Part eleven: negotiations with children
In which life goes on.
Keira is currently engaged in a stare-off. She's faced down drug lords,
gangsters, hitmen, high flying businessmen, grannies with really big sticks, you
name it, and relies on being a con artist to earn her living. however, she might
have met her match. The intensely cute three year old in front of her has hold
of the scotch eggs. And isn't blinking. Damn genetics.
"Give me the scotch eggs and no-one gets hurt, Tasha." Keira says.
"No." Tasha states flatly, crossing her arms over them.
"Give me the scotch eggs and I won't tickle you." Keira says.
"No." Tasha says, narrowing her eyes.
"Give me the scotch eggs, Tasha." Keira grunts.
"No." Tasha says. the flat tone isn't changing.
"You can have access to the biscuits now." Keira offers, prepared to negotiate
and show mercy. "Just give me the scotch eggs."
"No."
"Jesus christ, what do i have to do get the bloody scotch eggs off you?" Keira
asks, throwing her hands up in the air and giving in. Dignity is clearly
overrated. Seriously, this child could give lessons in bloody mindedness.
"Show me how to pickpocket." Tasha says.
"Oh no, I'm not doing that." Keira says, waving her finger in protest. "Your
grandparents would kill me, since they'd know exactly where you'd learnt it."
"Might I point out that her father is quite in favour of her learning such useful
skills?" Dmitri drawls, watching on in amusement.
Keira doesn't turn round. She knows perfectly well he's leaning back on his
elbows, ankles crossed, sunglasses on in perfect nonchalant slightly dishevelled
pose. She really does suspect Kamarov's done modelling and acting at some
point, but she can't get a single shred of evidence of it, no matter how much Han
searches or how much time she spends in his presence. Not even nude
modelling, which is a bloody miracle given his looks and body.
"Her father may but her grandparents are the ones raising her and are very
capable of being very difficult." Keira says. "I am not teaching you to
pickpocket, Tasha."
"Can't have scotch eggs, then." Tasha scowls.
"Okay. How about I teach you when you're older?" Keira concedes, trying to get
back to negotiation.
"You'll make excuse." Tasha points out. "Now."
"She's got you there." Dmitri chuckles. "You've got no problem in going back on
things unless you've been nailed down."
"And not even then." Keira adds. "Sensible business practice, that. Still not
giving you pickpocketing lessons, Tasha, and that is final. is there anything
else?" Pause. "That I can give you today. Not tomorrow, not for christmas.
today."
Tasha gets a considering look on her face, but she's still not breaking the stare.
Then states flatly. "Pickpocketing."
"You're not getting anywhere there." Dmitri adds.
"You, shut up." Keira says, eyeing the scotch eggs. She can nearly taste the
damn things. "Okay. One lesson. that's it."
another considering look. "What do i get?" Tasha asks.
"I'll show you how to make a coin disappear, will that do?" Keira asks. It may
be one of the more useful skills but since it tends to come under parlour tricks
hopefully Tasha's grandparents won't count it as a pickpocketing lesson.
"How useful is it?" Tasha asks. Like she said, negotiation skills up the wazoo.
"Distraction is very important, and it's really important not to get caught with
anything you steal." Keira says. "They can't accuse you if you don't have it.
here." She says, fishing a coin out of her pocket. "See the coin?"
"You've shown me this trick before." Tasha states.
"But now I'm going to show you how to do it." She pauses, and narrows her
eyes. "but only if you give me the scotch eggs." Keira holds her hand out.
"...Okay." Tasha says grudgingly. "Daddy, you make her stick to it."
"I approve the terms." Dmitri says, his tone sounding impressively straight
faced.
Tasha hands over the scotch eggs. "Right. Lesson now."
Keira glares at her. "I'm not allowed to eat any lunch?"
"Lesson first." Tasha says. The problem with Tasha knowing keira most of her
life is she knows precisely how to make stuff stick.
"I hate you, demon child." Keira states.
"Lesson first." Tasha repeats. "I hate you too. Gimme the lesson and you can
eat."
Keira grudgingly gets on with teaching Tasha the trick to making coins
disappear, since her lunch is on the line. Dmitiri just smirks and offers the
occasional very unhelpful comment, eating the olives.
They're having a picnic in Regents Park, on one of Dmitri's regular visits to see
his daughter. Gwen's parents have been raising Tasha since Gwen got very
firmly exiled to the CIA, but Kamarov's been making damn sure she knows
exactly who he is and be involved as much as he can, which means he's pretty
much the automatic Russian liasion to MI-13. It seems to be adding up to about
one week in four, if not more. Her and Alasdair're making bets on when he
manages to up it to half and half. And as keira is all too well aware, Tasha is
what happens when you combine two hard-nosed spies. She can only conclude
it's genetic because mr and mrs davies are quite normal people, who are a little
perplexed how they manage to be raising a little girl with the ability to hone in
on people's weaknesses, shows remarkable skills in lying with a straight face,
patience of a saint... it just goes on. Determined little brat, so she is.
After Keira's finally managed to get her hands on the food, it's time for a ball
game, during which Keira nearly gives herself a stitch laughing. "No, seriously.
How the hell can you wield a gun, master a bunch of martial arts, give off the
impression that you're in perfect control of every inch of your body - and you're
this crap at catching a ball? I've seen you catch knives and guns, for christ's
sake."
"My hand-eye co-ordination has gaps in it." Dmitri says stiffly. "Also, i am not
used to catching tennis balls thrown at my crotch from that angle."
Keira and tasha exchange glances. "Crap excuse. What do you think?"
"Daddy can't catch." Tasha sniffs, then repeats "Crap excuse."
"I don't know how you manage to get away with teaching her this much bad
language." Dmitri says. "If they know you'd be responsible for any pick
pocketing lessons..."
Keira smirks. "Becasue she knows not to repeat it in front of them."
"Yeah." Tasha adds, scurrying to pick up the ball that her dad fumbled. "Leran to
catch, daddy."
"I really should film this for the rest of your lot." keira says when the ball goes
straight through his legs. "The great smug bastard Kamarov brought low by a
three year old little girl and a tennis ball."
Tasha huffs "Well, go and get it, Daddy." She says, tapping her foot in
impatience.
Dmitiri sighs and goes off to get it. it eventually rolls to a stop by one of the
gardeners, who's in the middle of planting a new set of border plants - they
replace them on a regular basis, new colour schemes every few weeks. He
reaches past the gardener, picking up the ball. "Sorry, that got away from me."
The gardener looks up. he turns out to be very good-looking. Dmitri smiles
reflexively. "No, no problem." The gardener says, brushing a gloved hand over
his forehead and leaving a streak of dirt. Dmitri follows it. "You didn't damage
anything."
"That's good." Dmitri says, turning on the charm. "I wouldn't want to be
responsible for any damage."
"Daddy is terrible at catch." Tasha says behind him.
"Your daughter?" The gardener asks, grinning at Tasha.
"Yep." Tasha replies. "Daddy, can I have the ball?"
"here you go." Dmitri says, tossing it to her. She, of course, catches it without
any effort and runs back to Keira.
Keira watches as Dmitri lingers, turning the full wattage charm on the gardener.
When he saunters back to their group a few minutes later, Keira shakes her
head. "You know, I thought you come here to spend time with your daughter,
not ogle the gardeners."
"Nothing says i can't do both." Dmitri smirks.
"And you got his number." Keira sats, rolling her eyes. "Why am I not surprised,
you jammy sod."
"It's a talent." He says with absolutely no modesty whatsoever.
Ben's watching a dvd when his phone goes. Harry. "Harry? What can I do you
for?" he asks, pausing it on Clint Eastwood in the middle of chewing a cigarillo.
"Need you to do a pick up." Harry says.
Ben raises an eyebrow. he never touches the stuff, and Harry keeps it that way
with the jobs he gives him. "Pick up of what?" He asks cautiously.
"Person, actually." harry says. "Sunday night, I want you at heathrow. That
little thief Keira needs picking up, she was retrieving something for us." Harry
pauses. "Surprised you didn't know she was out of the country, being such good
mates." He doesn't emphasise the word mates, but Ben still winces internally.
he'd really like not to have Keira used as leverage against him.
"I don't keep tabs on her, harry." Ben says. "Valuable, is it?"
"Yeah, to the right buyer." harry says. "We feel she needs an escort for it."
Ben gives clint up on the screen a look. Not often Keira's given a ride from what
she's let slip during the time he's known her. "Sure, no problem. Just give me
time and flight number."
Keira's plane gets in on time, and she raises an eyebrow on seeing him,
adjusting her shoulder bag. "See i get the welcome wagon, then. harry send
you as an escort?"
"that'd be me. harry says I've to deliver it straight to very secure hands." Ben
says, putting his hands in his pockets. "Don't act glad to see me, then."
"nah. you're like scenery by now." Keira says, grinning.
"Oh, cheers." Ben says as she pokes him in the shoulder, and they make their
way out throguh the echoing airport to the short stay pick up point.
"Christ they're paranoid, i'll say that for your lot." Keira says, leaning on the
roof of the car as Ben gets on with stowing her suitcase in the boot. He's not
sure how much of the weight is clothes and kit and what's the item.
"Met them?" Ben asks, straightening up and closing the boot. "Who's to say you
won't fence it?" he pauses. "Whatver it is. Harry hasn't told me."
Keira makes a face. "It is fucking ugly, specific market, and finding a buyer
would be a pain in the arse. There is a reason I demanded half up front, mate."
"Antique?" ben asks, coming round to the driver's side.
"Just fucking ugly. Some sort of rarity. Very, very small market of people
collecting the ugliest items on this earth just for the hell of it, as far as I can
tell." She shrugs. "Like those runs of stuff where the one that's got the wrong
paint job's worth more. Mind you, I'm bloody sure they're raising the price for
the hell of it becasue they've got more moeny than god and this is a way to
keep score."
Ben leans on the steering wheel, thinking of some of the stuff he's seen in
galleries and on lazy sunday afternoons watching Antiques Roadshow. "You may
be right there."
"it's art." Keira says dryly, having gotten in beside him. "I may not care what I
steal as long as it pays, but I've seen enoguh to know how much people are
willing to pay for it."
The tv in the corner of the pub is currently showing the rugby, and Ben and
Alasdair are watching France appear to be playing some sort of despaerate keep
away against the Aussies.
Ben frowns. "Seriously, when are they going to even try for a try?"
Alasdair sighs. "Think they're too busy running scared to think of making a
break for it." One of France's lot gets tackled as he catches the ball, there's a
pile-up as a bunch of the Aussies see their moment, and the ref flies in and
starts gesturing emphatically. Alasdair shakes his head. I'm going to get a pint.
You want one?"
"Yeah, get some mini cheddars too?" Ben says distractedly, feeling distinctly
peckish.
"Will do." Alasdair says, heading off to accost the nearest member of bar staff.
He comes back with the drinks just as Australia start a run for the line that looks
like nothing's going to stop them. "And they're... ooo, that was nasty." he winces
as one fo the French team gets taken out as he tries to go for the full back's
feet. "Here you go." He says, passing Ben his beer. As he does, the light
catches something on his hand.
Which on closer inspection turns out to be a ring. Ben nods at Alasdair's hand.
"That's new."
Alasdair blinks, then gets it. He lifts his hand to look at the ring. "Yeah, the
boyfriend cornered me at a weak moment."
"Weak moment?" Ben asks, curiously.
Alasdair scowls. "Entire fucking awards ceremony. Went up to receive the
award, took that moment to announce that I'd once told him I'd only marry him
if he won something that made him look like he had a serious job, and he was
calling it in. Bloody actors and their dramatic tendencies."
Ben winces. "Ouch. Got you in a bind there."
Alasdair slurps at his pint. "Wedding's in a couple've months time. Fortunately
neither of us want a big fuss."
Ben has a thought. "He knows about the-" He makes an obscure gesture that he
thinks might mean werewolf, since it's not like you'd tell anyone about the more
interesting details of the day job.
"Slept over on a fucking full moon and he got up in the night to get a glass of
water." Alasdair shrugs. "Come morning he's giving me the 'and when were you
going to tell me?' speech."
"Suppose it could be worse." Ben points out. "Could've freaked and scarpered."
"Nah, just bitches about me shedding and says I'm on hoover duty until the end
of time. Other than that, he likes having a furry hot water bottle on cold nights."
Alasdair pauses. "Well, after I'd told him that the films and tales lie.
Lycanthropy's genetic, not a virus. Seriously, what kind of middle-ages thinking
do you have to have to believe that saliva exchange would make you able to
re-form your entire skeleton and digestive system on command?"
"Daily Mail readers exist, sad to say." Ben says, making Alasdair snort as on the
tv the Aussies convert their try.
Ben's dead to the world when his phone goes off. Keira grabs it, takes a look at
the display and pokes him. "Your lord and master calls."
"Shite." Ben groans, taking the phone and fumbling it on. "Harry. Yeah?" he
slurs into the phone.
His mouth tastes like something died in it. he'd ended up on Keira's doorstep
after he and Inal had to break up four fights, wrestle one idiot to the ground just
so the paramedics could stick her with sedative so they could stop her head
wound bleeding on everyone else. She'd fallen down the stairs, so fucking
drunk she could barely walk, the bar staff insisting they'd served her all of two
drinks, which probably means she was either hiding it well when they let her in,
or she's a really cheap drunk. One of the type that you give them a couple,
they just seem tipsy, stand up and it all goes a bit Pete Tong. Only this one's
also the type to lash out and fight everyone who even tries to tell her what to
do, even when they're trying to stop her bleeding all over her top. And suede
skirt. Inal'd made a comment about not wanting her cleaning bill when she'd
gone through the door, and that was just the possibility of sweat and drink
getting spilled on it, never mind blood.
At the end of the night, he'd just been so drained and knackered that he wanted
a quiet place to crash, and headed for Keira's since her neighbours were less
noisy in the mornings. She'd taken one look at him, methodically stripped him
and shoved him into bed, then curled up next to him. he remembers muttering
something about taking the couch and she'd just told him to not be so stupid.
"Get your arse down here now. almighty fuckup." Harry states, interrupting his
recall of how he ended up here. And it's that tone of voice that means heads are
going to roll. Possibly literally. Harry's not one to mince his tone of voice, let
alone words. Which means Ben is now very very awake.
"Got it. Where're you?" Ben asks, scrambling out of bed.
"Twenty six Cleveland. First floor." Harry says, then there's the muffled noise of
him telling someone in the background to shut it. And anyone told to shut it by
Harry normally shuts up immediately if they've got any sense. Only there's a
distinct whining afterward, so Ben's not surprised when Harry pauses. "Give me
a second." There's the distinct crack of palm meeting skin, and Ben does not
envy how much that twat's jaw and neck's going to ache. "Sorry, just had to
deal with some twat."
"Do I need to bring anything?" Ben asks, fumbling his pants on.
"Just yourself. Sharpish." Harry ends the call, leaving Ben to hurriedly pull his
shirt on.
The problem is when he picks up his trousers. Which the girl from last night
clearly bled all over while he was holding her down for the paramedics. he
stares at them in dismay. He can't turn up with blood all over the legs of his
trousers, it'd look - well, Ben and Harry pride themsleves on looking at least
half-decent when dealing with people, and thoguh some gangsters may be fine
with turning up looking like they've been in an abbatoir, they're not. "Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck." They're fucking ruined, and he's not got time to make a stop at a
shop, never mind that there's none on the way, never mind one that's open on
a sunday at this hour. harry'll kill him.
"Problem?" Keira asks. She's sitting up in bed, looking amused as she watches
him scramble frantically for clothes.
"My trousers're fucking ruined, I can't turn up like this. What the fuck'm I going
to do?" Ben panics. "The blood's all up them, can't just cover it with a coat -"
Keira scoots herself out of bed, rummages in her chest of draws, and throws a
pair of her jeans at him. "Wear those."
Ben looks at them in disbelief. "I can't bloody wear girls' jeans, i'll get the piss
taken out of me!" Pause. "And they're jeans, this is business -"
Keira gives him a look. "I wear mens' half the time. They'll fit with a belt. And
what would you prefer, turning up in trousers that look like you've been in the
mddle of a bloodbath or clean jeans? Thought harry wanted you there sharpish
as it was."
Ben swallows at that reminder. "You're right. Thanks." he says, pulling them on
and threading his belt through the loops. Turns out Keira wears a size in mens
that's about his, so at least they fit okay.
That done, he runs for the bathroom to grab some water, then the mouthwash
to deal with his deathbreath, pulling his shoes on and heading out the door.
Keira looks at him just before he leaves. "You might want your coat?"
"Oh. Ta."
Turns out to be a drug deal gone very wrong, powder everywhere, someone's
spattered brains *in* the powder, which necessitates calling in the clean-up
team while Harry berates everyone else left, right and centre. When it's done,
Harry eyes him. "Any reason you're in jeans and last night's shirt?"
"Trousers got ruined last night when we were helping the paramedics, boss."
Ben says. "Didn't think you'd want me to look like I'd just come from an
abbatoir."
Harry nods. "Sensible." Ben lets out a breath as he pulls out his phone again to
direct another call to someone who can make sure the right people find the
bodies. the last one he'd tried had had his phone turned off because he insists
on making his mum happpy by turning up to church once a month. Fucking
sundays.
Keira is currently engaged in a stare-off. She's faced down drug lords,
gangsters, hitmen, high flying businessmen, grannies with really big sticks, you
name it, and relies on being a con artist to earn her living. however, she might
have met her match. The intensely cute three year old in front of her has hold
of the scotch eggs. And isn't blinking. Damn genetics.
"Give me the scotch eggs and no-one gets hurt, Tasha." Keira says.
"No." Tasha states flatly, crossing her arms over them.
"Give me the scotch eggs and I won't tickle you." Keira says.
"No." Tasha says, narrowing her eyes.
"Give me the scotch eggs, Tasha." Keira grunts.
"No." Tasha says. the flat tone isn't changing.
"You can have access to the biscuits now." Keira offers, prepared to negotiate
and show mercy. "Just give me the scotch eggs."
"No."
"Jesus christ, what do i have to do get the bloody scotch eggs off you?" Keira
asks, throwing her hands up in the air and giving in. Dignity is clearly
overrated. Seriously, this child could give lessons in bloody mindedness.
"Show me how to pickpocket." Tasha says.
"Oh no, I'm not doing that." Keira says, waving her finger in protest. "Your
grandparents would kill me, since they'd know exactly where you'd learnt it."
"Might I point out that her father is quite in favour of her learning such useful
skills?" Dmitri drawls, watching on in amusement.
Keira doesn't turn round. She knows perfectly well he's leaning back on his
elbows, ankles crossed, sunglasses on in perfect nonchalant slightly dishevelled
pose. She really does suspect Kamarov's done modelling and acting at some
point, but she can't get a single shred of evidence of it, no matter how much Han
searches or how much time she spends in his presence. Not even nude
modelling, which is a bloody miracle given his looks and body.
"Her father may but her grandparents are the ones raising her and are very
capable of being very difficult." Keira says. "I am not teaching you to
pickpocket, Tasha."
"Can't have scotch eggs, then." Tasha scowls.
"Okay. How about I teach you when you're older?" Keira concedes, trying to get
back to negotiation.
"You'll make excuse." Tasha points out. "Now."
"She's got you there." Dmitri chuckles. "You've got no problem in going back on
things unless you've been nailed down."
"And not even then." Keira adds. "Sensible business practice, that. Still not
giving you pickpocketing lessons, Tasha, and that is final. is there anything
else?" Pause. "That I can give you today. Not tomorrow, not for christmas.
today."
Tasha gets a considering look on her face, but she's still not breaking the stare.
Then states flatly. "Pickpocketing."
"You're not getting anywhere there." Dmitri adds.
"You, shut up." Keira says, eyeing the scotch eggs. She can nearly taste the
damn things. "Okay. One lesson. that's it."
another considering look. "What do i get?" Tasha asks.
"I'll show you how to make a coin disappear, will that do?" Keira asks. It may
be one of the more useful skills but since it tends to come under parlour tricks
hopefully Tasha's grandparents won't count it as a pickpocketing lesson.
"How useful is it?" Tasha asks. Like she said, negotiation skills up the wazoo.
"Distraction is very important, and it's really important not to get caught with
anything you steal." Keira says. "They can't accuse you if you don't have it.
here." She says, fishing a coin out of her pocket. "See the coin?"
"You've shown me this trick before." Tasha states.
"But now I'm going to show you how to do it." She pauses, and narrows her
eyes. "but only if you give me the scotch eggs." Keira holds her hand out.
"...Okay." Tasha says grudgingly. "Daddy, you make her stick to it."
"I approve the terms." Dmitri says, his tone sounding impressively straight
faced.
Tasha hands over the scotch eggs. "Right. Lesson now."
Keira glares at her. "I'm not allowed to eat any lunch?"
"Lesson first." Tasha says. The problem with Tasha knowing keira most of her
life is she knows precisely how to make stuff stick.
"I hate you, demon child." Keira states.
"Lesson first." Tasha repeats. "I hate you too. Gimme the lesson and you can
eat."
Keira grudgingly gets on with teaching Tasha the trick to making coins
disappear, since her lunch is on the line. Dmitiri just smirks and offers the
occasional very unhelpful comment, eating the olives.
They're having a picnic in Regents Park, on one of Dmitri's regular visits to see
his daughter. Gwen's parents have been raising Tasha since Gwen got very
firmly exiled to the CIA, but Kamarov's been making damn sure she knows
exactly who he is and be involved as much as he can, which means he's pretty
much the automatic Russian liasion to MI-13. It seems to be adding up to about
one week in four, if not more. Her and Alasdair're making bets on when he
manages to up it to half and half. And as keira is all too well aware, Tasha is
what happens when you combine two hard-nosed spies. She can only conclude
it's genetic because mr and mrs davies are quite normal people, who are a little
perplexed how they manage to be raising a little girl with the ability to hone in
on people's weaknesses, shows remarkable skills in lying with a straight face,
patience of a saint... it just goes on. Determined little brat, so she is.
After Keira's finally managed to get her hands on the food, it's time for a ball
game, during which Keira nearly gives herself a stitch laughing. "No, seriously.
How the hell can you wield a gun, master a bunch of martial arts, give off the
impression that you're in perfect control of every inch of your body - and you're
this crap at catching a ball? I've seen you catch knives and guns, for christ's
sake."
"My hand-eye co-ordination has gaps in it." Dmitri says stiffly. "Also, i am not
used to catching tennis balls thrown at my crotch from that angle."
Keira and tasha exchange glances. "Crap excuse. What do you think?"
"Daddy can't catch." Tasha sniffs, then repeats "Crap excuse."
"I don't know how you manage to get away with teaching her this much bad
language." Dmitri says. "If they know you'd be responsible for any pick
pocketing lessons..."
Keira smirks. "Becasue she knows not to repeat it in front of them."
"Yeah." Tasha adds, scurrying to pick up the ball that her dad fumbled. "Leran to
catch, daddy."
"I really should film this for the rest of your lot." keira says when the ball goes
straight through his legs. "The great smug bastard Kamarov brought low by a
three year old little girl and a tennis ball."
Tasha huffs "Well, go and get it, Daddy." She says, tapping her foot in
impatience.
Dmitiri sighs and goes off to get it. it eventually rolls to a stop by one of the
gardeners, who's in the middle of planting a new set of border plants - they
replace them on a regular basis, new colour schemes every few weeks. He
reaches past the gardener, picking up the ball. "Sorry, that got away from me."
The gardener looks up. he turns out to be very good-looking. Dmitri smiles
reflexively. "No, no problem." The gardener says, brushing a gloved hand over
his forehead and leaving a streak of dirt. Dmitri follows it. "You didn't damage
anything."
"That's good." Dmitri says, turning on the charm. "I wouldn't want to be
responsible for any damage."
"Daddy is terrible at catch." Tasha says behind him.
"Your daughter?" The gardener asks, grinning at Tasha.
"Yep." Tasha replies. "Daddy, can I have the ball?"
"here you go." Dmitri says, tossing it to her. She, of course, catches it without
any effort and runs back to Keira.
Keira watches as Dmitri lingers, turning the full wattage charm on the gardener.
When he saunters back to their group a few minutes later, Keira shakes her
head. "You know, I thought you come here to spend time with your daughter,
not ogle the gardeners."
"Nothing says i can't do both." Dmitri smirks.
"And you got his number." Keira sats, rolling her eyes. "Why am I not surprised,
you jammy sod."
"It's a talent." He says with absolutely no modesty whatsoever.
Ben's watching a dvd when his phone goes. Harry. "Harry? What can I do you
for?" he asks, pausing it on Clint Eastwood in the middle of chewing a cigarillo.
"Need you to do a pick up." Harry says.
Ben raises an eyebrow. he never touches the stuff, and Harry keeps it that way
with the jobs he gives him. "Pick up of what?" He asks cautiously.
"Person, actually." harry says. "Sunday night, I want you at heathrow. That
little thief Keira needs picking up, she was retrieving something for us." Harry
pauses. "Surprised you didn't know she was out of the country, being such good
mates." He doesn't emphasise the word mates, but Ben still winces internally.
he'd really like not to have Keira used as leverage against him.
"I don't keep tabs on her, harry." Ben says. "Valuable, is it?"
"Yeah, to the right buyer." harry says. "We feel she needs an escort for it."
Ben gives clint up on the screen a look. Not often Keira's given a ride from what
she's let slip during the time he's known her. "Sure, no problem. Just give me
time and flight number."
Keira's plane gets in on time, and she raises an eyebrow on seeing him,
adjusting her shoulder bag. "See i get the welcome wagon, then. harry send
you as an escort?"
"that'd be me. harry says I've to deliver it straight to very secure hands." Ben
says, putting his hands in his pockets. "Don't act glad to see me, then."
"nah. you're like scenery by now." Keira says, grinning.
"Oh, cheers." Ben says as she pokes him in the shoulder, and they make their
way out throguh the echoing airport to the short stay pick up point.
"Christ they're paranoid, i'll say that for your lot." Keira says, leaning on the
roof of the car as Ben gets on with stowing her suitcase in the boot. He's not
sure how much of the weight is clothes and kit and what's the item.
"Met them?" Ben asks, straightening up and closing the boot. "Who's to say you
won't fence it?" he pauses. "Whatver it is. Harry hasn't told me."
Keira makes a face. "It is fucking ugly, specific market, and finding a buyer
would be a pain in the arse. There is a reason I demanded half up front, mate."
"Antique?" ben asks, coming round to the driver's side.
"Just fucking ugly. Some sort of rarity. Very, very small market of people
collecting the ugliest items on this earth just for the hell of it, as far as I can
tell." She shrugs. "Like those runs of stuff where the one that's got the wrong
paint job's worth more. Mind you, I'm bloody sure they're raising the price for
the hell of it becasue they've got more moeny than god and this is a way to
keep score."
Ben leans on the steering wheel, thinking of some of the stuff he's seen in
galleries and on lazy sunday afternoons watching Antiques Roadshow. "You may
be right there."
"it's art." Keira says dryly, having gotten in beside him. "I may not care what I
steal as long as it pays, but I've seen enoguh to know how much people are
willing to pay for it."
The tv in the corner of the pub is currently showing the rugby, and Ben and
Alasdair are watching France appear to be playing some sort of despaerate keep
away against the Aussies.
Ben frowns. "Seriously, when are they going to even try for a try?"
Alasdair sighs. "Think they're too busy running scared to think of making a
break for it." One of France's lot gets tackled as he catches the ball, there's a
pile-up as a bunch of the Aussies see their moment, and the ref flies in and
starts gesturing emphatically. Alasdair shakes his head. I'm going to get a pint.
You want one?"
"Yeah, get some mini cheddars too?" Ben says distractedly, feeling distinctly
peckish.
"Will do." Alasdair says, heading off to accost the nearest member of bar staff.
He comes back with the drinks just as Australia start a run for the line that looks
like nothing's going to stop them. "And they're... ooo, that was nasty." he winces
as one fo the French team gets taken out as he tries to go for the full back's
feet. "Here you go." He says, passing Ben his beer. As he does, the light
catches something on his hand.
Which on closer inspection turns out to be a ring. Ben nods at Alasdair's hand.
"That's new."
Alasdair blinks, then gets it. He lifts his hand to look at the ring. "Yeah, the
boyfriend cornered me at a weak moment."
"Weak moment?" Ben asks, curiously.
Alasdair scowls. "Entire fucking awards ceremony. Went up to receive the
award, took that moment to announce that I'd once told him I'd only marry him
if he won something that made him look like he had a serious job, and he was
calling it in. Bloody actors and their dramatic tendencies."
Ben winces. "Ouch. Got you in a bind there."
Alasdair slurps at his pint. "Wedding's in a couple've months time. Fortunately
neither of us want a big fuss."
Ben has a thought. "He knows about the-" He makes an obscure gesture that he
thinks might mean werewolf, since it's not like you'd tell anyone about the more
interesting details of the day job.
"Slept over on a fucking full moon and he got up in the night to get a glass of
water." Alasdair shrugs. "Come morning he's giving me the 'and when were you
going to tell me?' speech."
"Suppose it could be worse." Ben points out. "Could've freaked and scarpered."
"Nah, just bitches about me shedding and says I'm on hoover duty until the end
of time. Other than that, he likes having a furry hot water bottle on cold nights."
Alasdair pauses. "Well, after I'd told him that the films and tales lie.
Lycanthropy's genetic, not a virus. Seriously, what kind of middle-ages thinking
do you have to have to believe that saliva exchange would make you able to
re-form your entire skeleton and digestive system on command?"
"Daily Mail readers exist, sad to say." Ben says, making Alasdair snort as on the
tv the Aussies convert their try.
Ben's dead to the world when his phone goes off. Keira grabs it, takes a look at
the display and pokes him. "Your lord and master calls."
"Shite." Ben groans, taking the phone and fumbling it on. "Harry. Yeah?" he
slurs into the phone.
His mouth tastes like something died in it. he'd ended up on Keira's doorstep
after he and Inal had to break up four fights, wrestle one idiot to the ground just
so the paramedics could stick her with sedative so they could stop her head
wound bleeding on everyone else. She'd fallen down the stairs, so fucking
drunk she could barely walk, the bar staff insisting they'd served her all of two
drinks, which probably means she was either hiding it well when they let her in,
or she's a really cheap drunk. One of the type that you give them a couple,
they just seem tipsy, stand up and it all goes a bit Pete Tong. Only this one's
also the type to lash out and fight everyone who even tries to tell her what to
do, even when they're trying to stop her bleeding all over her top. And suede
skirt. Inal'd made a comment about not wanting her cleaning bill when she'd
gone through the door, and that was just the possibility of sweat and drink
getting spilled on it, never mind blood.
At the end of the night, he'd just been so drained and knackered that he wanted
a quiet place to crash, and headed for Keira's since her neighbours were less
noisy in the mornings. She'd taken one look at him, methodically stripped him
and shoved him into bed, then curled up next to him. he remembers muttering
something about taking the couch and she'd just told him to not be so stupid.
"Get your arse down here now. almighty fuckup." Harry states, interrupting his
recall of how he ended up here. And it's that tone of voice that means heads are
going to roll. Possibly literally. Harry's not one to mince his tone of voice, let
alone words. Which means Ben is now very very awake.
"Got it. Where're you?" Ben asks, scrambling out of bed.
"Twenty six Cleveland. First floor." Harry says, then there's the muffled noise of
him telling someone in the background to shut it. And anyone told to shut it by
Harry normally shuts up immediately if they've got any sense. Only there's a
distinct whining afterward, so Ben's not surprised when Harry pauses. "Give me
a second." There's the distinct crack of palm meeting skin, and Ben does not
envy how much that twat's jaw and neck's going to ache. "Sorry, just had to
deal with some twat."
"Do I need to bring anything?" Ben asks, fumbling his pants on.
"Just yourself. Sharpish." Harry ends the call, leaving Ben to hurriedly pull his
shirt on.
The problem is when he picks up his trousers. Which the girl from last night
clearly bled all over while he was holding her down for the paramedics. he
stares at them in dismay. He can't turn up with blood all over the legs of his
trousers, it'd look - well, Ben and Harry pride themsleves on looking at least
half-decent when dealing with people, and thoguh some gangsters may be fine
with turning up looking like they've been in an abbatoir, they're not. "Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck." They're fucking ruined, and he's not got time to make a stop at a
shop, never mind that there's none on the way, never mind one that's open on
a sunday at this hour. harry'll kill him.
"Problem?" Keira asks. She's sitting up in bed, looking amused as she watches
him scramble frantically for clothes.
"My trousers're fucking ruined, I can't turn up like this. What the fuck'm I going
to do?" Ben panics. "The blood's all up them, can't just cover it with a coat -"
Keira scoots herself out of bed, rummages in her chest of draws, and throws a
pair of her jeans at him. "Wear those."
Ben looks at them in disbelief. "I can't bloody wear girls' jeans, i'll get the piss
taken out of me!" Pause. "And they're jeans, this is business -"
Keira gives him a look. "I wear mens' half the time. They'll fit with a belt. And
what would you prefer, turning up in trousers that look like you've been in the
mddle of a bloodbath or clean jeans? Thought harry wanted you there sharpish
as it was."
Ben swallows at that reminder. "You're right. Thanks." he says, pulling them on
and threading his belt through the loops. Turns out Keira wears a size in mens
that's about his, so at least they fit okay.
That done, he runs for the bathroom to grab some water, then the mouthwash
to deal with his deathbreath, pulling his shoes on and heading out the door.
Keira looks at him just before he leaves. "You might want your coat?"
"Oh. Ta."
Turns out to be a drug deal gone very wrong, powder everywhere, someone's
spattered brains *in* the powder, which necessitates calling in the clean-up
team while Harry berates everyone else left, right and centre. When it's done,
Harry eyes him. "Any reason you're in jeans and last night's shirt?"
"Trousers got ruined last night when we were helping the paramedics, boss."
Ben says. "Didn't think you'd want me to look like I'd just come from an
abbatoir."
Harry nods. "Sensible." Ben lets out a breath as he pulls out his phone again to
direct another call to someone who can make sure the right people find the
bodies. the last one he'd tried had had his phone turned off because he insists
on making his mum happpy by turning up to church once a month. Fucking
sundays.