"Hazard Pay - Chapter Seven" (ATWT Fic)
Title: Hazard Pay - Chapter Seven
Pairing: Noah/OMC(BORP)
Rating: M
Prompt: Action!Noah in action ripped from the headlines!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
When last we left our heroes...
The square was silent now, the young men motionless. The priest stood frozen in place, a short black blob in the corner of Noah’s eye.
Then, one of the young men made a gesture of disgust at Ibrahim and turned away. Another followed.
Noah felt his shoulders relax a fraction and let out a long, slow breath.
As a few more of the men turned away, Ibrahim glanced at Jeff and nodded. Jeff nodded back. Noah knew he’d wait until the youth were gone, but then he’d want to interview the priest. The man would refuse, of course, but of course Jeff would talk him into it.
Noah smiled a little at the thought, already calculating the best angle to capture the church.
Then it happened.
Ibrahim tripped on a cobblestone.
Jeff darted forward to help him.
Startled, the wolves attacked.
And now…Hazard Pay - Chapter Seven
***
The pack swarmed Jeff and Ibrahim, kicking and punching.
Later, Noah remembered setting his camera on the ground -- carefully, so it wouldn’t be damaged.
The next thing he remembered was Jeff pounding his fist on Noah’s chest screaming, “Stop it! God dammit, Noah, STOP!”
Noah blinked at Jeff, puzzled. There was a roaring in his ears like the pounding of the ocean, and the sky was red.
“Okay?” Jeff asked. He grabbed Noah’s arms in a fierce grip and shook him a little. “Okay?”
Noah gulped, suddenly aware that both he and Jeff were gasping for air, chests heaving. Jeff’s face was red with exertion, and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek from a small gash on his temple. Over Jeff’s shoulder, Noah could see the youths fleeing the tiny square. Two of them helped a comrade who was doubled over and limping, while a fourth looked back and shook his fist.
“Noah, look at me,” Jeff ordered, shaking him again. “Look at me.”
Noah frowned, but obeyed. As the roaring faded, he could hear the ordinary sounds of the city and smell the incense from the church again. The heat came back in full force, and Noah was suddenly aware of the sweat pouring off him. He could taste blood on his lips, and his fists ached.
“Enough,” Jeff said firmly, looking into Noah’s eyes. “That’s enough. Okay?”
Noah tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, like he’d been shouting. His throat hurt. He nodded instead.
Ibrahim spoke to Jeff in Arabic, his voice low and urgent. Jeff nodded, picked up the camera, and shoved it in Noah’s arms. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Ibrahim led the way back into the darkened alley at a run. Jeff grabbed Noah’s wrist and followed. As Noah stumbled after them, he saw the bearded Coptic priest still standing frozen in place. When the man met Noah’s eyes, he crossed himself rapidly three times, backed into the blackness of the cave-like church, and slammed the door behind him. Noah wasn’t sure, but he may have also heard a heavy thunk, as if a bolt had been lowered across the door.
Then they were running through the alley, just like before, only faster. As before, Noah’s eyes had difficulty adjusting to the darkness. The hanging rugs swatted him in the face, and he barked his shin on a barrel of dates. But Jeff’s grip on him was relentless, pulling him forward.
When they broke into the upper square, the café proprietor took one look at Ibrahim’s face and shuttered his shop. The parakeet gave an indignant squawk as the corrugated metal door came down, blocking his view of the square.
Ibrahim sprinted ahead toward the main road and hailed a taxi with a yell. As a battered vintage Audi pulled up, Jeff reached into his pocket, pulled out his emergency stash of American money, and stuffed it in Ibrahim’s hands.
Ibrahim backed away and started to argue, but Jeff spoke to him in Arabic until he reluctantly nodded. The two men embraced, kissing each other on both cheeks. Then Jeff opened the door of the cab, shoved Noah inside, and followed.
“El Nil Hotel,” he barked to the driver
As the cab pulled out into the constant flow of traffic, Noah saw Ibrahim disappear into the crowd, so rapidly it was like he had never been there at all. Jeff craned his head and looked out the rear window, frowning when he saw several pedestrians staring after them.
“Shit.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, muttering under his breath. “It’s Jeff Carter,” he announced when New York answered. “Put Patty on the phone.” Patty was their boss at the news desk.
Noah heard a faint voice on the other end of the line. “I don’t give a damn what time it is!” Jeff snapped, his Carolina accent noticeably stronger, splitting single syllables into two. “Just get her on the phone.”
As Jeff waited impatiently, the taxi slowed to let a herd of goats cross the street. Noah leaned his head tiredly against the half-open window, relishing the cool feel of the glass against his cheek. The left leg of his cargo pants was torn and bloody at the knee, and the knuckles on his right hand were split. Both hands shook, and his head was starting to ache.
The faint voice came back on the line. Jeff frowned as he listened, then spoke. “Have her call me back, then, ASAP.” He hung up and nudged Noah, hard. “Gimme your cash.”
“What?” Noah stared at him.
“Your cash,” Jeff said impatiently. “Give it to me, all of it.”
Noah fumbled in his wallet, his fingers leaden and useless. Jeff grabbed the cash from him, both Egyptian and American, and passed an American twenty to the driver.
“Faster,” he said. “Yalla!"
The driver grinned through his thick beard and hit the accelerator. Three goat stragglers scampered out of the way, bleating. The driver swerved to the right to avoid them, jogged left to get around another taxi that was in their way, then bumped up on the curb and drove half on the sidewalk for a block to escape a traffic jam. Within minutes, they were crusing through the quiet, tree-lined residential streets near the American Embassy.
As they pulled up in front of their shabby-but-still-decent hotel, Jeff handed the driver another twenty and spoke to him. The driver nodded and put the car in park but left it idling. Then he turned up the radio, leaned back in his seat, folded his hands over his large belly, and closed his eyes -- following the example set by the uniformed hotel doorman, who dozed on a chair under the main awning.
As Noah was still gathering his scattered wits, Jeff leapt out, opened Noah’s door, grabbed him by his shirt front, and hauled him bodily out of the car.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed. “Are you trying to get us arrested, or killed? What were you thinking?”
Noah blinked. “They attacked you.”
“So what?” Jeff half-shouted, half-whispered, aware of the men nearby. “It happens to every reporter. The best thing to do is stay calm and not resist. Fighting back just makes things worse. You know that!”
Noah felt his temper kick in again. “I’m not going to stand by and let someone hurt you,” he snarled.
“You’re not my bodyguard!” Jeff full-on shouted this time. “Or my boyfriend!”
Noah felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “What did you say?”
When Jeff spoke, his voice was lower but no less vicious. “I said.” He moved closer. “You’re not my bodyguard. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re my cameraman.”
Jeff punctuated his statement with a hard poke in Noah’s chest. “That means you work for me. You do what I want.”
Poke.
“When I want it.”
Poke.
“And you don’t do a God-damned thing unless I tell you to. Got it?”
“Got it.” Noah spoke through gritted teeth. “Are we done?”
Jeff’s eye narrowed. “Not even close.”
His cell phone rang, making them both jump. Swearing, Jeff answered.
“Carter...Yeah, Patty, you need to get us on the next flight out of Cairo.” Jeff scowled at Noah and pointed to the hotel. “Two minutes!” he hissed, then went back to his call. “I don’t care where, just get us the hell out of here.”
Seething, Noah stormed toward the hotel. The doorman woke up as he approached and dove for the big double doors, opening them just in time as Noah swept through. The elevator was out of service -- again -- so Noah took the stairs two at a time.
When he reached his room on the third floor, he was hot and breathless, the pain in his head throbbing along with his heartbeat. He would have killed for a shower and a nap, but there was no time.
Instead, he stripped off his T-shirt and stuck his whole head under the tap. The water was lukewarm, the flow sluggish, but he doused his face, neck, and chest as best he could.
Then, still dripping, Noah stared at himself in the mirror -- and saw his father looking back at him.
“No,” he said harshly. He looked again and saw himself, wet and deathly pale under his tan, with the beginning of a black eye.
He turned away, dried off with his shirt, stuffed it in his duffel bag, and pulled on a relatively clean one. Then he grabbed his duffel -- like Jeff, he always kept it packed and ready to go -- and sprinted back downstairs.
He made it in under two minutes, but Jeff had still beaten him there and was paying their bill at the front desk. Like Noah, he had washed the blood off his face and put on a clean shirt. Unlike Noah, he looked cool and stylish and completely at ease. He thanked the front desk clerk politely, explaining that only a sudden work emergency could have called them away from the delights of Egypt so soon.
Noah tried not to fidget as Jeff and the clerk exchanged elaborate farewells and mutual wishes for God’s blessing. He kept expecting to hear sirens approaching, announcing the arrival of the dreaded Egyptian secret police, who would whisk them away to some unspeakable underground prison.
Given Cairo’s widespread corruption, the youth he had attacked might chose not to involve the police -- then again, they might. And while Noah might blend in with his dark hair and tan, Jeff stood out like a sore thumb. A pale, skinny thumb with white hair and eyes the brilliant blue of lapis lazuli. Jeff joked about it all the time, saying that he looked as pale as a newt that had crawled out from under a rock. Some Saudi tourists had insisted on taking his picture in front of the Great Pyramid, apparently wanting proof for their families back home that such a bizarre creature existed.
Noah cursed himself, his temper, his stupidity, his lack of control, his general fucked-up-ness. He might have gotten Jeff killed -- could still get him arrested and thrown in jail -- all because he couldn’t keep his head on straight.
Still, he was still angry enough at Jeff to smoke during the cab ride, all the way to the airport, while Jeff stared out the window in icy silence. The cigarettes only made Noah’s headache worse, though. By the time they made it through security and on to the plane -- their passage eased by generous bribes from Jeff -- he could barely keep his eyes open.
Dusk was descending when they took off, aided by the perpetual cloud of dust and smog that hovered over Cairo. As they broke through the smudgy brown cover, the sun was still visible above, sending piercing orange rays straight into Noah’s eyes. He closed the window shade and accepted a blissfully cold bottle of water from the flight attendant. He pressed it against his temple and tried to get comfortable in his seat, which was definitely not designed for someone over six feet tall.
The next few hours were sheer misery. By the time they landed, Noah had a full-blown migraine. He followed Jeff blindly through the airport and into a taxi. He didn’t even know what city they were in, only that it was dark and raining and freezing, the cold drops pelting his skin like stones, the sounds of traffic unbearably loud, the motion of the cab making him sick to his stomach.
He fumbled in the side pocket of his duffel for his prescription medication, his hands shaking so hard he couldn’t even hold his water bottle steady and was forced to dry-swallow them. When they arrived at a sleek-looking hotel, Jeff had to guide him through the doors and lean him against the wall of the lobby while he checked them in.
By the time a bed swam into view, Noah was ready to cry with relief. He fell face down, vaguely aware of Jeff removing his shoes for him. The part of his mind that still functioned realized vaguely that it was a single room, which meant Jeff had gotten another one for himself rather than sharing with Noah. Even though they were (presumeably) in Europe and it was safe now.
Noah felt a sharp pain in his heart. The urge to cry grew stronger, but not from relief this time.
He and Jeff were over. Whatever they had been, whatever they meant to each other -- friends, colleagues, lovers -- it was done. After today, Jeff clearly didn’t want Noah as his cameraman, and it turned out he no longer wanted him in his bed either.
Noah Mayer, perpetual fuck-up, had once again ruined the one good thing in his life.
With that thought -- and with his face still wet with tears -- Noah slept like the dead.
***
To be continued...
Pairing: Noah/OMC(BORP)
Rating: M
Prompt: Action!Noah in action ripped from the headlines!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
When last we left our heroes...
The square was silent now, the young men motionless. The priest stood frozen in place, a short black blob in the corner of Noah’s eye.
Then, one of the young men made a gesture of disgust at Ibrahim and turned away. Another followed.
Noah felt his shoulders relax a fraction and let out a long, slow breath.
As a few more of the men turned away, Ibrahim glanced at Jeff and nodded. Jeff nodded back. Noah knew he’d wait until the youth were gone, but then he’d want to interview the priest. The man would refuse, of course, but of course Jeff would talk him into it.
Noah smiled a little at the thought, already calculating the best angle to capture the church.
Then it happened.
Ibrahim tripped on a cobblestone.
Jeff darted forward to help him.
Startled, the wolves attacked.
And now…Hazard Pay - Chapter Seven
***
The pack swarmed Jeff and Ibrahim, kicking and punching.
Later, Noah remembered setting his camera on the ground -- carefully, so it wouldn’t be damaged.
The next thing he remembered was Jeff pounding his fist on Noah’s chest screaming, “Stop it! God dammit, Noah, STOP!”
Noah blinked at Jeff, puzzled. There was a roaring in his ears like the pounding of the ocean, and the sky was red.
“Okay?” Jeff asked. He grabbed Noah’s arms in a fierce grip and shook him a little. “Okay?”
Noah gulped, suddenly aware that both he and Jeff were gasping for air, chests heaving. Jeff’s face was red with exertion, and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek from a small gash on his temple. Over Jeff’s shoulder, Noah could see the youths fleeing the tiny square. Two of them helped a comrade who was doubled over and limping, while a fourth looked back and shook his fist.
“Noah, look at me,” Jeff ordered, shaking him again. “Look at me.”
Noah frowned, but obeyed. As the roaring faded, he could hear the ordinary sounds of the city and smell the incense from the church again. The heat came back in full force, and Noah was suddenly aware of the sweat pouring off him. He could taste blood on his lips, and his fists ached.
“Enough,” Jeff said firmly, looking into Noah’s eyes. “That’s enough. Okay?”
Noah tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, like he’d been shouting. His throat hurt. He nodded instead.
Ibrahim spoke to Jeff in Arabic, his voice low and urgent. Jeff nodded, picked up the camera, and shoved it in Noah’s arms. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Ibrahim led the way back into the darkened alley at a run. Jeff grabbed Noah’s wrist and followed. As Noah stumbled after them, he saw the bearded Coptic priest still standing frozen in place. When the man met Noah’s eyes, he crossed himself rapidly three times, backed into the blackness of the cave-like church, and slammed the door behind him. Noah wasn’t sure, but he may have also heard a heavy thunk, as if a bolt had been lowered across the door.
Then they were running through the alley, just like before, only faster. As before, Noah’s eyes had difficulty adjusting to the darkness. The hanging rugs swatted him in the face, and he barked his shin on a barrel of dates. But Jeff’s grip on him was relentless, pulling him forward.
When they broke into the upper square, the café proprietor took one look at Ibrahim’s face and shuttered his shop. The parakeet gave an indignant squawk as the corrugated metal door came down, blocking his view of the square.
Ibrahim sprinted ahead toward the main road and hailed a taxi with a yell. As a battered vintage Audi pulled up, Jeff reached into his pocket, pulled out his emergency stash of American money, and stuffed it in Ibrahim’s hands.
Ibrahim backed away and started to argue, but Jeff spoke to him in Arabic until he reluctantly nodded. The two men embraced, kissing each other on both cheeks. Then Jeff opened the door of the cab, shoved Noah inside, and followed.
“El Nil Hotel,” he barked to the driver
As the cab pulled out into the constant flow of traffic, Noah saw Ibrahim disappear into the crowd, so rapidly it was like he had never been there at all. Jeff craned his head and looked out the rear window, frowning when he saw several pedestrians staring after them.
“Shit.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, muttering under his breath. “It’s Jeff Carter,” he announced when New York answered. “Put Patty on the phone.” Patty was their boss at the news desk.
Noah heard a faint voice on the other end of the line. “I don’t give a damn what time it is!” Jeff snapped, his Carolina accent noticeably stronger, splitting single syllables into two. “Just get her on the phone.”
As Jeff waited impatiently, the taxi slowed to let a herd of goats cross the street. Noah leaned his head tiredly against the half-open window, relishing the cool feel of the glass against his cheek. The left leg of his cargo pants was torn and bloody at the knee, and the knuckles on his right hand were split. Both hands shook, and his head was starting to ache.
The faint voice came back on the line. Jeff frowned as he listened, then spoke. “Have her call me back, then, ASAP.” He hung up and nudged Noah, hard. “Gimme your cash.”
“What?” Noah stared at him.
“Your cash,” Jeff said impatiently. “Give it to me, all of it.”
Noah fumbled in his wallet, his fingers leaden and useless. Jeff grabbed the cash from him, both Egyptian and American, and passed an American twenty to the driver.
“Faster,” he said. “Yalla!"
The driver grinned through his thick beard and hit the accelerator. Three goat stragglers scampered out of the way, bleating. The driver swerved to the right to avoid them, jogged left to get around another taxi that was in their way, then bumped up on the curb and drove half on the sidewalk for a block to escape a traffic jam. Within minutes, they were crusing through the quiet, tree-lined residential streets near the American Embassy.
As they pulled up in front of their shabby-but-still-decent hotel, Jeff handed the driver another twenty and spoke to him. The driver nodded and put the car in park but left it idling. Then he turned up the radio, leaned back in his seat, folded his hands over his large belly, and closed his eyes -- following the example set by the uniformed hotel doorman, who dozed on a chair under the main awning.
As Noah was still gathering his scattered wits, Jeff leapt out, opened Noah’s door, grabbed him by his shirt front, and hauled him bodily out of the car.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed. “Are you trying to get us arrested, or killed? What were you thinking?”
Noah blinked. “They attacked you.”
“So what?” Jeff half-shouted, half-whispered, aware of the men nearby. “It happens to every reporter. The best thing to do is stay calm and not resist. Fighting back just makes things worse. You know that!”
Noah felt his temper kick in again. “I’m not going to stand by and let someone hurt you,” he snarled.
“You’re not my bodyguard!” Jeff full-on shouted this time. “Or my boyfriend!”
Noah felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “What did you say?”
When Jeff spoke, his voice was lower but no less vicious. “I said.” He moved closer. “You’re not my bodyguard. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re my cameraman.”
Jeff punctuated his statement with a hard poke in Noah’s chest. “That means you work for me. You do what I want.”
Poke.
“When I want it.”
Poke.
“And you don’t do a God-damned thing unless I tell you to. Got it?”
“Got it.” Noah spoke through gritted teeth. “Are we done?”
Jeff’s eye narrowed. “Not even close.”
His cell phone rang, making them both jump. Swearing, Jeff answered.
“Carter...Yeah, Patty, you need to get us on the next flight out of Cairo.” Jeff scowled at Noah and pointed to the hotel. “Two minutes!” he hissed, then went back to his call. “I don’t care where, just get us the hell out of here.”
Seething, Noah stormed toward the hotel. The doorman woke up as he approached and dove for the big double doors, opening them just in time as Noah swept through. The elevator was out of service -- again -- so Noah took the stairs two at a time.
When he reached his room on the third floor, he was hot and breathless, the pain in his head throbbing along with his heartbeat. He would have killed for a shower and a nap, but there was no time.
Instead, he stripped off his T-shirt and stuck his whole head under the tap. The water was lukewarm, the flow sluggish, but he doused his face, neck, and chest as best he could.
Then, still dripping, Noah stared at himself in the mirror -- and saw his father looking back at him.
“No,” he said harshly. He looked again and saw himself, wet and deathly pale under his tan, with the beginning of a black eye.
He turned away, dried off with his shirt, stuffed it in his duffel bag, and pulled on a relatively clean one. Then he grabbed his duffel -- like Jeff, he always kept it packed and ready to go -- and sprinted back downstairs.
He made it in under two minutes, but Jeff had still beaten him there and was paying their bill at the front desk. Like Noah, he had washed the blood off his face and put on a clean shirt. Unlike Noah, he looked cool and stylish and completely at ease. He thanked the front desk clerk politely, explaining that only a sudden work emergency could have called them away from the delights of Egypt so soon.
Noah tried not to fidget as Jeff and the clerk exchanged elaborate farewells and mutual wishes for God’s blessing. He kept expecting to hear sirens approaching, announcing the arrival of the dreaded Egyptian secret police, who would whisk them away to some unspeakable underground prison.
Given Cairo’s widespread corruption, the youth he had attacked might chose not to involve the police -- then again, they might. And while Noah might blend in with his dark hair and tan, Jeff stood out like a sore thumb. A pale, skinny thumb with white hair and eyes the brilliant blue of lapis lazuli. Jeff joked about it all the time, saying that he looked as pale as a newt that had crawled out from under a rock. Some Saudi tourists had insisted on taking his picture in front of the Great Pyramid, apparently wanting proof for their families back home that such a bizarre creature existed.
Noah cursed himself, his temper, his stupidity, his lack of control, his general fucked-up-ness. He might have gotten Jeff killed -- could still get him arrested and thrown in jail -- all because he couldn’t keep his head on straight.
Still, he was still angry enough at Jeff to smoke during the cab ride, all the way to the airport, while Jeff stared out the window in icy silence. The cigarettes only made Noah’s headache worse, though. By the time they made it through security and on to the plane -- their passage eased by generous bribes from Jeff -- he could barely keep his eyes open.
Dusk was descending when they took off, aided by the perpetual cloud of dust and smog that hovered over Cairo. As they broke through the smudgy brown cover, the sun was still visible above, sending piercing orange rays straight into Noah’s eyes. He closed the window shade and accepted a blissfully cold bottle of water from the flight attendant. He pressed it against his temple and tried to get comfortable in his seat, which was definitely not designed for someone over six feet tall.
The next few hours were sheer misery. By the time they landed, Noah had a full-blown migraine. He followed Jeff blindly through the airport and into a taxi. He didn’t even know what city they were in, only that it was dark and raining and freezing, the cold drops pelting his skin like stones, the sounds of traffic unbearably loud, the motion of the cab making him sick to his stomach.
He fumbled in the side pocket of his duffel for his prescription medication, his hands shaking so hard he couldn’t even hold his water bottle steady and was forced to dry-swallow them. When they arrived at a sleek-looking hotel, Jeff had to guide him through the doors and lean him against the wall of the lobby while he checked them in.
By the time a bed swam into view, Noah was ready to cry with relief. He fell face down, vaguely aware of Jeff removing his shoes for him. The part of his mind that still functioned realized vaguely that it was a single room, which meant Jeff had gotten another one for himself rather than sharing with Noah. Even though they were (presumeably) in Europe and it was safe now.
Noah felt a sharp pain in his heart. The urge to cry grew stronger, but not from relief this time.
He and Jeff were over. Whatever they had been, whatever they meant to each other -- friends, colleagues, lovers -- it was done. After today, Jeff clearly didn’t want Noah as his cameraman, and it turned out he no longer wanted him in his bed either.
Noah Mayer, perpetual fuck-up, had once again ruined the one good thing in his life.
With that thought -- and with his face still wet with tears -- Noah slept like the dead.
***
To be continued...