(no subject)
Drabbles from prompts given on the AU Drabbles Request - both of these are Sinn/Mars. (The the AU request post is, of course, ongoing so if anyone wants to throw some more prompts into the arena, feel free.)
Prompt #1 from alesca_munroe: Barista!James and Lawyer!Daniel with Sinn and Mars, at one coffee shop or the other. Prompt: "So I hear your coffee is supposed to be better than mine."
“It’s very, very good coffee.”
James, who is lurking by the window pretending to clear tables, can see that the black-haired guy is unimpressed. It’s sort of a given, when his lips are pressed so tightly together they’ve gone white. Blondie hasn’t picked up on the hint yet thought.
“Really,” black-haired guy says flatly. “It’s good coffee, is it?”
“Yeah! I mean, they have these sprinkles and whipped cream, and sprinkles on whipped cream. They even have chocolate!”
“What’s happening?” Sam hisses, sidling over to James in what he thinks is a subtle manner. He’s not subtle. James has seen him coming from across the shop. Sometimes he thinks people living on Mars would see Sam coming; his too long legs sort of make him awkward and obvious.
“Blondie is praising your coffee and his friend doesn’t seem very impressed.”
“Why? My coffee’s awesome.” Sam looks a bit put out about that.
“Oh come on Sinn, you have to try it. Seriously, even you won’t be able to say no to it.”
“Let me get this straight,” black-haired guy (Sinn) says. “You drag me away from my shop to bring me here and tell me the coffee is so much better?” His gaze skips lightening fast over Sam and Jay, who have given up on any pretence of work and are watching with shameless curiosity.
“Oh my God!” Sam clutches at James’s arm. “I recognise that guy. That’s the owner of Coptic Coffee.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“Coptic where?”
“Coptic Coffee! It’s like…they do this seriously amazing tea set in there. Jay and I went there when we were undergrads.”
“Well how come you never took me?”
Sam shoots him an impatient look. “Dude, it was a date.”
“Huh.”
“I tell you what,” Sinn is saying sweetly, “I’ll try the coffee.” He picks up the mug in front of him, regarding it thoughtfully. James, prying Sam’s fingers off his arm, watches with fascination as Blondie lights up.
“You will?”
Sinn smiles. It’s not a nice expression.
James nudges Sam. “I think the owner of Coptic Coffee is about to commit murder in your shop. Maybe you should, you know, stop him?”
“No he won’t,” Sam hisses. “His friend’s a policeman. Look, he’s still wearing his pips.”
“Seriously,” James says, watching the thoughtful tilt of Sinn’s head. “Murder. It’s happening. We’re witnesses.”
“Bloody hell!” Blondie yelps, as Sinn upends the mug of hot coffee over his arm.
Sinn slams the mug back down on the table. “And don’t think you’re coming back into my shop,” he says, standing up with neat, precise movements and pulling on his coat. “If the coffee’s so much better here, you can spend your money on the sprinkles.” The way he says ‘sprinkles’ suggests he’d rather be saying ‘filth’.
“But I don’t spend money in your shop anyway,” Blondie says plaintively, nursing his arm and ruined uniform shirt.
“Precisely,” Sinn says, and sweeps out without a backward glance.
“Dude,” Sam whispers, staring after him in awe. “That was fucking magnificent.”
Prompt #2 from aur_in_hue - Sinn and Mars in the CSI universe. (I've never watched CSI, so this is more like 'Surly morticians and the detectives that love harass them'.)
Frederick Holland died in brutal and suspicious circumstances on Friday 4th October.
On Wednesday 6th of November, his landlady finally notices the appalling smell coming from his flat.
“Three stab wounds,” Sinn says, pulling off his surgical gloves with a resounding snap. “One to the neck, two to the stomach; one perforating the lining of the stomach, the other narrowly missing.” He raises an eyebrow as Mars swallows heavily, not good with bodies even when they’ve been in the deep freeze. “Someone wanted him to die slowly and painfully, and then thought better of it.” He indicates the stab wound on Frederick’s neck. “This was done quickly and efficiently some five minutes after the first two, perforating his larynx and severing his spinal cord. That takes a significant amount of strength - it’s not an easy thing to do.”
“Wow.” Mars wipes a hand across his mouth - he’s never been good at this bit. “Someone really, really didn’t like him.”
“No,” Sinn says shortly, turning away to disinfect his hands. “Someone also knew he wouldn’t be found if they left him in his apartment.”
“No sign of the body being moved,” Mars confirms, hauling himself up to sit on the edge of a spare mortuary slab; it’s clean, and Sinn never offers him a seat, so he has to put his squeamishness to one side. His body’s reminding him his shift finished three hours ago and his feet are throbbing. It’s nice to sit down, even in a place so morbid.
“Well that suggests whoever it was knew him.” Sinn starts unlacing his scrubs and Mars leans over to help, fingers brushing accidentally-on-purpose through the short dark hair at the nape of Sinn’s neck.
“No it doesn’t,” he contradicts, swinging his feet and smiling when Sinn flinches away. “It could just mean someone was watching him.”
“Path lab says he had traces of alcohol in his system when he was killed,” Sinn continues, ignoring Mars with grim determination. “And David in forensics says there were traces of top layer soil in the treads of his boots. They’ve narrowed it down to somewhere near Dover - there’s a large amount of chalk residue.”
“When did you talk to David in forensics?” Mars asks suspiciously. Sinn doesn’t like communicating with people; in fact, he prefers hanging out with the dead bodies. It’s a sort of creepy king of the undead vibe that he has, but it apparently works for him.
“He e-mailed,” Sinn says shortly. “I got the results about twenty three minutes before you showed up.” Mars knows it wasn’t about twenty three minutes before he showed up; it was precisely twenty three minutes. Sinn likes to keep time accurately; Mars likes to let him. It’s sort of a game, really - see how much he can observe about Sinn before Sinn catches on. If Mars were more organised, he’d have a list, or a pie chart; maybe a flow chart. He’s not that organised though, so instead he complies notes and scraps and bits and pieces in his head, all mentally piled in a corner of his brain under the label ‘Sinn’.
It’s a work in progress.
“Are you finished now?” he asks, instead of calling Sinn out on his timekeeping.
“I was meant to be finished two hours and four minutes ago,” Sinn says, pushing closed the drawer Frederick Holland (formerly of Hatfield Crescent) is currently residing in.
“Want to grab a drink?”
Sinn shoots him a Look. “Mars,” he says, with his patience wearing thin, “it is four minutes past midnight on Thursday 7th November. I do not want a drink; I want to go home.”
“Awesome,” Mars says, jumping off the table as Sinn pulls on his coat. “You can make me a cup of tea when we get in.”
“One day,” Sinn threatens as he turns off the lights and then locks the mortuary door, “you are going to end up on my table, and I will not preserve your good looks for the benefit of your relatives.”
Mars just grins.
That wasn’t a ‘no’, after all.
Prompt #1 from alesca_munroe: Barista!James and Lawyer!Daniel with Sinn and Mars, at one coffee shop or the other. Prompt: "So I hear your coffee is supposed to be better than mine."
“It’s very, very good coffee.”
James, who is lurking by the window pretending to clear tables, can see that the black-haired guy is unimpressed. It’s sort of a given, when his lips are pressed so tightly together they’ve gone white. Blondie hasn’t picked up on the hint yet thought.
“Really,” black-haired guy says flatly. “It’s good coffee, is it?”
“Yeah! I mean, they have these sprinkles and whipped cream, and sprinkles on whipped cream. They even have chocolate!”
“What’s happening?” Sam hisses, sidling over to James in what he thinks is a subtle manner. He’s not subtle. James has seen him coming from across the shop. Sometimes he thinks people living on Mars would see Sam coming; his too long legs sort of make him awkward and obvious.
“Blondie is praising your coffee and his friend doesn’t seem very impressed.”
“Why? My coffee’s awesome.” Sam looks a bit put out about that.
“Oh come on Sinn, you have to try it. Seriously, even you won’t be able to say no to it.”
“Let me get this straight,” black-haired guy (Sinn) says. “You drag me away from my shop to bring me here and tell me the coffee is so much better?” His gaze skips lightening fast over Sam and Jay, who have given up on any pretence of work and are watching with shameless curiosity.
“Oh my God!” Sam clutches at James’s arm. “I recognise that guy. That’s the owner of Coptic Coffee.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“Coptic where?”
“Coptic Coffee! It’s like…they do this seriously amazing tea set in there. Jay and I went there when we were undergrads.”
“Well how come you never took me?”
Sam shoots him an impatient look. “Dude, it was a date.”
“Huh.”
“I tell you what,” Sinn is saying sweetly, “I’ll try the coffee.” He picks up the mug in front of him, regarding it thoughtfully. James, prying Sam’s fingers off his arm, watches with fascination as Blondie lights up.
“You will?”
Sinn smiles. It’s not a nice expression.
James nudges Sam. “I think the owner of Coptic Coffee is about to commit murder in your shop. Maybe you should, you know, stop him?”
“No he won’t,” Sam hisses. “His friend’s a policeman. Look, he’s still wearing his pips.”
“Seriously,” James says, watching the thoughtful tilt of Sinn’s head. “Murder. It’s happening. We’re witnesses.”
“Bloody hell!” Blondie yelps, as Sinn upends the mug of hot coffee over his arm.
Sinn slams the mug back down on the table. “And don’t think you’re coming back into my shop,” he says, standing up with neat, precise movements and pulling on his coat. “If the coffee’s so much better here, you can spend your money on the sprinkles.” The way he says ‘sprinkles’ suggests he’d rather be saying ‘filth’.
“But I don’t spend money in your shop anyway,” Blondie says plaintively, nursing his arm and ruined uniform shirt.
“Precisely,” Sinn says, and sweeps out without a backward glance.
“Dude,” Sam whispers, staring after him in awe. “That was fucking magnificent.”
Prompt #2 from aur_in_hue - Sinn and Mars in the CSI universe. (I've never watched CSI, so this is more like 'Surly morticians and the detectives that love harass them'.)
Frederick Holland died in brutal and suspicious circumstances on Friday 4th October.
On Wednesday 6th of November, his landlady finally notices the appalling smell coming from his flat.
“Three stab wounds,” Sinn says, pulling off his surgical gloves with a resounding snap. “One to the neck, two to the stomach; one perforating the lining of the stomach, the other narrowly missing.” He raises an eyebrow as Mars swallows heavily, not good with bodies even when they’ve been in the deep freeze. “Someone wanted him to die slowly and painfully, and then thought better of it.” He indicates the stab wound on Frederick’s neck. “This was done quickly and efficiently some five minutes after the first two, perforating his larynx and severing his spinal cord. That takes a significant amount of strength - it’s not an easy thing to do.”
“Wow.” Mars wipes a hand across his mouth - he’s never been good at this bit. “Someone really, really didn’t like him.”
“No,” Sinn says shortly, turning away to disinfect his hands. “Someone also knew he wouldn’t be found if they left him in his apartment.”
“No sign of the body being moved,” Mars confirms, hauling himself up to sit on the edge of a spare mortuary slab; it’s clean, and Sinn never offers him a seat, so he has to put his squeamishness to one side. His body’s reminding him his shift finished three hours ago and his feet are throbbing. It’s nice to sit down, even in a place so morbid.
“Well that suggests whoever it was knew him.” Sinn starts unlacing his scrubs and Mars leans over to help, fingers brushing accidentally-on-purpose through the short dark hair at the nape of Sinn’s neck.
“No it doesn’t,” he contradicts, swinging his feet and smiling when Sinn flinches away. “It could just mean someone was watching him.”
“Path lab says he had traces of alcohol in his system when he was killed,” Sinn continues, ignoring Mars with grim determination. “And David in forensics says there were traces of top layer soil in the treads of his boots. They’ve narrowed it down to somewhere near Dover - there’s a large amount of chalk residue.”
“When did you talk to David in forensics?” Mars asks suspiciously. Sinn doesn’t like communicating with people; in fact, he prefers hanging out with the dead bodies. It’s a sort of creepy king of the undead vibe that he has, but it apparently works for him.
“He e-mailed,” Sinn says shortly. “I got the results about twenty three minutes before you showed up.” Mars knows it wasn’t about twenty three minutes before he showed up; it was precisely twenty three minutes. Sinn likes to keep time accurately; Mars likes to let him. It’s sort of a game, really - see how much he can observe about Sinn before Sinn catches on. If Mars were more organised, he’d have a list, or a pie chart; maybe a flow chart. He’s not that organised though, so instead he complies notes and scraps and bits and pieces in his head, all mentally piled in a corner of his brain under the label ‘Sinn’.
It’s a work in progress.
“Are you finished now?” he asks, instead of calling Sinn out on his timekeeping.
“I was meant to be finished two hours and four minutes ago,” Sinn says, pushing closed the drawer Frederick Holland (formerly of Hatfield Crescent) is currently residing in.
“Want to grab a drink?”
Sinn shoots him a Look. “Mars,” he says, with his patience wearing thin, “it is four minutes past midnight on Thursday 7th November. I do not want a drink; I want to go home.”
“Awesome,” Mars says, jumping off the table as Sinn pulls on his coat. “You can make me a cup of tea when we get in.”
“One day,” Sinn threatens as he turns off the lights and then locks the mortuary door, “you are going to end up on my table, and I will not preserve your good looks for the benefit of your relatives.”
Mars just grins.
That wasn’t a ‘no’, after all.