Visiting Colleagues
Notes: You can blame Kit for this one, since she brought the image of Snake, from Metal Gear Solid, trying to teach Alan and Grell the Ways of the Cardboard Box.
Just a quick note - anyone want to see Alan and Grell train the rookies (ends in a cutesie dinner with Mister Spears, and probably card games) or something more serious?
The American agent served to show Alan that his assumptions about America were all entirely correct: they were the crazy ones, not the Brits.
William had seen, in his shiny new position as 'boss', to open up their agency to a partnership with some elite, covert American group. Out of the five members that were supposed to arrive, only one had made it. The others were off doing increasingly elaborate things that seemed to change everytime someone asked the American agent where they were.
Alan didn't like being taken for a ride by the people he liked, let alone some smug-voiced American coming in here to tell him how to do his job, but as much as /he/ hated foreigners intruding where they weren't supposed to be, it was small change in comparison to how much Grell disliked it.
His partner had been tapping the side of his desk with his knife for the last five minutes. He'd either stop on his own, or when the knife magically flew out of his hands and struck the American agent across the throat.
Freak accidents like that happened all the time with Grell.
Alan reached over to pat his knee, leaving his hand there as a warning. If blood was spilt, he was going to have to get the rookies to help him clean up this time.
"Now, uh, another thing we do is, uh. Boxes."
The cardboard box in question was placed on the desk like a centrepiece. There was writing on one side. Then, the agent lifted the box, placed it on the ground, lifted it again and crawled beneath it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grell circling a fingertip by his ear, and mouthing the word 'gaga', like he needed the additional help to figure out that their American friend was as mad as a hatter. As the box crawled across the floor, Alan hunched down into his seat and pretended like he was on a beach in Hawaii, sipping eye-searing drinks with Eric close enough to watch sizzle.
His fantasy, and the requisite cabana boy it had been needing, was brought to an abrupt end when the American agent resurfaced and said, "try it yourself."
"Sweetheart, I don't know about you, but I won't fit under that little ol' thing," Grell said instantly, his voice maliciously Southern. "My legs are too long. Alan can, though! He's pretty tiny. Poor sweetheart was raised in a cupboard for most of his life. S'why he's so stunted."
Alan didn't bother hiding the slap to the back of Grell's head. The American agent looked between them, then switched his attention to Grell as the redhead got up and made for the door.
"Uh..."
"I just need to go talk to the boss, you and Alan have a nice time!"
Alan gave the American one last chance, but when he started going on about his undying love for the box, he followed Grell as quickly as his (apparently cupboard-habitat) legs could carry him.
. . .
William looked too calm for a man pressed up to the wall between two snarling agents.
"You bring in another guest and I'll feed you to the wolves," Grell hissed, jabbing his nails into William's chest.
"No wolves in this part of Britain, Grell. How about the ducks? Slow death by being pecked at constantly for, oh, say... give or take twenty years."
William glanced from Alan's face to Grell's, and pushed his glasses back up. "Kindly remind me, gentlemen, when my orders to you became requests? I do not believe you have a say in anything I decide to do."
"When what you decide to do is shite, we get to pick." Grell folded his arms tightly across his chest, "right Alan?"
"I won't use the word shite, but, yes. We could be out there doing real work, William, and instead we're in there listening to that bloke about his fetishes!"
"An-"
William lifted a hand. Both fell silent, though not at once.
"Alan, just three weeks ago you were taken hostage by a lunatic and spent most of your time in a basement being gnawed upon by rats. He broke one of your legs, and don't you dare pretend like I don't see you limping."
Alan winced, shifting his weight to the other foot, which told a lot more than the report William had unearthed from his desk.
"Grell, need I remind you that you've only been out of the hospital for a week, after your last mission went a little..." He swayed a hand from side to side. "Believe me, I need you both to get better as quickly as possible and get out of my agency before you drive me both insane, but I need you both to be in tiptop condition before either of you even thinks of work. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be."
William pushed the reports aside, watching the agents. Grell had laced his fingers behind his head -he stretched, and it showed the bandage still around his waist. Alan was leaning against the wall, even if he pretended like he wasn't. They weren't ready yet - and they knew it, so why they were in here wasting his time was beyond him.
"I've scheduled you to train rookies for the next week," he added, making their faces even longer, if that was possible. "You are dismissed."
On the way out, Grell turned to Alan and mumbled, "though we were too sick to work."
"Shut up, or he'll bung us with the American again," Alan hissed.
Just a quick note - anyone want to see Alan and Grell train the rookies (ends in a cutesie dinner with Mister Spears, and probably card games) or something more serious?
The American agent served to show Alan that his assumptions about America were all entirely correct: they were the crazy ones, not the Brits.
William had seen, in his shiny new position as 'boss', to open up their agency to a partnership with some elite, covert American group. Out of the five members that were supposed to arrive, only one had made it. The others were off doing increasingly elaborate things that seemed to change everytime someone asked the American agent where they were.
Alan didn't like being taken for a ride by the people he liked, let alone some smug-voiced American coming in here to tell him how to do his job, but as much as /he/ hated foreigners intruding where they weren't supposed to be, it was small change in comparison to how much Grell disliked it.
His partner had been tapping the side of his desk with his knife for the last five minutes. He'd either stop on his own, or when the knife magically flew out of his hands and struck the American agent across the throat.
Freak accidents like that happened all the time with Grell.
Alan reached over to pat his knee, leaving his hand there as a warning. If blood was spilt, he was going to have to get the rookies to help him clean up this time.
"Now, uh, another thing we do is, uh. Boxes."
The cardboard box in question was placed on the desk like a centrepiece. There was writing on one side. Then, the agent lifted the box, placed it on the ground, lifted it again and crawled beneath it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grell circling a fingertip by his ear, and mouthing the word 'gaga', like he needed the additional help to figure out that their American friend was as mad as a hatter. As the box crawled across the floor, Alan hunched down into his seat and pretended like he was on a beach in Hawaii, sipping eye-searing drinks with Eric close enough to watch sizzle.
His fantasy, and the requisite cabana boy it had been needing, was brought to an abrupt end when the American agent resurfaced and said, "try it yourself."
"Sweetheart, I don't know about you, but I won't fit under that little ol' thing," Grell said instantly, his voice maliciously Southern. "My legs are too long. Alan can, though! He's pretty tiny. Poor sweetheart was raised in a cupboard for most of his life. S'why he's so stunted."
Alan didn't bother hiding the slap to the back of Grell's head. The American agent looked between them, then switched his attention to Grell as the redhead got up and made for the door.
"Uh..."
"I just need to go talk to the boss, you and Alan have a nice time!"
Alan gave the American one last chance, but when he started going on about his undying love for the box, he followed Grell as quickly as his (apparently cupboard-habitat) legs could carry him.
. . .
William looked too calm for a man pressed up to the wall between two snarling agents.
"You bring in another guest and I'll feed you to the wolves," Grell hissed, jabbing his nails into William's chest.
"No wolves in this part of Britain, Grell. How about the ducks? Slow death by being pecked at constantly for, oh, say... give or take twenty years."
William glanced from Alan's face to Grell's, and pushed his glasses back up. "Kindly remind me, gentlemen, when my orders to you became requests? I do not believe you have a say in anything I decide to do."
"When what you decide to do is shite, we get to pick." Grell folded his arms tightly across his chest, "right Alan?"
"I won't use the word shite, but, yes. We could be out there doing real work, William, and instead we're in there listening to that bloke about his fetishes!"
"An-"
William lifted a hand. Both fell silent, though not at once.
"Alan, just three weeks ago you were taken hostage by a lunatic and spent most of your time in a basement being gnawed upon by rats. He broke one of your legs, and don't you dare pretend like I don't see you limping."
Alan winced, shifting his weight to the other foot, which told a lot more than the report William had unearthed from his desk.
"Grell, need I remind you that you've only been out of the hospital for a week, after your last mission went a little..." He swayed a hand from side to side. "Believe me, I need you both to get better as quickly as possible and get out of my agency before you drive me both insane, but I need you both to be in tiptop condition before either of you even thinks of work. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be."
William pushed the reports aside, watching the agents. Grell had laced his fingers behind his head -he stretched, and it showed the bandage still around his waist. Alan was leaning against the wall, even if he pretended like he wasn't. They weren't ready yet - and they knew it, so why they were in here wasting his time was beyond him.
"I've scheduled you to train rookies for the next week," he added, making their faces even longer, if that was possible. "You are dismissed."
On the way out, Grell turned to Alan and mumbled, "though we were too sick to work."
"Shut up, or he'll bung us with the American again," Alan hissed.