FIC: Fast Fuse (Mint Royale 8/8)
Title: Fast Fuse
Pairing: Bank Robber/Getaway Driver
Summary: Nearly 3 years after their first encounter, robber and driver meet again.
Word count: 2,560 (this part)
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: I gave them new names and all, but I don't own Mint Royale, or their video, or Julian and Noel for that matter. No harm is meant.
Author's Notes: Well, this is it, last part! I'll stop spamming your friends pages now. Thanks to all who've read over the past week, I've been eating your comments like Howard eats applause. Again, big thanks to silent_fields and xthursdaynextx for their helpful comments, love to thickets for inspiring this story, and big giant hugs to my lovely beta, the_reverand.
Part 1 (Prologue)
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
8.
***
The first week after the raid is a bit of a blur.
Jon comes back to his flat in a daze, without really being aware of walking there in the first place, and he’s not surprised when he finds two police officers in plainclothes waiting for him there. His first thought is that they are there to arrest him after all, and he can’t even find it in himself to care. They’re not, though. It turns out they just want to talk.
Jon stands there in silence and listens while they talk to him very seriously about his safety, about possible retaliation for Jon’s betrayal of Mike, about trials and police protection. He doesn’t ask any questions when prompted, doesn’t argue, just packs his meagre possessions in a suitcase and follows the officers out of his flat like an automaton.
They bring him to a hotel room where he stays for several days. Now and then one of the two drops by with some documents for him to sign, or to ask him more questions, or to give him some more information. None of it really registers. Jon spends nearly all of his time in bed, staring at the ceiling in the deafening silence and trying not to think. He should be feeling something. Anger, or sadness, or fear, anything, but he just feels exhausted and apathetic and empty.
It’s not long before a new flat is secured for him at the other end of the city, along with a nice job working in a book shop, and shiny new bank cards and a driver’s licence with his face on it, but with ‘John Moore’ where ‘Jonathan Healy’ should be.
The two officers in charge of his case visit him often over the next couple of weeks, to check whether he’s okay, but Jon thinks it’s also to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like contact old acquaintances or go wandering back to his old neighbourhood in Hackney. He wants to tell them that they’re wasting their time, because he’s not going to do anything stupid. In fact, he isn’t going to do anything that doesn’t involve getting through his day at the bookstore like a sleepwalker and getting drunk off his face in the evening.
“Have you considered therapy?” his mother asks him on the phone one evening, after another failed attempt on Jon’s part to convince her that he’s fine. She doesn’t know half of the story, of course, but he had to fill her in on some elements of what transpired over the summer after the raid on the pub hit the news. “You don’t sound like yourself, sweetheart. It was a brave thing to do, turning in your old boss, but I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay, Mum.”
“Couldn’t you come and stay with me for a while? I don’t like the idea of you being all by yourself all the time.”
“I can’t, Mum, you know that. Besides, it’s only until the trial is over.”
The trial takes place two months after the raid. Thankfully, there is so much incriminating evidence against Mike and the guys that Jon doesn’t have to testify.
***
Undercover police foil £80million cocaine plot
Three Hackney men have been jailed for 46 years between them for their part in a £80million drugs plot. The men planned to flood London and the south-east with 300kg of high-purity cocaine. The trio was caught in a sting by an undercover officer from the Metropolitan Police Service in conjunction with the Serious Organised Crime Agency.
‘These men thought they could make some quick money through drug trafficking but they were wrong. Our officers were one step ahead of them and made sure their plan failed,’ said a spokesman for the agency.
Pub owner Michael Edwards was sentenced to 28 years in jail after a two-week trial for conspiracy to supply cocaine. Edward’s employees, Murray Wills and Ian Geoffroy, were both sentenced to nine years after admitting the same offence.
The sting operation began last March when an undercover officer infiltrated the crime circle and was able to monitor their illegal activities over a 6-month period, culminating in a police raid in a Hackney pub where three Dutch men, believed to be their main suppliers, were also apprehended.
Jon looks at Mike, Murray and Ian’s scowling faces in the newspaper, but he still can’t feel anything but mind-numbing lethargy.
***
In late October, Jon moves out of his cushy police-monitored flat and into something more in keeping with his shopkeeper’s salary. He supposes he should feel lucky that he gets to keep the job, at least.
“Are you sure they’ve said it’s safe? Seems to me they should keep you under police protection for longer than just a few months after all you’ve done for them!”
“It’s not the mafia, Mum. There wasn’t really anyone else involved aside from Mike and the guys. Maybe I’ll worry when Murray and Ian get out, but there isn’t any real reason to waste valuable man hours on me anymore.”
***
Two weeks after that, he gets a postcard from Cornwall.
This is surprising because Jon hasn’t really kept in touch with any friends who might send him postcards, and, more importantly, no one but his mother has his new address.
There it is, though, addressed in his fake name. The picture on the back is of some stereotypical Cornish coastline, and the message on it is very short, scrawled in a familiar handwriting.
Wish you were here.
It’s not signed and there’s no return address, but Jon doesn’t need those to know who it’s from.
He stands there in front of his letterbox for what feels like hours, gripping the postcard tightly as though it might decide to jump out of his hand and fly out the window at any moment. He ignores the greetings from each of his neighbours as they pass him and reads the message over and over again until the curve of each letter is imprinted into his brain.
For the first time since Elliot left, he feels something other than crushing apathy. It’s not joy or relief, though, it’s anger.
“No fucking way,” he finally tells the postcard before crumbling it into a ball. Still, he can’t bring himself to toss it in the bin. He shoves it in his pocket and goes out on a massive drinking binge.
***
After that, Jon tries to move on, he really does.
He starts going out more, manages to make a few new friends that aren’t drug dealers or bank robbers. He goes on a couple of dates, and has a couple of one-night stands. He visits his mother more often. He forbids himself to think about anything that happened during the summer - maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can forget that those months even existed. Pretend that he just got out of jail and that none of it ever happened.
It doesn’t work, though. The men he meets all bore him to tears, the sex isn’t satisfying, his flat feels sad and empty- and always, in the back of his mind, there’s Elliot’s stupid, pointy face, that crooked smile and those dancing eyes. He keeps the postcard in his coat pocket and hates himself for the way it makes his heart stop every time his fingers accidentally brush against it.
***
In the spring, nearly a year to the day since their deal outside the café, and against express instructions from the police, Jon finds himself in his old neighbourhood in Hackney. He’s not quite sure how he got there and knows he should be more careful, but there he is nonetheless, for no reason that he can articulate.
He wanders the familiar streets, from the record shop to the pub with the windows still boarded shut, to the café where they used to sit on Sunday afternoons, and finally to the front of the high-rise building where they said goodbye. Every place he visits and all the spaces in between are attached to a million memories - all the places they had sex, but also all the places that they laughed together, talked, held hands, argued, kissed. It had been real, the look in his blue eyes when he looked at Jon. He couldn’t have imagined it.
Standing outside the ugly building, holding the crumpled postcard in his hand, Jon finally makes up his mind.
***
Once Jon decides to go looking for it, finding out his real name is easy enough - hardly a day of research through the obituaries section in newspapers dating from July nets him not only a name, but the names of all his family members, as well as the towns in which they live. All of those months and that information was just there, waiting for Jon to find it.
Armed with some names and a postmark, he ends up in a small town in Cornwall, walking up the driveway leading up to a small but cosy-looking house overlooking the sea. It’s a cool spring day and the salty wind is biting, but despite this there is a woman outside, puttering around with a spade in the large flowerbed by the house. She’s bundled up in warm clothes, with thick gardening gloves and a warm hat pulled over her greying hair, but she doesn’t look very different from the glimpse of her that Jon caught in a photograph, what seems like a lifetime ago.
She stands up when she sees him approaching, and Jon suddenly feels unspeakably nervous. He shouldn’t be here. He’d been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from these people. Jon remembers it quite clearly: “You didn’t want me to involve your family, so fucking stay out of mine!”
Of course, there was the postcard, but that was months ago, and what if he’s come to his senses since then?
She greets him with a suspicious look, frowning slightly as she removes her gloves. She has the same eyes as her son.
“Can I help you?” she asks, not quite impolite but not exactly welcoming either. Jon fleetingly wonders if any unsavoury types have ever come looking for her son before. Someone in his line of work must have a lot of enemies, after all.
“Mrs Jefferies?”
“Excuse me, but who are you?”
This is ridiculous. She probably has no idea who Jon is, and he’s bound to come across as some weird creep at best, or as a dangerous lunatic at worst.
“I’m... Jon. Jonathan. Erm, you probably don’t know who I am, but-“
Her eyes widen then, and her closed-off expression clears up a bit. She’s clearly heard his name before, which Jon definitely did not expect. She gives him a once over, narrowing her eyes.
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan Healy, yes. Do you... has he mentioned me?”
She doesn’t answer right away, she just keeps on looking at him appraisingly, as though she’s trying to figure out whether he’s telling the truth or not.
“You’re just like he described,” she says at length, her lips curving into a slight smile.
“Oh, well -” Jon says awkwardly, suddenly feeling a bit flustered, but before he can get much further she’s speaking over him.
“You want to see him?”
Jon falters, looking away from her clear blue eyes and shoving his hands in his pockets, “Well, I was hoping you could tell me where to find him. I’ll understand if you won’t though, I’ll leave if you want me to. I didn’t mean to intrude, and I know you’re probably not supposed to tell me anything, but-“
“He’s at the shop, covering for his dad.”
“He- What? He’s... here? In this town?”
The postcard was sent so long ago that Jon was convinced that he’d be gone by now - all he’d hoped for was an address, or just a general direction. The thought that he’s here, that he could see him today is almost too much to handle.
“Oh, yes, he’s still here for a couple of weeks. Here, I’ll give you the directions. He’ll be surprised to see you!”
***
It turns out that ‘the shop’ means the local greengrocer. Jon sees him through the large bay windows of the shop at first, too busy stocking shelves to notice Jon standing outside. He’s dressed more casually than Jon has ever seen him; black jeans, trainers, and a blue t-shirt emblazoned with The Who’s logo that’s partly obscured by a green apron. His hair is shorter and has been bleached to a shocking shade of platinum, but it doesn’t matter, Jon would have recognized him even if he’d been wearing a burlap sack over his head. Just the sight of him through the window is terrifying, like falling in love all over again.
Jon watches him for a while, fighting a sudden urge to run before he’s seen, and just as he’s about to turn around and leave, he remembers the colourless existence that awaits him in London and forces himself to step forward and push the shop door open. He has to try.
“Five minutes ‘til I close shop, m-…“
“Alright, Neil.”
They stare at each other across the empty shop for a good thirty seconds in complete silence and Jon’s heartbeat is thundering so loud that it must be resounding throughout the shop.
Unable to stand the tension for more than a minute, Jon clears his throat nervously and speaks up.
“I like your hair.”
A pause, a bit of a smile, and then, “I like your beard.”
He won’t look Jon in the eye now that he’s over the initial astonishment, but he moves forward, steps around Jon, and heads towards the shop door. Jon is momentarily worried that he’ll just take off and leave him standing there again, but he just flips the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ and locks the door. Then he comes back and grabs Jon by the hand, dragging him to the small storage room in the back of the shop, amidst crates of fruits and vegetables. He shuts the door behind them and slams Jon back against it, grabbing handfuls of his shirt.
“You fucker. What took you so long?” he asks, but he’s smiling, a massive, brilliantly blinding smile, and there’s no mask, no calculation, just a wild, unchecked look of exhilaration in his eyes. Jon opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by warm lips on his and fingers in his hair.
There are so many things Jon wants to say first, but he can’t, not with the familiar way their bodies fit together, the smell of him, the warm slide of his tongue on Jon’s lower lip. Jon is as overwhelmed as he was the first time they kissed, all those years ago.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Elliot - no, Neil - murmurs against his lips.
“I didn’t want to. I must be crazy,” Jon whispers back, threading his fingers through soft blond hair - it feels the same, even though it looks so different. He knows he’s probably grinning stupidly but, for once, he doesn’t care.
“I think we both are,” Neil tells him, nibbling at his lip.
There are so many things they need to talk about, but maybe it can wait, just a bit longer.
***
THE END
Pairing: Bank Robber/Getaway Driver
Summary: Nearly 3 years after their first encounter, robber and driver meet again.
Word count: 2,560 (this part)
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: I gave them new names and all, but I don't own Mint Royale, or their video, or Julian and Noel for that matter. No harm is meant.
Author's Notes: Well, this is it, last part! I'll stop spamming your friends pages now. Thanks to all who've read over the past week, I've been eating your comments like Howard eats applause. Again, big thanks to silent_fields and xthursdaynextx for their helpful comments, love to thickets for inspiring this story, and big giant hugs to my lovely beta, the_reverand.
Part 1 (Prologue)
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
8.
***
The first week after the raid is a bit of a blur.
Jon comes back to his flat in a daze, without really being aware of walking there in the first place, and he’s not surprised when he finds two police officers in plainclothes waiting for him there. His first thought is that they are there to arrest him after all, and he can’t even find it in himself to care. They’re not, though. It turns out they just want to talk.
Jon stands there in silence and listens while they talk to him very seriously about his safety, about possible retaliation for Jon’s betrayal of Mike, about trials and police protection. He doesn’t ask any questions when prompted, doesn’t argue, just packs his meagre possessions in a suitcase and follows the officers out of his flat like an automaton.
They bring him to a hotel room where he stays for several days. Now and then one of the two drops by with some documents for him to sign, or to ask him more questions, or to give him some more information. None of it really registers. Jon spends nearly all of his time in bed, staring at the ceiling in the deafening silence and trying not to think. He should be feeling something. Anger, or sadness, or fear, anything, but he just feels exhausted and apathetic and empty.
It’s not long before a new flat is secured for him at the other end of the city, along with a nice job working in a book shop, and shiny new bank cards and a driver’s licence with his face on it, but with ‘John Moore’ where ‘Jonathan Healy’ should be.
The two officers in charge of his case visit him often over the next couple of weeks, to check whether he’s okay, but Jon thinks it’s also to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like contact old acquaintances or go wandering back to his old neighbourhood in Hackney. He wants to tell them that they’re wasting their time, because he’s not going to do anything stupid. In fact, he isn’t going to do anything that doesn’t involve getting through his day at the bookstore like a sleepwalker and getting drunk off his face in the evening.
“Have you considered therapy?” his mother asks him on the phone one evening, after another failed attempt on Jon’s part to convince her that he’s fine. She doesn’t know half of the story, of course, but he had to fill her in on some elements of what transpired over the summer after the raid on the pub hit the news. “You don’t sound like yourself, sweetheart. It was a brave thing to do, turning in your old boss, but I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay, Mum.”
“Couldn’t you come and stay with me for a while? I don’t like the idea of you being all by yourself all the time.”
“I can’t, Mum, you know that. Besides, it’s only until the trial is over.”
The trial takes place two months after the raid. Thankfully, there is so much incriminating evidence against Mike and the guys that Jon doesn’t have to testify.
***
Undercover police foil £80million cocaine plot
Three Hackney men have been jailed for 46 years between them for their part in a £80million drugs plot. The men planned to flood London and the south-east with 300kg of high-purity cocaine. The trio was caught in a sting by an undercover officer from the Metropolitan Police Service in conjunction with the Serious Organised Crime Agency.
‘These men thought they could make some quick money through drug trafficking but they were wrong. Our officers were one step ahead of them and made sure their plan failed,’ said a spokesman for the agency.
Pub owner Michael Edwards was sentenced to 28 years in jail after a two-week trial for conspiracy to supply cocaine. Edward’s employees, Murray Wills and Ian Geoffroy, were both sentenced to nine years after admitting the same offence.
The sting operation began last March when an undercover officer infiltrated the crime circle and was able to monitor their illegal activities over a 6-month period, culminating in a police raid in a Hackney pub where three Dutch men, believed to be their main suppliers, were also apprehended.
Jon looks at Mike, Murray and Ian’s scowling faces in the newspaper, but he still can’t feel anything but mind-numbing lethargy.
***
In late October, Jon moves out of his cushy police-monitored flat and into something more in keeping with his shopkeeper’s salary. He supposes he should feel lucky that he gets to keep the job, at least.
“Are you sure they’ve said it’s safe? Seems to me they should keep you under police protection for longer than just a few months after all you’ve done for them!”
“It’s not the mafia, Mum. There wasn’t really anyone else involved aside from Mike and the guys. Maybe I’ll worry when Murray and Ian get out, but there isn’t any real reason to waste valuable man hours on me anymore.”
***
Two weeks after that, he gets a postcard from Cornwall.
This is surprising because Jon hasn’t really kept in touch with any friends who might send him postcards, and, more importantly, no one but his mother has his new address.
There it is, though, addressed in his fake name. The picture on the back is of some stereotypical Cornish coastline, and the message on it is very short, scrawled in a familiar handwriting.
Wish you were here.
It’s not signed and there’s no return address, but Jon doesn’t need those to know who it’s from.
He stands there in front of his letterbox for what feels like hours, gripping the postcard tightly as though it might decide to jump out of his hand and fly out the window at any moment. He ignores the greetings from each of his neighbours as they pass him and reads the message over and over again until the curve of each letter is imprinted into his brain.
For the first time since Elliot left, he feels something other than crushing apathy. It’s not joy or relief, though, it’s anger.
“No fucking way,” he finally tells the postcard before crumbling it into a ball. Still, he can’t bring himself to toss it in the bin. He shoves it in his pocket and goes out on a massive drinking binge.
***
After that, Jon tries to move on, he really does.
He starts going out more, manages to make a few new friends that aren’t drug dealers or bank robbers. He goes on a couple of dates, and has a couple of one-night stands. He visits his mother more often. He forbids himself to think about anything that happened during the summer - maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can forget that those months even existed. Pretend that he just got out of jail and that none of it ever happened.
It doesn’t work, though. The men he meets all bore him to tears, the sex isn’t satisfying, his flat feels sad and empty- and always, in the back of his mind, there’s Elliot’s stupid, pointy face, that crooked smile and those dancing eyes. He keeps the postcard in his coat pocket and hates himself for the way it makes his heart stop every time his fingers accidentally brush against it.
***
In the spring, nearly a year to the day since their deal outside the café, and against express instructions from the police, Jon finds himself in his old neighbourhood in Hackney. He’s not quite sure how he got there and knows he should be more careful, but there he is nonetheless, for no reason that he can articulate.
He wanders the familiar streets, from the record shop to the pub with the windows still boarded shut, to the café where they used to sit on Sunday afternoons, and finally to the front of the high-rise building where they said goodbye. Every place he visits and all the spaces in between are attached to a million memories - all the places they had sex, but also all the places that they laughed together, talked, held hands, argued, kissed. It had been real, the look in his blue eyes when he looked at Jon. He couldn’t have imagined it.
Standing outside the ugly building, holding the crumpled postcard in his hand, Jon finally makes up his mind.
***
Once Jon decides to go looking for it, finding out his real name is easy enough - hardly a day of research through the obituaries section in newspapers dating from July nets him not only a name, but the names of all his family members, as well as the towns in which they live. All of those months and that information was just there, waiting for Jon to find it.
Armed with some names and a postmark, he ends up in a small town in Cornwall, walking up the driveway leading up to a small but cosy-looking house overlooking the sea. It’s a cool spring day and the salty wind is biting, but despite this there is a woman outside, puttering around with a spade in the large flowerbed by the house. She’s bundled up in warm clothes, with thick gardening gloves and a warm hat pulled over her greying hair, but she doesn’t look very different from the glimpse of her that Jon caught in a photograph, what seems like a lifetime ago.
She stands up when she sees him approaching, and Jon suddenly feels unspeakably nervous. He shouldn’t be here. He’d been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from these people. Jon remembers it quite clearly: “You didn’t want me to involve your family, so fucking stay out of mine!”
Of course, there was the postcard, but that was months ago, and what if he’s come to his senses since then?
She greets him with a suspicious look, frowning slightly as she removes her gloves. She has the same eyes as her son.
“Can I help you?” she asks, not quite impolite but not exactly welcoming either. Jon fleetingly wonders if any unsavoury types have ever come looking for her son before. Someone in his line of work must have a lot of enemies, after all.
“Mrs Jefferies?”
“Excuse me, but who are you?”
This is ridiculous. She probably has no idea who Jon is, and he’s bound to come across as some weird creep at best, or as a dangerous lunatic at worst.
“I’m... Jon. Jonathan. Erm, you probably don’t know who I am, but-“
Her eyes widen then, and her closed-off expression clears up a bit. She’s clearly heard his name before, which Jon definitely did not expect. She gives him a once over, narrowing her eyes.
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan Healy, yes. Do you... has he mentioned me?”
She doesn’t answer right away, she just keeps on looking at him appraisingly, as though she’s trying to figure out whether he’s telling the truth or not.
“You’re just like he described,” she says at length, her lips curving into a slight smile.
“Oh, well -” Jon says awkwardly, suddenly feeling a bit flustered, but before he can get much further she’s speaking over him.
“You want to see him?”
Jon falters, looking away from her clear blue eyes and shoving his hands in his pockets, “Well, I was hoping you could tell me where to find him. I’ll understand if you won’t though, I’ll leave if you want me to. I didn’t mean to intrude, and I know you’re probably not supposed to tell me anything, but-“
“He’s at the shop, covering for his dad.”
“He- What? He’s... here? In this town?”
The postcard was sent so long ago that Jon was convinced that he’d be gone by now - all he’d hoped for was an address, or just a general direction. The thought that he’s here, that he could see him today is almost too much to handle.
“Oh, yes, he’s still here for a couple of weeks. Here, I’ll give you the directions. He’ll be surprised to see you!”
***
It turns out that ‘the shop’ means the local greengrocer. Jon sees him through the large bay windows of the shop at first, too busy stocking shelves to notice Jon standing outside. He’s dressed more casually than Jon has ever seen him; black jeans, trainers, and a blue t-shirt emblazoned with The Who’s logo that’s partly obscured by a green apron. His hair is shorter and has been bleached to a shocking shade of platinum, but it doesn’t matter, Jon would have recognized him even if he’d been wearing a burlap sack over his head. Just the sight of him through the window is terrifying, like falling in love all over again.
Jon watches him for a while, fighting a sudden urge to run before he’s seen, and just as he’s about to turn around and leave, he remembers the colourless existence that awaits him in London and forces himself to step forward and push the shop door open. He has to try.
“Five minutes ‘til I close shop, m-…“
“Alright, Neil.”
They stare at each other across the empty shop for a good thirty seconds in complete silence and Jon’s heartbeat is thundering so loud that it must be resounding throughout the shop.
Unable to stand the tension for more than a minute, Jon clears his throat nervously and speaks up.
“I like your hair.”
A pause, a bit of a smile, and then, “I like your beard.”
He won’t look Jon in the eye now that he’s over the initial astonishment, but he moves forward, steps around Jon, and heads towards the shop door. Jon is momentarily worried that he’ll just take off and leave him standing there again, but he just flips the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ and locks the door. Then he comes back and grabs Jon by the hand, dragging him to the small storage room in the back of the shop, amidst crates of fruits and vegetables. He shuts the door behind them and slams Jon back against it, grabbing handfuls of his shirt.
“You fucker. What took you so long?” he asks, but he’s smiling, a massive, brilliantly blinding smile, and there’s no mask, no calculation, just a wild, unchecked look of exhilaration in his eyes. Jon opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by warm lips on his and fingers in his hair.
There are so many things Jon wants to say first, but he can’t, not with the familiar way their bodies fit together, the smell of him, the warm slide of his tongue on Jon’s lower lip. Jon is as overwhelmed as he was the first time they kissed, all those years ago.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Elliot - no, Neil - murmurs against his lips.
“I didn’t want to. I must be crazy,” Jon whispers back, threading his fingers through soft blond hair - it feels the same, even though it looks so different. He knows he’s probably grinning stupidly but, for once, he doesn’t care.
“I think we both are,” Neil tells him, nibbling at his lip.
There are so many things they need to talk about, but maybe it can wait, just a bit longer.
***
THE END