prompt post: round six

[soldierly]

ROUND SIX IS CLOSED

<< ROUND
FIVE | ALL
ROUNDS | ROUND SEVEN>>

RULES POST

POSTING GUIDELINES

Updates Post (WIPs only)

Fills Post (completed Fills only)

damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.

There is a delay on comments appearing when there is a URL in the message body. This is due to an LJ anti-spam feature that can't

Comments

Fill: I know how this ends 01/?

[anonymous]

Please ignore the fact that I haven't seen a single ep of White Collar, and I'm really only going off what the original OP has stated. Bonus 2 has been utilised, just for a heads up.

____

“I’m caught,” Charles said.

He said it out loud, faint wonder imprinted on each word. He had been in the middle of a heist, it going perfectly to plan before his left arm had been whipped against the wall, held in place by something invisible. Charles tensed his arm, shoulder twisting as he attempted to wrench it free.

It was the sharp clip of a heel that caught his attention then, and he reacted, sweeping the immediate area for another person. Charles felt nothing, not another person’s consciousness, nothing, and he could only stare, wide-eyed as someone, did, in fact, step into his line of vision.

They were in the belly of one of New York’s most prestigious banks; a room of vaults, of physical wealth, of giddying possibilities. Charles had, in his briefcase, priceless pieces of artwork, memorabilia from another era, and a small selection of jewelry that his sister would have adored.

And he was caught.

Charles tried to ignore the swell of panic in his stomach. There had been no one he had never been able to read before. There had been no circumstance that was out of his complete control. This was-this was-

Charles found that he had to quell the laughter that threatened to climb up his throat. Instead he tried to swallow around it, though he was still well aware of the slight upturn of his lips.

“Hank,” he said, the name an earnest mix of fondness and equal annoyance.

The man leveled him an even look, head canted slightly and brow furrowed, unsure how to respond. Charles indicated to the helmet he wore with an inclination of the head and tried again.

“One of Hank McCoy’s inventions, am I correct?”

“What does it matter,” the man said, his words biting into the tail end of Charles’ own. “It does what it’s supposed to do.”

To that, Charles frowned, reminded of the situation he was in. His arm was growing numb and unresponsive having been kept in place above his head for so long. He pulled at it again, and hissed between his teeth as the metallic circle of his watchband tightened about his wrist. Charles glanced to the man, still unmoving at the door.

“Let me go,” Charles said, his words accompanied by a mental nudge.

It had been a reflex, something that he did because it was something that he had always done. He was well aware that it would have been deflected by the helmet; he could feel the faint echo of it return to him before it dissipated entirely. A lost thought.