[FICATHON] I Shall Find Time, for elviaprose
Title: I Shall Find Time
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II, Julius Caesar; would benefit from a knowledge of 1 Henry IV
Recipient: elviaprose
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Hotspur and Brutus; mentions of Hotspur/Kate and Brutus/Portia; much discussion of Cassius, Caesar, Bolingbroke (later Henry IV), and Richard II.
Warnings: Strong language, vague violence.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Two men consider the merits of civil war, political coups, and Manchester United. Spy AU.
Notes: Many thanks to lareinenoire, who was kind enough to beta-read this fic.
They start taking lunch together sometime after the Woodstock Affair. The arrangement is elegantly simple: no formal arrangement, no professional agenda, nothing but sandwiches at a little shop by the Thames. If Marcus Brutus had to say why, he'd admit that it's at least in part about solidarity--keeping up the impression of goodwill and co-operation between MI5 and MI6, presenting a unified front to those on the inside who are watching which way the intelligence community will jump. It's a trying time to be an operative at home, if home happens to be England; in Afghanistan, at least, one could claim reasonable justification for shooting an enemy partisan.
They also meet, he thinks, because there's no one less likely to poison his meal than Harry Percy.
"Damn shame, about the Spurs," says Harry, by way of making conversation.
"Tottenham's never had a chance," Marcus answers matter-of-factly. "It's always Manchester United or Chelsea. Sometimes the Gunners will squeak in unannounced, glance around politely at the rest of the league, and nip back out--but the Spurs aren't major players and never will be."
"Still a fucking shame," Harry says. He drains his cola as though he thinks it's going to escape, then takes an enormous bite of his salami-pastrami-turkey-bacon-and-Swiss. If the man survives to be forty without his arteries mounting an armed revolt, it will be proof of a loving God. "Dad used to take me to matches when I was a kid--said that if the peerage didn't work out, I could always play for Tottenham."
"And you'd have your arse handed to you," says Marcus.
"Would've done better than I would in Parliament," contends Harry, with his mouth still slightly full.
Marcus wrinkles his nose. "I can't imagine why you'd do poorly in Parliament."
For that, he gets a napkin flung at his face. "Bastard. Wave your seat about like that and I'll have to kick it for you."
Harry Percy is constitutionally unsuited for Parliament. If Marcus had to choose the one most illustrative example of why he would make an utter cock-up of office-holding, he would be spoilt for choice. There were the countless times he'd skipped a briefing to neck with his wife--or the time he had proposed demolishing the Derwent Dam for 'tactical reasons'--or the time on a hunting retreat when he had thrown down his twelve-gauge, face red with spitting rage, and Marcus had really thought that Aumerle was a dead man--
--which wasn't to say that he hadn't deserved it.
"Has Gaius been poking at you?" asks Harry, showing uncharacteristic awareness of Marcus's disinterest in Tottenham Hotspur F.C.
"Poking?"
"Asking pointed questions about mirrors."
"Ah." A few times, Marcus has considered pumping his lunchmate for information on how MI5 has been processing the nascent power struggle in the royal family; he has always suspected that Harry would sit back, chew his stack of meat, and cheerfully divulge everything Marcus could've hoped to hear. That he hasn't asked says less about his political curiosity than about whatever it is that keeps them eating together--something like cooperation and safety, yes, but also something to do with the loyalty built between them during those hideous last days of SAS selection.
He had never considered that, in his guileless way, Harry might try to pump him.
"Well?"
"Well, he hasn't said anything about mirrors," says Brutus, finally. "But he has said more than I care to repeat about ambition."
"Aye, ambition and gratitude," Harry agrees. "Told me a goddamn sob story about a dip in the Channel with old Julius."
"He's been telling that story to a few of us. He does have a point."
"I don't like the sound or the looks of him. Cassius was never a soldier, he doesn't know--"
"He serves his country," snaps Marcus. "Not every man can do what we did--"
"Well, Caesar did!" Harry's hands are braced on the edge of the table, his knuckles white and his eyes flashing; there's a sound like the edge of a stutter in his voice, the sibilants sizzling like water on hot iron.
Marcus reaches over the table, folding Harry's big, blunt fingers in his own. People are beginning to turn and gawk. "Yes, he did. And Caesar is a friend of mine."
"Say whatever you goddamn well please about Caesar steamrolling Parliament, he does what needs to be done."
"You could say the same about the king's deficit spending," tries Marcus, but Harry waves that away.
"Don't talk to me about finances. I don't know a damn thing about money."
"But the king is extravagant." They share a knowing look across the table--they're both remembering the time King Richard II vanished briefly, and when MI6 found him he was sneaking off to Spain to drive expensive cars on hideous mountain roads. Aumerle had pulled him out of the wreckage of a customized Aston Martin, and the king had been grinning like a loon while Aumerle's earnest, worried face shone with sweat.
Marcus conceals his snigger; Harry doesn't bother.
"Extravagant, aye, that's one way of putting it. Ordinary man drowns his sorrows in a bottle of Macallan; Dickie needs to crash a fucking sports car--" He's back in his seat at last, relaxing against the smooth metal as he laughs. In the background, there's a crackpot on the radio talking about omens and meteors, but today Harry either doesn't notice or doesn't feel like snarking at the radio. Marcus lets his hand go.
This is the wrong place to be having this conversation, but with wives and colleagues at home and at work (and Kate's at both; he has no idea what the hell Harry was thinking, marrying another agent), there isn't really a right place to be having it. There's nowhere that someone isn't listening--the sandwich shop will have to do.
"I've wondered," he says softly, "What side you're going to come down on, if the situation worsens."
"Oh, my dad and I are for Bolingbroke," says Harry easily; as though this can be an easy thing to say. "Guess that means we're for Caesar, if you meant in the--"
"This isn't fucking football, Percy," growls Marcus. He's leaning over the table, and maybe he's trying to impress the seriousness of the situation on Harry or maybe he's just terrified that this is all really as trivial as it sounds in Harry's mouth--but he can feel Harry's hand closing hard on his, and there's that steely look that he remembers from after their 'tactical questioning' training. Come on, you fuckers, call it what it is, call it torture and hit me like I'm a fucking man--
"It's war," answers Harry. "Dressed up as politics."
"That's just what it is." This time, neither one lets go. "I want to see as little loss of life as possible."
"When have you ever known a war to give a fuck what you want to see?" Harry laughs. "It'll be bloody--you have to go in wanting them to kill you. Because if it's not worth dying over, if your honor's not worth more than your life--"
"Then you deserve to die." Marcus draws in a long breath. He remembers Portia, her hair clipped up neatly after a day at court; he remembers the way Cassius's eyes wrinkled when he laughed at his wedding.
He knows what his honor is worth.
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II, Julius Caesar; would benefit from a knowledge of 1 Henry IV
Recipient: elviaprose
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Hotspur and Brutus; mentions of Hotspur/Kate and Brutus/Portia; much discussion of Cassius, Caesar, Bolingbroke (later Henry IV), and Richard II.
Warnings: Strong language, vague violence.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Two men consider the merits of civil war, political coups, and Manchester United. Spy AU.
Notes: Many thanks to lareinenoire, who was kind enough to beta-read this fic.
They start taking lunch together sometime after the Woodstock Affair. The arrangement is elegantly simple: no formal arrangement, no professional agenda, nothing but sandwiches at a little shop by the Thames. If Marcus Brutus had to say why, he'd admit that it's at least in part about solidarity--keeping up the impression of goodwill and co-operation between MI5 and MI6, presenting a unified front to those on the inside who are watching which way the intelligence community will jump. It's a trying time to be an operative at home, if home happens to be England; in Afghanistan, at least, one could claim reasonable justification for shooting an enemy partisan.
They also meet, he thinks, because there's no one less likely to poison his meal than Harry Percy.
"Damn shame, about the Spurs," says Harry, by way of making conversation.
"Tottenham's never had a chance," Marcus answers matter-of-factly. "It's always Manchester United or Chelsea. Sometimes the Gunners will squeak in unannounced, glance around politely at the rest of the league, and nip back out--but the Spurs aren't major players and never will be."
"Still a fucking shame," Harry says. He drains his cola as though he thinks it's going to escape, then takes an enormous bite of his salami-pastrami-turkey-bacon-and-Swiss. If the man survives to be forty without his arteries mounting an armed revolt, it will be proof of a loving God. "Dad used to take me to matches when I was a kid--said that if the peerage didn't work out, I could always play for Tottenham."
"And you'd have your arse handed to you," says Marcus.
"Would've done better than I would in Parliament," contends Harry, with his mouth still slightly full.
Marcus wrinkles his nose. "I can't imagine why you'd do poorly in Parliament."
For that, he gets a napkin flung at his face. "Bastard. Wave your seat about like that and I'll have to kick it for you."
Harry Percy is constitutionally unsuited for Parliament. If Marcus had to choose the one most illustrative example of why he would make an utter cock-up of office-holding, he would be spoilt for choice. There were the countless times he'd skipped a briefing to neck with his wife--or the time he had proposed demolishing the Derwent Dam for 'tactical reasons'--or the time on a hunting retreat when he had thrown down his twelve-gauge, face red with spitting rage, and Marcus had really thought that Aumerle was a dead man--
--which wasn't to say that he hadn't deserved it.
"Has Gaius been poking at you?" asks Harry, showing uncharacteristic awareness of Marcus's disinterest in Tottenham Hotspur F.C.
"Poking?"
"Asking pointed questions about mirrors."
"Ah." A few times, Marcus has considered pumping his lunchmate for information on how MI5 has been processing the nascent power struggle in the royal family; he has always suspected that Harry would sit back, chew his stack of meat, and cheerfully divulge everything Marcus could've hoped to hear. That he hasn't asked says less about his political curiosity than about whatever it is that keeps them eating together--something like cooperation and safety, yes, but also something to do with the loyalty built between them during those hideous last days of SAS selection.
He had never considered that, in his guileless way, Harry might try to pump him.
"Well?"
"Well, he hasn't said anything about mirrors," says Brutus, finally. "But he has said more than I care to repeat about ambition."
"Aye, ambition and gratitude," Harry agrees. "Told me a goddamn sob story about a dip in the Channel with old Julius."
"He's been telling that story to a few of us. He does have a point."
"I don't like the sound or the looks of him. Cassius was never a soldier, he doesn't know--"
"He serves his country," snaps Marcus. "Not every man can do what we did--"
"Well, Caesar did!" Harry's hands are braced on the edge of the table, his knuckles white and his eyes flashing; there's a sound like the edge of a stutter in his voice, the sibilants sizzling like water on hot iron.
Marcus reaches over the table, folding Harry's big, blunt fingers in his own. People are beginning to turn and gawk. "Yes, he did. And Caesar is a friend of mine."
"Say whatever you goddamn well please about Caesar steamrolling Parliament, he does what needs to be done."
"You could say the same about the king's deficit spending," tries Marcus, but Harry waves that away.
"Don't talk to me about finances. I don't know a damn thing about money."
"But the king is extravagant." They share a knowing look across the table--they're both remembering the time King Richard II vanished briefly, and when MI6 found him he was sneaking off to Spain to drive expensive cars on hideous mountain roads. Aumerle had pulled him out of the wreckage of a customized Aston Martin, and the king had been grinning like a loon while Aumerle's earnest, worried face shone with sweat.
Marcus conceals his snigger; Harry doesn't bother.
"Extravagant, aye, that's one way of putting it. Ordinary man drowns his sorrows in a bottle of Macallan; Dickie needs to crash a fucking sports car--" He's back in his seat at last, relaxing against the smooth metal as he laughs. In the background, there's a crackpot on the radio talking about omens and meteors, but today Harry either doesn't notice or doesn't feel like snarking at the radio. Marcus lets his hand go.
This is the wrong place to be having this conversation, but with wives and colleagues at home and at work (and Kate's at both; he has no idea what the hell Harry was thinking, marrying another agent), there isn't really a right place to be having it. There's nowhere that someone isn't listening--the sandwich shop will have to do.
"I've wondered," he says softly, "What side you're going to come down on, if the situation worsens."
"Oh, my dad and I are for Bolingbroke," says Harry easily; as though this can be an easy thing to say. "Guess that means we're for Caesar, if you meant in the--"
"This isn't fucking football, Percy," growls Marcus. He's leaning over the table, and maybe he's trying to impress the seriousness of the situation on Harry or maybe he's just terrified that this is all really as trivial as it sounds in Harry's mouth--but he can feel Harry's hand closing hard on his, and there's that steely look that he remembers from after their 'tactical questioning' training. Come on, you fuckers, call it what it is, call it torture and hit me like I'm a fucking man--
"It's war," answers Harry. "Dressed up as politics."
"That's just what it is." This time, neither one lets go. "I want to see as little loss of life as possible."
"When have you ever known a war to give a fuck what you want to see?" Harry laughs. "It'll be bloody--you have to go in wanting them to kill you. Because if it's not worth dying over, if your honor's not worth more than your life--"
"Then you deserve to die." Marcus draws in a long breath. He remembers Portia, her hair clipped up neatly after a day at court; he remembers the way Cassius's eyes wrinkled when he laughed at his wedding.
He knows what his honor is worth.