So they left the car pretty much alone, other than rolling it into the centre of Q-Branch. It cut a forlorn picture sitting there, with its damage on full display - gun barrels sticking out, boot open and bits of carbon fibre hanging off. It looked like a squashed insect in the middle of a clean floor.

As for the man of the hour himself, he had sauntered into Q-Branch right after the tour of the Double-0 office was done. He’s there practicing his story, memorising the script Eve wrote for him. Not that he needed a script to remember what happened - he was there after all, but he tended be a little sarcastic and churlish with his words, at least in his written reports so the script was an insurance against that.

Moneypenny had insisted that 006 & 007 wear their military uniforms as it added to the pomp and circumstance, Mallory agreed. So Bond and Trevelyan were in their Naval uniforms. Trevelyan was somewhere in the building making full use of the uniform and the effect it produced on anyone inclined to go home with him. Last Bond saw of him, he had amassed a small entourage of both sexes in the cafeteria.

*Pheeeww-whiit!!*

There were loud appreciative catcalls and whistles when 007 made his entrance to Q-Branch wearing his immaculate Naval Commander ensemble. He’d politely tipped his hat to everyone as he went around looking for the Quartermaster to present himself - curios to see if it produced any effect.

“How are the preparations coming along?” He found the Chief Overlord in the back pantry making a cup of tea and had sidled right up behind him to rumble in his ear. Q chokes on his tea. Bond quickly rescues the mug from the quartermaster’s hand while the man sputters and recovers from the fright.

“Bond! How many times have I told—,”Q’s words are cut off abruptly when he turns around to face the insufferable agent.

“… have I… I…,” He tries to restart his standard tirade, but it dies on his lips so he gives up and resigns to just staring. His brain is frizzing out, Q’s sure. The only thought on his mind is what a dashing figure he cut - those magnificent the gold braids on his cuffs, the eight gold buttons glinting in the light, the shoes polished to perfection.

He could almost forgive this man for ruining his prized car. Almost. -The navy colour brings out his eyes-. And for loosing the rifle. Maybe. -What do all those insignias mean?-

A minute later, and Q is still lost in contemplation. Bond leans in close again, blue eyes shining, “Are you nearly done with your assessment?” He brings Q’s rescued mug up to his lips and takes a long sip, never breaking eye contact throughout.

Q’s eyes trail down to Bond’s throat, the way his Adam’s apple bob against the white collar and dark tie as the agent swallows. At the sound of Bond clearing his throat, Q’s eyes snap back up again to regard the agent in the eye. -What were they taking about again?-

“Right. Yes. Preparations. Everything’s ready… And how are you with your script?” Q reclaims his mug, clutching it with both hands to protect it. The bastard has taken to stealing his drink at every opportunity, ever since that night of the party* here at Q-Branch.

“All squared away in here,” Bond taps his temple with a finger. “The hair’s new,” He makes an observation of his own. He brings up his right hand and lightly cards his fingers through Q’s fringe. It breaks up the neatly gelled hair, letting a few pieces fall more beguilingly over his forehead. Personally, he prefers the perpetually messy look Q wears on a daily basis.

Q is transfixed by the presumptuously familiar gesture. All he can do is let his gaze drift along the hands, up to the white cuff peeking out of the navy sleeve, the triple gold braid rank insignia on the sleeve, up the arm to the crisp line of the shoulder and back to Bond’s face.

Those fingers that were a second ago in his hair lowers slowly to touch the back of Q’s hand that is wrapped around the mug, drawing a slow teasing circle on the skin before circling his wrist to pull his hand and the mug up to the agent’s mouth - stealing another long sip. When Bond finally withdraws, his bottom lip graze lightly over Q’s forefinger.

Q’s breathing has transformed into embarrassingly short and shaky pants. -The fucker doesn’t even drink tea on a regular basis- so all this, is for Q’s benefit. And it is highly effective. The warm flush that has crept over his cheeks throughout the ordeal, spreads like wildfire over his skin right down to his groin at that final touch.

It comes out as an almost whimper, “Is it just me, or is it too warm in here?… Perhaps I should check on the settings. It wouldn’t do to broil our royal guests.” Q edges along the pantry counter, out of the agent’s magnetic circle of influence - he needs all his faculties intact right now.

“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” Bond catches his cardigan sleeve just before he is out of reach.

“Yes, of course. See you after.” Q ducks out of reach as soon has Bond’s fingers release him.

——

Post Royal visit…

-It is perfectly normal to have a standing Friday night dinner with a colleague isn’t it?- Q questions the reflection in the lavatory mirror.

The royal visit to Q-Branch had gone off without a hitch. M was mighty pleased, 007 was engaging and respectful, his minions competent and efficient and all of Q’s live tech demonstrations went smoothly as rehearsed.

Now that it was over, Bond was waiting for him outside so they can adjourn to their dinner appointment. The prospect of spending this evening with the agent, as they almost invariably do countless nights before this, feels daunting all of a sudden. What the bloody hell is wrong with him tonight? This is so uncharacteristically like him.

Q knows that Bond loves to tease. And Q has permitted and played along all this time - but he’s not sure how Bond would feel if the agent knew how many less than ‘proper’ fantasies of Q’s he has had a staring role in. Q feels bad about using the agent like this. He genuinely enjoys Bond’s company and tries to stay in it for as long as the other would permit; but sometimes Q thinks he might be imposing on the agent’s down time.

-This is karma- Q thinks. His sins finally catching up to him. That blasted naval uniform and its amplifying effects on Bond’s already considerable charms - he can’t think straight when the agent is in it. Squashing his arousal has been especially difficult this evening. He doesn’t want to cause Bond any discomfort... in case the agent notices.

Perhaps cancelling tonight would be the decent thing to do; and maybe put a stop to subsequent dinner invitations. Oh but no… the thought of not having these evenings with Bond hurts him like a round kick to the chest. A curious if painful reaction, one that he is not prepared to examine just yet.

-Oh you selfish prick.- We all know how short a Double-0’s tenure can be. Bond should be spending his time with someone he has a chance of developing a consequential connection with; not humouring a romantically challenged quartermaster. There he said it, happy?

Where had this melancholy mood come from? -From the depths of your guilty conscience you dolt.- Or maybe its sexual frustration?

By the time he’s done with with the self recriminations, Q’s so morose he’s close to losing it emotionally. He had turned his back to the mirror at some point, and is now leaning against the sink counter, head bent, a hand in his hair, phone in the other. He seriously considers calling Eve, she knows how to deal with… squishy emotions like adult.

But before he can make the call, the lavatory door creaks open. It is after hours, so there shouldn’t be many people still about.

“Q? Are you in here?” Bond’s voice calls out. Shit. He must have been waiting too long for this liking.

The man steps into view. One look at Q and immediately concern colours his voice. “Q, are you alright?” Then seeing the phone in Q’s hand, “What happened?” He steps in close, wrapping his hands around Q’s elbows.

“I uh… I… I don’t know where to start.” Q is hesitant for a few seconds, looking for his words. But then it seems the cork on his bottled up emotions pop and it all comes pouring out.

“Bond… I feel… somewhat guilty. These dinners, I mean. I sometimes feel I’m taking advantage of your time. I’m not imposing am I? And please be honest. I won’t hold it against you. I know you Double-Os have this weird game about flustering the quartermaster, but I don’t want you to think I take the game seriously and that I’ll withhold any tech you’ll need because of it. If you have somewhere better to be, please don’t hold out on my account—”

He feels a full on ramble developing. Maybe he should stop talking so the man can answer. Or maybe he’s afraid of the answer and that’s why he can’t stop talking.

“—Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely enjoy these evenings with you. I look forward to every one of them in fact, but I don’t want you to feel like you -have- to continue with them because of some silly game. We both know your down time is precious and you don’t have many opportunities to socialise outside of your cover. So it would be immensely selfish of me to continue to take up that time…“

Q pauses, not because he ran out of things to say, but because he ran out of breath. He gulps air like a drowning man and continues… because if he stops talking, he just might start blubbering like some hysterical idiot.

“You ought to be spending this time more constructively, with someone you care about and have that reciprocated. Not that I’m indifferent… your welfare concerns me greatly. Hence this overdue lecture about not wasting your time on something that would essentially amount to… to… to nothing.” -Oh wow… that fucking hurt to say out loud.- Right in the diaphragm, just under the sternum. Q unconsciously presses a thumb as close to the spot as he can get.

He meant every word of it. He wouldn’t stand in the way if Bond found someone he would rather spend time with. -What is he even saying, of course he wouldn’t be in the way, he had no claim in the first place.Silly dolt.-

“Not that there are any expectations on my side.” Q is quick to put him at ease on that front. -Liar-. Why is he even saying these things? It was just dinner between friends. Why is he being so bloody melodramatic about it? -Shut up. Shut up.-

Q gives his head a shake for finality, “Bottom line is, I’ve taken advantage of you and I apologise.” He finally looks Bond in the eyes, or tries to. The man’s face is blurry, Q thinks to reach up to clean his glasses but realises to his horror that it is unshed tears that is clouding his vision. -Well isn’t this perfectly humiliating.-

Bond is studying him with intense blue eyes - searching for something. The moment stretches…

It reminds Q of that silly Netflix show where the characters roll a dice and their futures split into six different outcomes. For the first time Q wonders if there exists a timeline where he and Bond could conceivably end up more than friends. There is a likelier chance that in some timeline, maybe even this one - Bond walks into the sunset with some femme fatale he picks up along the way. Alive and whole with the possibility of finally finding the happiness he so deserves after years of tragic sacrifice. And Q has no choice but to shake his hand and watch him go. Knowing Bond, he’ll probably ask to keep the DB5 too.

-Well, good luck getting that thing serviced at any random garage.- Q digs his thumb harder into his diaphragm to distract himself from the flaring discomfort.

Bond’s voice is low and soft when he finally says something, “Q… this might have been longest ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech anyone has made. Are you breaking up with me?”

That earns Bond an involuntary chuckle even through his unshed tears, “Don’t be facetious… *sniff*…I’m being serious.” Bond is right though, this whole conversation was silly, they were just friends. What kind of person weeps over dinner with a friend?

From Bond’s point of view; he knows if he leaves Q to his own devices tonight, the quartermaster will play the gentleman and logic himself out of going out with Bond ever again. Even if that’s not what Q wants himself. Bond can’t risk that.

At the same time, he doesn’t want to push too hard, not when Q hasn’t had a chance to process his own revelations. He has heard enough between the lines of Q’s rambling admission to be fairly confident that his affections are not in vain. All that is needed is patience.

Bond chooses his words and tone carefully, “You’re right… in some aspects. My time is precious, and perhaps limited—,” wry smile,”—So the fact that I choose to spend it with my quartermaster says something about the depth of my fondness for his company.

“As for taking advantage of me, in so much as it is possible,” this one, he is less clear how Q came to the conclusion, “It is true, if there was anyone in the world who might be capable of it, it would be you. But only because I allow it.” He gives Q a few moments to process what he had said. The quartermaster wasn’t the only one who can tiptoe around a subject without actually referencing it.

Bond studies Q as he mulls over the words. He would make a terrible poker player. Q fidgets when he thinks; self soothing gestures - fingers stroking his own hands or turning an object over and over. Over the last half year, those unconscious self soothing gestures have spilled over to include Bond himself, if he is in close enough proximity. Q’s favourite is the tie pin if available, and if not, the cuff links on his sleeve. The satisfaction he derives from be being a source of comfort to Q is unquantifiable.

This evening is no different, despite the ‘breakup’ speech, Q’s fingers have found their way to a gold button on Bond’s uniform - the pad of his thumb worrying over the embossed gilt crown and anchor motif.

“So… it’s not an imposition then? You don’t mind this?” Q summaries felling terribly silly, now that the melancholic fog is lifting.

“Q, not even terrorist with a gun to my head can compel me to give up state secrets, what makes you think I can’t fend off an unwanted dinner appointment?” This statement coming from anyone else would have been hyperbole, but from Bond, it puts his little freakout into perspective. “Believe it or not, I look forward our evenings as well.”

“Ah. Right… “ More contemplative fidgeting with the gold button. Then a deep breath and a noisy sniffle, “Does the invitation to dinner still stand? Some food would do me good I think.” Maybe it’s the low blood sugar that is causing this silliness, Q’s certainly going to play it off that way. Though he suspects this weekend is going to be one of quiet introspection about this oddly personal relationship developing between them.

Bond smiles, leaning close to whisper in his ear, “Dinner always stands.”

Q lets Bond lead him out of the washroom and into the lift, thankful that no one was around to notice how long they spent in there.

In the lift, Q rests his back and head against the side wall. Bond is crowding close next to him, despite the empty lift. He has his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the same wall, body angled towards Q and watching him contemplatively.

“You don’t mind my aftershave do you?” Bond asks all of a sudden with cheeky grin.

“What?” The bizarre question makes Q turn his head to look at him.

“Its not offensive or overpowering is it? You know, in case its off putting to the marks.“ Bond continues, verbally nudging Q to play along, to fall back into their usual banter.

“I didn’t think it appropriate that I should have an opinion about it before.”

“Well, what if I want you to have an opinion about it now?”

Q can’t stay away from their usual play for long; this time it is him that initiates, leaning in close. Bond tips up his chin automatically, to give his favourite boffin better access. Q presses close, nose just shy of touching the underside of Bond’s jaw and takes a long whiff.

It’s the end of a long day so there is only the barest hint of aftershave mixed with his natural scent. -God. He smells good.-

Q passes his verdict, “I… I suppose if I were to have opinion about it, I’d say you smell… perfect.”

————The End————————-

Extended scene….

The lift dings and the doors open. Bond and Q part reluctantly back to a semi-respectable distance. But not before a waiting SIS employee on the other side of the door catches sight of them in what could be construed as a compromising position.

What’s-his-name takes longer than normal to step into the lift, dawdling on the threshold trying to make up his mind to get in or take the next one - despite the virtually empty lift.

The man in the Navy uniform is undoubtedly a Double-0, but the younger one he isn’t so sure, one of the boffs in IT or Q-Branch from the looks of it. If they’re carrying on a secret affair, he doesn’t want to be an unwitting witness - rumours have it, those Double-0s have a way of making interlopers… disappear.

His indecisiveness makes both men shift their attentions towards him. Both expressions quizzical. Navy man sweeps an arm round the empty lift, welcoming him to enter.

“I’ll… um… take the next one…” he says awkwardly and steps quickly out of sight.

——————Fin——————-

Note: If you liked this fic, there’s more like it on the blog. Enjoy!

Q’s Origin story might make more sense if you read my attempt at writing Q’s backstory in the plot outlines below: (they’re not full fics but you’ll get the sense of who this version of Q is.)

Series 1 Pilot here.

Series 2 Episode 1 & 2 here.

And Episode 3.

Also I’m lazy, so some of the other Double-0s are based on pre-existing characters from other fandoms.

009 is based on Harry Hart (Galahad) in Kingsman.

001 is based on Emma Thompson in Johnny English and Late Night, I love how comedically irreverent and straight talking she is, I can imagine her being fed up with the way everyone else talks in their roundabout way and calls them out on it.

#00Q #ooq #Q #quartermaster #00q fanfiction

45 notes · View notes

get-your-fics · 5 years

Text

Violent Ends - Chapter Fourteen

Far Gone

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The fire turned icy cold.

Your words were frozen, and your skin was like fresh fallen snow. Every time I touched you, my fingers turned blue, and I was frostbitten to the touch. Your temper simmered, submerged under freezing depths like something waiting to be awoken. I didn’t know how I expected you to react once you recovered from the shock, but I certainly hadn’t expected this. Every glare you shot me was polar and frigid, your eyes like two lakes frozen over with a thick layer of ice. I wondered what it would take to crack the surface, to melt the wintry glaciers underneath.

I let you alone while I attended to some work at my desk. When I was done, I went out searching for you. “Gorgeous,” I called. I headed for the greenhouse first, but it was empty. “Gorgeous?” My voice was a little louder this time. My shoes slapped against the wooden floors as I picked up the pace. “Gorgeous!”

I came across one of the doors in the hallway cracked open. I stopped in front of it, watching the light leak out of the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. I pressed a hand against the wood and gave it a slight push. It made a loud creak as it swung open on its hinges.

You were in the library curled up in a cushy armchair, your nose buried in a book. On the side table next to you was the french vanilla latte I had made you earlier in a steaming, white ceramic mug on a saucer. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, some shelves so high they needed a ladder to be reached. They were jam-packed with classics by Charles Dickens and Harper Lee, plays written by Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams, or great romances like Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Epics like The Odyssey, poems by Edgar Allen Poe, even some young adult fiction novels that had come out in recent years like The Hunger Games and Twilight. The air smelled like coffee and dust and worn, yellow pages. It had been a while since someone had actually utilized this space, so it brought a smile to my face seeing you there all cozy.

“There you are.” You nearly jumped out of your skin at my words and looked up to settle your gaze on me. I leaned in the doorway, a smug smirk spreading over my face. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

You shrugged and lifted your book to cover your face. I stepped into the room and walked closer to you, my soles tapping against the hardwood. I stopped in front of you and clasped my hands behind my back. I tilted my head to the side and peered at the cover of your book.

“What are you reading?”

You lowered the book to your lap and sighed. “Well, I’m not exactly reading anymore, am I? Not now that you so rudely interrupted.”

I laughed and fell against the velvet, olive sofa opposite you. Mots of dust flew off of the cushions and floated in the air, catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. “What are you reading?” I repeated.

You closed the book and glanced at the cover. “A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn,” you read. My face lit up, and you quirked a brow. “What?”

“I remember seeing that in the bookcase in your penthouse.” I grinned. “I took the liberty of filling the shelves with some of your favorites.” I gestured vaguely around the room. “Hope you don’t mind.”

You shot me a dirty look and shifted in the chair. “I haven’t read this book in years.” You flipped through the corner of the pages and ran your finger down the glossy cover. “Why?”

I furrowed my thick brows. “Why what?”

You looked up from your lap and met my eyes. “Why did you take me?”

I rolled my eyes. “I already told you why-”

“No, I know that,” you cut me off. “I’ve told you everything about me, but I know nothing about you.” You put your book down in your lap. “What made you like this? Why are you the way that you are?” You narrowed your eyes like you could see straight through me, like I was made of cellophane. “Was it your parents?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on edge, and my shoulders went rigid. “Everyone likes to blame the death of my parents for my erratic behavior,” I put the words in air quotes, “but this has nothing to do with them.”

“Then what was it?” You leaned forward. “I know you haven’t always been like this. You weren’t like this in school. You weren’t like this the day Tommy beat you up.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I wouldn’t have liked you so much. I would’ve sensed it,” you asserted. You wrapped your fingers around the handle of the mug and raised it to your lips.

“You didn’t sense anything that night at the Towers though, now did you?” I fired back.

You gulped down a mouthful of latte. “I did, deep down.” You set the mug down and fidgeted with your fingers. “I could feel something was off, but I ignored my gut instinct. Well, that, and you were very persistent.”

“We both know that’s an understatement, gorgeous.” I winked at you.

You looked back up at me. “You’re avoiding the subject. What happened to you?”

I pulled my lips taut into a straight line. “A lot of things your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve basically put me through hell the whole time I’ve been here.” You rested your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands. “Try me.”

“Fine, if that’s really what you want.” I folded one leg over the other and stared you dead in the eye. “An immortal being who had been around for hundreds of years begged me to kill him, and so I did.”

It took a second for the words to settle in, but when they did, your forehead scrunched in confusion. “What?”

“See? What did I tell you? You wouldn’t understand.” I draped my arms over the back of the sofa. “You’ve got to listen to me when I say things like that, gorgeous. I know what I’m doing.”

You ignored my last statements. “That’s impossible. I mean, I knew you were crazy, but this is like an entirely different level.”

“He said I was the only one who could kill him,” I continued, “that I was his heir. I didn’t want to kill him. I thought it was the wrong thing to do, that killing anyone, regardless of the circumstances or who they were or what they had done, was the wrong thing to do. But then he started saying all these things, and he got into my head...” I trailed off. It was almost like I was back there, seeing the flickering candlelight cast shadows on the brick walls and hearing the drip of water from the ceiling on the concrete and feeling the blade as it sunk into Ra’s’s flesh. “I liked killing him, and I thought all the drinking and the drugs and the sex could suppress that part of me, but then I met you, and none of it seemed like enough anymore.”

You stared at me uneasily like I had just bared my soul to you, like I had cut open my chest cavity and ripped out my heart and threw it at your feet. “So you like hurting people?” Your voice was suddenly very small and vulnerable to crack at any moment.

“Not just anyone.” I pressed my hands against the cushions and stood up. “I like hurting you, gorgeous, more than anything else.” I walked towards you, and your breath caught in your throat. “It’s the only thing that keeps me satisfied anymore.”

I reached for you. You inched away from me and pressed yourself against the back of the chair you were sitting in as much as you possibly could. My fingers made contact with your cheek, and you let out a small gasp. I pushed some hair out of your face, watching the strands run between my fingers.

“Your blood is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, the best thing I’ve ever known.” I traced your jawline with my finger down to your neck. I felt your pulse there; it was strong and racing. I followed the blood rushing through the blue vein down your chest were it disappeared under the neckline of the dress you had on.

You swatted my hand away. “Why would you think doing bad things would get rid of these bad parts of you? Dark only breeds more dark. You need light to cancel it out.” You lifted your chin. “It’s easier to fall down the wrong path. Trust me, I know, I almost did so myself. But none of it’s going to make you any happier. It’s not going to make you feel any better. It’s just going to dig you into a deeper and deeper hole until you’re left with nothing but the bits of you that you hate.”

I cocked my head to the side and ran my gaze over you, as if I was considering your words. Then, I wrapped my fingers around your neck and squeezed down, not enough to cut off your airway, but just enough to make it hurt. Your mouth opened but no sound came out. “It’s cute when you act like you know what’s going on in here,” I tapped my finger against my temple, “but you don’t. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and it’s all thanks to you.”

I let go of your neck and smacked your cheek lightly. The high I got from watching the fear take over you and flood your eyes was unlike anything else I had ever experienced. I chuckled lightly and took a step back.

“Face it, gorgeous. I’m too far gone. You said it yourself; I’m crazy.” I grabbed your mug off of the side table next to you. It was empty. “I’ll go get you some more coffee.”

You didn’t utter a word as I left the room. I walked through the halls into the kitchen and put the mug in the coffeemaker. I filled it with water and opened one of the cabinets. I got out a bag of coffee grounds and poured it into the coffeemaker. I pushed a few buttons and watched as curls of steam started to drift out of the machine. I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms over my chest, crossing one ankle over the other.

When the mug was full of dark brown, steaming hot liquid, I took it out of the coffeemaker. I mixed it with some cream and a lot of sugar before heading back to the library, but I found it empty. “Gorgeous?” The book you had been reading was placed on the side table.

The light brown coffee sloshed from side to side in the mug as I marched down the halls. I peeked in the living room and the bedroom, but you weren't there either. I even checked the greenhouse again, but still, you were no where to be found. I cursed under my breath, starting to regret ever letting you roam the manor freely as it was becoming increasingly easier to lose track of you, when my ears pricked up at the sound of a voice.

I skidded to a halt and zeroed in on the sound. It wasn’t your voice; I could recognize that anywhere. This was a female’s, much brighter and chirpier and sunnier. “Gorgeous!” I followed the distant noise to one of the extra rooms that had been converted into a parlor nobody ever used.

Now, before I had taken you, I had gotten rid of any and all technological devices you could possibly find and use to contact the police except for two: the first being the iPad I used for surveillance on your penthouse, which I kept under the false bottom of the bottom drawer of my desk at all times when I wasn’t utilizing it, and the second being the television kept in this particular parlor, partly because I found it harmless, and partly because I had forgotten about its very existence.

All of the lights were off in the parlor except for the blue light emanating from the tv. It was turned on to a news channel, and a woman sat at a desk in front of a panel of windows overlooking the Gotham City skyline. She had dark brown hair that fell in soft curls around her face and a square jaw. She looked very professional in the navy blue blazer and white button up she was wearing.

“My name is Valerie Vale, and these are tonight’s headlines.” She folded her hands on top of the desk. “The (Y/L/N) Corporation’s fundraising chairman (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has been reported missing. It was at first believed that she had gone on vacation to Paris, but after not returning her mother’s texts or calls, her mother became worried that something was not quite right. The Paris Police Prefecture have looked into the girl’s whereabouts, and she was not sighted anywhere in Paris. Her family is now believing foul play was involved. This comes only a month after her stepbrother Brant Jones was found murdered in an alley due to a possible mugging.”

I tore my gaze away to see you sitting on a tufted, leather sofa. Your eyes were glued to the screen, and you hugged your knees to your chest. You were absolutely enthralled with every word that left the woman’s lips. The light from the tv flickered over your face, casting shadows across your features, and made your eyes shine with something I hadn’t seen for a long time: hope. Hope danced in your eyes like the flame of a candle waving in the wind. When I had said I wanted to see what could melt your freezing cold exterior, this wasn’t what I had meant.

“What are you doing?” I snapped.

You whirled around to see me standing in the doorway, your eyes growing to the size of saucers. “I was just-”

“Do you think it matters if they know you’re missing?” I set the mug down on the side table and stalked closer towards you. “Do you think it matters if they come searching for you? They’ll never find you here. They’ll never know that I took you.”

You pressed your hands into either side of the sofa, readying yourself to run. I took one more step, and that was all that you needed to hop off the couch. I was on you in a second, grabbing you by the collar around your neck with both hands and pulling your chest flush against mine. You stared up at me, your face inches from mine, and your warm breath fanned my face.

“And even if they did find you here, they’d never be able to rescue you. I’d kill them before they had the chance.” I brought one hand up away from your collar to your cheek, caressing your cheekbone with my thumb. “Is that what you want? You want me to kill whoever comes looking for you?” My lips curled into a sinister grin. “Do you want me to kill your mother?”

“No!” Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was a knee jerk reaction.

My grip on the collar tightened, and you yelped. “Then you better pray that no one ever knows you’re here.” I clutched your shoulders and shoved you down to the ground. “Go ahead, pray.”

You fell to your knees and looked up at me, furrowing your brows. “I don’t understand.”

I sat down on the sofa facing you. “Really? You don’t know what to do when you’re on your knees?” I reached for my belt buckle and smiled as realization bloomed over your features. I made quick work of the belt and tugged my pants and boxers down just enough to free my hardening cock from its restraints. “Open up,” I commanded.

You sat back on your heels with your hands in your lap, that defiant glint I’ve come to know so well in your eye. I leaned forward and seized your chin roughly. I pinched your cheeks, causing your lips to smush together.

“Open up, or I’ll have to force you to,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

You stayed still, drool starting to drip from your smushed lips. I pulled my hand back for a second, and your shoulders slumped with relief. But then I brought my hand down on your cheek, the sound it made as my palm made contact with your skin resonating inside the small room, even drowning out the noise from the tv. Your head turned to the side, and red blossomed in the shape of a handprint on your cheek where I had slapped you.

“Don’t make me repeat myself again,” I hissed.

You turned back to me, your chin wobbling and tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You parted your shaky lips, and I wasted no time threading my hand through your hair and pushing your head down on my length. The tip of my cock slipped past your lips, and you wrinkled your nose, screwing your eyes shut. I used my hand in your hair to guide you up and down my shaft.

“You better not fucking bite me, or I’ll do much worse.” My voice came out strangled like a growl as I felt your warm, wet mouth around me.

I bucked my hips at the same time I moved you down on my cock, slipping farther down your throat. I let out a low groan as you gagged, the back of your throat constricting around the head of my cock. You made a muffled noise around my length, the vibrations only adding to my pleasure, and pressed your hands against the sofa to get away from me. However, my hand in your hair kept you still, and you stopped struggling before I could tear out any strands.

“You’ve got hands, don’t you?” I looked down at you. “Why don’t you use them?”

You shifted your upper body into my lap so I didn’t have to yank on your hair so much to bob you up and down my shaft. You lifted a shaky hand and wrapped your fingers around the base. You pumped what you couldn’t fit into your mouth with your hand. You stared up at me, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes and running down your flushed cheeks. They mixed with the saliva and precum dribbling down your chin.

I thrusted all the way into your mouth, sheathing myself complete inside of you until your nose was nestled in my pubic hair. You tried to jerk back, but my grip on your hair tightened as I held you there. I watched alarm flood your eyes, and you banged your fists desperately against my thighs. I tilted my head and stared down at you. I wondered what it would be like to watch you choke on my cock, to watch your face turn purple as you sucked in your last gulps of air through your nose before your eyes closed forever. Wouldn’t that be a way to go? My cock twitched at the thought, but I didn’t want to cum down your throat.

I released your hair and pulled you off of me. You fell backwards and caught yourself on your hands. You gasped for air, clutching a hand to your heaving chest. Your complexion slowly returned to its normal color as your lungs filled with air. I wasn’t ready to cum inside you. Not yet.

“Get up here,” I snapped next to me on the couch, “on your hands and knees.”

You focused your lethargic gaze on me, precum and saliva still dripping from your lips. When you had enough oxygen in your veins for your brain to properly function, you backed away from me. You scrambled across the floor like a crab, doing anything in your power to put distance between me and you, whether it was useless or not.

I stood up, my erect cock still hanging out of my pants, and walked towards you. You screamed when your back hit a wall and raised an arm to shield yourself from me as I came closer. I latched my fingers onto your forearm and dragged you back towards the sofa. You shrieked and thrashed against me, but my grip on you was too strong. You kicked your legs, trying to dig your heels into the floor, and clawed your free hand against the hardwood for something to hold onto. Your nails left scratch marks on the floor, and I clenched my jaw.

I got within reach of the side table and grabbed the mug off of it. I turned it upside down, dumping the light brown liquid onto your writhing form. You let out an inhuman screech as it hit you. It wasn’t hot enough to permanently burn you; it was just hot enough to sting your skin. You froze and squeezed your eyes shut as it ran down your face, plastering your hair to the back of your neck. I chucked the empty mug at the wall where it shattered into a million ceramic pieces with a deafening crash and showered onto the floor.

I leaned down and folded my arms around your waist. I picked you up like a rag doll and bent you over the arm of the sofa, your bruised knees on the couch cushions. You grabbed onto the arm of the sofa to push yourself up, but I pinned you down with one hand on the middle of your back. I lifted the skirt of your now stained dress over your hips, exposing your ass and pussy to me.

I hummed as I ran my finger through your folds. You were wet to the touch. You stilled, seemingly accepting your fate. I leaned forward so my lips were right against your ear. “Do you want me to fuck you again?” I gathered your juices on my finger before moving it up to your back hole. “Or do you want to try something new?”

That seemed to renew the fight in you. “No!” You kicked your feet against the cushions and banged your fists against the side of the sofa. “Don’t! I’ve never—”

“Are you an anal virgin, gorgeous?” I rubbed circles over your hole. “Does that mean I get to take another thing from you?” My grin was evident in my tone. I nipped at your earlobe with my teeth.

I pushed my finger into you. You went stiff underneath me, and your muscles contracted around my invading appendage. “Ow,” you whined. “That hurts.”

“Just relax. It’ll get better.” I pushed my finger further into you. You had the arm of the sofa in a death grip, your knuckles turning white. I pumped my finger in and out of you. “God, you’re so tight. You need to loosen up.”

I took my finger out of you, and you relaxed until I pressed two against your hole. “No! Stop!” You dug your nails into the leather so hard I thought you would tear it.

I ignored you and pushed them in. You hissed and bit your bottom lip so hard I thought you would reopen the cut splitting it. I pumped my fingers in and out of you slowly, listening to the small squeaks falling from your lips. I increased my pace and moved them inside of you, stretching you out. Then, I took them out of you and watched you clamp down on nothing.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll fill you up soon enough.” I spat into my hand, watching the warm saliva drip down my palm. I ran my hand over my length, smearing my spit mixed with your fluids along my shaft. I was painfully hard at this point and couldn’t wait to be inside of you, to feel you around me.

I gripped the base of my cock and pressed the head against your back hole. You perked up and looked at me over your shoulder. “Please, don’t! Please!” you cried, your eyes glossy with tears.

“Shhh,” I hushed you. “Just do your best to relax, and everything will be all right.” Though, I had to admit, your pleading was only adding to my arousal.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but I thrust into you before you could. You fell forward, your head hanging over the side of the couch. I barely got the tip of my cock in before you constricted around me. Saliva wasn’t exactly the best lube for the job, but the thought of me hurting you this way sent tingles running up my spine. You let out an earsplitting scream, and I moved my hand to grip your hip. My fingers dug into your flesh, carving bruises and crescent moon creases that would be visible in the mirror tomorrow.

I set a rough pace, pushing into you a little more and a little deeper each time my hips moved forward. I couldn’t get enough of the way you felt around me, so hot and tight and warm. The woman on the tv droning on and on was barely audible over the obscene squelch of me inside you and the squeak of the leather under my knees. I moved my hand from your hip down to your ass. I traced the closed up cut on your right cheek. It was about four inches long and formed a perfectly straight line. I felt the thin crust of dried up blood sealing the wound and the raised skin around the scar under the pad of my finger. Pleasure twisted in my gut at the memory of what I had done to you, and at what I was doing to you now.

I leaned forward so my chest was pressed against your back. My shirt and your dress were soaked through with sweat where our bodies met. I slid my hand down between your legs and rubbed soft circles over your clit. Tears dripped off of your chin and landed on your hands holding onto the arm of the couch for dear life. I buried my nose in your hair and inhaled your scent. You smelled like coffee and vanilla and green apple shampoo, and I didn’t know the concoction could be so utterly intoxicating.

I finally managed to thrust into you all the way, my hips snapping against yours, and hit my climax. My high washed over me as I came inside you, a low groan escaping from my throat. My grip on you started to fail as my arms shook, and I pulled out of you, watching my cum dribble out of your hole and down your thighs. I let go of you, and you collapsed onto the arm of the sofa, your head lolling to the side. You made no noise, no movement. I wasn’t even sure if you were conscious or not. The only sign that you weren’t dead was the steady rise and fall of your ribcage.

I fell the other way, my head colliding with a throw pillow. My chest heaved up and down, and my shirt stuck to my skin. The light from the tv changed, catching my attention, and I turned my head to see the same woman behind the desk again. The news station logo was in the top left corner, and a red banner ran along the bottom of the screen declaring other top stories in yellow, capital letters that moved by almost too fast to read.

“It is suspected that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has been missing for about three weeks now,” she recited off of the teleprompter, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Please, if you have any information about her disappearance, anything at all, call the number on the screen or contact the GCPD.”

I felt around for the remote on the side table behind me and clicked off the tv with a hit of a button. It switched off to black, shrouding the room in darkness. I reached forward and snaked my arms around your waist. I pulled you flush against me and rolled onto my side so I was spooning you. Your eyes were closed, and I pressed a quick kiss to the top of your matted hair, tasting a hint of coffee on my lips.

So they had figured out that you were missing now, sooner than I had thought they would. But I didn’t care. It would take an act of God or a sacrifice to the devil to take you away from me, to separate me from you. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can get between us.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #Gotham #gotham fanfic #gotham imagine #gotham fanfiction #dark!fic #dark!bruce wayne #playboy!bruce wayne

97 notes · View notes

zacklover24 · 5 years

Text

Forgotten west chapter 8

Summary: The west was a forgotten place, a time when the land said to be untamable and untouched. A time of gangs and outlaws, a time when the law both good and bad ruled. A time when people did good and bad thing. They lived and they died and time went on, the west was soon forgotten and the gangs that though to rule were long gone and no one could tell who really ruled the land. But this story is about the survival of one gang, and there will and desire to live in changing times. But that didn’t last long soon they were gone and all that was left was broken dreams and broken hope. Time travel au, dealings with the devil, a coming of age story.

Tagging: @dolphinitley, @lokighost, @deputyoneill, @outranks, @nykamito-x, @thotful-writing, @naromoreau, @trashmouth-skywalker

Thank you for your support! Question: Should I post this on Ao3?

Morning came to the camp, a little to fast but also to slow. Arthur woke, happy to see that angel was here and it was not some sort of fucked up dream. The girl was curled up in a ball on her cot, she had been given one of the wolf pelts and was happily sleeping. Arthur smiled, and headed over to the percolator, nothing like a strong cup of coffee to wake him up and to drive away the chill that settled over the camp.

“Good morning, Mister Morgan.” Pearson greets cheerfully as he was making a fresh batch of biscuits.

“Good morning to you Mister Pearson, what a great morning isn’t it?” Arthur asks starting to nurse his coffee.

“You seem to be in a good mood this morning.” Pearson comments with a smile.

“Angel’s back, she didn’t tell those bastards a thing, micah is off living somewhere like a crazy hermit and for the moment were all safe.” Arthur explains smiling watching as john, and javier were switching guard with lenny and karen and were heading off to bed, “JOHN!”

“Yes, arthur?” John asks stopping mid-step.

“Go lay down in my cot, I’m heading out soon.” Arthur tells him, as stored over to john and gave him a quick kiss.

“You feeling’ okay arthur?” John asks him trying to hide his blush, those pearson didn’t seem to care as the many was busying himself with breakfast.

“Feeling fine, just happy to have everyone that should be here is here. Dutch needs to me to head out to check on micah, should be back before tonight.” Arthur tells him with a wink.

John turned a bright red, checking to see that thank God neither angel nor jack were up, “Christ arthur.”

“Just be ready for tonight.” Arthur tells him with a wink, and heading off to his horse, which still did not have a name. Arthur was gone in a flash heading up to get micah and John could blink a few times before heading to arthur cot, john laid down but, not before pressing a kiss to angel check and went to sleep.

Angel work to the sounds of the camp and to light snoring. She sat up to see her uncle John sleeping in her pa cot, that was nothing new. With a yawn, she rubbed her eyes trying to rub sleep out of her eyes. Angel quickly washed and dressed and was heading over to the chuck wagon to grab some grub, when an arm wrapped around her waist,and picked her up, swing her around as she started to giggle, and then someone started to quickly paper her face with kisses.

“Good mornin’ darlin’” Sean greets with a cheery tone of voice.

“Good morning sean.” Angel greets back with a smile as she gave his check a kiss.

“Sleep well darlin’?” He asks setting her down and helping her get a plate, with flapjacks, sourdough biscuits with a nice helping of blackberry jam on it, some sliced apples with tiny bit of honey, and eggs.

“Yes, I did. I missed being here.” Angel tells him as she got her milk, sean and angel walked to the dominoes tables where charles and kieran were eating. Kiern stilled as he saw sean sitting down and helping angel sit.

“Good morning uncle charles, and who are you?” Angel asks looking at kiern with a head title.

“Kieran duffy miss…” Kieran introduces watching sean, who drinking his coffee.

“Angel, angel morgan.” Angel says beaming. Kieran could only stare at angel as she ate, this was arthur daughter? “So where did you come from?”

“We found him when we were up at colter, he’s been helping us take care of the horses and take out colm men” Charles tells her starting to eat. Not a full on lie, but not the whole truth either.

“Oh okay.” Angel says smiling, when breakfast was over, dutch had called angel over to his tent and pulled out a book.

“Angel my dear, why don’t read out loud for a little while?” He asks handing her the book, as he looked out, to see hosea helping jack with his reading while abigail watched.

“Okay uncle dutch.” Angel says smiling as she looked at the book it was ‘alice adventures in wonderland.’

‘ALICE was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?'

So she was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" (when she thought it over afterwards it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but, when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.’

“Your doing great sweetie.” Dutch praises with a head pat, as he started to look for a cigar to smoke. He missed his pipe, maybe arthur could find him a new one.

“Thank you uncle Dutch. Umm uncle Dutch can I ask you something?”

“Of course sweetie.”

“Well the night I got away, a man named Cornwall joined me and milton and he said that you robbed a lot of money from him. And he was looking forward to see hang.”

Dutch room in a deep breath before letting it out, did these men have no shame? The answer was no, who talked about that in front of a child?

“Yes, we did rob him. But this man sounds awful and by the sounds of it he just likes to hear himself talk. We won't let him hang anyone here. Now let's get to your reading.”

Angel read as dutch sat and listened smoking cigar, and the rest of the morning passed the gang on by. And by afternoon, arthur and micah arrived back at camp with a large score and stagecoach, and a notable banking stage, one that dutch didn’t want traced back to him or the gang.

“HOSEA!” Dutch yells as angel was hiding behind him, dutch knew that angel was afraid of micah. Arthur was off to the side, a hand resting on his revelor as he watched for micah to make a move. Even frost was watching micah, the wolf was in attack mood.

“Yes, dutch.” Hosea answer coming over and seeing the stagecoach, “What the hell is that doing here?”

“Mister. Belle and arthur robbed it, and I want it gone!” Dutch yells as angel flinched, dutch patted her on the head, “I’m sorry angel.”

Hosea let out a hum while rubbing his his chain in thought, “I can off load it to seamus over at emerald ranch, should fetch us some money.”

“Fine, do it!” Dutch snaps, “And take jaiver with you, I don’t want you going alone.”

“Naturally.” Hosea agrees going to get jaiver.

“Pa?” Angel softly asks, as arthur looked at angel.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can I go with uncle hosea and uncle javier? I’ll stay with them I swear.” Angel asks him with a hopeful look.

“I don’t see why not. Give me time to get ready.” Arthur says approving. And soon they were off, heading towards to the ranch

Angel sat between javier and hosea as they rode off to emalard ranch as the horses followed after them. During the ride over, javier was helping angel to learn spanish and she giggled each time he taught her a bad word. Much hosea annyonce. He was also teaching her the words that they passed which made the ride over fast and smooth.

“Stick close both of you, the owner of this place is a right bastard.” Hosea warns as they pulled up, a man who angel guessed was seamus meet them at the entrance to a large barn and they rode right in.

“Not bad hosea.” Seamus says looking the stagecoach over, “I can give you fifty dollars for it.”

“Fine.” Hosea says quickly agreeing, watching angel. The girl was off playing with the dog.

“Your granddaughter?” Seamus asks watching the dog lick her face. And giving hosea the money.

“Something like that, thank you seamus.” Hosea says pocketing the money. Angel was happily playing with the dog, when a cold shiver went up her spine.

“Uncle javier.” She calls finding the man tending to the horses. She ran over to him, feeling very afraid.

“Angel? What’s wrong?” He asks, as she looked afraid.

“I want to go back to camp, now.” She tells him hugging him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Were going now.” Javier says looking at hosea and gesturing to the horses. Hosea gave a nod and they left. Hosea later pressed angel for answer but, she was mute as to the why.

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Night soon blanked the area, arthur and john had left at sundown and would be back some time tomorrow. Most everyone in camp agreed that both men needed some time away from camp. Most of the gang had went to bed, leaving few awake. Swanson, and uncle were off drinking, while bill and micah stood watch. Sean and charles were sitting by the fire talking, when sean heard whimpering coming from arthur tent. He stood and walked over to see angel whimpering in her sleep.

“Shh it’s okay dalrin’.” Sean coos rubbing her back as she woke up and looked at him with a fearful look and unshed tears in her eyes. “It was a bad dream, nothing more.”

“It felt real sean ,and it was scary I think.” She whispers pulling her knees up to her chest.

“That’s the thing about dreams darlin’ they may seem real but they ain't. Your safe, ain’t nothing going to hurt you.” Sean gently explains.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep.” Angel whimpers staring at sean.

“Your doing to have to darln’. How about this, why don’t I stay here with you till you fall asleep?” Sean asks.

“I would like that.” She tells him with a small smile, as she laid back down, grabbing sean hand. True to his word, sean stayed till angel went back to sleep, just as frost showed back up and slept under her cot.

“Is everything alright?” Charles asks watching as sean picked up his beer bottle and sit back down.

“Aye she had nightmare, nothing that warnets to much concern.” Sean tells him with a dismissive hand wave.

“That girl, she's a trooper.”

“Her and jack have us watching out for them. As long were here nothin' is going to happen to them.”

End of line

#Forgotten West #red dead 2 #red dead redemption 2 #rd2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #john marston #arthur morgan and john marston #charles smith #sean macguire #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #Javier Escuella #randall pearson #fluff #family fluff #slice of life #kieran duffy

12 notes · View notes

mindthump · 5 years

Photo

Underrated smartphone apps you didn’t know you needed https://ift.tt/2H49dE0

You always have your smartphone within reach, and it can serve your every whim regardless of where you are or what you’re up to. But sometimes circumstances arise when you wonder if there’s an app that can help. Chances are, there is. Both the Apple App Store and the Google Play Store host over 2 million apps each, and there’s bound to be something that suits every circumstance, no matter how specific or obscure.

We picked out some highly rated apps spanning both platforms that will help you through various situations and events. Most are free with ads, though some also have a pro version. That’s not enough? Have a look at our massive lists of best iOS apps and best Android apps for 2019.

GasBuddy

Gas prices are all over the lot. If you’re fanatical about getting the best price down to a fraction of a cent, then you’ll want to pull over to the curb to check GasBuddy before you pull into the nearest gas station. The app provides price hike alerts so you can fill up first before the price goes up, current deals from local convenience stores, and uses your phone’s motion detection to identify actions that may be bad for your fuel economy. The app quotes price information from users for the U.S., Canada, and Australia.

iOS Android

Duolingo

Learning a foreign language can be very challenging, but Duolingo makes the experience more pleasant and productive through very short, game-like lessons. The award-winning app facilitates practicing your speaking, reading, listening, and writing skills in a fun format. You boost your skills by responding to questions and doing lessons. The app starts you off with basic verbs, phrases, and sentences, and has you progress through new vocabulary words every day.

iOS Android

Star Chart

It’s 2 a.m. and you’re wide awake. Why not go outside and look up? Depending on where you are, there are twinkling little lights that humans have been staring at since the world began, and Star Chart helps you interpret what you are seeing. Assisted by your smartphone’s GPS and an accurate 3D universe, Star Chart calculates the current location of every star and planet visible from Earth and shows you where they are, even during the day.

If you want to know what that bright thing is, point your phone at it. View your immediate area or the other side of the world by pointing your phone down toward the ground. You can find out your star sign or use voice control to navigate outer space. The app displays all 88 constellations and 120,000 stars. A premium version for $5 tracks satellite positions, meteor showers, and includes Charles Messier’s catalog of exotic deep sky objects.

iOS Android

Snapseed

Sure, the default image editing app on your iPhone or Android smartphone is serviceable enough to do some basic improvements on your pictures, but if you’d like something a bit more comprehensive and easy to use, Snapseed is your jam. The app features 29 tools and filters to enhance any image — such as healing, brush, structure, HDR, perspective, and more. It opens both JPEG and raw files, saves custom looks to use on different photos, and has a selective filter brush. All styles can be tweaked with precise controls. You can achieve double exposures to blend two photos, face enhancements to add eye focus, improved lighting and skin softening, and enhanced portrait posing.

iOS Android

Spending Tracker

When you’re walking around town, it’s a cinch that your money is burning a hole in your pocket. A coffee here, a magazine or book there, a couple of bucks to someone in need — by the time you get home you have no idea where it all went. Keep better track of your money with Spending Tracker. You’ll still spend it all, but at least you’ll know on what. It features an intuitive interface that lets you enter and track expenses, adjust time periods, set budgets, view a summary, log income and expenses, create multiple accounts for personal and business expenses, get report charts, and back up everything to Dropbox. You’ll have to upgrade to get the syncing feature.

iOS Android

RunPee

You’re at the movies and nature calls. But you can’t leave your seat as the suspense builds — or can you? RunPee is one of those apps you can’t believe really exist, but that actually serves a great purpose: It tells you at what part of the movie you can use the loo without missing anything. Seriously. The app’s timer vibrates to alert you when a good time for a pee break is coming so you don’t have to bother your companions or other moviegoers in the theater. Just enjoy the movie without stressing about when you can duck out. The database of 1,300 movies is updated weekly, whenever films open to wide distribution in theaters. It also provides a synopsis for your time out so you know what you missed. If you’re running late for the show, the app will catch you up on what you missed in the first three minutes.

iOS Android

Flush

Go ahead, laugh. But just wait until you’re stuck somewhere, need to use the bathroom, and have no idea where public toilets are located. Then you will be happy to have this useful app. Flush uses geolocation technology to alert you of where a public toilet is closest to you. It’s serviceable if not perfect. The app has over 190,000 bathrooms in its database and you can search even while offline. It tells you which ones offer disabled access, charge a fee, or require a key, and gives directions on how to locate them. You can also add a toilet to augment the crowdsourced list of toilets and rate or report a toilet by swiping left on a specific toilet in the list.

iOS Android

CamScanner

With your smartphone as a de facto record keeper, scanning is quickly becoming extinct. CamScanner reclaims that skill somewhat by giving you a nicely centered document in proper proportion and in PDF format instead of a poorly captured one. The app lets you digitize business and personal documents, optimize scan quality for professional rendition, share documents through the usual channels or print them, edit, annotate, or watermark, password protect, and search. OCR features to extract text from images are available in the premium version for $5 per month or $50 per year. You must register to sync documents across platforms.

iOS Android

Your weather app may not be as reliable as you thought. Here’s why.

The best gardening apps help you watch your garden grow

Learn how to use WhatsApp Messenger

#IFTTT #Feedly #business #good to know #TIL #tech

1 note · View note

dr-circuitous · 4 years

Text

Harleen

INVOLVED: Harleen Quinzel TIME FRAME: ― LOCATION: Gotham City, New Jersey SUMMARY: Harleen finds out the Joker has been sent to Arkham.

Smack in the middle of Gotham Square the Grissom highrise rose. The building was a monument to Gotham's glorious past, with three hundred luxury apartments on its upper floors and the prestigious Flugelheim Museum in it’s lower half. The crim dela crim lived here. The crim dela crim and Harleen Frances Quinzel.

Murals to rival the Cistern chapel covered the walls. Sculptures of both Gods, men and demons lined the entry ways. It’s opulence regularly left visitors speechless, yet Harleen strolled out of the lobby, yawning hand covering her mouth, without a backwards glance. She liked her 500 square foot apartment that overlooked Gotham Park. If was valuable the way a collector loves a new shiny bobble. The added bonus was it impressed her mother, Sharon, who knew the building's name and understood it to be where the elite gathered.

Harleen stepped out into the morning air that coated her like in a layer consistent with that of congealed cream of chicken soup. She pulled this new layer on over the ever present milestone that came with being a resident of Gotham City. Gotham made it’s residence, hardening there resolve. Love it or hate, you endured and Harleen couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad one. She smiled fractionally as she stepped forward to yellow cab # 042 settling into the familiar comfort of the seat. “Morning.” She greeted, falling seamlessly into the the well practiced rituals of her day.

Rodney was in his late fifties, with a shock of black hair that was graying around the temples. As Harleen climbed into the back of the cab, his hard face melted into a smile that almost pushed away the gloom that always lay over the city. “Morning beautiful. How’s my favorite fair today?” he asked, with a genuine air of concern. He reached down and picked up a cup of coffee. “Here you go. 4 creams and 4 sugars.” He sighed, handing her the cup, “I swear that's more cocoa than coffee. Doc.”

“Perfect.” Harleen chirped as she took the cup, she held it in her hands enjoying the scorching heat that radiated through her fingers. “It’s cocoa with a kick.” She offered, beaming “Thank you, Rodney. You spoil me.” She raised an eyebrow, unconsciously batting her eyelash at the man. “I have to admit, I have a suspension you bring coffee to all your fairs?” She asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Hell no.” Rodney said, sucking his teeth. “Only the pretty ones. Who tip well.” He said, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He inclined his head and turned back in his seat. Jamming the car into drive, he hooked once before he pulled away from the curb.

Rodney's laugh was hollow this morning. Harleen slipped her coffee carefully, tapping the side of the styrofoam with her fingernail. The driver worked his way in and out of traffic in unusual silence. She lowered her coffee quickly. Gasping, as a pedestrian darted into the street, narrowly being missed the cab. That was the last straw. A stunt like that would normally send the aging cab driver into a 20 minute tirade. “What’s wrong Rodney?” Harleen asked after a moment, heart still thumping in her chest. “You don’t seem quite yourself today.”

Rodney glanced back at the rich skinned woman in the rear view mirror. “Nuthin…” He sighed, then thought about who was in his back seat and changed his responses. “It’s my daughter Gina, she was supposed to start her internship down at city hall today. But after what happened to the major… She’s upset of course. At least Batman got him. Thank God, that nut bag, the Joker is off the streets.”

“Harleen’s face went gray. What are you talking about?” She asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Rodney snorted, “What do you mean? Doc... Do you live under a rock? It’s been all over the news.” He said grabbing the paper and handed it back to Harleen.

“I don’t have a television. I don’t trust them.” Harleen said in a hushed distracted tone. Grabbing the paper and scanning the front page, her mouth moving in a puckered whisper, eyes sliding back and forth. The Dark Knight.. You would think the self styled “Batman would be old news in Gotham. But no. The vigilante donned the front page of almost every newspaper daily. And every day the city ate it up. She cringed at the word. Vigilante. It was the right context but it rolled off her like a curse as she fastened it to Gotham’s caped crusader. There it was in black and white, Mayor Charles Chesterfield and the better part of his staff murdered. Nevertheless, the vigilante of Gotham was the savoir. She lowered the paper and stared absently out of the yellow cabs grim stained windshield. How odd that the truth should taste a lie. And every trundling face that chance a glance toward the cab, knew it. There was no will to call the GCPD if trouble loomed. But you did it anyway with the hope that the shimmering bat signal would dominate the sky and he would save you. The Mayor, the Police commissioner, the city itself, justified the Bat’s very existence. Who was she to complain? Especially now when he brought her the quarry she’d most wanted. The Joker.

“I know that look.” The portly cab driver said glancing back at Harleen in the rear view mirror. “It’s the Bat. Ain’t it? Hell of a guy. One day-” He spoke in quick, short sentences, the somberness replaced with a sort of hope. “I'm gonna shake his hand. He saved my brother’s life.” He continued taking one hand from the wheel, he held it up to the sky in allegiance. “He was almost killed by that new freak- What they call him the Rhymer, um, tattle tell-” He hunched his shoulder up, under his ear and gave up. “One of them funny names. You know they all got something nowadays. Penguin, the Joker.. But, hey that makes sense.. The Penguin looks like a fuckin bird,” he chuckled “And the Joker runs around with that white skin and green hair, that’s a joker if I ever seen one. I bet he ain’t laughing now.” The man quipped, laughing husky at his own joke.

Harleen pulled her eyes away from the gloom and focused on the cab driver. She folded the paper back into a neat square, slipping it back onto the front seat. She raising a questioning eyebrow at the gun sitting next to the man.. Sitting back, she tilted her head like a bird and did what she’d been trained to do. Listen. “The Riddler.” she offered, not particularly interested in the man’s conversation, at least it had pulled her out of her own rabbit hole. “I guess it depends… The Riddler likes to tell Riddles. It fits him as long as you know his MO. Rodney, the last time you told me this story It was your mother Batman saved.” She said, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. “You know I could help you with your compulsive lying habit.”

The cabbie's laugh died away as the woman began to speak. His face twisting into an uncomfortable scowl. “I don’t need no head shrink doctor. The closet I want to get to Arkham is dropping you off at the gate. Besides, I ain’t lying. You can’t find anyone in Gotham who hasn’t been saved by the Bat. He’s the only thing standing between Gotham and total destruction. - Used to be I didn’t need a tazor to drive a cab. Now, I drive around with a 9 mil on the seat. I don’t even let my girls go anywhere alone in this town. I’m going to shake his hand one day, Doc. He’s our savior.”

Harleen’s cheeks burned with shame as Rodney's face grew somber. He was right but, she couldn’t work out if the very existence of Batman only made things worse. One man couldn’t save a city. And believing he could was only false hope that would eventually lead them all to destruction. But you don’t explain these thoughts to your cab driver. You let him live on with his false hopes and dreams. She looked up the street and watched as the Hospital styled prison came into the view. The white walled building dominated the landscape of the Narrows. Yet, the stanch white of its wall didn’t reflect light back down on to the city. In an odd turn of events, the building did the exact opposite, casting dark ominous shadows instead. A small shiver ran over her whenever she saw the building. She looked back to the cab driver then handed him a neatly folded $20 bill as he pulled up to the main entrance. “I understand. I'm sorry if I offended you.” She stammered heat poring from her neck. “Sometimes I speak out of turn.” She lowered her head feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m getting off late tonight. I can call another cab.”

Rodney dropped his head, shaking it faintly. “Don’t worry about it. That's what head shrinks do. Keep the fare you can pay me tonight. Just call before you leave. I'll be here. I don’t want some other driver stealing my best fair. Hey doc. Besides, I don’t want you out in these streets with a stranger either.”

Harleen reached over the seat and slipped the twenty into Rodney’s top shirt pocket, squeezing his shoulder. “Fine, but take the tip anyway. See ya later.” She said climbing from the back of the cab. She stood awkwardly on the curb and waved at the cab as he drove away. After living in Gotham for the better part of 10 years, he was her only real link to the outside world.

Harleen dug into the side of her briefcase and pulled out her badge, as she moved into the building. The low flat heels made barely a whisper over deep cream marble floors as she moved past the security desk. She stepped through the center of the metal detectors. Setting of the normal array beeps, and chirping alarms. “Morning Dr. Quinzel. We need to check your bag, please.” She continued to move, absently lost in her own thoughts. When Lt. Snow rose and stepped into her path.. Harleen’s came face to face with the man’s chest, startled she shuffled back away from the middle aged man “Dr. Quinzel, we need to check your bag.”

Lt. Snow was a solid man, with dimples and a handsome face that worked well with his guard’s uniform. Harleen looked down at her briefcase, then held it out stiffly to the man. “Since when?” She asked quietly, using her other hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, “You see me everyday.” “Dr. Qunzel, excuse us. Today we are on high alert.” Snow said in a honey toned voice full new forceful demand.. “You know who’s coming in today. We have to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

Harleen sucked her lips as understanding taking hold. “Lieutenant, we have Killer Croc in the basement. Surely, the Joker isn’t that scary.” She said in a cutely dismissive tone.. “Not to mention, the last time I checked, I wasn’t a member of his gang.”

Lt. Snow nodded his head, with a sharp tilt, then quickly scanned the contents of Harleen’s bag. His face seemed to contort as he looked back to her face, eyes turned rock hard and bitterly cold. “I lost five good men the last time the Joker escaped. I don’t intend on that ever happening again. Have a nice day Dr. Quinzel.” He said bitterly, stepping away from the Psychiatrist.

Harleen, lowered her arm letting the bag fall back against her side numbly. Without a word she stepped around the man and resumed her march toward the elevator. This was shaping up to be one hell of a morning. “Oh, by the way, Dr. Strange wants to speak with you.” Snow informed her voice echoing in the lobby. She pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. And sighed. “Thank you. Have a nice morning.” Lt. Snow cleared and raised his voice and repeated himself with an annoying reverence, that irritated her to her toes. “Dr. Strange wasn’t in a good mood. I wouldn’t keep him waiting.” She jabbed the up arrow and climbed into the polish silver coffin as the door slide opened. “You can let him know I’ll be right up….” She said, holding her bag in front of her as the doors closed smoothly,

A quick stop by her office and Harleen was headed toward Dr. Strange’s office. Well it was more of a wing. Strange had his own suite of examination rooms. His own separate hospital that happened to reside inside of Arkham. Harleen had placed her lab coat over the calf length black skirt and crisp white button up oxford shit. She smooth both sides of her bun and straightened the pearl at her neck before rapping lightly on the door with the back of her knuckles then pushed it open, as she heard the muffled “enter.” “Dr. Strange you wanted to see me.”

Dr. Hugo Strange’s head remained bowed over his files. “Dr. QUINZEL.” He said in a voice that croaked with age that wasn’t present in the smooth lines of his face.“I’d like a status report on your research.”

Harleen stepped close to the desk, but made no attempt to seat herself. Instead she shifted uncomfortably on her heels as Strange played his unnecessary game of protocol. She occupied herself by rereading the numerous plaques and diplomas that line his office walls. Harleen watched him out of the corner of her eye as she spoke, refusing to fully acknowledge him until he offered her the same courtesy. “Promising.”

Dr. Strange looked up from his work, and stared at Harleen. Deeply, considering her. He rose in eerie silence and collected books from around his office. Placing each one cover up on the desk. “The Answer,” By Dr. Theodore Lane. A deep dive into the mind of the Riddler. “The Killing Joke,” by Dr. Anthony Wise What drives the mind of a mass murderer. Once he had laid down, “The complete guide of Monsters” he began to speak. “Each book one of these books was written and published by a doctor just like you, Dr. Quinzel.”

Harleen's eyes moved down to meet the rounded, tinted spectacles of Dr. Strange. Behind the mirrors of his lens, one could only guess at his true thoughts and feelings. Harleen forced a count of 20 before she allowed herself to look away. She was up five second from the last time. A small but meaningful personal victory. When he rose to collect the books from pristine shelves, she watched his back, then scanned each title as they were placed on the desktop. “I have read them all but I fail to understand what you’re implying.”

With the same cold detachment, he had risen with. Dr. Strange moved back to his seat and lowered himself incrementally back down. Waving a stiff arm out over his desk, he picked up where he’d left off continuing in a lecturing tone. “Each one of them had “promising” or “fruitful” findings, Doctor. Yet, other than lining their own pockets, they offered no change to any of the notable patients here at Arkham. I understand that your Wayne funded grant, gives you certain privileges here. That said, it’s no secret that I do not believe in your..” he sucked his tongue as if removing something distasteful, “Work. Most of the patients here at Arkham, under my care, have very unique circumstances. They are no longer,” he chose his words cautiously, “Completely human. Thus this empathy you want desperately to find simply doesn’t exist. No more than you can find it in a snake. I think it’s time for you to end this little experiment of yours Ms. QUINZEL. End it before you get hurt. End it and do what all these men and women have done. Write your little book about your deals with my menagerie of fiends and leave the actual science of the mind to me. ”

Harleen listened eyes rising steadily to meet the bespectacled man. Fear of his alieness, swallowed by a mounting angry, some kind of beast that wanted to claw its way from her body. “Humans are responsible for the mass genocide of more creatures everyday, then any one in this hospital can boost. Less than human? We seem to hold that word ‘human’ up as if it means something other than a thinly valid mask of humanity to allow ourself to sleep at night.” Harleen’s jaw clenched. “They are my patients just as they are your Dr. Strange. They are people who have suffered horrific traumas. Some have received certain powers that doesn’t mean they have lost that which makes them human.” She argued. “On the contrary, the very thing makes them more like animals to you, is exactly why we must find the empathy in them. Because as you well know, even animals have empathy for one another. It is our obligation to remind them what it means to be a part of our society and in doing so,help them regain their sanity. Now, I have patient to see Dr. Strange. Have a good day.” She turned on her heels and moved to leave the office.

Dr. Strange cleared his throat as he sat back in his chair. “Dr. Quinzel, one last thing. The joker will be under my personal supervision for the next three months. I think it’s best if he’s handled by myself for the time being. Please close the door on your way out.”

Harleen stiffened in places, nostrils flaring for a moment. Damn! body moving as if through honey as she willed her legs back to motion and exited Dr. Strange’s office without a backward glance. This was going to harder than necessary.

#thread: Harleen #thread

0 notes

accountingfortaste · 7 years

Text

The Biggest Logic Hole in the History of Cinema

by Clay Keller

I wish it didn’t have to be like this. Generally speaking, there’s nothing wrong with Clark Johnson’s S.W.A.T. (2003); it’s a relatively diverting LAPD action thriller with a surprisingly solid, “in-their-prime,” cast.* Under different circumstances, producer Neal H. Moritz’s 2 Fast 2 Furious follow-up could be remembered for any number of things. It could be remembered for the cracker jack airplane paintball training sequence, or for LL Cool J’s preposterous abdominal muscles, or perhaps even for Gamble, Jeremy Renner’s emo ex-S.W.A.T. villain, who definitely looks like this:

But that would be under different circumstances. As things are, all of the positive aspects of the fourth of five (!) Colin Farrell movies released in 2003 are overshadowed by the fact that this film contains the single most inexplicable logic hole / paradox in the history of movies.

At this point, you might be saying to yourself, “I don’t remember those parts of the movie that are supposedly ‘overshadowed’ by that other part of the movie that I don’t remember.” And you’d be right, because you don’t care about S.W.A.T., no one does.

But you’re about to.

Part One: The Theme Song

S.W.A.T was not the first time that a television show was adapted into a feature film. In fact, without doing any research, I’d venture to guess that S.W.A.T. isn’t even the second or third time this happened. And when a television show is adapted for the big screen, it is commonplace to include some kind of winking, self aware, moment that lets the audience know that the filmmakers are aware that the story they are telling is derived from a different story that was previously told on a different medium. Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson sharing a scene with the actors who played the original Starsky and Hutch in Starsky and Hutch (2004) comes to mind, or the “does she always look like she’s in slow-motion?” joke from the trailer for Baywatch (2017). There are many more examples, but since those are the only ones that immediately came to mind, they must be the best.

Considering that long, proud tradition, it isn’t unreasonable that the people behind S.W.A.T. wanted to throw in a reference or two to the ol’ TV show. In fact, the fans would expect no less! And the references begin subtly enough, with the famous theme song from the show, originally composed by Barry De Vorzon, woven into the fabric of the score of the film, composed by Elliot Goldenthal. This is great, a nice little nod to the TV show that instantly evokes jaunty 70’s police fun without being too on-the-nose or distracting. Plus, since the characters in movies cannot hear the score music, having the original theme song present there doesn’t create any irreparable tears in the foundational logic of the world of the movie.

So far, so good. But then…

Midway through the movie, after successfully passing the aforementioned airplane paintball trial and officially becoming a S.W.A.T. unit, our heroes go out for a celebratory BBQ dinner. They laugh, drink, ogle Ladies Love Cool James’ abs, listen to a somber speech by Sam Jackson about the unacceptability of dying, and then begin singing the theme song from S.W.A.T. the TV show. All of them. In unison.

At first blush this may not seem like an issue. After all, the S.W.A.T. theme song is simple and catchy. Real-life S.W.A.T. teams probably sing it all the time, like how pilots are constantly humming the Wings theme, and you can’t walk past a fire station without hearing some firefighter jamming out Third Watch on an electric keyboard. The issue comes with the realization that this particular S.W.A.T. team is in a movie directly based on the TV show that this song originates from, sharing their names and characteristics with the characters from said show. If the TV show existed in the world of the movie, and they all know it well enough to spontaneously break out singing the theme, surely by now one or more of them would have had the existential meltdown that comes with noticing that you and your friends have the exact same names as a fictional S.W.A.T. team from a thirty year old television show. Surely.

But maybe not.

While this seems like a fairly egregious oversight, it isn’t completely damning, and, with a little bit of “deleted scene hypothesizing,” can be explained away. Perhaps in the world of S.W.A.T., that catchy theme song did not originate with Mr. De Vorzon and the Aaron Spelling-produced show, which of course couldn’t exist, but rather with our heroes themselves, composed at some point in the course of the narrative and adopted as a personal pump-up jam. As far as I know, such a scene does not exist, but easily could, and would make an excellent addition to one of the films myriad training montages:

For this theory to hold water, one needs to assume that Oscar-nominated composer Marc Shaiman would be friends with Samuel L. Jackson’s Sgt. Dan “Hondo” Harrelson, but Shaiman seems very likable, so I buy it.

Whew, that was close. Clark Johnson, screenwriter David Ayer, and company, almost obliterated the reality of their film for a tossed-off joke, but with a little creative thinking on the part of the audience, the movie can continue on, unabated. All they need to do now is avoid making any more references to…

Part Two: The Actual Goddamn Show

… oh come on.

Mere minutes after the movie’s first flirtation with smashing through the fourth wall like the Kool-Aid Man, we find our heroes enjoying a much-deserved day off.

Sgt. Hondo and Lt. Velasquez (Reg E. Cathy) are putting in some time on the links��

… while Deacon takes his kids shopping…

… TJ (Josh Charles) has a predictably douchey (lunch?) date at a French restaurant…

… Sanchez (Michelle Rodriguez) tests Street’s step-dad potential with a backyard water gun fight…

… and Boxer (Brian Van Holt) shirks his household chores…

… while kicking back on the couch with a lukewarm Dr. Pepper…

… and blithely watching everything he thought he knew about the universe be thrown into utter chaos.

Well, shit. So much for the airtight “personal team theme song composed for them by Oscar-nominated composer Marc Shaiman” theory. This scene confirms it: the TV show S.W.A.T., a spin-off of The Rookies that aired from 1975–1976, exists in the world of the movie. The reason everyone was able to sing the theme song during that scene in the BBQ restaurant is because they are all aware (and presumably fans) of the TV show, S.W.A.T., which, again, exists.

How is it possible, in light of this new information, that every single last goddamn fucking scene in this movie doesn’t play out like so:

It just doesn’t make sense! All things considered, the movie S.W.A.T. should be about regular blue collar cops who, after bearing witness to a glitch in the space-time continuum, slowly lose their minds as they become feverishly obsessed with figuring out how this is possible and if they can fix this broken reality. Not one drug lord should be apprehended from a flaming private jet, not one beach dramatically ran upon by a dripping-wet Colin Farrell. Who has time for that kinda crap in the midst of their psyche slowly cracking into a million pieces? S.W.A.T. should essentially be the same movie as Jake Gyllenhaal’s Enemy, but with significantly more hair gel and leather cuffs; there’s no reason it doesn’t end with every character either dead, in an institution, or facing down a spider the size of a bus.

Part Three: Theories

Honestly, the time for excuses is over. The stretch that was necessary to explain away the theme song gaffe was just barely short enough that I was willing to make it. This, however, is a bridge too far. By including a clip from the actual show, S.W.A.T. earned itself the dubious honor of having The Biggest Logic Hole In The History Of Cinema, full-stop.

However, in blatant defiance of the sentence immediately preceding this one, I am not going to stop, but rather press forward, with a collection of theories that attempt to bring sense to the nonsensical, and fill The Biggest Logic Hole In The History Of Cinema.

Each theory will be followed by points both for, and against.

Theory 1: The characters in the movie all love S.W.A.T. so much that they legally changed their names to those of the characters on the show.

Ok, maybe? But since none of the characters know each other at the beginning of the film, that means they all did this very weird thing independent of each other, and just coincidentally all picked different characters. Then to top it off, they were all recruited for the job that the fictional character that they named themselves after also had, and in the same unit, no less. And then they never spoke about it.

Actually, no. For the one, the probability of that happening is infinitesimal, and for two we know from the movie that Hondo didn’t recruit people based on their names, he recruited them based on their willingness to beat the hell out of suspects, and enjoy “good old fashioned American hot dogs.” Plus, if it was some pro-level “The Secret” shit, they would go on about it non-fucking-stop and they’d be on, like, The Talk, if that’s still a show.

Theory 2: It’s the holodeck, from Star Trek

“Whoa, these theories sure went off the rails quick, didn’t they?” Why yes, they did. The theories went off the rails with a quickness that is in direct proportion to the insanity of the hole.

S.W.A.T. officer Michael Boxer (the grinning layabout we see watching S.W.A.T. on his couch) is actually Lt. Mike Boxer, a security officer on a Galaxy Class starship that isn’t the Enterprise, I don’t know their names, but one of the other ones. Since nothing ever fucking happens out in space (remember, not the Enterprise), Lt. Boxer stares wistfully out at the stars, lost in nostalgic reveres about the good ol’ days of cops and international drug kingpins, until he remembers that there is a holodeck and he can just go and do the damn thing. So, not unlike Capt. Picard and his 40s private eye fantasies, Lt. Boxer wiles away the hours in his program set in 2003 Los Angeles, because really, was there ever a better place and moment in American history?

I’m still thinkin’ no. If this is Boxer’s program, which is assumed because he’s the one who is unequivocally aware of the show, why is he not the lead? Hell, he isn’t even on the poster! Who writes themselves into something as a supporting character who gets shot and has to sit out the entire climax of the story? Unless this is some sort of reverse- Lt. Barclay situation, where in real life Boxer is the cock of the walk and his secret fantasy is to be background bullet fodder… I don’t know. I’ll chalk this one up as a “possible.”

(You: “Wait, the author snarkily implies that, like all cool people, he knows the bare-minimum necessary about Star Trek, but then invokes occasional guest character Lt. Barclay as a reference? Just how much does he actually know about Star Trek: The Next Generation? Is he secretly a big The Talk fan as well?” Me: “Fuck you, that’s how much.”)

Theory 3: Michael Boxer is a bored immortal and/or interdimensional being

This theory is similar to the holodeck theory, but with a less proprietary mythology. Basically, Boxer is an ancient, and possibly interdimensional, being who loved the television show S.W.A.T. so much that he decided his late-20th century game would be organically recreating the program, with real people and real situations. He Marty McFly-ed all of the heroes’ parents (“You know a name I’ve always liked? Hondo...”) then took up some sort of mentorship role during their youths (a teacher, coach, surprisingly wise vagrant, etc) to subtly nudge them in the direction of law enforcement. Boxer has had millennia of practice with human Rube Goldberg puzzles like this, so he’s really fucking good at it and it works like a charm.

“If he was an influential part of their young adulthoods, why doesn’t anyone recognize him as such?” Easy, the mustache. Next.

“Why does he allow himself to be shot at the end of the second act?” Because he needs to take himself out of the situation in order for his little baby birds to fly on their own. Next.

“What about the continued existence of the show? And knowledge of the theme song?” In his capacity as wise vagrant, he indoctrinated his pupils with the idea that television is evil and should be avoided at all costs. As for the song? Welcome back to the game, Clay’s Perfect Marc Shaiman Theory From Earlier!

Holy shit, you guys. I think we did it. We patched the biggest logic hole in the history of cinema. Congrats, Brian Van Holt! Here you’ve been for the last fifteen years thinking you played seventh banana in a moderately successful PG-13 franchise non-starter, when you were actually playing omniscient god-like banana in a moderately successful PG-13 franchise non-starter. I’m glad we were able to do you this service. You can now be at peace.

Part Four: What Come Next?

As you are no doubt already aware, the S.W.A.T. legacy is far from concluded. A new version of the series, from The Shield creator Shawn Ryan and Fast Five director Justin Lin, is premiering this fall on CBS. Oddly, it is an adaptation of both the TV show and the movie, since it incorporates the Chris Sanchez character that was originated by Michelle Rodriguez in the film.

This begs the question, will ageless interdimensional trickster god Michael Boxer also appear in the new series? According to imdb it would seem that he does not show up in the pilot, but that doesn’t mean much. Scripts can be rewritten. Pilots can be re-shot. Just imagine the narrative possibilities of adding a TV-obsessed, all-powerful, immortal character to a gritty LA police / social drama. I’m not saying that it will be better, because that is obvious, and I am not in the habit of redundantly pointing out the obvious.

Do with this information what you will, Shawn Ryan. I know you’ll make the correct choice.

In Conclusion:

youtube

*S.W.A.T. is actually a pretty damn good time. Underrated. Check it out.

#S.W.A.T.#jeremy renner #samuel l jackson #michelle rodriguez #josh charles #ll cool j #brian van holt #david ayer #movies #screenwriting #clark johnson #los angeles #aaron spelling #shawn ryan #colin farrell #clay keller

15 notes · View notes