Fic, Burlington House, Part 2,
Nov. 8th, 2014 05:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Burlington House, Part 2
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Stephen, Lester, Blade, Charles Hemingway
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Blade), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,700 divided into two parts
Summary : Stephen gets to spend some time away from the office, but Lester wants to make sure he’s not left unprotected.
A/N : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goldarrow’s birthday. This is set in her wonderful silent!Stephen ‘verse, and Charles Hemingway is her OC. I hope you have a lovely day and that this in some small way lives up to expectation! I believe this can be read as a standalone.
More by luck than judgment, Charles Hemingway caught the exact moment when Stephen’s bodyguard shifted seamlessly from relatively relaxed to hyper-alert. Despite Niall Richards’ – known as Blade to his teammates – earlier almost casual demeanour, for anyone who looked even slightly below the surface, the man carried with him an air of quiet, indefinable danger.
Behind the easy smile, the man’s vivid green eyes were constantly watchful, scanning the room for any possible threats, and now, those same eyes looked like they could see straight through a person and strip them down to their bones should the need arise.
Hemingway quickly looked around the wood-panelled library to see what might have caused the change, but failed to find anyone or anything that looked out of place. There were no new faces, and nothing that he could see that would have sparked off the change. But he’d spent enough time with the Anomaly Project’s military back-up to be wary when they shifted from laughing and joking to ice-cold professionalism. He’d had good cause to be grateful for that professionalism. If it hadn’t been for Blade’s lightning-fast reactions on his first time out in the field with the team, Hemingway knew that it was very likely he would have ended up dead.
The young soldier was a formidable enemy, and an even more formidable friend ut whether there was the possibility of anything more than just friendship, Hemingway didn’t know. There was no way that Hemingway would ever bring his sexual preferences to work. With the exception of James Lester, with whom he’d shared a flat in his third year at university, Hemingway didn’t make a habit of letting his private life become public. So despite the attraction Hemingway felt for the close protection specialist, there was no way he would act on it, and at the moment he was more interested in what had caused the change in the man.
Stephen was still talking in an animated fashion to three old friends, scribbling as fast as he could on the small tablet, and waving the stylus around at times for added emphasis. He looked happy and relaxed; an intoxicating combination on a man with his looks and personality. Hemingway’s security clearance was high enough for him to be privy to the truth about Stephen and his lack of vocal cords. It had required a huge amount of suspension of disbelief at first, but then after his first brush with the anomalies in the field, all scepticism had vanished.
Not wishing to draw any undue interest in the wrong direction, Hemingway reluctantly took his eyes off Blade and his charge, and made his way to the lunch table, murmuring apologies as he wended his way through the press of people thronging the library. The sandwiches were good and gave him and excuse to stand on one side eating, while ostensibly looking at the various poster presentations pinned up on boards around the room. If trouble of any kind was about to kick off, the best thing he could do was to stay out of Blade’s way and not offer any distractions.
Ten minutes before the end of the lunch break, Hemingway decided to pay a visit to the toilet before returning to the lecture hall. He knew from a previous visit that the building was a maze of corridors and a visit to the loos could be quite time-consuming. Although the toilets were clearly signposted, it was still something of a trek. If there’d been a potted plant en route, he would have been sorely tempted to make a return to the student days when he and Lester had once almost got thrown out of a posh hotel at a student ball for improper behaviour with a banana plant. But in their defence, some idiot had decided to close the loos for cleaning for half an hour, and matters had been rather urgent. He wondered idly what Lester’s team would think if they knew some of the more outrageous escapades from their boss’s student days.
As Hemingway was washing his hands after getting rid of the morning’s accumulation of tea, the door opened and a man walked in, pushing past on his way to the urinals with no apology for jostling or crowding. Years of blending into the background in his job as much as Blade did in his own specialism told Hemingway that there was nothing to be gained by pointing out the man’s rudeness, but there was something about the expression on the man’s face that caused a flicker of uneasiness in Hemingway’s stomach.
There was nothing unusual in the way the man was dressed (casual, somewhat ill-fitting beige jacket over a pair of plain trousers) or in his looks (late 30s to early 40s, nose that had been broken at some point in the past, thinning, slightly ginger hair), but there was a blank, deadness about his eyes that made Hemingway’s skin crawl. Instinctively, he turned quickly aside and made his way out of the room.
At the far end of the corridor, he saw Stephen and Blade walking towards him, hurrying slightly so they could make it back to the lecture theatre for the start of the afternoon session. Feeling faintly foolish at his reaction, Hemingway stepped quickly away from the door.
A heartbeat later, someone else came down the stairs at the end of the corridor. For a moment, Hemingway froze, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. The man he was staring at had just barged past him in the toilets and, he was certain, was still in there.
As he opened his mouth to cry out, a loud alarm cut through the silence. Hemingway had worked in Health and Safety long enough to instantly recognise a fire alarm when he heard one, but despite the distraction, Blade had clearly seen and correctly interpreted the look of shock on his face.
The soldier whirled around at exactly the same time as the man on the stairs pulled a long-barrelled weapon out from under the jacket he was wearing – the jacket that was an exact match for the one worn by the man in the toilet.
Blade didn’t so much as hesitate. As Stephen ducked sideways into a doorway, the soldier’s arm flashed in a blur of movement and a knife left his hand in the same split-second as the pistol bucked slightly in the man’s hands. The resulting noise of the gunshot was a lot less than Hemingway would have expected, although it could still be easily heard over the clamour of the alarm. Hemingway was no stranger to firing ranges and knew that the gunman was using a noise suppressor, hence the abnormally long barrel on the weapon.
Taking an instinctive decision, Hemingway whirled around and slammed his entire body against the toilet door just as it started to open. His recognition of the man on the stairs had thrown the timing of their pincer-movement out by maybe a few seconds, buying potentially life-saving time.
A heavy grunt from behind the door told Hemingway his move had been successful. He pulled the door closed and then turned the handle and slammed into it again, feeling it meet resistance a second time. He whirled sideways just as a second gunshot sounded and splinters were blasted into the corridor as the man fired through the door.
A third gunshot came from the stairs and bullet embedded itself in the opposite wall, knocking off a large chunk of plaster. Hemingway quickly tried the handle of the door behind him. The handle turned by the door was securely locked. He was trapped at the end of the corridor with nowhere to go to. He was out of the line of fire from the man in the toilets but was exposed to any shots from the man on the stairs. But as he looked to see what was happening, the first gunman toppled forwards, crashing to the floor, his suppressed pistol sliding on the vinyl floor.
Stephen ducked quickly out of the shelter of the recessed doorway, grabbing the gun and training it on the door to the toilets, a look of total concentration on his face.
Two more shots exploded out of the toilet door, slamming into the opposite wall and knocking more plaster loose.
Stephen spared a brief glance at Blade and received a quick hand-signal in return. It wasn’t hard to work out that the soldier had just told his charge to hold his position. Blade rapidly turned the first gunman over onto his back. Clearly satisfied with what he saw, he let the man’s body fall back onto the floor. From what Hemingway could see, the man had a black-handled knife embedded in the base of his throat and a dark bloodstain was already spreading across his chest.
The door next to Hemingway was suddenly yanked open, leaving him fully exposed to the man inside. He dropped to the floor in the hope of confusing the man’s aim, knowing there was no way that he could dodge a bullet in the confines of the basement corridor.
Around him, the fire-alarm continued its loud clamour.
Holding the unfamiliar weapon in a classic two-handed stance, Hemingway saw Stephen fire twice, the gun bucking slightly in his hands. The gunman ducked back into the doorway. At a hand gesture from Blade, the universal beckoning sign for ‘come here’, Hemingway scrambled to his feet and, keeping low dashed towards them down the corridor, trusting to Stephen’s deadly accuracy with any barrelled weapon to keep him safe.
As he ran, Hemingway saw a gun appear in Blade’s hand.
Simultaneous blasts assaulted his ears. All he could do was keep moving forwards, throwing himself to one side of the stairs, as the noises battered his senses and numbed his brain. With one hand on the polished metal banister, Hemingway turned, not wanting to be caught in a confined space like a rat in a trap, but knowing he had to keep out of the way of the two men best fitted to keep him alive.
Keeping his body flush against the wall, Blade moved quickly towards the location of the gunman who was currently being kept pinned down by carefully-controlled shots from Stephen’s weapon. They were working as a team, regardless of bodyguard-principal dynamic, but Hemingway knew that would be going against the grain for the soldier.
Abruptly, Blade stopped and beckoned to Stephen. Without even a fractional hesitation, Stephen crossed the corridor in two long strides, flattening himself against the wall behind his bodyguard. At exactly the same moment, the gunman came out into the corridor, pistol raised, firing at the spot where Stephen had standing only a moment before. Blade’s gun went off immediately in a head-shot of devastating accuracy. A second bullet took the man in the chest, spinning him around to slide down the wall in the ungainly sprawl of death. Hemingway didn’t need to be a medic to know the would-be assassin wasn’t going to get up again.
As soon as he’d checked the man was dead, Blade pulled out a mobile phone and swept his finger across the screen.
The call was answered in a matter of seconds. “Boss, they’ve had a go. Two dead. We’re fine. I need a clean-up crew here five minutes ago. It looks like the Wicked Witch sent a couple of clones to do her dirty work….” Blade listened a moment, gave a mirthless laugh and said, “It’ll be tricky. I’ve just blown the face off one of them. OK, I’ll hold the fort here. There’s a fire alarm going off at the moment, so if we’re lucky, that’ll create enough confusion for now. Tell whoever gets here to call me before coming in.”
Hemingway moved out from beside the stairs, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest as the adrenalin still surged through his body. “Dear God, and I’d been worried that parts of today might have been boring…”
Stephen mouthed the unmistakeable word sorry at him, before he clicked on the safety catch on the side of the gun, dropped the magazine out, checked it then clicked it home again, while Blade took the opportunity to quickly change the magazine in own weapon.
“That wasn’t either healthy or safe, Mr Hemingway” Blade commented dryly. “But thanks. That was a good move.”
“Call me Charles,” Hemingway said automatically. “Do we go outside or wait here?”
“We go outside,” Blade said. “For all we know, they’ve really set a fire up there. That fucking woman doesn’t seem overly bothered about collateral damage and if there is a fire, we won’t do too well down here.” He returned the semi-automatic to its shoulder holster, pulled his knife out of the dead man’s throat, wiped it carefully and returned it to sheath on his shoulder rig. “Keep the gun, just in case,” he told Stephen. “Just ditch the suppressor.”
Stephen nodded and promptly shoved the pistol into the waistband at the back of his trousers, making Hemingway wince. Stephen saw his reaction and grinned.
With Blade leading the way, they quickly made their way up the stairs and back through the maze of corridors. Although time had seemed to almost stand still during the violent confrontation, in actual fact no more than five minutes had elapsed since Hemingway had stepped out of the toilets and they emerged into the reception area as people were still being ushered out through the main doors. They hurried out to courtyard with numerous other conference delegates and made their way to the muster point on Piccadilly, as they’d been instructed to do at the beginning of the first session that morning.
It had been a good call on Blade’s part. Helen Cutter’s clones had set a fire to cause maximum confusion. The fire brigade arrived and ran hoses into the building and a few minutes later, a scruffy DI from the Metropolitan Police appeared, accompanied by three uniformed officers. Before entering the courtyard, the man put his phone to his ear and a second later, Blade did the same. It looked like the cavalry had arrived. In a low voice, Blade told the man to secure the route to the downstairs toilets and to make sure no one went down there.
The detective glanced over at Blade, gave a brief nod, and then went in through the archway.
“We’ve worked with him before,” Blade said quietly. “Marsden’s OK.”
“So what happens now?” Hemingway asked.
“We do what everyone else is going to do as soon as they realise we’re not getting back in there any time soon and go to the pub,” Blade stated calmly. “The Witch isn’t likely to have another go, not so soon, and that way no one will wonder what we’ve been playing at.”
Stephen let out a long breath and signed, I could do with a drink.
“I won’t disagree with that,” Hemingway said, already feeling cold, despite the fact that it was a warm day. Intellectually, he knew that was as a result of shock at the brutal events he’d just been party to, but that didn’t make the sudden feeling of shakiness any easier to bear.
“Just breathe, Charles,” Blade told him. “It’ll pass. Come on, they’ve ticked us off on their list, and Marsden can phone me if he needs anything.”
Hemingway was grateful for the way the two men closed ranks around him as they crossed the road to the nearest pub. He was less of a stranger to violence than he would like, his life hadn’t always been governed by rules and regulations, and some of his investigations had taken him to various trouble spots, but it was never easy to control his reactions once the original danger had passed.
The conference delegates seemed surprisingly phlegmatic about the curtailment of the day’s programme and most seemed quite content to while away the afternoon over a few drinks and continue their lunchtime conversations. Stephen did a good job of running interference, leaving Hemingway to sit in a corner with Blade. They had a good view of the room and the entrance, and Blade seemed wholly relaxed now, in contrast to his earlier tension during the lunch break.
“What made you suspicious?” Hemingway asked. “I saw the moment something changed but couldn’t see what had sparked it off.”
“Neither could I at the time,” the soldier admitted. “Playing it back, I think I caught a glimpse of one of them outside the door while the other was in the room, but it was no more than a split second.”
“Hard to be sure when it was that crowded. I thought I was going mad for a minute when I walked into that corridor, even though I know what’s she’s capable of.” He glanced at Stephen and found it hard to repress a shudder. Cutter’s ex-wife was a vindictive bitch from hell that held life cheap and enjoyed screwing with people’s heads. The fact that one of her creations had escaped from her clutches and was building a life of his own clearly rankled with her.
Hemingway reached for the large brandy that Blade had placed in front of him and was dismayed to note the slight tremor in his hand.
“I told you before, Charles, just breathe,” Blade said in a calm, controlled voice that started to dispel the shock. “It’ll pass. Adrenaline fatigue is a physical reaction and it’ll work through in its own time.”
“How the hell do you and Stephen cope with this all the time?” he asked.
Blade shrugged. “Training in my case. You’d have to ask Stephen how he copes, but I know it’s not easy being under that psycho bitch’s shadow.”
As they talked, Hemingway could feel the tiredness seeping into his bones, but Blade was easy company, steering the talk away onto everyday things. He broke off the conversation on two occasions to talk to DI Marsden and once to Captain Stringer. It appeared that the fire had been easily contained with little damage and the bodies had been taken away to the ARC for examination. Quite how it would all be explained away, he really didn’t know, and at that particular point, he didn’t really care. Curiosity would no doubt return at a later date, but at that point, he was simply content to go with the flow.
To his surprise, the meal booked for the evening went ahead. He was even more surprised by the fact that he actually ended up enjoying it. The alcohol probably helped, but he was careful not to drink too much, as was Stephen. Blade stuck to fizzy water.
It was 11.30pm when they left the restaurant and after midnight by the time the last goodbyes had been said outside Piccadilly tube station. Palaeontologists certainly knew how to enjoy themselves, and hadn’t let a minor matter like the conference ending early on a dramatic note cramp their style. As they walked down the steps into the station, a man fell into step beside them and Hemingway recognised another of the soldiers from the Anomaly Project.
“Don’t tell me Lester offered you a packet of biscuits as well?” Blade commented.
“Double time now, mate,” Finn said with an easy grin. “That’s two packets of biscuits for me. Probably three by the time I get Mr Hemingway safely home.”
But by the time they got onto the tube, it seemed that the plan had changed, and Stephen went off with Finn, leaving Hemingway in Blade’s company.
“I can get home by himself,” Hemingway protested, but if he was honest with himself, he was tired to the point of exhaustion, and probably as capable of looking after himself as a kitten. “I thought it was your job to look after Stephen?”
“Finn’s fresher than me,” Blade said. “It makes sense for him to stay with Stephen. If it’s any consolation, I can’t see her trying anything else tonight, but I don’t want either of you on your own until we’ve carried out a full debrief and risk assessment. Lester wants us all in the ARC tomorrow morning. I’ll kip on your sofa, if that’s OK?”
“Four packets of biscuits for working on Sunday? And there’s a spare bed already made up.”
Blade grinned. “Thanks. It’ll cost him cake for a Sunday.”
The walk to his house was conducted in companionable silence. Once inside, Hemingway leaned against the wall of his hill for a minute and closed his eyes, letting the tiredness wash through him. A light touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself.
“I’ll make you a hot drink,” Blade said. “What have you got that doesn’t have caffeine in?”
“Redbush tea,” Hemingway replied, toeing off his shoes and hanging his jacket over the bottom of the stairs.
They spent half an hour in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits, and by the time he went to bed, Hemingway had started to feel more relaxed. Despite his dark reputation, the young soldier was a surprisingly easy companion. Silence clearly didn’t worry him, and he made no attempt to fill one with empty words, but when he did talk, he had a dry sense of humour that Hemingway could relate to. It was just a shame the man was something like 15 years younger than him and almost certainly straight.
Hemingway showed his visitor to the spare room, took a packet of new toothbrushes from the cabinet, and told Blade to help himself to anything he needed. Then, too tired to do anything more than clean his own teeth and pull on a pair of pyjamas, Hemingway got into bed and turned out the light. But despite the bone-weary tiredness, sleep proved elusive.
After a while, he slid into an uneasy doze. But even that didn’t last long…
“No!” Hemingway sat up, heart racing, hands fisted in the duvet, and image in his mind of a bullet slamming into his chest, knocking him back against the bullet-pocked wall. “No!” The word was out of his mouth a second time before he was able to bite it back. He knew he was in his own home, in bed, but that didn’t stop another unwanted adrenaline surge as his conscious mind wrested for supremacy with his subconscious fears.
The door opened and light streamed into the bedroom from the landing. “Charles?” Blade crossed to the bed in three long strides and his hand settled on Hemingway’s shoulder again, warm and comforting. “Nightmare?”
Hemingway sucked in a shuddering breath and then let it go. He could feel the panic receding and desperately wanted to just slip back into sleep and pretend this hadn’t happened. He slumped back onto the pillows, feeling sleep start to claim him again. It had been years since he’d last experienced this sort of attack and he knew that in the morning he would barely even remember what had happened, but just for the moment, he wanted that hand to stay on his shoulder.
“I owe you a drink for this,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Blade said, equally quietly. “But I’ll accept that drink.”
In the light intruding from the landing, Hemingway could see the warmth in the normally cool green eyes and the slight smile on the soldier’s handsome face. For a brief moment, he felt the backs of Blade’s fingers on the stubble on his cheek in the briefest of caresses.
As Hemingway slipped back into sleep he just hoped that he hadn’t imagined that touch and the promise it had held.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Stephen, Lester, Blade, Charles Hemingway
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Blade), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,700 divided into two parts
Summary : Stephen gets to spend some time away from the office, but Lester wants to make sure he’s not left unprotected.
A/N : Written for
goldarrow’s birthday. This is set in her wonderful silent!Stephen ‘verse, and Charles Hemingway is her OC. I hope you have a lovely day and that this in some small way lives up to expectation! I believe this can be read as a standalone.More by luck than judgment, Charles Hemingway caught the exact moment when Stephen’s bodyguard shifted seamlessly from relatively relaxed to hyper-alert. Despite Niall Richards’ – known as Blade to his teammates – earlier almost casual demeanour, for anyone who looked even slightly below the surface, the man carried with him an air of quiet, indefinable danger.
Behind the easy smile, the man’s vivid green eyes were constantly watchful, scanning the room for any possible threats, and now, those same eyes looked like they could see straight through a person and strip them down to their bones should the need arise.
Hemingway quickly looked around the wood-panelled library to see what might have caused the change, but failed to find anyone or anything that looked out of place. There were no new faces, and nothing that he could see that would have sparked off the change. But he’d spent enough time with the Anomaly Project’s military back-up to be wary when they shifted from laughing and joking to ice-cold professionalism. He’d had good cause to be grateful for that professionalism. If it hadn’t been for Blade’s lightning-fast reactions on his first time out in the field with the team, Hemingway knew that it was very likely he would have ended up dead.
The young soldier was a formidable enemy, and an even more formidable friend ut whether there was the possibility of anything more than just friendship, Hemingway didn’t know. There was no way that Hemingway would ever bring his sexual preferences to work. With the exception of James Lester, with whom he’d shared a flat in his third year at university, Hemingway didn’t make a habit of letting his private life become public. So despite the attraction Hemingway felt for the close protection specialist, there was no way he would act on it, and at the moment he was more interested in what had caused the change in the man.
Stephen was still talking in an animated fashion to three old friends, scribbling as fast as he could on the small tablet, and waving the stylus around at times for added emphasis. He looked happy and relaxed; an intoxicating combination on a man with his looks and personality. Hemingway’s security clearance was high enough for him to be privy to the truth about Stephen and his lack of vocal cords. It had required a huge amount of suspension of disbelief at first, but then after his first brush with the anomalies in the field, all scepticism had vanished.
Not wishing to draw any undue interest in the wrong direction, Hemingway reluctantly took his eyes off Blade and his charge, and made his way to the lunch table, murmuring apologies as he wended his way through the press of people thronging the library. The sandwiches were good and gave him and excuse to stand on one side eating, while ostensibly looking at the various poster presentations pinned up on boards around the room. If trouble of any kind was about to kick off, the best thing he could do was to stay out of Blade’s way and not offer any distractions.
Ten minutes before the end of the lunch break, Hemingway decided to pay a visit to the toilet before returning to the lecture hall. He knew from a previous visit that the building was a maze of corridors and a visit to the loos could be quite time-consuming. Although the toilets were clearly signposted, it was still something of a trek. If there’d been a potted plant en route, he would have been sorely tempted to make a return to the student days when he and Lester had once almost got thrown out of a posh hotel at a student ball for improper behaviour with a banana plant. But in their defence, some idiot had decided to close the loos for cleaning for half an hour, and matters had been rather urgent. He wondered idly what Lester’s team would think if they knew some of the more outrageous escapades from their boss’s student days.
As Hemingway was washing his hands after getting rid of the morning’s accumulation of tea, the door opened and a man walked in, pushing past on his way to the urinals with no apology for jostling or crowding. Years of blending into the background in his job as much as Blade did in his own specialism told Hemingway that there was nothing to be gained by pointing out the man’s rudeness, but there was something about the expression on the man’s face that caused a flicker of uneasiness in Hemingway’s stomach.
There was nothing unusual in the way the man was dressed (casual, somewhat ill-fitting beige jacket over a pair of plain trousers) or in his looks (late 30s to early 40s, nose that had been broken at some point in the past, thinning, slightly ginger hair), but there was a blank, deadness about his eyes that made Hemingway’s skin crawl. Instinctively, he turned quickly aside and made his way out of the room.
At the far end of the corridor, he saw Stephen and Blade walking towards him, hurrying slightly so they could make it back to the lecture theatre for the start of the afternoon session. Feeling faintly foolish at his reaction, Hemingway stepped quickly away from the door.
A heartbeat later, someone else came down the stairs at the end of the corridor. For a moment, Hemingway froze, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. The man he was staring at had just barged past him in the toilets and, he was certain, was still in there.
As he opened his mouth to cry out, a loud alarm cut through the silence. Hemingway had worked in Health and Safety long enough to instantly recognise a fire alarm when he heard one, but despite the distraction, Blade had clearly seen and correctly interpreted the look of shock on his face.
The soldier whirled around at exactly the same time as the man on the stairs pulled a long-barrelled weapon out from under the jacket he was wearing – the jacket that was an exact match for the one worn by the man in the toilet.
Blade didn’t so much as hesitate. As Stephen ducked sideways into a doorway, the soldier’s arm flashed in a blur of movement and a knife left his hand in the same split-second as the pistol bucked slightly in the man’s hands. The resulting noise of the gunshot was a lot less than Hemingway would have expected, although it could still be easily heard over the clamour of the alarm. Hemingway was no stranger to firing ranges and knew that the gunman was using a noise suppressor, hence the abnormally long barrel on the weapon.
Taking an instinctive decision, Hemingway whirled around and slammed his entire body against the toilet door just as it started to open. His recognition of the man on the stairs had thrown the timing of their pincer-movement out by maybe a few seconds, buying potentially life-saving time.
A heavy grunt from behind the door told Hemingway his move had been successful. He pulled the door closed and then turned the handle and slammed into it again, feeling it meet resistance a second time. He whirled sideways just as a second gunshot sounded and splinters were blasted into the corridor as the man fired through the door.
A third gunshot came from the stairs and bullet embedded itself in the opposite wall, knocking off a large chunk of plaster. Hemingway quickly tried the handle of the door behind him. The handle turned by the door was securely locked. He was trapped at the end of the corridor with nowhere to go to. He was out of the line of fire from the man in the toilets but was exposed to any shots from the man on the stairs. But as he looked to see what was happening, the first gunman toppled forwards, crashing to the floor, his suppressed pistol sliding on the vinyl floor.
Stephen ducked quickly out of the shelter of the recessed doorway, grabbing the gun and training it on the door to the toilets, a look of total concentration on his face.
Two more shots exploded out of the toilet door, slamming into the opposite wall and knocking more plaster loose.
Stephen spared a brief glance at Blade and received a quick hand-signal in return. It wasn’t hard to work out that the soldier had just told his charge to hold his position. Blade rapidly turned the first gunman over onto his back. Clearly satisfied with what he saw, he let the man’s body fall back onto the floor. From what Hemingway could see, the man had a black-handled knife embedded in the base of his throat and a dark bloodstain was already spreading across his chest.
The door next to Hemingway was suddenly yanked open, leaving him fully exposed to the man inside. He dropped to the floor in the hope of confusing the man’s aim, knowing there was no way that he could dodge a bullet in the confines of the basement corridor.
Around him, the fire-alarm continued its loud clamour.
Holding the unfamiliar weapon in a classic two-handed stance, Hemingway saw Stephen fire twice, the gun bucking slightly in his hands. The gunman ducked back into the doorway. At a hand gesture from Blade, the universal beckoning sign for ‘come here’, Hemingway scrambled to his feet and, keeping low dashed towards them down the corridor, trusting to Stephen’s deadly accuracy with any barrelled weapon to keep him safe.
As he ran, Hemingway saw a gun appear in Blade’s hand.
Simultaneous blasts assaulted his ears. All he could do was keep moving forwards, throwing himself to one side of the stairs, as the noises battered his senses and numbed his brain. With one hand on the polished metal banister, Hemingway turned, not wanting to be caught in a confined space like a rat in a trap, but knowing he had to keep out of the way of the two men best fitted to keep him alive.
Keeping his body flush against the wall, Blade moved quickly towards the location of the gunman who was currently being kept pinned down by carefully-controlled shots from Stephen’s weapon. They were working as a team, regardless of bodyguard-principal dynamic, but Hemingway knew that would be going against the grain for the soldier.
Abruptly, Blade stopped and beckoned to Stephen. Without even a fractional hesitation, Stephen crossed the corridor in two long strides, flattening himself against the wall behind his bodyguard. At exactly the same moment, the gunman came out into the corridor, pistol raised, firing at the spot where Stephen had standing only a moment before. Blade’s gun went off immediately in a head-shot of devastating accuracy. A second bullet took the man in the chest, spinning him around to slide down the wall in the ungainly sprawl of death. Hemingway didn’t need to be a medic to know the would-be assassin wasn’t going to get up again.
As soon as he’d checked the man was dead, Blade pulled out a mobile phone and swept his finger across the screen.
The call was answered in a matter of seconds. “Boss, they’ve had a go. Two dead. We’re fine. I need a clean-up crew here five minutes ago. It looks like the Wicked Witch sent a couple of clones to do her dirty work….” Blade listened a moment, gave a mirthless laugh and said, “It’ll be tricky. I’ve just blown the face off one of them. OK, I’ll hold the fort here. There’s a fire alarm going off at the moment, so if we’re lucky, that’ll create enough confusion for now. Tell whoever gets here to call me before coming in.”
Hemingway moved out from beside the stairs, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest as the adrenalin still surged through his body. “Dear God, and I’d been worried that parts of today might have been boring…”
Stephen mouthed the unmistakeable word sorry at him, before he clicked on the safety catch on the side of the gun, dropped the magazine out, checked it then clicked it home again, while Blade took the opportunity to quickly change the magazine in own weapon.
“That wasn’t either healthy or safe, Mr Hemingway” Blade commented dryly. “But thanks. That was a good move.”
“Call me Charles,” Hemingway said automatically. “Do we go outside or wait here?”
“We go outside,” Blade said. “For all we know, they’ve really set a fire up there. That fucking woman doesn’t seem overly bothered about collateral damage and if there is a fire, we won’t do too well down here.” He returned the semi-automatic to its shoulder holster, pulled his knife out of the dead man’s throat, wiped it carefully and returned it to sheath on his shoulder rig. “Keep the gun, just in case,” he told Stephen. “Just ditch the suppressor.”
Stephen nodded and promptly shoved the pistol into the waistband at the back of his trousers, making Hemingway wince. Stephen saw his reaction and grinned.
With Blade leading the way, they quickly made their way up the stairs and back through the maze of corridors. Although time had seemed to almost stand still during the violent confrontation, in actual fact no more than five minutes had elapsed since Hemingway had stepped out of the toilets and they emerged into the reception area as people were still being ushered out through the main doors. They hurried out to courtyard with numerous other conference delegates and made their way to the muster point on Piccadilly, as they’d been instructed to do at the beginning of the first session that morning.
It had been a good call on Blade’s part. Helen Cutter’s clones had set a fire to cause maximum confusion. The fire brigade arrived and ran hoses into the building and a few minutes later, a scruffy DI from the Metropolitan Police appeared, accompanied by three uniformed officers. Before entering the courtyard, the man put his phone to his ear and a second later, Blade did the same. It looked like the cavalry had arrived. In a low voice, Blade told the man to secure the route to the downstairs toilets and to make sure no one went down there.
The detective glanced over at Blade, gave a brief nod, and then went in through the archway.
“We’ve worked with him before,” Blade said quietly. “Marsden’s OK.”
“So what happens now?” Hemingway asked.
“We do what everyone else is going to do as soon as they realise we’re not getting back in there any time soon and go to the pub,” Blade stated calmly. “The Witch isn’t likely to have another go, not so soon, and that way no one will wonder what we’ve been playing at.”
Stephen let out a long breath and signed, I could do with a drink.
“I won’t disagree with that,” Hemingway said, already feeling cold, despite the fact that it was a warm day. Intellectually, he knew that was as a result of shock at the brutal events he’d just been party to, but that didn’t make the sudden feeling of shakiness any easier to bear.
“Just breathe, Charles,” Blade told him. “It’ll pass. Come on, they’ve ticked us off on their list, and Marsden can phone me if he needs anything.”
Hemingway was grateful for the way the two men closed ranks around him as they crossed the road to the nearest pub. He was less of a stranger to violence than he would like, his life hadn’t always been governed by rules and regulations, and some of his investigations had taken him to various trouble spots, but it was never easy to control his reactions once the original danger had passed.
The conference delegates seemed surprisingly phlegmatic about the curtailment of the day’s programme and most seemed quite content to while away the afternoon over a few drinks and continue their lunchtime conversations. Stephen did a good job of running interference, leaving Hemingway to sit in a corner with Blade. They had a good view of the room and the entrance, and Blade seemed wholly relaxed now, in contrast to his earlier tension during the lunch break.
“What made you suspicious?” Hemingway asked. “I saw the moment something changed but couldn’t see what had sparked it off.”
“Neither could I at the time,” the soldier admitted. “Playing it back, I think I caught a glimpse of one of them outside the door while the other was in the room, but it was no more than a split second.”
“Hard to be sure when it was that crowded. I thought I was going mad for a minute when I walked into that corridor, even though I know what’s she’s capable of.” He glanced at Stephen and found it hard to repress a shudder. Cutter’s ex-wife was a vindictive bitch from hell that held life cheap and enjoyed screwing with people’s heads. The fact that one of her creations had escaped from her clutches and was building a life of his own clearly rankled with her.
Hemingway reached for the large brandy that Blade had placed in front of him and was dismayed to note the slight tremor in his hand.
“I told you before, Charles, just breathe,” Blade said in a calm, controlled voice that started to dispel the shock. “It’ll pass. Adrenaline fatigue is a physical reaction and it’ll work through in its own time.”
“How the hell do you and Stephen cope with this all the time?” he asked.
Blade shrugged. “Training in my case. You’d have to ask Stephen how he copes, but I know it’s not easy being under that psycho bitch’s shadow.”
As they talked, Hemingway could feel the tiredness seeping into his bones, but Blade was easy company, steering the talk away onto everyday things. He broke off the conversation on two occasions to talk to DI Marsden and once to Captain Stringer. It appeared that the fire had been easily contained with little damage and the bodies had been taken away to the ARC for examination. Quite how it would all be explained away, he really didn’t know, and at that particular point, he didn’t really care. Curiosity would no doubt return at a later date, but at that point, he was simply content to go with the flow.
To his surprise, the meal booked for the evening went ahead. He was even more surprised by the fact that he actually ended up enjoying it. The alcohol probably helped, but he was careful not to drink too much, as was Stephen. Blade stuck to fizzy water.
It was 11.30pm when they left the restaurant and after midnight by the time the last goodbyes had been said outside Piccadilly tube station. Palaeontologists certainly knew how to enjoy themselves, and hadn’t let a minor matter like the conference ending early on a dramatic note cramp their style. As they walked down the steps into the station, a man fell into step beside them and Hemingway recognised another of the soldiers from the Anomaly Project.
“Don’t tell me Lester offered you a packet of biscuits as well?” Blade commented.
“Double time now, mate,” Finn said with an easy grin. “That’s two packets of biscuits for me. Probably three by the time I get Mr Hemingway safely home.”
But by the time they got onto the tube, it seemed that the plan had changed, and Stephen went off with Finn, leaving Hemingway in Blade’s company.
“I can get home by himself,” Hemingway protested, but if he was honest with himself, he was tired to the point of exhaustion, and probably as capable of looking after himself as a kitten. “I thought it was your job to look after Stephen?”
“Finn’s fresher than me,” Blade said. “It makes sense for him to stay with Stephen. If it’s any consolation, I can’t see her trying anything else tonight, but I don’t want either of you on your own until we’ve carried out a full debrief and risk assessment. Lester wants us all in the ARC tomorrow morning. I’ll kip on your sofa, if that’s OK?”
“Four packets of biscuits for working on Sunday? And there’s a spare bed already made up.”
Blade grinned. “Thanks. It’ll cost him cake for a Sunday.”
The walk to his house was conducted in companionable silence. Once inside, Hemingway leaned against the wall of his hill for a minute and closed his eyes, letting the tiredness wash through him. A light touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself.
“I’ll make you a hot drink,” Blade said. “What have you got that doesn’t have caffeine in?”
“Redbush tea,” Hemingway replied, toeing off his shoes and hanging his jacket over the bottom of the stairs.
They spent half an hour in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits, and by the time he went to bed, Hemingway had started to feel more relaxed. Despite his dark reputation, the young soldier was a surprisingly easy companion. Silence clearly didn’t worry him, and he made no attempt to fill one with empty words, but when he did talk, he had a dry sense of humour that Hemingway could relate to. It was just a shame the man was something like 15 years younger than him and almost certainly straight.
Hemingway showed his visitor to the spare room, took a packet of new toothbrushes from the cabinet, and told Blade to help himself to anything he needed. Then, too tired to do anything more than clean his own teeth and pull on a pair of pyjamas, Hemingway got into bed and turned out the light. But despite the bone-weary tiredness, sleep proved elusive.
After a while, he slid into an uneasy doze. But even that didn’t last long…
“No!” Hemingway sat up, heart racing, hands fisted in the duvet, and image in his mind of a bullet slamming into his chest, knocking him back against the bullet-pocked wall. “No!” The word was out of his mouth a second time before he was able to bite it back. He knew he was in his own home, in bed, but that didn’t stop another unwanted adrenaline surge as his conscious mind wrested for supremacy with his subconscious fears.
The door opened and light streamed into the bedroom from the landing. “Charles?” Blade crossed to the bed in three long strides and his hand settled on Hemingway’s shoulder again, warm and comforting. “Nightmare?”
Hemingway sucked in a shuddering breath and then let it go. He could feel the panic receding and desperately wanted to just slip back into sleep and pretend this hadn’t happened. He slumped back onto the pillows, feeling sleep start to claim him again. It had been years since he’d last experienced this sort of attack and he knew that in the morning he would barely even remember what had happened, but just for the moment, he wanted that hand to stay on his shoulder.
“I owe you a drink for this,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Blade said, equally quietly. “But I’ll accept that drink.”
In the light intruding from the landing, Hemingway could see the warmth in the normally cool green eyes and the slight smile on the soldier’s handsome face. For a brief moment, he felt the backs of Blade’s fingers on the stubble on his cheek in the briefest of caresses.
As Hemingway slipped back into sleep he just hoped that he hadn’t imagined that touch and the promise it had held.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-11-08 05:59 pm (UTC)I have to leave for work in 2 minutes, so I'll give a longer comment later.
I just had to croon over this for a second, anyway.
That was absolutely terrific! Thank you sooooo much!
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Date: 2014-11-08 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 05:44 am (UTC)Yippee!
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 05:49 pm (UTC)*is proud*
Thanks!
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Date: 2014-11-08 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 05:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-08 10:12 pm (UTC)<3 <3 <3
I mean, Christ, being shot at through the bathroom door. I nearly peed my pants. Terrifying. Absolutely brilliant story. And rather squeeful with the promise of Blade and Hemingway having a wee cuddle *g* Poor Charles. He's adorable!
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:48 pm (UTC)LOL, glad you don't have damp pants!
Charles is fab. I love him.
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Date: 2014-11-08 11:21 pm (UTC)And Finn and the biscuit/cake overtime system! Brilliant. *g*
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:49 pm (UTC)Lester would be very happy with that system, I'm sure.
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Date: 2014-11-09 06:01 am (UTC)He looked happy and relaxed; an intoxicating combination on a man with his looks and personality.
mmmmmmmmmm... Happy Stephen...
If trouble of any kind was about to kick off, the best thing he could do was to stay out of Blade’s way and not offer any distractions.
*nods* Hemingway certainly has his head on straight.
when he and Lester had once almost got thrown out of a posh hotel at a student ball for improper behaviour with a banana plant.
Oh. My... What potential for blackmail there is in those old stories... *g*
ears of blending into the background in his job . . . but there was something about the expression on the man’s face that caused a flicker of uneasiness in Hemingway’s stomach.
Yes! This! *bounces*
Wow. Fantastic action scene. I was on the edge of my seat!
He whirled sideways just as a second gunshot sounded and splinters were blasted into the corridor as the man fired through the door.
*meep*!!!
not wanting to be caught in a confined space like a rat in a trap, but knowing he had to keep out of the way of the two men best fitted to keep him alive.
Crikey! *pants*
"It looks like the Wicked Witch sent a couple of clones to do her dirty work…."
Heeeeee!
“Dear God, and I’d been worried that parts of today might have been boring…”. . .“That wasn’t either healthy or safe, Mr Hemingway” Blade commented dryly.
*snorfle* We're getting into the range of foreplay for Blade...
Stephen nodded and promptly shoved the pistol into the waistband at the back of his trousers, making Hemingway wince. Stephen saw his reaction and grinned.
I laughed. Out loud.
He was less of a stranger to violence than he would like, his life hadn’t always been governed by rules and regulations, and some of his investigations had taken him to various trouble spots, but it was never easy to control his reactions once the original danger had passed.
LOVELY hint at Charles' backstory.
he was tired to the point of exhaustion, and probably as capable of looking after himself as a kitten.
Awwww.. *pets*
Adored the biscuits and cakes overtime-pay.
“Redbush tea,”
LOL! Familiar stuff, that!
It was just a shame the man was something like 15 years younger than him and almost certainly straight.
Hmmmm? Yes? No? LOL
Poor Charles, with his nightmares. I'm not surprised, though!
For a brief moment, he felt the backs of Blade’s fingers on the stubble on his cheek in the briefest of caresses....As Hemingway slipped back into sleep he just hoped that he hadn’t imagined that touch and the promise it had held.
Rrrrrrrrrr! Lovely intimations for the future!
*sighs happily*
This was amazingly perfect. Thank you. *huggles fic* *glomps you*
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:50 pm (UTC)I'm so happy you like it!
Now you can see what I mean about it running away from me a bit. *g*
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Date: 2014-11-09 06:00 pm (UTC)*huggles*
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Date: 2014-11-09 12:30 pm (UTC)Great action packed fic with a lovely, promising ending. :D
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 01:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 05:39 pm (UTC)What did Lester get up to as a student? curious kitty's want to know.
*purrs*
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Date: 2014-11-09 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-09 06:16 pm (UTC)Vividly written—I really enjoyed it.
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Date: 2014-11-09 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-16 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-16 09:10 pm (UTC)