[Sweethearts Week - Out Of This World] A Day's Work
Title: A Day's Work
Genre: Grunge? Mafia?
Word Count: 2,041
Rating/Warnings: Blood, violence, begnign sex
Summary: In a dark city of grunge and crime, two men conspire and spill some liquid rubies.
The building had once been one of police work. The walls and floor were dulled, drab and grey perhaps from the beginning, the ceilings low, designed to suffocate the cubicle-bound into a slow insanity. It was ironic to those who stopped to ponder, the juxtaposition of the building’s original use and the purposes which it now served, in this city where everything, even the new things-buildings, streets, people-were in a stage of decay. Most did not ponder, though, too absorbed in the celerity which the long, echoing hallways seemed to urge, the feeling one got from the closing door behind them to move, quickly.
This man was not one to submit to the dark hall’s subliminal urging; he moved over the clacking, cracked linoleum with a certain swiftness, but also a determined purpose in his stride that told all others that his pace was the correct one, that everyone and everything around him would bend to his stride.
He was a formidable man in his own right-a small, lithe figure, but with certainty of posture and a high brow and cheekbones that gave the outward appearance of a somewhat constant, condescending glare; one which none so far, save very few, had felt comfortable under. What he did not achieve in size and power was made up for by the man behind him-far taller, broader, thicker of shoulder and chest, with a strong presence, simultaneously looming and bright, that would call for immediate attention and then nag incessantly no matter how ignored. Their pressed suits gave a definite sleekness to both their figures, an authority, and to an outsider they may have looked at home in the industrial setting.
They made their way to the bowels of the building, sliding like wraiths through the blockish hallways and open rooms, making their way towards the closed, cell-like rooms once used for interrogation and now used for something almost comically similar. The smaller of the two stopped before a heavy door, paused to stare at it, silently gathering himself. The larger stood poised behind him, a grin on his face to suggest morbid amusement, his entire body wound as if to spring.
The handle to the door was wrenched, the door hauled open, and the thinner man strode into it as if to physically confront what was to be found inside. A tall, average-sized man stood in a far corner, his appearance oddly casual. He was reclined slightly against the wall as if loitering outside a convenience store, and the entrance of the others seemed to have no effect on his calm. He turned to them, the upper portion of his face hidden by a masquerade mask, white to match his feral smile, his chopped hair poking from beneath a hooded sweater.
“Ah, dearest enemies,” he said, his voice a rumbling hum, and he moved from the wall, propelling himself from it with the jerk of one shoulder. The smaller of the two suited men grimaced around a smile, dark an unamused, as he held out a strong, thin hand. “Kirkland,” he said in an authoritative, grinding tone, his voice itself speaking of abuse at the hands of smog and smoke. The masked man took his hand lightly, shaking it without vigor.
“Sadiq,” he said, tone smooth and ineffectual, piqued with something foreign, a sprig of exoticness. “Adnan.” Kirkland made no acknowledging movements, his eyes wide and feline, calculating.
The taller suited man was motioned to. “My muscle,” Kirkland clipped, and the taller’s grin morphed into something more congenial, as if a rude joke was passing between him and the masked man. “Alfred.”
The masked man nodded, his own grin slightly more wary, and his deep-set eyes carefully analyzed Alfred, drinking in his height and width and strong posture with an expression of hesitant condescension, as if thinking to himself that he could take this guy.
Alfred gave a little twitch of a wave, his voice a deep bubble of laughter in his chest. “Good to meetcha,” he said, tilting his head up to keep the masked man below the end of his nose, standing as a henchman who knew he’d spoken out of turn but who knew also of his immunity to punishment.
Another moment of silent, weighted conversation passed through them, before Kirkland turned his head slightly in Alfred’s direction, his eyes looking to the side. Alfred noticed the infinitesimal movement, and shrugged his shoulders, loosening them.
“Holler if ya need anything,” he said with a chuckle deep in his throat, stepping back out and closing the door hard enough to rattle the door’s frosted-glass window pane. Behind Kirkland, his huge, shadowed figure blocked out the dirty light coming through the pane as he took a wide, firm-legged stance on the other side of the door. His presence was no less formidable with the door separating them, the masked man noticed with some dismay.
Sadiq gave a chilled host’s smile, motioning with a sweep of his arm towards the cold, brushed-metal table and chairs, the glow from the fluorescent light giving it an eerie likeness to an operating table. Kirkland stared at Sadiq from beneath his brow, immovable.
“Get one thing straight,” he said, his voice ringing like cold metal. “I am here on business.”
The masked man smiled, taking a seat slowly as though Kirkland was too, as if among good friends. “It is never business, in your business,” he said, waving his hand as if he held an elegant drink in his fingers, caring not if he spilled. “Are you not here of your own volition?”
Kirkland remained silent, his posture straight and withdrawn, wary of the room. Sadiq turned his head to look at him, his eyes roving lazily behind the edges of his mask, he whites flicking and disappearing. “And on my terms, let us remember,” he said, speaking as if to a child.
“Do you imply that this is leisure?” Kirkland bit out, his face pulling in distaste, one lip curling in a sneer. Sadiq let his head tip back with a laugh at the expression.
“Mine, if not yours, dear enemy,” he said, voice lilting with amusement.
Kirkland took a deliberate step back, rocking onto his locked knee, before moving forward, taking one step further into the room and going still again. He crossed his arms across his chest, the arms of his suit straining at the movement. “What leisure do you have with me, then?” he said, tinny.
“I have come to expect a high quality of performance from you, over the years,” Sadiq said, going back to swirling his imaginary drink, reclining in his chair-the boss speaking to a lowly assistant. “Your latest work is… less than satisfactory, to be frank.” He turned his head slightly, the dark of his eyes eclipsed by the side of his mask. “You have grown lazy?”
Kirkland’s sneer deepened, twisting his face. “Do not mistake my sister’s work for mine,” he growled, knees unlocking in preparation for movement. “You know her business is none of mine.”
“Evet,” Sadiq said obligingly, waving his hand in a fast-forwarding motion. “Siobhan is your equal in blood, not breed. I am aware.” He lifted his face to the ceiling, taking in a low breath through his nose, as if savoring something fragrant. “Of this I came to speak with you, today.”
Kirkland’s eyes were slits, and his jaw shifted, his tongue clicking in his mouth, displeased. “If you wish to speak of Siobhan, I shall have no part in the conversation,” he said, his nose wrinkling, disgusted by that ghostly scent which Sadiq found so pleasurable.
Sadiq chuckled lowly, his hand moving down to rest on the table, his fingers splayed across its surface. “She is as much your enemy as mine,” he said, his tone conspiratorial. Kirkland remained stiff.
“I wish to propose a partnership,” Sadiq said, smiling suddenly, his arms opening with the offering. “We shall eliminate an enemy, create an unstoppable force! The city shall be ours, dear enemy!” His voice was loud, broad, ringing with the promise of grandeur.
Kirkland stood on his heel and turned, showing his side to Sadiq. “You are mistaken,” he said, letting Sadiq slip into the bare edge of his peripheral. “I do not form alliances with thieves.”
Sadiq slammed his open hands onto the table, making it rattle, drowning out the sound of Kirkland forcefully grabbing the doorknob. Sadiq stood, his body arched over at the shoulders, his eyes barely glinting from under the eyelids of his mask. His shoulder blades swiveled back and forth, like a wildcat crouching in the reeds.
“Ah! But are you not a thief yourself? We are all thieves here, thieves of human life! Blood is our currency, flesh our product! They are the ants beneath our spy glasses, their fate in our hands-!”
The room abruptly shook, trembled with shock, as a bullet left Kirkland’s gun. The walls, the floor, the table and chairs, all sang with the noise, a two-toned rumble that momentarily destroyed the room. Outside the door, Alfred’s head turned, and, at the silence, turned back.
The bullet casing fell to the floor with a light tinkle, cheerful and bright in the gun smoke. Kirkland calmly returned the safety to its docile position, running his fingers over the warm barrel before replacing it lazily in the holster strapped about his torso.
He was casual as he made his way across the room, a mockery of Sadiq’s earlier ease, his body swaying slightly with each step, as if to an easy beat. He bent down into a crouch where Sadiq was hunched on the floor, his shoulder pierced and flowing with inordinate blood, oozing and dripping through the fingers that were gripped around the wound. His eyes looked up at Kirkland from under the edge of his hood, dull with pain.
“Do not demote me to your level,” Kirkland said in a low voice, his authority regained. “You’ll do well to remember your place, and leave my organization out of your petty revenge games. Are we understood?”
Sadiq snarled, a low, feral moan in his throat, and Kirkland took that as his response, standing back up, straightening his suit neatly and turning to walk out of the room, his black shoes making hollow, posh clicks as he moved swiftly across the floor.
~*~
Alfred sent him a mellow smirk as he exited the room, moving to stand in his default position, behind Kirkland’s left shoulder. Kirkland shook out his arms, pulling slightly at the ends of his shirtsleeves.
“We’re through here,” Kirkland supplied, and they were moving again, sliding swiftly back through the darkened hallways, passing like ghosts out the back door and into the cacophony of the city’s nighttime.
~*~
“Destination,” Alfred cawed as they bent down into the black Lamborghini-a gift from the Vargas boss, who they were on better terms with now that the younger and more affable brother had come of age-and the key was turned. The motor purred a greeting, and Alfred steered the car smoothly above the speed limit and onto the main road.
“Oh, my place, I suppose,” Kirkland said, loosening his tie and pulling his collar open. He leaned on the edge of the window, letting out a sigh that was impatient and exasperated. “That bastard sets me on edge. I desperately need a scotch.”
Alfred smiled to himself, loosening his own tie slightly as he steered the car with one hand down another side road.
~*~
They crashed together like sports cars onto the bed, elegant clothing and pressed pants and suit jackets crumpling onto the floor. Alfred picked Arthur up with his whole body, dumping him onto the nest of pillows, and craning over him to kiss him open-mouthed, the heat of the breath between them like fire, raging and consuming.
“Fuck me,” Arthur rasped, halfway between a swear and a command. Alfred hummed deeply, a near-growl in his throat, fully intent on obeying.
Alfred ran his hands down the length of Arthur’s elongated, arched body, his fingertips grazing and feeling every dip and muscle. He was smooth and hard and compact, sleek, like a gun, full of heat and power and danger.
He hooked his finger deftly around the trigger, feeling the curve of it, the power in his fingers. He savored it, took his aim.
And pulled.
Turkey fans, I'm sorry~~! He's not dead. He'll call his cronies, they'll come get him. Also, Siobhan is "Ireland", or Arthur's sister in the AU. My image is that Sadiq or Turkey is a lowlife, such as a drug or human trafficker, and Arthur is kind of a high-class mafia of sorts. But picture it however you like.
Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope everyone's having a good Sweetheart's Week!
Genre: Grunge? Mafia?
Word Count: 2,041
Rating/Warnings: Blood, violence, begnign sex
Summary: In a dark city of grunge and crime, two men conspire and spill some liquid rubies.
The building had once been one of police work. The walls and floor were dulled, drab and grey perhaps from the beginning, the ceilings low, designed to suffocate the cubicle-bound into a slow insanity. It was ironic to those who stopped to ponder, the juxtaposition of the building’s original use and the purposes which it now served, in this city where everything, even the new things-buildings, streets, people-were in a stage of decay. Most did not ponder, though, too absorbed in the celerity which the long, echoing hallways seemed to urge, the feeling one got from the closing door behind them to move, quickly.
This man was not one to submit to the dark hall’s subliminal urging; he moved over the clacking, cracked linoleum with a certain swiftness, but also a determined purpose in his stride that told all others that his pace was the correct one, that everyone and everything around him would bend to his stride.
He was a formidable man in his own right-a small, lithe figure, but with certainty of posture and a high brow and cheekbones that gave the outward appearance of a somewhat constant, condescending glare; one which none so far, save very few, had felt comfortable under. What he did not achieve in size and power was made up for by the man behind him-far taller, broader, thicker of shoulder and chest, with a strong presence, simultaneously looming and bright, that would call for immediate attention and then nag incessantly no matter how ignored. Their pressed suits gave a definite sleekness to both their figures, an authority, and to an outsider they may have looked at home in the industrial setting.
They made their way to the bowels of the building, sliding like wraiths through the blockish hallways and open rooms, making their way towards the closed, cell-like rooms once used for interrogation and now used for something almost comically similar. The smaller of the two stopped before a heavy door, paused to stare at it, silently gathering himself. The larger stood poised behind him, a grin on his face to suggest morbid amusement, his entire body wound as if to spring.
The handle to the door was wrenched, the door hauled open, and the thinner man strode into it as if to physically confront what was to be found inside. A tall, average-sized man stood in a far corner, his appearance oddly casual. He was reclined slightly against the wall as if loitering outside a convenience store, and the entrance of the others seemed to have no effect on his calm. He turned to them, the upper portion of his face hidden by a masquerade mask, white to match his feral smile, his chopped hair poking from beneath a hooded sweater.
“Ah, dearest enemies,” he said, his voice a rumbling hum, and he moved from the wall, propelling himself from it with the jerk of one shoulder. The smaller of the two suited men grimaced around a smile, dark an unamused, as he held out a strong, thin hand. “Kirkland,” he said in an authoritative, grinding tone, his voice itself speaking of abuse at the hands of smog and smoke. The masked man took his hand lightly, shaking it without vigor.
“Sadiq,” he said, tone smooth and ineffectual, piqued with something foreign, a sprig of exoticness. “Adnan.” Kirkland made no acknowledging movements, his eyes wide and feline, calculating.
The taller suited man was motioned to. “My muscle,” Kirkland clipped, and the taller’s grin morphed into something more congenial, as if a rude joke was passing between him and the masked man. “Alfred.”
The masked man nodded, his own grin slightly more wary, and his deep-set eyes carefully analyzed Alfred, drinking in his height and width and strong posture with an expression of hesitant condescension, as if thinking to himself that he could take this guy.
Alfred gave a little twitch of a wave, his voice a deep bubble of laughter in his chest. “Good to meetcha,” he said, tilting his head up to keep the masked man below the end of his nose, standing as a henchman who knew he’d spoken out of turn but who knew also of his immunity to punishment.
Another moment of silent, weighted conversation passed through them, before Kirkland turned his head slightly in Alfred’s direction, his eyes looking to the side. Alfred noticed the infinitesimal movement, and shrugged his shoulders, loosening them.
“Holler if ya need anything,” he said with a chuckle deep in his throat, stepping back out and closing the door hard enough to rattle the door’s frosted-glass window pane. Behind Kirkland, his huge, shadowed figure blocked out the dirty light coming through the pane as he took a wide, firm-legged stance on the other side of the door. His presence was no less formidable with the door separating them, the masked man noticed with some dismay.
Sadiq gave a chilled host’s smile, motioning with a sweep of his arm towards the cold, brushed-metal table and chairs, the glow from the fluorescent light giving it an eerie likeness to an operating table. Kirkland stared at Sadiq from beneath his brow, immovable.
“Get one thing straight,” he said, his voice ringing like cold metal. “I am here on business.”
The masked man smiled, taking a seat slowly as though Kirkland was too, as if among good friends. “It is never business, in your business,” he said, waving his hand as if he held an elegant drink in his fingers, caring not if he spilled. “Are you not here of your own volition?”
Kirkland remained silent, his posture straight and withdrawn, wary of the room. Sadiq turned his head to look at him, his eyes roving lazily behind the edges of his mask, he whites flicking and disappearing. “And on my terms, let us remember,” he said, speaking as if to a child.
“Do you imply that this is leisure?” Kirkland bit out, his face pulling in distaste, one lip curling in a sneer. Sadiq let his head tip back with a laugh at the expression.
“Mine, if not yours, dear enemy,” he said, voice lilting with amusement.
Kirkland took a deliberate step back, rocking onto his locked knee, before moving forward, taking one step further into the room and going still again. He crossed his arms across his chest, the arms of his suit straining at the movement. “What leisure do you have with me, then?” he said, tinny.
“I have come to expect a high quality of performance from you, over the years,” Sadiq said, going back to swirling his imaginary drink, reclining in his chair-the boss speaking to a lowly assistant. “Your latest work is… less than satisfactory, to be frank.” He turned his head slightly, the dark of his eyes eclipsed by the side of his mask. “You have grown lazy?”
Kirkland’s sneer deepened, twisting his face. “Do not mistake my sister’s work for mine,” he growled, knees unlocking in preparation for movement. “You know her business is none of mine.”
“Evet,” Sadiq said obligingly, waving his hand in a fast-forwarding motion. “Siobhan is your equal in blood, not breed. I am aware.” He lifted his face to the ceiling, taking in a low breath through his nose, as if savoring something fragrant. “Of this I came to speak with you, today.”
Kirkland’s eyes were slits, and his jaw shifted, his tongue clicking in his mouth, displeased. “If you wish to speak of Siobhan, I shall have no part in the conversation,” he said, his nose wrinkling, disgusted by that ghostly scent which Sadiq found so pleasurable.
Sadiq chuckled lowly, his hand moving down to rest on the table, his fingers splayed across its surface. “She is as much your enemy as mine,” he said, his tone conspiratorial. Kirkland remained stiff.
“I wish to propose a partnership,” Sadiq said, smiling suddenly, his arms opening with the offering. “We shall eliminate an enemy, create an unstoppable force! The city shall be ours, dear enemy!” His voice was loud, broad, ringing with the promise of grandeur.
Kirkland stood on his heel and turned, showing his side to Sadiq. “You are mistaken,” he said, letting Sadiq slip into the bare edge of his peripheral. “I do not form alliances with thieves.”
Sadiq slammed his open hands onto the table, making it rattle, drowning out the sound of Kirkland forcefully grabbing the doorknob. Sadiq stood, his body arched over at the shoulders, his eyes barely glinting from under the eyelids of his mask. His shoulder blades swiveled back and forth, like a wildcat crouching in the reeds.
“Ah! But are you not a thief yourself? We are all thieves here, thieves of human life! Blood is our currency, flesh our product! They are the ants beneath our spy glasses, their fate in our hands-!”
The room abruptly shook, trembled with shock, as a bullet left Kirkland’s gun. The walls, the floor, the table and chairs, all sang with the noise, a two-toned rumble that momentarily destroyed the room. Outside the door, Alfred’s head turned, and, at the silence, turned back.
The bullet casing fell to the floor with a light tinkle, cheerful and bright in the gun smoke. Kirkland calmly returned the safety to its docile position, running his fingers over the warm barrel before replacing it lazily in the holster strapped about his torso.
He was casual as he made his way across the room, a mockery of Sadiq’s earlier ease, his body swaying slightly with each step, as if to an easy beat. He bent down into a crouch where Sadiq was hunched on the floor, his shoulder pierced and flowing with inordinate blood, oozing and dripping through the fingers that were gripped around the wound. His eyes looked up at Kirkland from under the edge of his hood, dull with pain.
“Do not demote me to your level,” Kirkland said in a low voice, his authority regained. “You’ll do well to remember your place, and leave my organization out of your petty revenge games. Are we understood?”
Sadiq snarled, a low, feral moan in his throat, and Kirkland took that as his response, standing back up, straightening his suit neatly and turning to walk out of the room, his black shoes making hollow, posh clicks as he moved swiftly across the floor.
~*~
Alfred sent him a mellow smirk as he exited the room, moving to stand in his default position, behind Kirkland’s left shoulder. Kirkland shook out his arms, pulling slightly at the ends of his shirtsleeves.
“We’re through here,” Kirkland supplied, and they were moving again, sliding swiftly back through the darkened hallways, passing like ghosts out the back door and into the cacophony of the city’s nighttime.
~*~
“Destination,” Alfred cawed as they bent down into the black Lamborghini-a gift from the Vargas boss, who they were on better terms with now that the younger and more affable brother had come of age-and the key was turned. The motor purred a greeting, and Alfred steered the car smoothly above the speed limit and onto the main road.
“Oh, my place, I suppose,” Kirkland said, loosening his tie and pulling his collar open. He leaned on the edge of the window, letting out a sigh that was impatient and exasperated. “That bastard sets me on edge. I desperately need a scotch.”
Alfred smiled to himself, loosening his own tie slightly as he steered the car with one hand down another side road.
~*~
They crashed together like sports cars onto the bed, elegant clothing and pressed pants and suit jackets crumpling onto the floor. Alfred picked Arthur up with his whole body, dumping him onto the nest of pillows, and craning over him to kiss him open-mouthed, the heat of the breath between them like fire, raging and consuming.
“Fuck me,” Arthur rasped, halfway between a swear and a command. Alfred hummed deeply, a near-growl in his throat, fully intent on obeying.
Alfred ran his hands down the length of Arthur’s elongated, arched body, his fingertips grazing and feeling every dip and muscle. He was smooth and hard and compact, sleek, like a gun, full of heat and power and danger.
He hooked his finger deftly around the trigger, feeling the curve of it, the power in his fingers. He savored it, took his aim.
And pulled.
Turkey fans, I'm sorry~~! He's not dead. He'll call his cronies, they'll come get him. Also, Siobhan is "Ireland", or Arthur's sister in the AU. My image is that Sadiq or Turkey is a lowlife, such as a drug or human trafficker, and Arthur is kind of a high-class mafia of sorts. But picture it however you like.
Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope everyone's having a good Sweetheart's Week!