Cornered Rat, pt. 3/3 & link to webpage
Done, finally -- whee! (Only, oh, 7 weeks late from 12th Night -- eep!)
A cleaned up, beta'd, complete version is available here at the Eyrie. Part 3 can be found behind the cut tag. Either way, enjoy!
Part 1 on LJ
Part 2 on LJ
* * * *
The first two times, I wake to a strange body against me as I turn in the bed or he does. Each time, he wakes up, too, chuckles, and shifts to soothe me back to sleep. I don't feel like a spooked dog, and I have no clue what language he's speaking. It works, though. The third time, I wake to cold air and Nash's voice, husky as it was last night.
"Go back to sleep. I'm going running as usual, to see what in the area isn't as usual."
"Also as usual." He just grins, meaning I'm right. I already knew that from his voice. The sky's dark grey with low-hanging clouds blocking the sunlight, what there is of it so far. His clock says it's five-thirty. Nash is pulling on sweats, and tucking money and keys in his pockets. He straps a knife on each arm as I watch. "Anything I should know if someone comes and you're not here?"
"They'll have to force the door, and the alarm will go off. You'll hear it -- more chime than siren, but you'll know it. Go through the back of the closet. The latch is behind the second shelf of sweaters: reach straight through, at my shoulder level. The shelves pull forward. There's no light in the stairs, but they wind down to an old priest's hole."
He watches me, making sure I'm awake and listening, then nods. "Spiral staircase, man, and narrow; watch your step. It goes down below street level, but there's food, water, and a variety of clothes and blankets cached down there." Nash grins at me. "And a battery-powered lamp and some old mysteries. Wait for me if it comes to that. I may be a day making sure it's all clear."
"Setting your lawyer on them you mean." It's reassuring to deal with someone else who expects things to go wrong. I yawn and burrow back into the warmth, wanting to stockpile this while I can get it.
"Exactly." Nash glances out the window, shrugs, and says, "You've no fingerprints in my house just now. Try to keep it that way." That quickly he's gone, as silent as I would be. Much as I'd rather sleep, I slip out of the bed, leaving it a rumpled mess but with my pillow upended so both surfaces will feel cool to the touch. One minute passes, then two, four, seven. Nash hasn't come back, so I ghost down into the kitchen.
He'd better be right about those windows being one-way glass; there is no way to come down those stairs without being visible. There has to be at least one more way down, above and beyond the priest's hole, but I'm not interested in looking for it now. If he's setting me up, it's too late to dodge it and why tell anyone I know it's coming? If he hasn't set me up, I'll be breaking our informal agreement and I can't afford an enemy like Nash.
Worse, the son of a bitch left coffee going. The smell of it sets my mouth watering -- strong, rich, and nothing any gas station or convenience store could sell and make a profit. Leaving it there almost hurts, but I'm too far in his debt already, and I can't spare the time. He's gone. Time I got out of here.
My clothes are clean, set in a neat stack in the bathroom as if they're waiting for him to get back from his run. Nash really doesn't miss a--
There's a note poking out. What the fuck?
A man should have options.
Consider this one.
Options? Oh. It takes a second to realize I'm studying it the way I'd study a detonator. It might be that dangerous, too. When I thought Nash was trading me safety for sex, he said he likes his partners to have options. Like saying no. So he did know how desperate I was.
I'm too tired to keep my eyes closed for more than a second, so I open them and go to get my arm from under the bed, which is on a rug that looks and walks like something more expensive than I want to think about. I avoid leaving prints on the bed frame, and if I leave my footprints on the floor, so what? Those aren't in any database, including the Consortium's.
The clothes go on quickly and I rub the back of my arm along any spot I might have left prints, just in case Nash did miss a trick. The boots go on, the knives into place, and I'm going to have to make up my mind what to do with that note.
Fuck it.
A hand towel between my skin and the paper before I move it and there are still no prints on that note except Nash's. I put the towel back and head downstairs fast and quiet despite the way my boots would like to ring on the steel. My jacket's hanging on the coat rack, blatant and unquestionable, and there's no doubt in my mind that Nash would claim it for his and come up with a concealed carry permit to cover the gun. Nice. Very nice.
I take it and go, down the stairs to the living room, through the hallway behind the kitchen, past the door to the next flight of stairs (unlocked, I notice; the cocky bastard knew I'd leave while he was gone, didn't he?), and down into the shop. Sure enough, Nash has got eyeholes here and there in the wall. I find them by looking for places he could worm into where I'd put them.
The alley's clear. If anyone was looking for me, they're after Nash to see if he's dropping me supplies. More likely, they've decided I slid through their net yesterday.
I wrap my coat around me, slip my hand into the pocket to be sure my knife's still in the lining, and go out the door without trying to deactivate the alarm. Let him know I got clear. I owe him that much at least.
It's pre-dawn grey as I come out of the alleyway; I keep moving rather than be silhouetted by the streetlights. I memorize the landmarks by habit, and make a note of the street numbers because I might want them later. No point in getting my hopes up. Nash is pro enough himself to see it the same way.
But I think he'll figure out why I left that note under his pillow.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:
Yes, that is the precise wording for the Fourth Amendment to the US Constitution. Connor MacLeod/Adrian Montague/Russell Nash fought for US independence; so far as he's concerned, the Constitution will be properly upheld by police. Gods help them if they don't.
The headline listed comes from Highlander (first movie). There were high-profile deaths in at least two states (New York and New Jersey) during the movie, therefore there is, somewhere, an FBI file on this. Quite possibly, the file number starts with 'X'.
Alex thinks beheading bounty hunters ought to incapacitate their blood the way pithing them does. He might even be right.
The herbs listed are useful against arthritis per online sources, my own knowledge, or both, and all should, I believe, be safe externally. That doesn't mean I'm suggesting you work up a similar lotion, nor that I know the extractions, or proportions, that Connor used.
A Kalashnikov is a Russian automatic rifle. It makes an odd, stuttering chatter when fired on full auto. Hudson Bay blankets were originally (and are still) sold by the Hudson Bay Company. Thick wool, in wide, bright stripes -- very warm, and very bright. Connor likes them, which makes me wonder, knowing him, if he stole them.
And yes, actually, Connor MacLeod/Alex Krycek is high on my list of perfect matches. ::g:: Why do you ask?
A cleaned up, beta'd, complete version is available here at the Eyrie. Part 3 can be found behind the cut tag. Either way, enjoy!
Part 1 on LJ
Part 2 on LJ
* * * *
The first two times, I wake to a strange body against me as I turn in the bed or he does. Each time, he wakes up, too, chuckles, and shifts to soothe me back to sleep. I don't feel like a spooked dog, and I have no clue what language he's speaking. It works, though. The third time, I wake to cold air and Nash's voice, husky as it was last night.
"Go back to sleep. I'm going running as usual, to see what in the area isn't as usual."
"Also as usual." He just grins, meaning I'm right. I already knew that from his voice. The sky's dark grey with low-hanging clouds blocking the sunlight, what there is of it so far. His clock says it's five-thirty. Nash is pulling on sweats, and tucking money and keys in his pockets. He straps a knife on each arm as I watch. "Anything I should know if someone comes and you're not here?"
"They'll have to force the door, and the alarm will go off. You'll hear it -- more chime than siren, but you'll know it. Go through the back of the closet. The latch is behind the second shelf of sweaters: reach straight through, at my shoulder level. The shelves pull forward. There's no light in the stairs, but they wind down to an old priest's hole."
He watches me, making sure I'm awake and listening, then nods. "Spiral staircase, man, and narrow; watch your step. It goes down below street level, but there's food, water, and a variety of clothes and blankets cached down there." Nash grins at me. "And a battery-powered lamp and some old mysteries. Wait for me if it comes to that. I may be a day making sure it's all clear."
"Setting your lawyer on them you mean." It's reassuring to deal with someone else who expects things to go wrong. I yawn and burrow back into the warmth, wanting to stockpile this while I can get it.
"Exactly." Nash glances out the window, shrugs, and says, "You've no fingerprints in my house just now. Try to keep it that way." That quickly he's gone, as silent as I would be. Much as I'd rather sleep, I slip out of the bed, leaving it a rumpled mess but with my pillow upended so both surfaces will feel cool to the touch. One minute passes, then two, four, seven. Nash hasn't come back, so I ghost down into the kitchen.
He'd better be right about those windows being one-way glass; there is no way to come down those stairs without being visible. There has to be at least one more way down, above and beyond the priest's hole, but I'm not interested in looking for it now. If he's setting me up, it's too late to dodge it and why tell anyone I know it's coming? If he hasn't set me up, I'll be breaking our informal agreement and I can't afford an enemy like Nash.
Worse, the son of a bitch left coffee going. The smell of it sets my mouth watering -- strong, rich, and nothing any gas station or convenience store could sell and make a profit. Leaving it there almost hurts, but I'm too far in his debt already, and I can't spare the time. He's gone. Time I got out of here.
My clothes are clean, set in a neat stack in the bathroom as if they're waiting for him to get back from his run. Nash really doesn't miss a--
There's a note poking out. What the fuck?
A man should have options.
Consider this one.
Options? Oh. It takes a second to realize I'm studying it the way I'd study a detonator. It might be that dangerous, too. When I thought Nash was trading me safety for sex, he said he likes his partners to have options. Like saying no. So he did know how desperate I was.
I'm too tired to keep my eyes closed for more than a second, so I open them and go to get my arm from under the bed, which is on a rug that looks and walks like something more expensive than I want to think about. I avoid leaving prints on the bed frame, and if I leave my footprints on the floor, so what? Those aren't in any database, including the Consortium's.
The clothes go on quickly and I rub the back of my arm along any spot I might have left prints, just in case Nash did miss a trick. The boots go on, the knives into place, and I'm going to have to make up my mind what to do with that note.
Fuck it.
A hand towel between my skin and the paper before I move it and there are still no prints on that note except Nash's. I put the towel back and head downstairs fast and quiet despite the way my boots would like to ring on the steel. My jacket's hanging on the coat rack, blatant and unquestionable, and there's no doubt in my mind that Nash would claim it for his and come up with a concealed carry permit to cover the gun. Nice. Very nice.
I take it and go, down the stairs to the living room, through the hallway behind the kitchen, past the door to the next flight of stairs (unlocked, I notice; the cocky bastard knew I'd leave while he was gone, didn't he?), and down into the shop. Sure enough, Nash has got eyeholes here and there in the wall. I find them by looking for places he could worm into where I'd put them.
The alley's clear. If anyone was looking for me, they're after Nash to see if he's dropping me supplies. More likely, they've decided I slid through their net yesterday.
I wrap my coat around me, slip my hand into the pocket to be sure my knife's still in the lining, and go out the door without trying to deactivate the alarm. Let him know I got clear. I owe him that much at least.
It's pre-dawn grey as I come out of the alleyway; I keep moving rather than be silhouetted by the streetlights. I memorize the landmarks by habit, and make a note of the street numbers because I might want them later. No point in getting my hopes up. Nash is pro enough himself to see it the same way.
But I think he'll figure out why I left that note under his pillow.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:
Yes, that is the precise wording for the Fourth Amendment to the US Constitution. Connor MacLeod/Adrian Montague/Russell Nash fought for US independence; so far as he's concerned, the Constitution will be properly upheld by police. Gods help them if they don't.
The headline listed comes from Highlander (first movie). There were high-profile deaths in at least two states (New York and New Jersey) during the movie, therefore there is, somewhere, an FBI file on this. Quite possibly, the file number starts with 'X'.
Alex thinks beheading bounty hunters ought to incapacitate their blood the way pithing them does. He might even be right.
The herbs listed are useful against arthritis per online sources, my own knowledge, or both, and all should, I believe, be safe externally. That doesn't mean I'm suggesting you work up a similar lotion, nor that I know the extractions, or proportions, that Connor used.
A Kalashnikov is a Russian automatic rifle. It makes an odd, stuttering chatter when fired on full auto. Hudson Bay blankets were originally (and are still) sold by the Hudson Bay Company. Thick wool, in wide, bright stripes -- very warm, and very bright. Connor likes them, which makes me wonder, knowing him, if he stole them.
And yes, actually, Connor MacLeod/Alex Krycek is high on my list of perfect matches. ::g:: Why do you ask?