Red Boots Black Soul (Part Nine/Twelve)
Title: Red Boots, Black Soul
Word Count: 8000~
Warnings: Drahah, swearing, plotting of well... terrorism, actually. >.< now that I think about it properly. Oops.
Fandom: Art/Nick - Mint Royale
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to their respective parties. Any inconsistencies are completely mine. I try to mean no offense.
Summary: What was broken must be fixed, even in the most unconventional of ways.
AN: I am so sorry. For anyone who's been reading this, I'm sorry. I meant to have this done on time, but it ran away with me, and then it stopped and then LIFE ran away with me. Seriously, Melbourne Comedy Festival and three assignments could not have come at the worst time. Upsetting. My apologies. Though, to be fair, this chapter was pretty much an empty document when I posted chapter eight. I've been a good girl, really. Haha. >.< sorry.
Anyway, I hope that you enjoy. The finale should be along shortly. More info at the bottom.
SF xxxxx
Chapter Nine
The House of Jones
Art clenched the steering wheel so hard his fingers began to cramp long before he took his foot off the accelerator. The streets were empty, it was in the middle of the morning on a Friday, everyone in his damn neighbourhood was at work or in school, or if they were lucky enough to escape the burden of middleclass routine, they were inside, out of the ice cold wind and the sharp rain that stung like hail as he’d walked from the building down to the car.
Art didn’t care, a part of him was revelling in the harsh conditions, in the way he could barely see in front of him and the way the car’s tyres slid just a little on the wet roads as he sped around a corner. A part of him was taking pleasure in the stupid risks he was taking, but he was shaking as he did it and he knew it had nothing to do with the adrenaline that was building on what he’d already had after his fight with Nick. He knew he was building up and up and it had to break, but it was beyond him now, he couldn’t make himself care, because he couldn’t make himself think beyond the biting hurt and swirling anger pounding through his veins and kept his foot on the gas.
A tiny part of him knew what Nick had said had been in the heat of the moment, that it had meant to sting, just the way his own comments on Des had been a deliberate shot at him. He still felt rattled, unbalanced and his heart was pounding in his ears, roaring in time with the sound of Nick’s well placed accusations.
In one way or another, Nick was right, he didn’t think about what he was doing. He never had, he never had reason to. It had always been him, everything he did he did because he wanted to and he could deal with whatever consequences that arrived in his wake. But that was the thing about Nick, Nick was an extra commodity, he was something extra, someone extra, which left someone else to deal with the consequences as well - and Nick was a very different person. Art clenched his fist tighter around the steering wheel and pressed his foot flat. The car groaned and sped up and then in a blinding rage, Art slammed his foot on the break and swerved to the side of the road, his heart pounding in his chest and breathing suddenly became a roaring exercise.
Nick was someone he had to think of the consequences for - he was burden, baggage and be damned Art needed him. The fact floated to the top of his consciousness and then hardened so he couldn’t wash it back down. He needed Nick, he didn’t know why, or even how - it didn’t matter, all he knew was that for the first time in his life, he actually needed someone. Couldn’t imagine what he’d do without that conscious backing of someone else to weigh down his decisions. But regardless of his own feelings, Nick knew nothing of what could happen if he just let it be. Nick was a bi-product of Art’s Uncle’s machinations twenty years ago. If Michael Moore hadn’t been determined enough to get more power, then he never would have blown up the car with Art’s parents inside just months before his father was assured he could end the Rebellion forever. If Moore had never killed Art’s father, then the Rebellion would have ended and Nick could have grown up to be an accountant, and Andy could have grown up into his father’s image, a police officer, or a lawyer or something equally respected and normal. He could have been happy. Nick wasn’t aware of what was at risk if he just left it and ran away while he could.
There was no one else left to stop him. No one else knew, because if Michael Moore was good at something, it was making sure he wasn’t implicated.
The only way they’d be safe, is if it ended now.
The car was rumbling under him as he leant forward and rested his head against the vibrating steering wheel.
He had to fix it, if not for the damn kids who could grow up into another him - he had to do it for Nick, for his own future. Because he knew, he knew, his uncle would never stop.
He needed to know, needed to cut it in the bud if he could.
Putting the car back in first gear Art took a deep breath, swallowing his misplaced anger and terror and every other emotion he could feel rising to the surface one by one in an attempt to take advantage of his mental breakdown. He swallowed, ran his fingers through his hair and started to take his foot off the clutch.
He needed answers, and if there was one man in the world who knew just as much as he did and more, it was only ever going to be Big.
He knew Moore was up to something, something involving him, and if he knew enough to think it necessary to warn him, even going out of his way to warn him through Nick, then Big had to know a hell of a lot more of what was going on that Art did. And if Big knew a hell of a lot about what was going on, Art knew a hell of a lot about Big. Over the years he’d learned a hell of a lot about the comings and goings of one John Smith.
Like the fact on a Friday, his sister would take the day off from her perpetual house sitting, spend it at the bowls club, get pissed and end up back at the house at about eleven thirty at night, if she made it back at all. It all depended on her on again off again relationship with the butcher next block down.
Which left Big the house to himself, which usually meant he’d leave work about lunch time and prolong his time on the television without interruption, making up the hours Saturday morning.
Art knew, because he’d seen the routine time and time again.
Today was no different, he noticed as he watched as Big’s sister backed the car out of the drive and headed off for the club. It was nearly twelve, which meant that Big would be getting back anywhere within the next half hour.
The car door shrieked as Art got out, slamming it behind him with measured force just to feel the draft as it closed, the sound rifling through him. He needed it. Something to focus on.
The rain had stopped briefly, but it did little to disguise the fact the grass was starting to die as he wandered across the lawn to the front door. Sheila Smith was doing her best, it seemed by the state of the weeds, or lack of them, but there wasn’t much she could do about the grass. No one could keep it green these days; it was too cold for anything to survive long. Things were getting bad.
The lock on the front door wasn’t hard to pick. Art knew by looking at it. He’d been up to the door often enough, but never been so bold as to pick his way in. Not in years, anyway.
It had been almost a decade since he’d been as brazen as to break into Big’s house.
But there was little chance the old man was going to be willing enough to let him in.
And he didn’t really want to have to force him inside with a gun pressed to his ribs. He’d do what he had to - but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to stop something while he was ahead. Inside, out of sight there was going to be restrictions, constrictions, issues of trust and matters of force - he knew that. He knew Big would know it just as well as he did. But it was forcing the information out that mattered to him. He was sure Big wouldn’t talk unless he was made to; this was by far the simplest way.
The man arrived almost on cue, his car rumbling to a stop in the space out front and Art sat and counted the heavy set steps as he walked to the front door and paused.
It was unlocked; he’d left it that way on purpose. He could hear Big grumbling for a second as he pushed his way in, stopping in the hall to dispose of his coat before he walked the three steps further into the parlour and stopped dead, looking up and catching sight of Art sitting in his chair.
Art watched the surprise disappear into the bleak grey of the man’s eyes and his face go blank.
“Andrew,” he growled.
“At the time, I really was a little confused why you went out of your way to warn Nick someone was after me. It seemed so pointless. I get it now.”
The old man didn’t move from his spot between the hallway and the couch. Art didn’t really care. He didn’t even care that they hadn’t really even opted for pleasantries. Big knew he wasn’t there to reunite or anything daft.
Big probably knew exactly why he was there.
“I’m not sure why you’re doing it, but I get it. You know what he’s doing, don’t you.”
Again they didn’t need to even specify who they were talking about. It wasn’t even really a question.
But this time Big took a step forward and Art unconsciously moved his hand to cover the handle of the pistol he had sitting in his lap.
John Smith had known him his whole life. But he’d been chasing him for more than half of it.
A part of him was sure that Big would understand why he was there. A mutual understanding between them.
But it was best not to be caught unawares.
“You warned me he’s after me, you warned me through Nick Marshall, but it’s more than that, isn’t it, Big? You know exactly what he’s doing.”
Big cleared his throat.
“What d’yeh want from me, Andrew?”
Art closed his mouth for a moment in hesitation. His eyes flickered to the sideboard he’d seen when he’d first entered, a run of old photographs stuck up behind glass where no one could touch them; safe. His parents stared back at him, caught in time, holding him up between them, beers caught between his father and Big. That had been a long time ago. Far too long; that life was long dead.
“I want you to tell me what he’s up to.”
“Why d’yeh want me t’do that, kid?”
“Tell me what Short’s doing.”
“You wont be able to stop him, Andrew - getting out of the way is the best and only thing for it.”
Art didn’t care about warnings or anything of the like. He frowned and his grip on his gun tightened, just a bit.
“Tell me what he’s doing.”
Big glanced away and Art tensed at the movement.
“There’s nothing you can do, Andrew.”
“Tell me.”
Big sighed. When he answered his voice was gruff.
“Day after tomorrow the Commissioner has a meeting at Belmarsh Prison. If you were thinking yesterday it was to discuss security and the like, now, with Berry’s mess, it’s a bit more than that and the entire country knows about it. From what I can tell the prison and the Commissioner are due to go up the same way your parents did, kid.”
“He’s going to blow up the prison?”
“From what I can tell. Stick to what you know, right? That’s all the slimy bastard’s good at.”
“How do you know?”
“You mean how do I know and why aren’t I dead yet?”
Art glared back.
Big answered anyway.
“That I don’t know, Kid. But I’m laughing stock anyway. I spent too long chasing you and getting nowhere. There’s fuck all anyone’s gonna believe that comes out of my mouth and smaller still what I can do about it meself. But you wait, kid, in two days your damn uncle’s gonna be running the whole damn force and there’s one trick up his sleeve you can bet he hasn’t played yet. And it’s a cut above the rest kid, I bet me bottom dollar it’s got something to do with you. He’s got a leech keeping watch on you, Andrew. Some slimy bastard paid by the hour or by the kill. Seen him lurking around the station. My recommendation is get hell out of town. Fuck off. Take that Marshall bastard and disappear, Andrew. Do yourself a world of good.”
“I’ve never been good, Big, you know that,” Art murmured, watching the old man. He hadn’t really moved. He had resigned himself to whatever it was about to happen, Art realised. Big was the only person in the world to know both sides of the story, and Short had left him isolated by that fact. No one would believe a word he said. If he said it and mysteriously died, then maybe, just maybe someone would take notice. If the mental berk kept on, counting his conspiracies like the Queen in her Counting House, then he was harmless as a lamb. And Big Leg Smith had always been a bit harmless.
“You’ll be playing right into his hand, Andrew. He’s been at this for months now, every time something’s happened I think will fuck him over he dances around it like he meant for it. If you’re not lucky he’ll have this covered.”
Art stood up, sliding the pistol in the back of his jeans.
“Good thing I’m a lucky charm, then,” he said it without a hint of humour.
Big didn’t seem to think it humorous either.
His frown grew deeper as Art walked across the room, heading for the door. Big wouldn’t stop him. There was nothing he could do. If Big had really wanted to stop him, he would have found a way in the last ten years. The Big Smith he remembered hadn’t been a fool. He’d been his father’s best friend, a prize worth keeping, not a withered old man with a vendetta for the boy he couldn’t save.
“Your luck’s gonna run out one day, Andrew. Watch your back when it does - “ he called out after him as Art slid past him and outside.
Art nodded quietly to himself. Big’s warning didn’t fall on deaf ears, he knew just as much as Big did. The old man was right - there was something about this whole thing that felt like the close was coming. His luck was draining away.
The worst thing was, after all this time, he finally had something he didn’t want to lose. He finally had something to lose, even if he’d only just got it back.
But maybe that meant something too, maybe his luck had been finding it - finding Nick, and the tragedy was it was always leading to this; by some way, whether by their own damned selves or something else - someone else - either way, no matter what, it was always going to end.
****
The house was quiet when he returned, half wary about the fact he’d even gone back; but in a way, he wasn’t surprised to find Nick still there. In another way, he damn well was. Nick had, for some reason, disposed of the pile of photographs and torn paper Art had ripped from his wall, Nick disposing of the memories he had no part in without hesitation. Art had been hesitating about it all for days.
The door closing seemed to slam and echo and bounce back at him in a thousand different resonating notes and it made him want to turn and walk back out again just to see if it made a difference to the sudden roaring in his head.
But then Nick stood up from where he had been sitting on the couch flipping through a file folder and the pair of them were standing on either side of the room like a western standoff and Art wasn’t sure if using actual guns might be easier. If he just shot Nick, or better yet - Nick just shot him and put an end to it all.
Everything would be a damn sight easier if he was dead.
Someone else could deal with it all.
He swallowed and the motion was hard, awkward and Nick was stoic and silent across the room. His eyes flickered and wouldn’t turn to meet Art’s and the nerves were suddenly apparent across his face. Art’s brain took a moment to wonder whether he’d become this blind about everything all of a sudden. Maybe he would have foreseen some of this damn whirlwind if he hadn’t been caught up in playing with his new toy.
“I saw Big.” The words bounced in the quiet and it took a moment for Art to realise he had been the one to break the silence. His boots clicked on the tiles as he walked towards the kitchen, making an unintentional wide berth of Nick, trying in some way to get as far away from Nick and their mess as he could. He reached out and picked up a lone coffee cup on the side as he moved around the bench.
“I know what Moore’s up to.” He finally forced himself to look up and meet Nick’s gaze again. Nick opened his mouth.
“Oh,” he said, and it was so damn simple, so damn unhelpful Art had to hold back the sudden overwhelming urge he had to throw the cup right at Nick’s head.
He didn’t.
Nick didn’t ask what Moore was up to either, so Art started talking. Talking was easy. He’d found out long ago that if you kept talking then someone was either going to squirm and keep quiet and give something away about themselves or they were going to get awkward and talk back, or get enthusiastic and talk back - in any way, talking was always better than nothing.
It was a bit of a fight or flight response and a part of him was interested in what Nick’s would be. What his own response would be.
“The Commissioner’s going out to Belmarsh tomorrow for a publically recognised meeting and Big reckons Moore’s going to use that time to blow up the prison. Take out the commissioner so he can take the top job. Doesn’t know why Moore needed you or why I come into the picture but he doesn’t care. He just wants me to disappear. Seems you both have something in common, you both think I should just fuck off -”
That changed something. Nick’s face contorted.
“I don’t think this is our fight.”
It wasn’t exactly what he’d been after, but the response was something. Art nodded, holding himself back for a moment to quell the wave of sick disappointment that rose up in him. He didn’t quite manage it. He sneered.
Fight or flight.
“Course it ain’t, Nicky. It’s got nothing to do with you. You’re just a pawn. You’re only involved because someone else says so - a bigger better player. You’re only in this, Nicky, because I needed some bastard to get me into Berry’s for the intel and you weren’t a complete moron.”
Nick seemed to have a better grasp on his anger than Art did. He could have spent the morning constructing arguments he could bring to point while Art was off throwing a tantrum and stomping his foot at Big. With a gun no less, a gun he still had.
Nick took a breath before he answered.
“Whether it’s got anything to do with me or not, Andy, I still care enough to just want you to leave it. He wants you involved. Moore wanted you.”
“Moore’s always wanted me. Hell, he probably only wants me to pin his whole fucking scheme on me. I don’t know, but I do damn well care. He’s up to something, he’s going to blow up the prison, and whether you made chums in that damn place or not, Nicky, if he does that then he’s won and even if we’re here or if we’re on the other side of the damn planet, I can tell you, it’s gonna be bad. He has enough reach to make everything for everyone horrible.”
He could barely understand the words coming out of his own mouth. He sounded like he had a conscience. When did that happen?
Art stared at Nick, and for everything he was saying, he didn’t really expect Nick to counter the way he did. He sounded resigned as he spoke, and that was perhaps the lower blow.
“What do you want me for, Art? Really?”
What did he want? Help? A partner to help carry the load in a job that was just too heavy, or something more? Something better? Bigger? Something worth more to lose than simply Short’s vendetta? Just Nick? As he was, as they were; just them?
“I want you to tell me whether you’ll help, Nicky, or whether you’re just gonna disappear. Cause I need to know.”
Nick was silent and Art waited, watching him. He held on fast to the cup still in his hands and he took in every inch of the older man standing in front of him. He didn’t have a clue what was going through Nick’s head, but he looked like he really wanted to fuck off. But then, he had his chance; he could have disappeared when Art had taken off. But he’d stayed, and he was still here now. What amazed Art even more was when Nick opened his mouth.
“I’ll help you.”
“Ah. Good. Cheers.”
It even sounded stupid in his own ears, but it was something. Nick’s shoulders seemed to lose a modicum of their tension and it seemed to release some of his own. He sighed.
“Do you have a plan?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a plan, Art?”
Art couldn’t help but notice the distinct way Nick said his name. Art.
Not Andy. This wasn’t Andy, no.
“I might do.”
He didn’t, not yet. Not really. It was foolhardy. It wasn’t really a plan. He actually needed to talk to Jones first. Whether or not he helped him at all would restrict what happened next.
“We have to see an old friend.”
Nick nodded. He didn’t question. He didn’t argue. He nodded.
For a moment Art wished he would have done anything but that.
He set the cup down on the table a little harder than he should have.
****
In his years outside of public view, Art had come across more than his fare share of oddities. Many of them skilled, some exceptional, others with skills enough but it was their demeanour that made them memorable. Jones lay in every category Art could compile, he was more than a bit odd, simultaneously a bit normal and boring, he kept brilliant interesting company, who, at times, Art wanted to hit around the head or feed to the wolves; but Jones was one to keep on side. He was exceptional at what he did - he was just a bit shit at what he wanted to do.
The house of Jones had been Art’s sanctum for a good three months a few years back, it had been more of a convenience at the time, but it had really opened him up to the world that was both inside the tumultuous little flat, and the one outside. Jones had no first name; in the same way he had no past - whereas his lover, Dan Ashcroft, had plenty of both. Ashcroft’s malignant malicious stylie literature had been the pinpoint for the return of the Rebellion. It had been dying down for years, barely surviving on the edge of society like a stray dog before there was a public resurgence at Dan Ashcroft’s doing - he made the Rebellion cool. He wrote of rebellion and savagery and the art of crime and what it was and could be again; almost overnight it was suddenly popular, the Rebellion was back in full force, powered by a league of idiots taking advice from a style magazine. But it had been enough, more than enough.
Dan Ashcroft was damn lucky to escape persecution. It had been a long and grueling legal battle Art could vaguely remember, but when they’d won, by some damn cheap piece of luck, Ashcroft and his plucky housemate had disappeared from the public eye, swallowed by anonymity. Except by those who knew where to find them. By those who knew about Jones.
Jones saw himself as a DJ, exactly what he wasn’t - he could craft noise, but that was about it. No, Jones’ real skill was in the way he could bend wires and electrical circuits to do exactly what he wanted, which became clear somehow that this circuitry extended to the manufacture of bombs. In the height of the Second Rebellion, Jones was the man no one knew, but the one everyone went to in that moment of desperate need. The cowards way out, the easy way. Blowing something up was just plain force, no smarts or logic, it was dangerous and brutal and easy.
And Art needed his help.
The house was pretty much the same as he pulled the car up out the front of it. It had been a squat to begin with, or it had been years and years ago now - who it belonged to and what its current state was Art wasn’t sure, but it looked just as he remembered. Probably a little more weatherworn, but the details were exact. Jones and Ashcroft had kept to themselves a long time; there wasn’t much room for change. Art kept his ears open to know that much.
Nick was silent as they walked up to the front door, in fact, Nick hadn’t said much at all since he’d walked in. Even their conversation had been brief and neither one of them had much room to explore just what had happened and deal with it. Not at present. Other things were more pressing. Art guessed they probably shouldn’t be, but they were. His focus was occupied, he could barely think straight beyond it. Something was stirring, he could feel it, and it was making him anxious.
The house was quiet, which meant one of two things, Jones wasn’t in, or he was and was either asleep or had headphones in. At least, that had been the way things were when Art had lived with him. The sleeping part of that equation had been very rare indeed.
The walk from the car was in silence as they approached the door and the quiet only broke as Art reached out and slammed his fist down on the door, knocking against the wood right under the hazard sign and the messy scrawl, ‘House of Jones’.
There was a moment’s absolute quiet while the waited and then there was the sound of muffled footsteps and then the door cracked just a bit. Art caught sight of bright blue eyes in the slot before the door slammed shut and he heard the deadbolt being removed. The door flung open and Jones grinned down at him.
“Art!” he grinned, bearing crooked teeth. It was like stepping back into the past - Jones looked almost timeless for the first few seconds, the only difference being his hair. It was longer now, straight, black with bearing down one side, the other scattering the black into a dark red, cropped short with blonde sticking out behind one ear like a feather. On closer inspection Art could see the lines of age creeping in on his face. It had been inevitable, considering Jones’ life, but all the same, he was nothing if not determined.
“Can we talk?” Art asked and Jones’ grin tightened just a bit, but he held the door open and they moved inside. The place was still haphazard and Art found himself glad; he’d have been disappointed if it hadn’t have been. It was almost the same. Except the paintings on the walls were intermittent between Jones’ pop art face, and a grouchy slouch of Dan Ashcroft. Most of them had comedy moustaches drawn on them, Jones and Ashcroft alike.
“What you got on your mind, Art?” Jones asked as he crossed the room and perched himself on the corner of the couch. There was a rustling somewhere in the back of the place, in one of the back bedrooms that said Jones wasn’t alone. Art wasn’t surprised, Ashcroft rarely left the house when he’d stayed, a lot would have had to have changed in the meantime for that to change. The world outside hadn’t changed enough to illicit that sort of thing, so Ashcroft stayed hidden. Cockroach.
“You’ve read the paper?” he asked, glancing back towards Nick. Nick was standing closer to the door, looking uncomfortable. He forced his attention back to Jones. Jones looked a mite uncomfortable.
“This ‘bout the Berry thing then?”
“A bit.”
“Somefing else is going on there, huh? Thought so when I saw it. Somefing like that doesn’t get press release unless someone wants it.”
Art nodded.
“DC Moore.”
Jones’ expressed tightened. He clearly remembered. Good. That would make things easier.
“This part of somefing bigger then?”
Art nodded. He glanced back at Nick again.
Nick was avoiding looking at him. Art sighed and turned back, Jones was looking between them now, clearly trying to put as much together as he could. Art decided to stop him in his tracks.
“Bigger, yes, original? Not so much. What do you know about the Commissioner’s meeting at Belmarsh?”
“Only what they’re releasing. Sometime tomorrow. Berry’s top priority. Word on the street says the Commissioner’s been held up at the Prime Minister’s all day today, been called into a disciplinary meeting or somefing. When a high profile like Berry goes under, then it’s public business, innit? This is just one step further than the Rebel Eleven. Whole government is dancing, finally getting somewhere ain’t they? Or so they reckon. Whole thing smells fishy t’me n’Dan.”
“Moore’s planning on taking out Commissioner Evans, get him out of play and take the job. My sources say he’s going to blow up Belmarsh tomorrow during the meeting.”
“With Berry’s bit that’ll blow the Rebellion back into things, wont it?”
“They’ll blame it on retaliation and wont bother to investigate, it’s big, dramatic, public and easy to sweep under the rug.”
“What you want me an’ Dan for?”
“I only need you.” Art murmured, watching the way Jones became wary, sitting up straighter. The rustling in the back rooms that was Dan went quiet for a second. Nick still hadn’t said or done anything. He’d barely moved from the doorway.
“I need your expertise, Jones.”
Jones nodded, his mouth a thin line. He was reluctant; Art immediately felt bad for dragging him back in, for asking something like this of him. They’d been trying to get out for a while. He knew that much, and yet here he was dragging them back in, straight through the mud. Straight into the thick of what could be yet another beginning.
He could see if it was too much to ask of him. All the same, he needed the security only something like this could bring. Security, and the satisfaction of an entirely petty sense of revenge and comeuppance all rolled up into one single act.
He kept his gaze steady; Jones’ wavered but then stuck.
“What you need?”
“Enough to take down Moore’s private building.”
“The whole building?”
“Do it once, do it right, right?”
Jones didn’t say anything; he cast his gaze back to the hallway where Dan was hiding. Art followed it and came face to face with the silent gruff expression of Dan Ashcroft. The man hadn’t changed at all. Or perhaps his beard had thickened somewhat, in some ancient primeval attempt to aid him against the torrential cold.
Ashcroft didn’t say anything, he and Jones’ eyes locked and Art watched as Ashcroft nodded, a simple small gesture almost barely there. But all the same, it seemed enough to persuade Jones.
Jones turned aback to Art.
“I’ll help,” he said.
****
Nick watched the discourse between Andy and Jones, a little intrigued over the other man with his key to some small sector of Art’s past. He seemed to be some vague incarnation of a cartoon character but all the same, Nick couldn’t help the lick of jealousy he felt slide into place as he watched their discourse. The meaning of their conversation sinking in slowly, piece by piece; far slower than it should have. He should have been paying more attention, but every part of this, every moment of it was just an extension on the bridge he could feel gaping between himself and Andy.
He could barely stand the fact the theoretical bridge was there, let alone what it was they were actually discussing.
Andy was going to blow up Moore’s offices.
The information sank in, sharp and sudden, slamming home. He blinked.
Andy was going to blow up his Uncle.
He wanted to open his mouth and ask him what the hell did he think he was doing? But he couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t work, and his feet didn’t work and all it left him with was standing stock still, mute and stupid and with nowhere to go and nothing to say even though he had ideas about both.
“I best check what stocks I got and what I gotta get then,” Jones was saying and Nick tried to focus on their words, on the information, the facts and the movements that followed.
“You gonna stay here?”
“If you don’t mind?”
“ Course not. Room’s still empty if you want to crash. Might take a while.”
Art just nodded and Nick watched him, the way his hair moved as he did, his neck elongated and bare, his shoulder’s square in his jacket, the leather pulled tight across his slim shoulders. He watched as Jones looked nervously between Art and then up at Nick before he slid off his couch and wove through the chaos towards the back of the room and into the cramped hallway, a moment later the sound of a door clicking shut echoing in the quiet.
Art finally took a glance up at Nick and the blanket of quiet and absence seemed to fade out. Andy looked nervous himself.
“You’re going to blow him up?”
Andy definitely looked nervous then, his lip caught between his teeth and Nick watched the way the blood rushed and how his lips shone as he licked them. He let out a sigh, he sounded drained, he sounded tired.
“You gotta understand something, Nicky. I need this to end.”
“This isn’t the only way.”
He watched Art sigh, his shoulders slump. Nick could feel how much he wanted those words to be true. He could also feel them slide off Art’s back.
He looked back up to meet Nick’s gaze.
“I know, Nicky.” He murmured, like he was bending to Nick’s will. Nick could hear the way he tried to inflect his voice, how he wanted it to sound convincing, like he believed him. Nick could also hear the way he didn’t.
“What’s your plan, Andy?”
Art looked up, a little tense. He forced himself to relax; Nick watched the way each part of his body followed the last, from his neck through to his shoulders and down.
“He’ll be at his offices tomorrow. It’s what he does; he gives himself a solid alibi. I can get Moss to disable the cameras or something. Ring the fire alarm, get everyone else out. He’ll probably be expecting something. He’ll know I know. That was probably half the point of seeing you personally. He’ll stay. We’ll detonate what Jones’ got and then we’ll leave.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that, I hope.”
Nick felt a wave of relief and a simultaneous wave of terror sweep through him at Art’s hesitant little confession. He didn’t want this either. Some part of him didn’t want it. A part of Nick sighed in relief.
He stopped and glanced over at Andy. He looked strange, a little deflated, a little stretched too thin.
He really did want this more than he should to be pushing himself so far for any reason other than the one he kept repeating. That it needed to end.
Perhaps it did.
No; Art was right. It did need to end. The Rebellion had gone on far too long as it was, but couldn’t it end without them? Didn’t they get a shot at the long abyss of forever? Without responsibility or rapture?
Nick stared at Andy and let the words form on his tongue.
“What do you need me to do?”
***
Considering it was the offices of a member of the seniority of the Metropolitan Police Force, the security involved was strangely minimal. Nick wasn’t sure if it was his own expectations he’d blown out of the water by sheer anxiety about what they were doing, or whether the place was actually lacking. Either way a part of him was surprised at how simple the security was. If the place had been set up with heat detecting lasers and air tight doors with passwords that changed daily he wouldn’t have blinked an eye. In it’s place the building had a set of normal, standard government issue cameras installed out the front of the building, a pair of guards at the door with a metal detector, security passes for anyone with a firearm and Nick bypassed it all by parking his car in the underground car park, getting past the dozy security guards there with a carefully flustered lie. From there he took the elevator to the first floor and found himself without any kind of resistance. It was almost alarming.
But it did exactly what Art had asked of him; he’d scouted out the weaknesses.
There were plenty.
A part of him was screaming there were too many, but he’d worked for Renholm Industries for long enough and knew that what looked imposing probably wasn’t and that the lackluster effort in security could very much be genuine.
It did little to calm his nerves.
It was late afternoon and the commotion around the place said as much. The guards were wilting and they were all young enough to probably believe anything that came out of Moore’s mouth. Nick knew that what Art had been saying was right, that Moore needed to be stopped. There was something about him that really set Nick’s nerves on edge and had very little to do with what he’d asked of Nick back in the prison. But all the same, that desire to see the man stopped was not overwhelmed by his own desire to run, for self preservation and the lure of safety that seemed so close. They were so close.
But Art was determined, and in turn all Nick could do was surrender to the part of him that was determined to see Andy through it all. Art had gone above and beyond to get him out of prison, pushed himself beyond what he should have. This was the exchange.
It still felt wrong, and not for the reasons he knew he should be reasoning. It was wrong because the shadow was looming and he felt like a mouse going mental because he thought the cat was at the vet. Nick knew he was afraid that the cat had been pretending the whole damn time and was watching and waiting.
That thought did little to calm him down as he walked along the hallway, mentally marking out the stairwell and the fire alarms, the camera’s and the security. For the offices of a member of the police seniority, there was a surprising lack of law enforcement.
But that was probably exactly what DC Moore liked about it.
Nick wandered past the camera room for the third time before he headed back towards the dual set of elevators. Getting the explosives in place was going to be fine, it was what Art had planned he hadn’t told anyone yet that had Nick worried as he reached out to call for one of the elevator cars.
***
When Nick got back to the House of Jones, Art and Jones were perched on either side of the couch, while the gruff hulking character with more beard that facial features he guessed was the mysterious Dan lurked in a chair closer to Jones, peering over the strange man’s shoulder down at the map spread out across the coffee table. Nick couldn’t help but notice five coffee mugs scattered around the legs of the table near Jones.
Art turned towards Nick as he entered and Nick turned his gaze away from the others and met Art head on, the smaller man smiled, hesitant and unsure, but it was something, a break in the studiously calm resolve that had held him firmly since he’d walked back in that afternoon and said he knew what his Uncle was doing. Now, a few hours later, the day finally drawing to a close, it was all building up into something Nick could barely stand.
“Alright Nicky, how’d it go?”
Of course, straight to the job. Nick swallowed and nodded.
“You should be fine. Security was rubbish.”
Art made a strange sound in his throat and nodded. He shifted a little on the couch which Nick almost took for an offer to sit down. He shifted closer to the table, perching on the arm of Art’s couch. He didn’t look at Andy; instead he forced himself to look at the maps in front of him. The layout of the building with the basic security drawn in; Art must have got lucky with Moss again. Nick couldn’t help but wonder if the quirky geek knew how many illegal acts he was facilitating.
Surely he had to know. But then again… Nick forced himself to stop thinking.
“Camera’s are all pretty much where they are here. Security guards stationed at these points,” he muttered, pointing to each sector of the map. “These ones patrol, these ones stay fixed from what I can tell. Camera room is on the second floor here, Moore’s offices are third floor, top far corner.”
“The carpark?”
“Underground, two guards stationed on the entrance, nothing inside, camera’s in these eight points, nothing difficult to overcome. If you take the service elevator up to the main floor you bypass all the security on the lobby.”
“Good,” Art murmured, Jones nodded enthusiastically, his eyes sharp and staring at the gridded maps. “Easy done then.”
Nick nodded. Easy done indeed. Surely it should be harder than this.
“How’s the charges going?”
The bomb, how was the bomb going, Nick’s brain translated, throwing the words back at him as Art turned his focus back to Jones.
“I’m working on the charge tonight, yeah. Should be done by morning. Got a mate hooking up the big stuff first thing in the morning.”
Art nodded.
“We’re set then,” he murmured. Jones nodded.
“You gonna stay then?” Jones asked, leaning back towards Dan as the older silent contender stood up.
Art spoke before Nick’s brain could contend the sentiment.
“I think we’ll head back. I’ll come round first thing?”
“Done and done,” Jones nodded.
Nick glanced over at Andy, watching him as he stood up, ran a hand through his hair and then turned and looked him straight in the eye.
“Come on, Nicky,” he murmured, sounding sombre and tired and without any of the vile conviction his voice had had all day. Lacking any of the nastiness that had piqued it. He almost sounded sad.
Nick nodded and followed as Art let them out and wandered back to the car.
The ride was as quiet as the first had been earlier that day. It wasn’t for lack of anything to say, there was plenty - what the fuck are we doing, being Nick’s chosen favourite. What actually surprised him was that as they pulled up outside his apartment, Andy was the first to speak.
“I’m tired, Nicky,” he murmured. He didn’t look at Nick when he spoke. Perhaps he couldn’t, considering what he was admitting. Nick stayed quiet.
“I’m tired and I’m sorry. For a lot of things.”
Nick turned to look at him then and he was almost surprised when Art turned into his gaze; the words rolled off his tongue without thought, but they felt true, and he meant them.
“I know.”
“You’re right, you know. You’re right about a lot. Just, thank you.”
He sounded like he meant it too.
“Thank you,” he whispered again, nodding and then shyly looking away again. In that moment Nick felt it click into place. It felt a little bit like a the set up towards goodbye.
“Thank me when this is over,” he croaked.
“When there’s sun and sand and this whole fucking thing behind us. Thank me then. Not now.”
Art continued to look away from him.
“Come inside, Andy,” he murmured and this time Art looked at him. His eyes were wide and there was something so akin to terror in them for a second Nick was a little alarmed. When he blinked it was gone, just apprehension staring back at him so convincingly he was sure that his first thought was a mistake.
“Ok, Nicky,” Art said and opened his door. Nick followed suit, closing it firmly behind him, following Art up the steps to the hallway and then up the steps again to the apartment, the pair of them near on silent the whole way.
When at last they broke into the apartment and Art shed himself of his jacket, Nick took his moment to look at him. His shoulders tense, his hair needed washing, his eyes looked haunted and his mouth was a firm decisive line. They had been so close to shedding all of this disastrous affair. So close.
“Tell me something,” he said, watching as Art walked over to the kettle and set it to boil. Art turned to him, a wry look on his face.
He didn’t say anything, but Nick knew he was ready to answer.
“You think you can pull this off?”
“That’s the plan, Nicky,” he murmured and looked back to the kettle.
Nick took a step closer towards him.
“Just Moore?”
“The plan is for Moore.”
“And no more?”
“That’s the plan.”
Nick knew he was dancing in circles. He walked over to Andy and rested his hands at Art’s neck. Andy looked up at him.
“That’s the plan, Nicky,” he whispered, staring up at him like he wanted Nick to believe it.
“I know,” he said back. It didn’t feel like the closure he wanted. Andy leant into him.
“Sleep with me?” he asked. Nick blinked and looked down at him.
“Sleep with me?” he repeated. Nick nodded. Andy slipped around him, snagging one arm as he went and pulled Nick towards the bedroom. Nick let the smaller man shed him of his coat and his shirt before taking over and disposing of Andy’s shirt and unbuttoning his trousers. Between each other, by the time they reached the bed, the pair of them were bare to their pants, the flat was cold but as Art slid back into him, curling back against Nick’s chest, his skin was hot and flush against Nick’s own, and as he held him, his hand curled around Andy’s wrist and his other pressed against the jutting rise of his hip, Andy’s head pressed against his arm, hair tickling over his shoulder; he couldn’t help but wonder if this was what the future felt like. He held on a little tighter, willing the world away as he settled in for the long mental drain towards sleep.
Holding tight to the tense form beneath him, who was pressed close and staring into the darkness, awake until exhaustion knocked him out and ran away with him unwillingly.
***
Part Ten
I must apologise, but this one may be a while as well. It WONT be as long as this one, I swear, but I do want to wrap up eleven as well before I post ten, as they're almost one in the same.
My apologies for the delay, once again.
See you soon xxxxx
Word Count: 8000~
Warnings: Drahah, swearing, plotting of well... terrorism, actually. >.< now that I think about it properly. Oops.
Fandom: Art/Nick - Mint Royale
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to their respective parties. Any inconsistencies are completely mine. I try to mean no offense.
Summary: What was broken must be fixed, even in the most unconventional of ways.
AN: I am so sorry. For anyone who's been reading this, I'm sorry. I meant to have this done on time, but it ran away with me, and then it stopped and then LIFE ran away with me. Seriously, Melbourne Comedy Festival and three assignments could not have come at the worst time. Upsetting. My apologies. Though, to be fair, this chapter was pretty much an empty document when I posted chapter eight. I've been a good girl, really. Haha. >.< sorry.
Anyway, I hope that you enjoy. The finale should be along shortly. More info at the bottom.
SF xxxxx
Chapter Nine
The House of Jones
Art clenched the steering wheel so hard his fingers began to cramp long before he took his foot off the accelerator. The streets were empty, it was in the middle of the morning on a Friday, everyone in his damn neighbourhood was at work or in school, or if they were lucky enough to escape the burden of middleclass routine, they were inside, out of the ice cold wind and the sharp rain that stung like hail as he’d walked from the building down to the car.
Art didn’t care, a part of him was revelling in the harsh conditions, in the way he could barely see in front of him and the way the car’s tyres slid just a little on the wet roads as he sped around a corner. A part of him was taking pleasure in the stupid risks he was taking, but he was shaking as he did it and he knew it had nothing to do with the adrenaline that was building on what he’d already had after his fight with Nick. He knew he was building up and up and it had to break, but it was beyond him now, he couldn’t make himself care, because he couldn’t make himself think beyond the biting hurt and swirling anger pounding through his veins and kept his foot on the gas.
A tiny part of him knew what Nick had said had been in the heat of the moment, that it had meant to sting, just the way his own comments on Des had been a deliberate shot at him. He still felt rattled, unbalanced and his heart was pounding in his ears, roaring in time with the sound of Nick’s well placed accusations.
In one way or another, Nick was right, he didn’t think about what he was doing. He never had, he never had reason to. It had always been him, everything he did he did because he wanted to and he could deal with whatever consequences that arrived in his wake. But that was the thing about Nick, Nick was an extra commodity, he was something extra, someone extra, which left someone else to deal with the consequences as well - and Nick was a very different person. Art clenched his fist tighter around the steering wheel and pressed his foot flat. The car groaned and sped up and then in a blinding rage, Art slammed his foot on the break and swerved to the side of the road, his heart pounding in his chest and breathing suddenly became a roaring exercise.
Nick was someone he had to think of the consequences for - he was burden, baggage and be damned Art needed him. The fact floated to the top of his consciousness and then hardened so he couldn’t wash it back down. He needed Nick, he didn’t know why, or even how - it didn’t matter, all he knew was that for the first time in his life, he actually needed someone. Couldn’t imagine what he’d do without that conscious backing of someone else to weigh down his decisions. But regardless of his own feelings, Nick knew nothing of what could happen if he just let it be. Nick was a bi-product of Art’s Uncle’s machinations twenty years ago. If Michael Moore hadn’t been determined enough to get more power, then he never would have blown up the car with Art’s parents inside just months before his father was assured he could end the Rebellion forever. If Moore had never killed Art’s father, then the Rebellion would have ended and Nick could have grown up to be an accountant, and Andy could have grown up into his father’s image, a police officer, or a lawyer or something equally respected and normal. He could have been happy. Nick wasn’t aware of what was at risk if he just left it and ran away while he could.
There was no one else left to stop him. No one else knew, because if Michael Moore was good at something, it was making sure he wasn’t implicated.
The only way they’d be safe, is if it ended now.
The car was rumbling under him as he leant forward and rested his head against the vibrating steering wheel.
He had to fix it, if not for the damn kids who could grow up into another him - he had to do it for Nick, for his own future. Because he knew, he knew, his uncle would never stop.
He needed to know, needed to cut it in the bud if he could.
Putting the car back in first gear Art took a deep breath, swallowing his misplaced anger and terror and every other emotion he could feel rising to the surface one by one in an attempt to take advantage of his mental breakdown. He swallowed, ran his fingers through his hair and started to take his foot off the clutch.
He needed answers, and if there was one man in the world who knew just as much as he did and more, it was only ever going to be Big.
He knew Moore was up to something, something involving him, and if he knew enough to think it necessary to warn him, even going out of his way to warn him through Nick, then Big had to know a hell of a lot more of what was going on that Art did. And if Big knew a hell of a lot about what was going on, Art knew a hell of a lot about Big. Over the years he’d learned a hell of a lot about the comings and goings of one John Smith.
Like the fact on a Friday, his sister would take the day off from her perpetual house sitting, spend it at the bowls club, get pissed and end up back at the house at about eleven thirty at night, if she made it back at all. It all depended on her on again off again relationship with the butcher next block down.
Which left Big the house to himself, which usually meant he’d leave work about lunch time and prolong his time on the television without interruption, making up the hours Saturday morning.
Art knew, because he’d seen the routine time and time again.
Today was no different, he noticed as he watched as Big’s sister backed the car out of the drive and headed off for the club. It was nearly twelve, which meant that Big would be getting back anywhere within the next half hour.
The car door shrieked as Art got out, slamming it behind him with measured force just to feel the draft as it closed, the sound rifling through him. He needed it. Something to focus on.
The rain had stopped briefly, but it did little to disguise the fact the grass was starting to die as he wandered across the lawn to the front door. Sheila Smith was doing her best, it seemed by the state of the weeds, or lack of them, but there wasn’t much she could do about the grass. No one could keep it green these days; it was too cold for anything to survive long. Things were getting bad.
The lock on the front door wasn’t hard to pick. Art knew by looking at it. He’d been up to the door often enough, but never been so bold as to pick his way in. Not in years, anyway.
It had been almost a decade since he’d been as brazen as to break into Big’s house.
But there was little chance the old man was going to be willing enough to let him in.
And he didn’t really want to have to force him inside with a gun pressed to his ribs. He’d do what he had to - but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to stop something while he was ahead. Inside, out of sight there was going to be restrictions, constrictions, issues of trust and matters of force - he knew that. He knew Big would know it just as well as he did. But it was forcing the information out that mattered to him. He was sure Big wouldn’t talk unless he was made to; this was by far the simplest way.
The man arrived almost on cue, his car rumbling to a stop in the space out front and Art sat and counted the heavy set steps as he walked to the front door and paused.
It was unlocked; he’d left it that way on purpose. He could hear Big grumbling for a second as he pushed his way in, stopping in the hall to dispose of his coat before he walked the three steps further into the parlour and stopped dead, looking up and catching sight of Art sitting in his chair.
Art watched the surprise disappear into the bleak grey of the man’s eyes and his face go blank.
“Andrew,” he growled.
“At the time, I really was a little confused why you went out of your way to warn Nick someone was after me. It seemed so pointless. I get it now.”
The old man didn’t move from his spot between the hallway and the couch. Art didn’t really care. He didn’t even care that they hadn’t really even opted for pleasantries. Big knew he wasn’t there to reunite or anything daft.
Big probably knew exactly why he was there.
“I’m not sure why you’re doing it, but I get it. You know what he’s doing, don’t you.”
Again they didn’t need to even specify who they were talking about. It wasn’t even really a question.
But this time Big took a step forward and Art unconsciously moved his hand to cover the handle of the pistol he had sitting in his lap.
John Smith had known him his whole life. But he’d been chasing him for more than half of it.
A part of him was sure that Big would understand why he was there. A mutual understanding between them.
But it was best not to be caught unawares.
“You warned me he’s after me, you warned me through Nick Marshall, but it’s more than that, isn’t it, Big? You know exactly what he’s doing.”
Big cleared his throat.
“What d’yeh want from me, Andrew?”
Art closed his mouth for a moment in hesitation. His eyes flickered to the sideboard he’d seen when he’d first entered, a run of old photographs stuck up behind glass where no one could touch them; safe. His parents stared back at him, caught in time, holding him up between them, beers caught between his father and Big. That had been a long time ago. Far too long; that life was long dead.
“I want you to tell me what he’s up to.”
“Why d’yeh want me t’do that, kid?”
“Tell me what Short’s doing.”
“You wont be able to stop him, Andrew - getting out of the way is the best and only thing for it.”
Art didn’t care about warnings or anything of the like. He frowned and his grip on his gun tightened, just a bit.
“Tell me what he’s doing.”
Big glanced away and Art tensed at the movement.
“There’s nothing you can do, Andrew.”
“Tell me.”
Big sighed. When he answered his voice was gruff.
“Day after tomorrow the Commissioner has a meeting at Belmarsh Prison. If you were thinking yesterday it was to discuss security and the like, now, with Berry’s mess, it’s a bit more than that and the entire country knows about it. From what I can tell the prison and the Commissioner are due to go up the same way your parents did, kid.”
“He’s going to blow up the prison?”
“From what I can tell. Stick to what you know, right? That’s all the slimy bastard’s good at.”
“How do you know?”
“You mean how do I know and why aren’t I dead yet?”
Art glared back.
Big answered anyway.
“That I don’t know, Kid. But I’m laughing stock anyway. I spent too long chasing you and getting nowhere. There’s fuck all anyone’s gonna believe that comes out of my mouth and smaller still what I can do about it meself. But you wait, kid, in two days your damn uncle’s gonna be running the whole damn force and there’s one trick up his sleeve you can bet he hasn’t played yet. And it’s a cut above the rest kid, I bet me bottom dollar it’s got something to do with you. He’s got a leech keeping watch on you, Andrew. Some slimy bastard paid by the hour or by the kill. Seen him lurking around the station. My recommendation is get hell out of town. Fuck off. Take that Marshall bastard and disappear, Andrew. Do yourself a world of good.”
“I’ve never been good, Big, you know that,” Art murmured, watching the old man. He hadn’t really moved. He had resigned himself to whatever it was about to happen, Art realised. Big was the only person in the world to know both sides of the story, and Short had left him isolated by that fact. No one would believe a word he said. If he said it and mysteriously died, then maybe, just maybe someone would take notice. If the mental berk kept on, counting his conspiracies like the Queen in her Counting House, then he was harmless as a lamb. And Big Leg Smith had always been a bit harmless.
“You’ll be playing right into his hand, Andrew. He’s been at this for months now, every time something’s happened I think will fuck him over he dances around it like he meant for it. If you’re not lucky he’ll have this covered.”
Art stood up, sliding the pistol in the back of his jeans.
“Good thing I’m a lucky charm, then,” he said it without a hint of humour.
Big didn’t seem to think it humorous either.
His frown grew deeper as Art walked across the room, heading for the door. Big wouldn’t stop him. There was nothing he could do. If Big had really wanted to stop him, he would have found a way in the last ten years. The Big Smith he remembered hadn’t been a fool. He’d been his father’s best friend, a prize worth keeping, not a withered old man with a vendetta for the boy he couldn’t save.
“Your luck’s gonna run out one day, Andrew. Watch your back when it does - “ he called out after him as Art slid past him and outside.
Art nodded quietly to himself. Big’s warning didn’t fall on deaf ears, he knew just as much as Big did. The old man was right - there was something about this whole thing that felt like the close was coming. His luck was draining away.
The worst thing was, after all this time, he finally had something he didn’t want to lose. He finally had something to lose, even if he’d only just got it back.
But maybe that meant something too, maybe his luck had been finding it - finding Nick, and the tragedy was it was always leading to this; by some way, whether by their own damned selves or something else - someone else - either way, no matter what, it was always going to end.
****
The house was quiet when he returned, half wary about the fact he’d even gone back; but in a way, he wasn’t surprised to find Nick still there. In another way, he damn well was. Nick had, for some reason, disposed of the pile of photographs and torn paper Art had ripped from his wall, Nick disposing of the memories he had no part in without hesitation. Art had been hesitating about it all for days.
The door closing seemed to slam and echo and bounce back at him in a thousand different resonating notes and it made him want to turn and walk back out again just to see if it made a difference to the sudden roaring in his head.
But then Nick stood up from where he had been sitting on the couch flipping through a file folder and the pair of them were standing on either side of the room like a western standoff and Art wasn’t sure if using actual guns might be easier. If he just shot Nick, or better yet - Nick just shot him and put an end to it all.
Everything would be a damn sight easier if he was dead.
Someone else could deal with it all.
He swallowed and the motion was hard, awkward and Nick was stoic and silent across the room. His eyes flickered and wouldn’t turn to meet Art’s and the nerves were suddenly apparent across his face. Art’s brain took a moment to wonder whether he’d become this blind about everything all of a sudden. Maybe he would have foreseen some of this damn whirlwind if he hadn’t been caught up in playing with his new toy.
“I saw Big.” The words bounced in the quiet and it took a moment for Art to realise he had been the one to break the silence. His boots clicked on the tiles as he walked towards the kitchen, making an unintentional wide berth of Nick, trying in some way to get as far away from Nick and their mess as he could. He reached out and picked up a lone coffee cup on the side as he moved around the bench.
“I know what Moore’s up to.” He finally forced himself to look up and meet Nick’s gaze again. Nick opened his mouth.
“Oh,” he said, and it was so damn simple, so damn unhelpful Art had to hold back the sudden overwhelming urge he had to throw the cup right at Nick’s head.
He didn’t.
Nick didn’t ask what Moore was up to either, so Art started talking. Talking was easy. He’d found out long ago that if you kept talking then someone was either going to squirm and keep quiet and give something away about themselves or they were going to get awkward and talk back, or get enthusiastic and talk back - in any way, talking was always better than nothing.
It was a bit of a fight or flight response and a part of him was interested in what Nick’s would be. What his own response would be.
“The Commissioner’s going out to Belmarsh tomorrow for a publically recognised meeting and Big reckons Moore’s going to use that time to blow up the prison. Take out the commissioner so he can take the top job. Doesn’t know why Moore needed you or why I come into the picture but he doesn’t care. He just wants me to disappear. Seems you both have something in common, you both think I should just fuck off -”
That changed something. Nick’s face contorted.
“I don’t think this is our fight.”
It wasn’t exactly what he’d been after, but the response was something. Art nodded, holding himself back for a moment to quell the wave of sick disappointment that rose up in him. He didn’t quite manage it. He sneered.
Fight or flight.
“Course it ain’t, Nicky. It’s got nothing to do with you. You’re just a pawn. You’re only involved because someone else says so - a bigger better player. You’re only in this, Nicky, because I needed some bastard to get me into Berry’s for the intel and you weren’t a complete moron.”
Nick seemed to have a better grasp on his anger than Art did. He could have spent the morning constructing arguments he could bring to point while Art was off throwing a tantrum and stomping his foot at Big. With a gun no less, a gun he still had.
Nick took a breath before he answered.
“Whether it’s got anything to do with me or not, Andy, I still care enough to just want you to leave it. He wants you involved. Moore wanted you.”
“Moore’s always wanted me. Hell, he probably only wants me to pin his whole fucking scheme on me. I don’t know, but I do damn well care. He’s up to something, he’s going to blow up the prison, and whether you made chums in that damn place or not, Nicky, if he does that then he’s won and even if we’re here or if we’re on the other side of the damn planet, I can tell you, it’s gonna be bad. He has enough reach to make everything for everyone horrible.”
He could barely understand the words coming out of his own mouth. He sounded like he had a conscience. When did that happen?
Art stared at Nick, and for everything he was saying, he didn’t really expect Nick to counter the way he did. He sounded resigned as he spoke, and that was perhaps the lower blow.
“What do you want me for, Art? Really?”
What did he want? Help? A partner to help carry the load in a job that was just too heavy, or something more? Something better? Bigger? Something worth more to lose than simply Short’s vendetta? Just Nick? As he was, as they were; just them?
“I want you to tell me whether you’ll help, Nicky, or whether you’re just gonna disappear. Cause I need to know.”
Nick was silent and Art waited, watching him. He held on fast to the cup still in his hands and he took in every inch of the older man standing in front of him. He didn’t have a clue what was going through Nick’s head, but he looked like he really wanted to fuck off. But then, he had his chance; he could have disappeared when Art had taken off. But he’d stayed, and he was still here now. What amazed Art even more was when Nick opened his mouth.
“I’ll help you.”
“Ah. Good. Cheers.”
It even sounded stupid in his own ears, but it was something. Nick’s shoulders seemed to lose a modicum of their tension and it seemed to release some of his own. He sighed.
“Do you have a plan?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a plan, Art?”
Art couldn’t help but notice the distinct way Nick said his name. Art.
Not Andy. This wasn’t Andy, no.
“I might do.”
He didn’t, not yet. Not really. It was foolhardy. It wasn’t really a plan. He actually needed to talk to Jones first. Whether or not he helped him at all would restrict what happened next.
“We have to see an old friend.”
Nick nodded. He didn’t question. He didn’t argue. He nodded.
For a moment Art wished he would have done anything but that.
He set the cup down on the table a little harder than he should have.
****
In his years outside of public view, Art had come across more than his fare share of oddities. Many of them skilled, some exceptional, others with skills enough but it was their demeanour that made them memorable. Jones lay in every category Art could compile, he was more than a bit odd, simultaneously a bit normal and boring, he kept brilliant interesting company, who, at times, Art wanted to hit around the head or feed to the wolves; but Jones was one to keep on side. He was exceptional at what he did - he was just a bit shit at what he wanted to do.
The house of Jones had been Art’s sanctum for a good three months a few years back, it had been more of a convenience at the time, but it had really opened him up to the world that was both inside the tumultuous little flat, and the one outside. Jones had no first name; in the same way he had no past - whereas his lover, Dan Ashcroft, had plenty of both. Ashcroft’s malignant malicious stylie literature had been the pinpoint for the return of the Rebellion. It had been dying down for years, barely surviving on the edge of society like a stray dog before there was a public resurgence at Dan Ashcroft’s doing - he made the Rebellion cool. He wrote of rebellion and savagery and the art of crime and what it was and could be again; almost overnight it was suddenly popular, the Rebellion was back in full force, powered by a league of idiots taking advice from a style magazine. But it had been enough, more than enough.
Dan Ashcroft was damn lucky to escape persecution. It had been a long and grueling legal battle Art could vaguely remember, but when they’d won, by some damn cheap piece of luck, Ashcroft and his plucky housemate had disappeared from the public eye, swallowed by anonymity. Except by those who knew where to find them. By those who knew about Jones.
Jones saw himself as a DJ, exactly what he wasn’t - he could craft noise, but that was about it. No, Jones’ real skill was in the way he could bend wires and electrical circuits to do exactly what he wanted, which became clear somehow that this circuitry extended to the manufacture of bombs. In the height of the Second Rebellion, Jones was the man no one knew, but the one everyone went to in that moment of desperate need. The cowards way out, the easy way. Blowing something up was just plain force, no smarts or logic, it was dangerous and brutal and easy.
And Art needed his help.
The house was pretty much the same as he pulled the car up out the front of it. It had been a squat to begin with, or it had been years and years ago now - who it belonged to and what its current state was Art wasn’t sure, but it looked just as he remembered. Probably a little more weatherworn, but the details were exact. Jones and Ashcroft had kept to themselves a long time; there wasn’t much room for change. Art kept his ears open to know that much.
Nick was silent as they walked up to the front door, in fact, Nick hadn’t said much at all since he’d walked in. Even their conversation had been brief and neither one of them had much room to explore just what had happened and deal with it. Not at present. Other things were more pressing. Art guessed they probably shouldn’t be, but they were. His focus was occupied, he could barely think straight beyond it. Something was stirring, he could feel it, and it was making him anxious.
The house was quiet, which meant one of two things, Jones wasn’t in, or he was and was either asleep or had headphones in. At least, that had been the way things were when Art had lived with him. The sleeping part of that equation had been very rare indeed.
The walk from the car was in silence as they approached the door and the quiet only broke as Art reached out and slammed his fist down on the door, knocking against the wood right under the hazard sign and the messy scrawl, ‘House of Jones’.
There was a moment’s absolute quiet while the waited and then there was the sound of muffled footsteps and then the door cracked just a bit. Art caught sight of bright blue eyes in the slot before the door slammed shut and he heard the deadbolt being removed. The door flung open and Jones grinned down at him.
“Art!” he grinned, bearing crooked teeth. It was like stepping back into the past - Jones looked almost timeless for the first few seconds, the only difference being his hair. It was longer now, straight, black with bearing down one side, the other scattering the black into a dark red, cropped short with blonde sticking out behind one ear like a feather. On closer inspection Art could see the lines of age creeping in on his face. It had been inevitable, considering Jones’ life, but all the same, he was nothing if not determined.
“Can we talk?” Art asked and Jones’ grin tightened just a bit, but he held the door open and they moved inside. The place was still haphazard and Art found himself glad; he’d have been disappointed if it hadn’t have been. It was almost the same. Except the paintings on the walls were intermittent between Jones’ pop art face, and a grouchy slouch of Dan Ashcroft. Most of them had comedy moustaches drawn on them, Jones and Ashcroft alike.
“What you got on your mind, Art?” Jones asked as he crossed the room and perched himself on the corner of the couch. There was a rustling somewhere in the back of the place, in one of the back bedrooms that said Jones wasn’t alone. Art wasn’t surprised, Ashcroft rarely left the house when he’d stayed, a lot would have had to have changed in the meantime for that to change. The world outside hadn’t changed enough to illicit that sort of thing, so Ashcroft stayed hidden. Cockroach.
“You’ve read the paper?” he asked, glancing back towards Nick. Nick was standing closer to the door, looking uncomfortable. He forced his attention back to Jones. Jones looked a mite uncomfortable.
“This ‘bout the Berry thing then?”
“A bit.”
“Somefing else is going on there, huh? Thought so when I saw it. Somefing like that doesn’t get press release unless someone wants it.”
Art nodded.
“DC Moore.”
Jones’ expressed tightened. He clearly remembered. Good. That would make things easier.
“This part of somefing bigger then?”
Art nodded. He glanced back at Nick again.
Nick was avoiding looking at him. Art sighed and turned back, Jones was looking between them now, clearly trying to put as much together as he could. Art decided to stop him in his tracks.
“Bigger, yes, original? Not so much. What do you know about the Commissioner’s meeting at Belmarsh?”
“Only what they’re releasing. Sometime tomorrow. Berry’s top priority. Word on the street says the Commissioner’s been held up at the Prime Minister’s all day today, been called into a disciplinary meeting or somefing. When a high profile like Berry goes under, then it’s public business, innit? This is just one step further than the Rebel Eleven. Whole government is dancing, finally getting somewhere ain’t they? Or so they reckon. Whole thing smells fishy t’me n’Dan.”
“Moore’s planning on taking out Commissioner Evans, get him out of play and take the job. My sources say he’s going to blow up Belmarsh tomorrow during the meeting.”
“With Berry’s bit that’ll blow the Rebellion back into things, wont it?”
“They’ll blame it on retaliation and wont bother to investigate, it’s big, dramatic, public and easy to sweep under the rug.”
“What you want me an’ Dan for?”
“I only need you.” Art murmured, watching the way Jones became wary, sitting up straighter. The rustling in the back rooms that was Dan went quiet for a second. Nick still hadn’t said or done anything. He’d barely moved from the doorway.
“I need your expertise, Jones.”
Jones nodded, his mouth a thin line. He was reluctant; Art immediately felt bad for dragging him back in, for asking something like this of him. They’d been trying to get out for a while. He knew that much, and yet here he was dragging them back in, straight through the mud. Straight into the thick of what could be yet another beginning.
He could see if it was too much to ask of him. All the same, he needed the security only something like this could bring. Security, and the satisfaction of an entirely petty sense of revenge and comeuppance all rolled up into one single act.
He kept his gaze steady; Jones’ wavered but then stuck.
“What you need?”
“Enough to take down Moore’s private building.”
“The whole building?”
“Do it once, do it right, right?”
Jones didn’t say anything; he cast his gaze back to the hallway where Dan was hiding. Art followed it and came face to face with the silent gruff expression of Dan Ashcroft. The man hadn’t changed at all. Or perhaps his beard had thickened somewhat, in some ancient primeval attempt to aid him against the torrential cold.
Ashcroft didn’t say anything, he and Jones’ eyes locked and Art watched as Ashcroft nodded, a simple small gesture almost barely there. But all the same, it seemed enough to persuade Jones.
Jones turned aback to Art.
“I’ll help,” he said.
****
Nick watched the discourse between Andy and Jones, a little intrigued over the other man with his key to some small sector of Art’s past. He seemed to be some vague incarnation of a cartoon character but all the same, Nick couldn’t help the lick of jealousy he felt slide into place as he watched their discourse. The meaning of their conversation sinking in slowly, piece by piece; far slower than it should have. He should have been paying more attention, but every part of this, every moment of it was just an extension on the bridge he could feel gaping between himself and Andy.
He could barely stand the fact the theoretical bridge was there, let alone what it was they were actually discussing.
Andy was going to blow up Moore’s offices.
The information sank in, sharp and sudden, slamming home. He blinked.
Andy was going to blow up his Uncle.
He wanted to open his mouth and ask him what the hell did he think he was doing? But he couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t work, and his feet didn’t work and all it left him with was standing stock still, mute and stupid and with nowhere to go and nothing to say even though he had ideas about both.
“I best check what stocks I got and what I gotta get then,” Jones was saying and Nick tried to focus on their words, on the information, the facts and the movements that followed.
“You gonna stay here?”
“If you don’t mind?”
“ Course not. Room’s still empty if you want to crash. Might take a while.”
Art just nodded and Nick watched him, the way his hair moved as he did, his neck elongated and bare, his shoulder’s square in his jacket, the leather pulled tight across his slim shoulders. He watched as Jones looked nervously between Art and then up at Nick before he slid off his couch and wove through the chaos towards the back of the room and into the cramped hallway, a moment later the sound of a door clicking shut echoing in the quiet.
Art finally took a glance up at Nick and the blanket of quiet and absence seemed to fade out. Andy looked nervous himself.
“You’re going to blow him up?”
Andy definitely looked nervous then, his lip caught between his teeth and Nick watched the way the blood rushed and how his lips shone as he licked them. He let out a sigh, he sounded drained, he sounded tired.
“You gotta understand something, Nicky. I need this to end.”
“This isn’t the only way.”
He watched Art sigh, his shoulders slump. Nick could feel how much he wanted those words to be true. He could also feel them slide off Art’s back.
He looked back up to meet Nick’s gaze.
“I know, Nicky.” He murmured, like he was bending to Nick’s will. Nick could hear the way he tried to inflect his voice, how he wanted it to sound convincing, like he believed him. Nick could also hear the way he didn’t.
“What’s your plan, Andy?”
Art looked up, a little tense. He forced himself to relax; Nick watched the way each part of his body followed the last, from his neck through to his shoulders and down.
“He’ll be at his offices tomorrow. It’s what he does; he gives himself a solid alibi. I can get Moss to disable the cameras or something. Ring the fire alarm, get everyone else out. He’ll probably be expecting something. He’ll know I know. That was probably half the point of seeing you personally. He’ll stay. We’ll detonate what Jones’ got and then we’ll leave.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that, I hope.”
Nick felt a wave of relief and a simultaneous wave of terror sweep through him at Art’s hesitant little confession. He didn’t want this either. Some part of him didn’t want it. A part of Nick sighed in relief.
He stopped and glanced over at Andy. He looked strange, a little deflated, a little stretched too thin.
He really did want this more than he should to be pushing himself so far for any reason other than the one he kept repeating. That it needed to end.
Perhaps it did.
No; Art was right. It did need to end. The Rebellion had gone on far too long as it was, but couldn’t it end without them? Didn’t they get a shot at the long abyss of forever? Without responsibility or rapture?
Nick stared at Andy and let the words form on his tongue.
“What do you need me to do?”
***
Considering it was the offices of a member of the seniority of the Metropolitan Police Force, the security involved was strangely minimal. Nick wasn’t sure if it was his own expectations he’d blown out of the water by sheer anxiety about what they were doing, or whether the place was actually lacking. Either way a part of him was surprised at how simple the security was. If the place had been set up with heat detecting lasers and air tight doors with passwords that changed daily he wouldn’t have blinked an eye. In it’s place the building had a set of normal, standard government issue cameras installed out the front of the building, a pair of guards at the door with a metal detector, security passes for anyone with a firearm and Nick bypassed it all by parking his car in the underground car park, getting past the dozy security guards there with a carefully flustered lie. From there he took the elevator to the first floor and found himself without any kind of resistance. It was almost alarming.
But it did exactly what Art had asked of him; he’d scouted out the weaknesses.
There were plenty.
A part of him was screaming there were too many, but he’d worked for Renholm Industries for long enough and knew that what looked imposing probably wasn’t and that the lackluster effort in security could very much be genuine.
It did little to calm his nerves.
It was late afternoon and the commotion around the place said as much. The guards were wilting and they were all young enough to probably believe anything that came out of Moore’s mouth. Nick knew that what Art had been saying was right, that Moore needed to be stopped. There was something about him that really set Nick’s nerves on edge and had very little to do with what he’d asked of Nick back in the prison. But all the same, that desire to see the man stopped was not overwhelmed by his own desire to run, for self preservation and the lure of safety that seemed so close. They were so close.
But Art was determined, and in turn all Nick could do was surrender to the part of him that was determined to see Andy through it all. Art had gone above and beyond to get him out of prison, pushed himself beyond what he should have. This was the exchange.
It still felt wrong, and not for the reasons he knew he should be reasoning. It was wrong because the shadow was looming and he felt like a mouse going mental because he thought the cat was at the vet. Nick knew he was afraid that the cat had been pretending the whole damn time and was watching and waiting.
That thought did little to calm him down as he walked along the hallway, mentally marking out the stairwell and the fire alarms, the camera’s and the security. For the offices of a member of the police seniority, there was a surprising lack of law enforcement.
But that was probably exactly what DC Moore liked about it.
Nick wandered past the camera room for the third time before he headed back towards the dual set of elevators. Getting the explosives in place was going to be fine, it was what Art had planned he hadn’t told anyone yet that had Nick worried as he reached out to call for one of the elevator cars.
***
When Nick got back to the House of Jones, Art and Jones were perched on either side of the couch, while the gruff hulking character with more beard that facial features he guessed was the mysterious Dan lurked in a chair closer to Jones, peering over the strange man’s shoulder down at the map spread out across the coffee table. Nick couldn’t help but notice five coffee mugs scattered around the legs of the table near Jones.
Art turned towards Nick as he entered and Nick turned his gaze away from the others and met Art head on, the smaller man smiled, hesitant and unsure, but it was something, a break in the studiously calm resolve that had held him firmly since he’d walked back in that afternoon and said he knew what his Uncle was doing. Now, a few hours later, the day finally drawing to a close, it was all building up into something Nick could barely stand.
“Alright Nicky, how’d it go?”
Of course, straight to the job. Nick swallowed and nodded.
“You should be fine. Security was rubbish.”
Art made a strange sound in his throat and nodded. He shifted a little on the couch which Nick almost took for an offer to sit down. He shifted closer to the table, perching on the arm of Art’s couch. He didn’t look at Andy; instead he forced himself to look at the maps in front of him. The layout of the building with the basic security drawn in; Art must have got lucky with Moss again. Nick couldn’t help but wonder if the quirky geek knew how many illegal acts he was facilitating.
Surely he had to know. But then again… Nick forced himself to stop thinking.
“Camera’s are all pretty much where they are here. Security guards stationed at these points,” he muttered, pointing to each sector of the map. “These ones patrol, these ones stay fixed from what I can tell. Camera room is on the second floor here, Moore’s offices are third floor, top far corner.”
“The carpark?”
“Underground, two guards stationed on the entrance, nothing inside, camera’s in these eight points, nothing difficult to overcome. If you take the service elevator up to the main floor you bypass all the security on the lobby.”
“Good,” Art murmured, Jones nodded enthusiastically, his eyes sharp and staring at the gridded maps. “Easy done then.”
Nick nodded. Easy done indeed. Surely it should be harder than this.
“How’s the charges going?”
The bomb, how was the bomb going, Nick’s brain translated, throwing the words back at him as Art turned his focus back to Jones.
“I’m working on the charge tonight, yeah. Should be done by morning. Got a mate hooking up the big stuff first thing in the morning.”
Art nodded.
“We’re set then,” he murmured. Jones nodded.
“You gonna stay then?” Jones asked, leaning back towards Dan as the older silent contender stood up.
Art spoke before Nick’s brain could contend the sentiment.
“I think we’ll head back. I’ll come round first thing?”
“Done and done,” Jones nodded.
Nick glanced over at Andy, watching him as he stood up, ran a hand through his hair and then turned and looked him straight in the eye.
“Come on, Nicky,” he murmured, sounding sombre and tired and without any of the vile conviction his voice had had all day. Lacking any of the nastiness that had piqued it. He almost sounded sad.
Nick nodded and followed as Art let them out and wandered back to the car.
The ride was as quiet as the first had been earlier that day. It wasn’t for lack of anything to say, there was plenty - what the fuck are we doing, being Nick’s chosen favourite. What actually surprised him was that as they pulled up outside his apartment, Andy was the first to speak.
“I’m tired, Nicky,” he murmured. He didn’t look at Nick when he spoke. Perhaps he couldn’t, considering what he was admitting. Nick stayed quiet.
“I’m tired and I’m sorry. For a lot of things.”
Nick turned to look at him then and he was almost surprised when Art turned into his gaze; the words rolled off his tongue without thought, but they felt true, and he meant them.
“I know.”
“You’re right, you know. You’re right about a lot. Just, thank you.”
He sounded like he meant it too.
“Thank you,” he whispered again, nodding and then shyly looking away again. In that moment Nick felt it click into place. It felt a little bit like a the set up towards goodbye.
“Thank me when this is over,” he croaked.
“When there’s sun and sand and this whole fucking thing behind us. Thank me then. Not now.”
Art continued to look away from him.
“Come inside, Andy,” he murmured and this time Art looked at him. His eyes were wide and there was something so akin to terror in them for a second Nick was a little alarmed. When he blinked it was gone, just apprehension staring back at him so convincingly he was sure that his first thought was a mistake.
“Ok, Nicky,” Art said and opened his door. Nick followed suit, closing it firmly behind him, following Art up the steps to the hallway and then up the steps again to the apartment, the pair of them near on silent the whole way.
When at last they broke into the apartment and Art shed himself of his jacket, Nick took his moment to look at him. His shoulders tense, his hair needed washing, his eyes looked haunted and his mouth was a firm decisive line. They had been so close to shedding all of this disastrous affair. So close.
“Tell me something,” he said, watching as Art walked over to the kettle and set it to boil. Art turned to him, a wry look on his face.
He didn’t say anything, but Nick knew he was ready to answer.
“You think you can pull this off?”
“That’s the plan, Nicky,” he murmured and looked back to the kettle.
Nick took a step closer towards him.
“Just Moore?”
“The plan is for Moore.”
“And no more?”
“That’s the plan.”
Nick knew he was dancing in circles. He walked over to Andy and rested his hands at Art’s neck. Andy looked up at him.
“That’s the plan, Nicky,” he whispered, staring up at him like he wanted Nick to believe it.
“I know,” he said back. It didn’t feel like the closure he wanted. Andy leant into him.
“Sleep with me?” he asked. Nick blinked and looked down at him.
“Sleep with me?” he repeated. Nick nodded. Andy slipped around him, snagging one arm as he went and pulled Nick towards the bedroom. Nick let the smaller man shed him of his coat and his shirt before taking over and disposing of Andy’s shirt and unbuttoning his trousers. Between each other, by the time they reached the bed, the pair of them were bare to their pants, the flat was cold but as Art slid back into him, curling back against Nick’s chest, his skin was hot and flush against Nick’s own, and as he held him, his hand curled around Andy’s wrist and his other pressed against the jutting rise of his hip, Andy’s head pressed against his arm, hair tickling over his shoulder; he couldn’t help but wonder if this was what the future felt like. He held on a little tighter, willing the world away as he settled in for the long mental drain towards sleep.
Holding tight to the tense form beneath him, who was pressed close and staring into the darkness, awake until exhaustion knocked him out and ran away with him unwillingly.
***
Part Ten
I must apologise, but this one may be a while as well. It WONT be as long as this one, I swear, but I do want to wrap up eleven as well before I post ten, as they're almost one in the same.
My apologies for the delay, once again.
See you soon xxxxx