New fic
Title: Nail You Down
Rating: M
Characters: Nicholas, Deskjob, others
Summary: Set well before the movie. Nicholas is still in London, and occasionally crimes need to be solved.
Notes: A lot of people blame Nicholas being a bit distant on his parents. But it occurred to me that maybe Nicholas was fairly normal when he graduated from the academy, and it was the job that fucked him up. This story has some sex, some gore, some violence, and some work-place politics. Each new character introduced comes with a little identity card, for your convenience.
Chapter 1
It started on New Year’s eve, which was a good time for things to start. Stephen, for example, had started on a good night out by about eight, started on a rather average packet of crisps at about eleven, and - along with everyone else in the pub - had started the count down early because the telly was on the wrong bloody channel, and there’s always one person with their watch a few minutes fast.
Nicholas was inconspicuously absent.
Which was his general state at such affairs. No one ever expected Nicholas to be anywhere except at his desk, or standing just next to it and strapping his belt on. Nicholas was always working. And if he wasn’t, he was doing something practical like eating, or sleeping, or being prodded into filling in a shift and doing someone else’s work. Rumour had it that, just a few months after he’d been a full constable, even the roster ladies had learned to say “Go see if Angel’s free,” when faced with a desperate plea to swap shifts.
Nicholas worked holidays. Nicholas was working New Years Eve. Stephen had tried to talk him out of it, had coaxed and needled and slung his arm around Nicholas’ shoulders. He’d pressed himself against Nicholas’ side and asked very nicely indeed. And in return he’d gotten that bemused smile that Nicholas had, the one that was more eyes than mouth.
“If you really want to see me, you’ll just have to hunt me down. Won’t you?”
With that smile, and that voice, and that body hot beside him. Stephen took a warm mouthful of his drink as people chorused in counting down (for the third time that evening) around him. His eyes were on the clock above the bar, counting down another two hours. Counting the minutes until Nicholas.
Looking at Nicholas from a distance, it would be so easy to assume that he was a clean person, that if you were to stand behind him and bury your nose in the place where neck became shoulder the only scents to crawl inside you would be those of gentle soap, fresh aftershave, clean wool. The truth was that no one smelt good coming off duty. No one smelt good after a hard shift of ‘mingling’, of patrolling amongst the great unwashed. Despite having changed into civilian clothes and the application of a healthy amount of deodorant, Nicholas still smelt like a policeman.
Still smelt like beer spilt down one arm and dope puffed into his face and the sweat sweat sweat from walking though mobs and running through crowds. Of being packed between too many hot bodies crammed into narrow Camden streets. Even his hair stuck up in front like a ducktail, from sweat being wiped up over his brow and the press of his helmet. Almost boyband, in a guttural kind of way.
To Stephen, with his nose pressed into that transitional stretch, the fresh collar and the sticky skin and the smooth tickle of hair, the smell of Nicholas was intoxicating. The sounds that Nicholas made, as Stephen wrapped himself around Nicholas from behind - pressing his face into sticky skin and his hands against the sharp angles of hips - were like an oxygen replacement. He could live on it, get high on it, and float away like a balloon-animal mistakenly filled with helium. Filled with Nicholas.
“You’ve been drinking,” Nicholas said, stumbling a little as Stephen fumbled the door open.
Stephen pushed Nicholas through the doorway, dragging him through the flat. “It’s New Years Eve.”
“Was,” Nicholas corrected.
Pressed into his own mattress, tousling and struggling and it was more of a wrestling match than it was foreplay. Kicking at Nicholas’ knees, Nicholas tangling his arms with Stephen’s own, tying fingers together to press palms down into the sheets and the only thing keeping it from being harsh and bitter was the hotness of open mouths and the slow drags of lips and teeth and tongues across chests and shoulders, and occasionally against each other in kisses that were the most tender of battles.
And then Nicholas was between Stephen’s knees, his pupils so large and hungry that there was only the deepest silver slice of iris around them, his mouth red and open and a stripe of pounding-blood-flush across his cheeks. Nicholas was significantly less than a blushing virgin and Stephen, as he felt his lower back coil and his head sink into skewed pillows, doubted Nicholas ever had been.
Stephen woke up next morning to the shifts and sounds of Nicholas sitting up, and fishing for his mobile on the hardwood floors of Stephen’s flat. Kept awake by the beams of cold morning sunlight streaming through the window and reflecting off gloss and polish, Stephen rolled onto his side, and admired the view of Nicholas Angel’s back muscles shifting and stretching as he fished blindly under the bed. He kept admiring the view as Nicholas stood, mobile to his ear, and strode to the bathroom.
The words “Yes, sir,” filtered through Stephen’s sleep and lust stoked brain. He gave up on the view and flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. His resolution of spending the first day of the new year in various positions in his bed with Nicholas (before calling out for Chinese at, say, four in the afternoon) was looking more and more like a dream, and less like a potential reality.
As if to confirm this suspicion, the phone beside Stephen’s bed rang.
“Wakey, wakey, Lykos,” a clipped, female voice greeted.
Stephen groaned. He could hear the stern press of her mouth down the phone line. “Mornin’ Swit,” he replied, his tongue thick and uncooperative in his mouth. “What time is it?”
“It is eight-oh-five in the a.m.”
Stephen bit back sulking whine in his throat. “And you need me to come in?” He could practically hear the nod that no doubt followed.
“I need you to come in,” she replied, with no trace of sympathy or remorse. “As soon as you can, if you don’t mind. We’ve got something a bit nasty to get cleared up.”
“Alright. It’s fine.” Stephen sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He’d need a shower. From the sounds of it, Nicholas was already having a shower. If Stephen could get off the phone quickly enough, those two elements had a chance to combine into something delightful. But then Swit was speaking again.
“We need you ASAP, Steve. And could you keep an eye out for Angel? We were trying his home phone for twenty minutes before someone went and dug up his mobile number, so god knows where he is.”
“I did see him, briefly,” Stephen replied, his voice easy if sleepy. “If he was on last night, he probably just crashed somewhere nearby. One of the station houses maybe.” He climbed out of bed, stretching and feeling his shoulders pop. “What’s this all about, anyway?” he asked, a hand over his mouth to hide a yawn.
“It’s about the body that Nicholas found last night.”
Next chapter
Rating: M
Characters: Nicholas, Deskjob, others
Summary: Set well before the movie. Nicholas is still in London, and occasionally crimes need to be solved.
Notes: A lot of people blame Nicholas being a bit distant on his parents. But it occurred to me that maybe Nicholas was fairly normal when he graduated from the academy, and it was the job that fucked him up. This story has some sex, some gore, some violence, and some work-place politics. Each new character introduced comes with a little identity card, for your convenience.
Chapter 1
It started on New Year’s eve, which was a good time for things to start. Stephen, for example, had started on a good night out by about eight, started on a rather average packet of crisps at about eleven, and - along with everyone else in the pub - had started the count down early because the telly was on the wrong bloody channel, and there’s always one person with their watch a few minutes fast.
Nicholas was inconspicuously absent.
Which was his general state at such affairs. No one ever expected Nicholas to be anywhere except at his desk, or standing just next to it and strapping his belt on. Nicholas was always working. And if he wasn’t, he was doing something practical like eating, or sleeping, or being prodded into filling in a shift and doing someone else’s work. Rumour had it that, just a few months after he’d been a full constable, even the roster ladies had learned to say “Go see if Angel’s free,” when faced with a desperate plea to swap shifts.
Nicholas worked holidays. Nicholas was working New Years Eve. Stephen had tried to talk him out of it, had coaxed and needled and slung his arm around Nicholas’ shoulders. He’d pressed himself against Nicholas’ side and asked very nicely indeed. And in return he’d gotten that bemused smile that Nicholas had, the one that was more eyes than mouth.
“If you really want to see me, you’ll just have to hunt me down. Won’t you?”
With that smile, and that voice, and that body hot beside him. Stephen took a warm mouthful of his drink as people chorused in counting down (for the third time that evening) around him. His eyes were on the clock above the bar, counting down another two hours. Counting the minutes until Nicholas.
Looking at Nicholas from a distance, it would be so easy to assume that he was a clean person, that if you were to stand behind him and bury your nose in the place where neck became shoulder the only scents to crawl inside you would be those of gentle soap, fresh aftershave, clean wool. The truth was that no one smelt good coming off duty. No one smelt good after a hard shift of ‘mingling’, of patrolling amongst the great unwashed. Despite having changed into civilian clothes and the application of a healthy amount of deodorant, Nicholas still smelt like a policeman.
Still smelt like beer spilt down one arm and dope puffed into his face and the sweat sweat sweat from walking though mobs and running through crowds. Of being packed between too many hot bodies crammed into narrow Camden streets. Even his hair stuck up in front like a ducktail, from sweat being wiped up over his brow and the press of his helmet. Almost boyband, in a guttural kind of way.
To Stephen, with his nose pressed into that transitional stretch, the fresh collar and the sticky skin and the smooth tickle of hair, the smell of Nicholas was intoxicating. The sounds that Nicholas made, as Stephen wrapped himself around Nicholas from behind - pressing his face into sticky skin and his hands against the sharp angles of hips - were like an oxygen replacement. He could live on it, get high on it, and float away like a balloon-animal mistakenly filled with helium. Filled with Nicholas.
“You’ve been drinking,” Nicholas said, stumbling a little as Stephen fumbled the door open.
Stephen pushed Nicholas through the doorway, dragging him through the flat. “It’s New Years Eve.”
“Was,” Nicholas corrected.
Pressed into his own mattress, tousling and struggling and it was more of a wrestling match than it was foreplay. Kicking at Nicholas’ knees, Nicholas tangling his arms with Stephen’s own, tying fingers together to press palms down into the sheets and the only thing keeping it from being harsh and bitter was the hotness of open mouths and the slow drags of lips and teeth and tongues across chests and shoulders, and occasionally against each other in kisses that were the most tender of battles.
And then Nicholas was between Stephen’s knees, his pupils so large and hungry that there was only the deepest silver slice of iris around them, his mouth red and open and a stripe of pounding-blood-flush across his cheeks. Nicholas was significantly less than a blushing virgin and Stephen, as he felt his lower back coil and his head sink into skewed pillows, doubted Nicholas ever had been.
Stephen woke up next morning to the shifts and sounds of Nicholas sitting up, and fishing for his mobile on the hardwood floors of Stephen’s flat. Kept awake by the beams of cold morning sunlight streaming through the window and reflecting off gloss and polish, Stephen rolled onto his side, and admired the view of Nicholas Angel’s back muscles shifting and stretching as he fished blindly under the bed. He kept admiring the view as Nicholas stood, mobile to his ear, and strode to the bathroom.
The words “Yes, sir,” filtered through Stephen’s sleep and lust stoked brain. He gave up on the view and flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. His resolution of spending the first day of the new year in various positions in his bed with Nicholas (before calling out for Chinese at, say, four in the afternoon) was looking more and more like a dream, and less like a potential reality.
As if to confirm this suspicion, the phone beside Stephen’s bed rang.
“Wakey, wakey, Lykos,” a clipped, female voice greeted.
Stephen groaned. He could hear the stern press of her mouth down the phone line. “Mornin’ Swit,” he replied, his tongue thick and uncooperative in his mouth. “What time is it?”
“It is eight-oh-five in the a.m.”
Stephen bit back sulking whine in his throat. “And you need me to come in?” He could practically hear the nod that no doubt followed.
“I need you to come in,” she replied, with no trace of sympathy or remorse. “As soon as you can, if you don’t mind. We’ve got something a bit nasty to get cleared up.”
“Alright. It’s fine.” Stephen sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He’d need a shower. From the sounds of it, Nicholas was already having a shower. If Stephen could get off the phone quickly enough, those two elements had a chance to combine into something delightful. But then Swit was speaking again.
“We need you ASAP, Steve. And could you keep an eye out for Angel? We were trying his home phone for twenty minutes before someone went and dug up his mobile number, so god knows where he is.”
“I did see him, briefly,” Stephen replied, his voice easy if sleepy. “If he was on last night, he probably just crashed somewhere nearby. One of the station houses maybe.” He climbed out of bed, stretching and feeling his shoulders pop. “What’s this all about, anyway?” he asked, a hand over his mouth to hide a yawn.
“It’s about the body that Nicholas found last night.”
Next chapter