Ex Machina fic: Dutch Courage
And now we interrupt your regularly scheduled apocalypse for a tale of forbidden love between government employees.
Title: Dutch Courage
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Brian K. Vaughan and Tony Harris.
Word count: 1629
Summary: Shameless Mitchell/Bradbury fluff. Romance isn't dead.
This hasn't been beta'd.
When Gracie Mansion's doorbell sang at 12.45 on a icy November night, Mitchell's first assumption was that it meant bad news. People rarely had anything good to say during the midnight hour - shit, people rarely had anything good to say to the Mayor of New York, period. Although that begged the question: why hadn't they phoned first? It had to be pretty urgent if they were willing to disturb him so late at night. He was only awake because he'd been watching a crappy movie about Harrison Ford as a President who beat up terrorists.
He dusted the potato chip crumbs off his chest, told the television to shut up, and hauled himself off the couch. Paranoia made him grab one of the stun guns from inside his desk drawer, and he tucked the weapon in the band of his pants, hiding it under his shirt. Ignoring the numerous tiny voices that vied for his attention, he navigated his way around the mansion until he found the front door, and peered through the peephole.
Bradbury's big stupid face peered back, looking all the bigger and stupider for the peephole's fisheye lens. Bradbury was grinning, which was Mitchell's first tip-off that the man was as drunk as a skunk. Of course, Bradbury was one of the few people with the authority to get past the mansion's front gate, and Mitchell just hoped that no-one had seen him approach the building while completely wasted.
Mitchell opened the door, and was instantly greeted by a "Heeeeey," that had rather too many 'eeeees' in it for sobriety. It was snowing outside, and Bradbury's nose was bright red from the cold. He looked like the consummate lush.
Mitchell grabbed Bradbury's arm and yanked him inside. Gracie Mansion was meant to be for official business only, although Mitchell didn't have the heart to remind Bradbury of that. "Bradbury, what are you..."
"Just stopping by, Mitch, relax. Just seeing how you're doing, checking up on the boss, it's all good." Bradbury loped off towards the kitchen, remarkably quick for someone so inebriated. Mitchell grimly followed after. Any other mayor would have already fired Bradbury ten times over by now.
"You're my head of security and you're drunk off your ass inside government property. That's a whole new world of wrong, Bradbury," Mitchell said, as Bradbury descended on his refrigerator and helped himself to a jar of pickles. Mitchell wasn't even aware that he had pickles. He wondered how long they'd been in there. Perhaps they'd belonged to Giuliani. The refrigerator's compressor hiccuped in protest as Bradbury slammed the door too hard.
Bradbury leaned back against a counter, unscrewed the jar, and plucked a pickle out. "We're still friends though, right? I can still visit you and say hello, right? Because you're like, you're like, one of my best buds. I was out drinking with a bunch of guys I knew from when I was in the Corps, and it got me thinking, and I thought, 'man, it's so great being back with these guys, I really appreciate them, and I really appreciate Mitch but he's not here, I should stop by and say hello'." He waved the pickle at Mitchell. "I mean, just because you're mayor and all, that doesn't change anything between us, right? Of course not. So I thought I should stop by and tell you how important you are an' shit, because you're like a brother to me, except not like an actual brother..."
Mitchell frowned. "Bradbury, you're giving me a, 'I love you man' speech."
"But I do love you," Bradbury declared. "...And I know, I know, I'm not just saying that because I'm shitfaced, alright. I. Love. You." He paused, regarded the pickle contemplatively, then ate it. Speaking with his mouth full, he continued, "We're such an awesome team. And I just, I just want you to know that I'll always be there for you, no matter what happens. Just... don't forget me, man. Don't forget me. No matter what happens, don't forget me, 'cos I'll always be there for you." Bradbury leaned away from the counter and, for a second, Mitchell had a nasty suspicion that he was about to be subjected to a Bro Hug.
"That's... great," Mitchell said, while trying to gauge just how drunk the guy was: Bradbury was wobbly, but he'd already demonstrated that he could walk without falling over, and his speech wasn't too slurred. He just looked goofy, and earnest, and very flushed in the face. Michell eyed him warily, then added, "Do you want me to call you a cab?"
Bradbury regarded Mitchell as one might an idiot child. "No, you don't get it." He purposefully slammed the pickle jar down on a tabletop, then loomed over Mitchell - and, without any warning whatsoever, he grabbed Mitchell's shoulders and gave him a very unfraternal kiss. It occurred to Mitchell that Bradbury was not a bad kisser, although he would have appreciated it more if the man didn't taste of booze. And pickles. Mitchell pushed him away when Bradbury's tongue got a bit too explorative.
They both stared at eachother.
"You were kissing back," Bradbury accused, as if to say, 'I'm drunk, what's your excuse?'
Mitchell blinked, very slowly. "Bradbury."
"I thought you were as queer as a football bat," Bradbury protested.
"What? I don't look that gay... Not that there's anything wrong with looking gay, and it's asinine to suggest that there's a link between effeminacy and homosexuality, but..." Mitchell held up his hands. "Bradbury, I... Jesus, you can't just go around kissing people out of the blue like that, it's not fair. I mean, I like you, but..."
Bradbury watched him with an expression like a kicked puppy.
"I'm the mayor," Mitchell continued, "and you're my head of security. You know how much trouble we'd both be in if people could prove that there was anything between us, right? And then I've got all the ethical problems that go with having any kind of... non-platonic relationship with a person who works for me. Plus, you're shitfaced drunk."
"You're pulling rank on me?" Bradbury said.
Mitchell crossed his arms. "You know how many hoops I had to jump through to get you promoted to head of security to begin with. Look, Bradbury, just... go home and sleep it off before things get any more awkward than they already are. You'll probably regret this in the morning. Hell, I bet that you called on your ex-wife first before coming here, but she told you to fuck off, didn't she?"
"No," Bradbury said, going from happy-drunk to morose-drunk in a matter of seconds. He regarded Mitchell with pathetic disbelief. "You think I'd do that? Shit, that's cold. I'm not some sort of asshole who'd just visit you for a booty call. Fuck you, man." He began the long walk back out of the kitchen, down the hallway, to the front door.
Mitchell trailed after him, still tasting pickles and beer. He felt annoyed, as if Bradbury's actions had been unfair on the both of them. And he also felt more than slightly guilty. No-one could make a kicked puppy expression quite like Bradbury did. It was all big brown eyes and wounded masculinity. Christ, it was horrible. Mitchell quickly regretted bringing the man's ex-wife in to it. "I can still call you a cab," he said, flatly.
"Nah, I'll walk," Bradbury muttered.
"I, uh..." Mitchell felt he had to say something. "I'm sorry. It's not that I... It's just, well, this really isn't the time." And it certainly wasn't the place. Mitchell wondered if he was the first mayor to have a big ol' gay kiss in Gracie Mansion. He bit the bullet, and added, "Put it this way: if I wasn't mayor, and you weren't drunk, then I definitely wouldn't kick you out of bed."
It came out sounding horribly coy and sophomoric, but all the same, Bradbury still glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. He gave Mitchell a salute, then wobbled off in to the night.
Mitchell waited for him to leave, then took a deep breath and locked the door behind him. He leaned against the doorway for a few minutes, feeling more than a little bemused, then shrugged to himself and trudged upstairs. He decided that he would get some sleep, and give the incident no more thought. The cynic in him believed that Bradbury would have willfully forgotten the whole thing by morning, and that they would never mention it again. He couldn't help feeling that the whole trainwreck was actually kind of stupid and cruel, on Bradbury's part.
He dismissed the matter from his mind. There were more imporant things to be worrying about than Bradbury's crazy bisexual drunken hijinks.
The first thing he did was go in to the bathroom to brush his teeth - and, while he negotiated with the aging electric toothbrush that he could never remember to replace, he heard something rap against the bathroom window.
He paused, and shushed the toothbrush. There was another rap against the glass, louder this time.
Mitchell walked over to the window and opened it, just in time to get pelted with a rock. "Fuck ow. What..."
Bradbury stood on the lawn below, arm poised to throw another pebble at hizzoner. Mitchell was just about to yell at him when he saw that the letters 'MITC' had been spelled on the snow, in yellow.
"I ran out of piss," Bradbury shouted up at him, helpfully.
"Thanks, Bradbury. Very romantic. Stay classy." Mitchell made a little shooing gesture. "Now, will you please just... Go home, man."
"Fuck it, you're grinning," Bradbury accused.
Mitchell swore under his breath and quickly pulled the bathroom window shut.
X-posted to machinevoice and fandom_obscura.
Title: Dutch Courage
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Brian K. Vaughan and Tony Harris.
Word count: 1629
Summary: Shameless Mitchell/Bradbury fluff. Romance isn't dead.
This hasn't been beta'd.
When Gracie Mansion's doorbell sang at 12.45 on a icy November night, Mitchell's first assumption was that it meant bad news. People rarely had anything good to say during the midnight hour - shit, people rarely had anything good to say to the Mayor of New York, period. Although that begged the question: why hadn't they phoned first? It had to be pretty urgent if they were willing to disturb him so late at night. He was only awake because he'd been watching a crappy movie about Harrison Ford as a President who beat up terrorists.
He dusted the potato chip crumbs off his chest, told the television to shut up, and hauled himself off the couch. Paranoia made him grab one of the stun guns from inside his desk drawer, and he tucked the weapon in the band of his pants, hiding it under his shirt. Ignoring the numerous tiny voices that vied for his attention, he navigated his way around the mansion until he found the front door, and peered through the peephole.
Bradbury's big stupid face peered back, looking all the bigger and stupider for the peephole's fisheye lens. Bradbury was grinning, which was Mitchell's first tip-off that the man was as drunk as a skunk. Of course, Bradbury was one of the few people with the authority to get past the mansion's front gate, and Mitchell just hoped that no-one had seen him approach the building while completely wasted.
Mitchell opened the door, and was instantly greeted by a "Heeeeey," that had rather too many 'eeeees' in it for sobriety. It was snowing outside, and Bradbury's nose was bright red from the cold. He looked like the consummate lush.
Mitchell grabbed Bradbury's arm and yanked him inside. Gracie Mansion was meant to be for official business only, although Mitchell didn't have the heart to remind Bradbury of that. "Bradbury, what are you..."
"Just stopping by, Mitch, relax. Just seeing how you're doing, checking up on the boss, it's all good." Bradbury loped off towards the kitchen, remarkably quick for someone so inebriated. Mitchell grimly followed after. Any other mayor would have already fired Bradbury ten times over by now.
"You're my head of security and you're drunk off your ass inside government property. That's a whole new world of wrong, Bradbury," Mitchell said, as Bradbury descended on his refrigerator and helped himself to a jar of pickles. Mitchell wasn't even aware that he had pickles. He wondered how long they'd been in there. Perhaps they'd belonged to Giuliani. The refrigerator's compressor hiccuped in protest as Bradbury slammed the door too hard.
Bradbury leaned back against a counter, unscrewed the jar, and plucked a pickle out. "We're still friends though, right? I can still visit you and say hello, right? Because you're like, you're like, one of my best buds. I was out drinking with a bunch of guys I knew from when I was in the Corps, and it got me thinking, and I thought, 'man, it's so great being back with these guys, I really appreciate them, and I really appreciate Mitch but he's not here, I should stop by and say hello'." He waved the pickle at Mitchell. "I mean, just because you're mayor and all, that doesn't change anything between us, right? Of course not. So I thought I should stop by and tell you how important you are an' shit, because you're like a brother to me, except not like an actual brother..."
Mitchell frowned. "Bradbury, you're giving me a, 'I love you man' speech."
"But I do love you," Bradbury declared. "...And I know, I know, I'm not just saying that because I'm shitfaced, alright. I. Love. You." He paused, regarded the pickle contemplatively, then ate it. Speaking with his mouth full, he continued, "We're such an awesome team. And I just, I just want you to know that I'll always be there for you, no matter what happens. Just... don't forget me, man. Don't forget me. No matter what happens, don't forget me, 'cos I'll always be there for you." Bradbury leaned away from the counter and, for a second, Mitchell had a nasty suspicion that he was about to be subjected to a Bro Hug.
"That's... great," Mitchell said, while trying to gauge just how drunk the guy was: Bradbury was wobbly, but he'd already demonstrated that he could walk without falling over, and his speech wasn't too slurred. He just looked goofy, and earnest, and very flushed in the face. Michell eyed him warily, then added, "Do you want me to call you a cab?"
Bradbury regarded Mitchell as one might an idiot child. "No, you don't get it." He purposefully slammed the pickle jar down on a tabletop, then loomed over Mitchell - and, without any warning whatsoever, he grabbed Mitchell's shoulders and gave him a very unfraternal kiss. It occurred to Mitchell that Bradbury was not a bad kisser, although he would have appreciated it more if the man didn't taste of booze. And pickles. Mitchell pushed him away when Bradbury's tongue got a bit too explorative.
They both stared at eachother.
"You were kissing back," Bradbury accused, as if to say, 'I'm drunk, what's your excuse?'
Mitchell blinked, very slowly. "Bradbury."
"I thought you were as queer as a football bat," Bradbury protested.
"What? I don't look that gay... Not that there's anything wrong with looking gay, and it's asinine to suggest that there's a link between effeminacy and homosexuality, but..." Mitchell held up his hands. "Bradbury, I... Jesus, you can't just go around kissing people out of the blue like that, it's not fair. I mean, I like you, but..."
Bradbury watched him with an expression like a kicked puppy.
"I'm the mayor," Mitchell continued, "and you're my head of security. You know how much trouble we'd both be in if people could prove that there was anything between us, right? And then I've got all the ethical problems that go with having any kind of... non-platonic relationship with a person who works for me. Plus, you're shitfaced drunk."
"You're pulling rank on me?" Bradbury said.
Mitchell crossed his arms. "You know how many hoops I had to jump through to get you promoted to head of security to begin with. Look, Bradbury, just... go home and sleep it off before things get any more awkward than they already are. You'll probably regret this in the morning. Hell, I bet that you called on your ex-wife first before coming here, but she told you to fuck off, didn't she?"
"No," Bradbury said, going from happy-drunk to morose-drunk in a matter of seconds. He regarded Mitchell with pathetic disbelief. "You think I'd do that? Shit, that's cold. I'm not some sort of asshole who'd just visit you for a booty call. Fuck you, man." He began the long walk back out of the kitchen, down the hallway, to the front door.
Mitchell trailed after him, still tasting pickles and beer. He felt annoyed, as if Bradbury's actions had been unfair on the both of them. And he also felt more than slightly guilty. No-one could make a kicked puppy expression quite like Bradbury did. It was all big brown eyes and wounded masculinity. Christ, it was horrible. Mitchell quickly regretted bringing the man's ex-wife in to it. "I can still call you a cab," he said, flatly.
"Nah, I'll walk," Bradbury muttered.
"I, uh..." Mitchell felt he had to say something. "I'm sorry. It's not that I... It's just, well, this really isn't the time." And it certainly wasn't the place. Mitchell wondered if he was the first mayor to have a big ol' gay kiss in Gracie Mansion. He bit the bullet, and added, "Put it this way: if I wasn't mayor, and you weren't drunk, then I definitely wouldn't kick you out of bed."
It came out sounding horribly coy and sophomoric, but all the same, Bradbury still glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. He gave Mitchell a salute, then wobbled off in to the night.
Mitchell waited for him to leave, then took a deep breath and locked the door behind him. He leaned against the doorway for a few minutes, feeling more than a little bemused, then shrugged to himself and trudged upstairs. He decided that he would get some sleep, and give the incident no more thought. The cynic in him believed that Bradbury would have willfully forgotten the whole thing by morning, and that they would never mention it again. He couldn't help feeling that the whole trainwreck was actually kind of stupid and cruel, on Bradbury's part.
He dismissed the matter from his mind. There were more imporant things to be worrying about than Bradbury's crazy bisexual drunken hijinks.
The first thing he did was go in to the bathroom to brush his teeth - and, while he negotiated with the aging electric toothbrush that he could never remember to replace, he heard something rap against the bathroom window.
He paused, and shushed the toothbrush. There was another rap against the glass, louder this time.
Mitchell walked over to the window and opened it, just in time to get pelted with a rock. "Fuck ow. What..."
Bradbury stood on the lawn below, arm poised to throw another pebble at hizzoner. Mitchell was just about to yell at him when he saw that the letters 'MITC' had been spelled on the snow, in yellow.
"I ran out of piss," Bradbury shouted up at him, helpfully.
"Thanks, Bradbury. Very romantic. Stay classy." Mitchell made a little shooing gesture. "Now, will you please just... Go home, man."
"Fuck it, you're grinning," Bradbury accused.
Mitchell swore under his breath and quickly pulled the bathroom window shut.
X-posted to machinevoice and fandom_obscura.