one direction: an excerpt from the thrilling mystery, "a murder most polite"
title: an excerpt from the thrilling mystery, "a murder post polite"
pairing: liam payne/zayn malik
rated: pg
notes: i crossed a line in this one. i swore i would never write popslash ever again and certainly not about boys who can't sing and dance. but friendship and peer pressure will make you do strange things.... i'm doing the pressure though. write the story girl!
...the door handle clicked, swung open, and Zayn could do nothing more than offer what he hoped was an apologetic grin. "How kind of you to join me again, detective. I believe I've found something."
During their correspondence, Zayn had come to believe he knew he young detective perhaps even understood him. The picture in his mind had grown as such, tall, broads shouldered and stocky like a proper rugby man should be balanced by the determination and cleverness needed to respond to crime. He did not expect the softness of Detective Payne’s eyes, the slight quirk of his lips that he’s come to know as a smile, or the compassion in his voice while he spoke to the victims. He did not expect the gentle strength in the hand he places on Zayn’s shoulder to escort him onto the terrace or the way it made him feel.
While Detective Payne shut the glass door behind them, Zayn crossed to the stone balustrade and looked to the rolling sea for calm. He took a deep breath and forced himself to prepare for what was sure to be a god awful row or even Zayn’s arrest. They needed him though, the police, the family, his inspector needed him. There was something peculiar in that study, and if given the time, Zayn was sure he could discover what it was.
The detective came to rest at Zayn’s side and they stood, shoulder to shoulder and watched the frothing water dash against the cliff. Detective Payne seemed to need the fortifying salt and vigor of the air for he took his own steadying breaths, trilby turning slowly between his palms. It was a comforting silence punctuated by the softest roar of the sea and crying gulls. Finally, he shifted, feet sliding out, shoulders back, and said, “One time would be a coincidence, Mr. Malik. A second time, chance. But we have found you mucking about our crime scene four times now.”
“No one said that the guests weren’t allowed to enter the study,” said Zayn.
“I believe DI Jones announced that the room was off limits to all but police and other parties of interest,” said Payne.
“And I believe you’ll find me to be a very interested party.”
Detective Payne drew in a sharp breath. “Mr. Malik, I would have hoped you of all people would understand the seriousness of this manner. A man has been murdered in that study, a lonely young man on holiday.”
“Lonely?” said Zayn but the detective continued.
“We haven’t a cause of death or a suspect to even assign a motive. We do not know if this was an isolated incident or something more sinister-“
Zayn turned his head sharply and looked up at the detective who kept his own eyes on the sea. “What do you mean by sinister?”
“And instead abiding by our request to stay in your rooms until questioned, I have you, Mr. Malik, wandering the scene of a murder like a lamb on the hills.” Detective Payne clenched his fists, then sighed. When he spoke again, his voice contained a husk of worry. “What must I do to have your cooperation?”
Zayn swallowed down his offer to consult with the Yard, his demand to be let in, and the arguments he’d built long before his charming detective walked through the door and became real. Instead he said, “Let me help you, detective inspector. Please,” in a voice that was equally quiet.
“Mr. Malik, you are-“
“An author, a mystery writer, the modern equivalent of a penny dreadful monger. I catch fanciful ideas and cock them up into whodunits and thrills, I know. But I have also studied the criminal mind, detective, and I’ve consulted with several departments across England including the Yard. You know,” Zayn paused because he was about to say "you know me," but how well can you know a person through correspondence, no matter how pleasant. He turned his gaze away from the detective’s profile, his twitching jaw and the soft bristles shadowing his lip and chin. All the things that fascinate Zayn for his inspector is beside him now, flesh, bone, and warm blood real, when he'd only been a collection of impressions hours ago.
Before today, Zayn only knew Detective Payne as a strong sweeping hand, an organized mind with an attention to minute detail and a penchant for tea with sugar and milk. The rings appeared on paper sometimes when Zayn was sure the detective had been assigned a distressing case. The crisp tang of Irish Breakfast and the sweetened milk scent had become, in Zayn’s mind, the most enchanting parfume. He knew Detective Payne was proud and humble, accepted the advice of friends and colleagues easily, always willing to learn. He’d even sent a query to Zayn who returned with his own thoughts about the peculiar case. But that had been weeks ago, their conversations slowed by the post, elongated by distance. Perhaps the detective inspector found it easier to request assistance from the reclusive author when he was far away but not when he was close and perhaps not what he expected. Certainly not when the reclusive author was mucking around in his case without permission.
Zayn felt himself deflate like a balloon in the sun. “I can be of assistance to you and the Yard in this manner, Detective Inspector, if you’ll let me.”
Detective Payne quieted and Zayn forced down the urge to peek at him again.
“Official or unofficial.”
“Either. Both,” said Zayn quickly.
“I suppose fresh eyes and a ‘knowledge of the criminal mind’ could be of use to the Yard, provided that he consulting detective refrained from rushing into battle again and respected the integrity of our crime scene.”
“Of course.”
“And would speak with the lead detective regularly, share the intangible subtleties that induce the mind to deduce rather than follow the direction our paunches grow?”
Zayn flushed at how swiftly the detective twisted his own words to face him. “Yes.”
“Then I hope you’ll do me the courtesy of using my given name when we are collaborating together.” The detective continued to stare eastward, but Zayn could see the slightest curl of his mouth. A smile.
“Yes yes. Of course,” said Zayn. He took a deep breath and then exhaled the name, light as a breeze. “Of course, Liam.”
pairing: liam payne/zayn malik
rated: pg
notes: i crossed a line in this one. i swore i would never write popslash ever again and certainly not about boys who can't sing and dance. but friendship and peer pressure will make you do strange things.... i'm doing the pressure though. write the story girl!
...the door handle clicked, swung open, and Zayn could do nothing more than offer what he hoped was an apologetic grin. "How kind of you to join me again, detective. I believe I've found something."
During their correspondence, Zayn had come to believe he knew he young detective perhaps even understood him. The picture in his mind had grown as such, tall, broads shouldered and stocky like a proper rugby man should be balanced by the determination and cleverness needed to respond to crime. He did not expect the softness of Detective Payne’s eyes, the slight quirk of his lips that he’s come to know as a smile, or the compassion in his voice while he spoke to the victims. He did not expect the gentle strength in the hand he places on Zayn’s shoulder to escort him onto the terrace or the way it made him feel.
While Detective Payne shut the glass door behind them, Zayn crossed to the stone balustrade and looked to the rolling sea for calm. He took a deep breath and forced himself to prepare for what was sure to be a god awful row or even Zayn’s arrest. They needed him though, the police, the family, his inspector needed him. There was something peculiar in that study, and if given the time, Zayn was sure he could discover what it was.
The detective came to rest at Zayn’s side and they stood, shoulder to shoulder and watched the frothing water dash against the cliff. Detective Payne seemed to need the fortifying salt and vigor of the air for he took his own steadying breaths, trilby turning slowly between his palms. It was a comforting silence punctuated by the softest roar of the sea and crying gulls. Finally, he shifted, feet sliding out, shoulders back, and said, “One time would be a coincidence, Mr. Malik. A second time, chance. But we have found you mucking about our crime scene four times now.”
“No one said that the guests weren’t allowed to enter the study,” said Zayn.
“I believe DI Jones announced that the room was off limits to all but police and other parties of interest,” said Payne.
“And I believe you’ll find me to be a very interested party.”
Detective Payne drew in a sharp breath. “Mr. Malik, I would have hoped you of all people would understand the seriousness of this manner. A man has been murdered in that study, a lonely young man on holiday.”
“Lonely?” said Zayn but the detective continued.
“We haven’t a cause of death or a suspect to even assign a motive. We do not know if this was an isolated incident or something more sinister-“
Zayn turned his head sharply and looked up at the detective who kept his own eyes on the sea. “What do you mean by sinister?”
“And instead abiding by our request to stay in your rooms until questioned, I have you, Mr. Malik, wandering the scene of a murder like a lamb on the hills.” Detective Payne clenched his fists, then sighed. When he spoke again, his voice contained a husk of worry. “What must I do to have your cooperation?”
Zayn swallowed down his offer to consult with the Yard, his demand to be let in, and the arguments he’d built long before his charming detective walked through the door and became real. Instead he said, “Let me help you, detective inspector. Please,” in a voice that was equally quiet.
“Mr. Malik, you are-“
“An author, a mystery writer, the modern equivalent of a penny dreadful monger. I catch fanciful ideas and cock them up into whodunits and thrills, I know. But I have also studied the criminal mind, detective, and I’ve consulted with several departments across England including the Yard. You know,” Zayn paused because he was about to say "you know me," but how well can you know a person through correspondence, no matter how pleasant. He turned his gaze away from the detective’s profile, his twitching jaw and the soft bristles shadowing his lip and chin. All the things that fascinate Zayn for his inspector is beside him now, flesh, bone, and warm blood real, when he'd only been a collection of impressions hours ago.
Before today, Zayn only knew Detective Payne as a strong sweeping hand, an organized mind with an attention to minute detail and a penchant for tea with sugar and milk. The rings appeared on paper sometimes when Zayn was sure the detective had been assigned a distressing case. The crisp tang of Irish Breakfast and the sweetened milk scent had become, in Zayn’s mind, the most enchanting parfume. He knew Detective Payne was proud and humble, accepted the advice of friends and colleagues easily, always willing to learn. He’d even sent a query to Zayn who returned with his own thoughts about the peculiar case. But that had been weeks ago, their conversations slowed by the post, elongated by distance. Perhaps the detective inspector found it easier to request assistance from the reclusive author when he was far away but not when he was close and perhaps not what he expected. Certainly not when the reclusive author was mucking around in his case without permission.
Zayn felt himself deflate like a balloon in the sun. “I can be of assistance to you and the Yard in this manner, Detective Inspector, if you’ll let me.”
Detective Payne quieted and Zayn forced down the urge to peek at him again.
“Official or unofficial.”
“Either. Both,” said Zayn quickly.
“I suppose fresh eyes and a ‘knowledge of the criminal mind’ could be of use to the Yard, provided that he consulting detective refrained from rushing into battle again and respected the integrity of our crime scene.”
“Of course.”
“And would speak with the lead detective regularly, share the intangible subtleties that induce the mind to deduce rather than follow the direction our paunches grow?”
Zayn flushed at how swiftly the detective twisted his own words to face him. “Yes.”
“Then I hope you’ll do me the courtesy of using my given name when we are collaborating together.” The detective continued to stare eastward, but Zayn could see the slightest curl of his mouth. A smile.
“Yes yes. Of course,” said Zayn. He took a deep breath and then exhaled the name, light as a breeze. “Of course, Liam.”