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fredbassettTitle : Extraction, Part 3 of 3
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.
The drive across London in the middle of the night didn’t take long and, much to Ryan’s relief, none of the coppers he passed gave the battered vehicle a second glance.
The security guard in the small booth at the entrance to the underground car park that served Whitehall Court didn’t look impressed when he drove up, but the man took one look at Lester and promptly raised the barrier for them without a word.
A lift took them up to the fourth floor. Lester led the way through the corridors to a white-painted door then turned to Ryan, white-faced. “I haven’t got my keys. I can’t let the concierge see me like this… could you… if I phone reception…?”
Ryan pulled a small pouch out of one of his pockets. “We do learn less destructive ways of dealing with doors as well.”
The lock wasn’t particularly secure or sophisticated and he had the door open within a minute. “Get someone in to change the lock, sir, just as a precaution.”
Lester nodded then bolted for what Ryan presumed was the bathroom. Ryan heard more retching from behind the closed door. Mindful of the man’s earlier statement, Ryan took a quick look around, with one objective in mind.
The flat appeared to have two bedrooms, one presumably with an en-suite bathroom. There was another bathroom and a surprisingly spacious kitchen but the real surprise was the living room. A floor to ceiling picture window looked out across the river, with the most jaw-dropping view of the London Eye, still lit up, even though it was now nearly 2am. The place must be worth a fucking fortune. Either Lester had a substantial private income, or being a government hatchet man paid extremely well. Although whether it inspired any loyalty was now open to some doubt.
Ryan’s eyes fell on a glass-fronted mahogany drinks cabinet on one side of the room. He poured a large slug of whisky from a distillery he couldn’t pronounce into a heavy-bottomed glass. There would no doubt be some painkillers somewhere in the flat but mindful of Lester’s earlier statement, the whisky would almost certainly do for now.
He could hear the bog flushing and a tap running in the en-suite off the master bedroom. He found Lester leaning on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror, with water dripping down his face. Ryan turned the tap off and handed him the whisky. Lester’s hand shook and the glass rattled against his teeth, but he managed to swallow a large mouthful without coughing. The rest followed in three gulps. Ryan took the glass off him before it shattered in the sink.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
Lester thought for a moment then replied, “The night before they snatched me.”
“Fucking bastards,” Ryan said quietly.
To his surprise, Lester laughed. “I was quite grateful, actually, as they had no intention of letting me off that chair.”
That explained why the man’s legs had been so shaky. It also explained why his trousers stank of nothing worse than piss.
“Can you manage to get your clothes off and have a shower?” Ryan asked. “Once you’ve done that, I’ll take a look at your hand and find you something to eat.”
Lester gave him a look of gratitude. “You’re an eminently practical man, Ryan. You’re also still armed to the teeth. Should that worry me?”
Ryan shook his head. “No, but we both have phone calls to make.” He handed Lester the phone he’d picked up from the living room.
Lester took it. His ex-wife answered as quickly as she’d done the first time. “I’m home,” he said simply. “Put me on speaker and let me talk to the kids as well.”
Ryan left the bathroom to give the man some privacy, taking the whisky glass away to refill it. The booze would go straight to the man’s head after two days with no food, but that was no bad thing. He’d probably only throw it up again, anyway, from what Ryan had just seen. He gave Lester five minutes then went back in the bathroom. Lester was sitting on the lid of the bog, staring down at his shoes, the phone on the floor next to him.
“The answer to your earlier question is apparently not,” Lester said. “No, I don’t appear to be able to undress myself.”
Ryan balanced the whisky glass on the sink and went down on one knee so he could unlace Lester’s shoes and pull them off. He was mildly surprised the kidnappers hadn’t done some damage to his feet, but maybe they’d been working up to it. Once he had Lester’s shoes and socks off, he let the man have another drink of whisky. This time his hands didn’t shake quite so much.
When he’d finished, Ryan turned on the shower and then helped Lester to his feet. It only took a matter of moments to help the man out of his soiled clothes and steer him into the cubicle. The dark bruises that had blossomed on Lester’s abdomen and hips told their own story. It was no wonder the man had been moving so stiffly.
“Did they rape you?” Ryan asked. There was no easy way of asking that sort of question.
Lester shook his head. “The bruises are because I had the temerity to fight back in the van. Nothing’s broken, I can assure you of that. My hand hurts like hell and I’ve got a stinking headache but that’s about all.”
“When did they do that to your nails?”
Lester looked surprised by the question, but replied quickly, “Earlier today. It was still light, but only just. They wanted a few tasty bits of information to drive up the bidding. They hit the middle one with a hammer after sticking the needle in,” he added.
Ryan winced. He was impressed that the man had managed to have the presence of mind to feed them bullshit. Usually when the torture started, the average person would be quite happy to sell their own grandmother down the river to make it stop. Lester was clearly made of somewhat sterner stuff.
The man also seemed surprisingly unconcerned by his nakedness, but maybe that was just a minor indignity after all he’d been through. Lester took another mouthful of whisky and then stepped into the shower cubicle. Ryan bent down to gather up the filthy clothing. He’d no doubt find a bin bag in the immaculate kitchen. The only things worth salvaging were the shoes.
Once the clothes were tidied away, Ryan found a large Bialetti stovetop espresso maker and set it down on the expensive hob. There was ready-ground coffee in a jar on the counter. He doubted Lester would object to it not being freshly-ground, in the circumstances.
Ten minutes later, Ryan had drunk half the coffee and made a short but comprehensive phone call to the DSF. The man had sworn like a docker when he heard about the PM’s apparent change of mind. His instructions were short and to the point: keep Lester alive and let Vincent’s boss smooth things over. Jane Cochrane, the head of MI5, was the sort of woman capable of dealing single-handedly with an alien invasion, so his boss seemed relatively certain of the outcome, but it did leave Ryan wondering what sort of man Lester was if people at that level were willing to potentially put their careers on the line for him. Mind you, if the pundits were to be believed, the PM wasn’t expected to survive the next election, which was already looming on the horizon.
Once the call had ended, Ryan poured the rest of the coffee into a mug and doubled its volume with milk before putting some more on to brew for Lester. It was time to get him out of the shower and take a closer look at what the sods had done to him.
To his surprise, Lester had managed to get out of the shower and was starting to dry himself, but it wasn’t the easiest operation to conduct one-handed, as Ryan had discovered for himself on the occasion someone had seen fit to relieve him of three fingernails on his right hand.
He asked permission with a raised eyebrow and was granted it with a nod of the head. Ryan had the man dried and into a pair of dark green silk pyjamas in less than five minutes. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on the Lester’s lean frame and it looked like he managed to keep himself in good shape. Ryan kept his examination strictly clinical. Lester was right when he’d said the damage to the rest of his body was relatively superficial, but he was going to need a shot of antibiotics in case the needles they’d used under his nails hadn’t been clean. The nails were blackened with dried blood, but only one appeared to be particularly swollen. Ryan knew the best way to deal with that, but whether Lester would let him was another matter.
A pair of warm slippers and a silk dressing gown completed what the well-dressed hostage victim was wearing for London Fashion Week. Lester settled down in a chair in the kitchen and drank a large shot of espresso laced with more whisky. The shower had brought some colour back to his face, and his hands were no longer shaking, so progress was definitely being made.
After the conversation with the DSF, Ryan had gone so far as to lay both the Remington and the MP5 down on a chair next to him in the kitchen, but he kept the SIG holstered on his thigh. He wondered what progress Sam Vincent was making. He took out the small pouch that contained his lock picks and removed a thin drill bit from it.
Lester’s eyes promptly went wide with fear and Ryan cursed himself for not having made his intentions plain.
“We need to release the pressure under that middle nail,” Ryan said. “It won’t hurt, I promise you. The pain relief will be instant.”
Lester raised one elegant eyebrow. It was probably a poor shadow of what he was normally capable of, but it was still effective enough.
Ryan grinned. “I’ve just saved your life, I’m sure you can trust me a bit further. I learnt this trick from a field medic, and it works a treat, I promise you.”
When Lester didn’t protest, Ryan took an antiseptic swap out of the small medical kit he carried as well, along with two heavy-duty pain killers. He pushed them over the table to Lester who promptly washed them down with a mouthful of coffee. His eyes widened again when Ryan dipped the thin piece of steel into what was left of the whisky and then started to burn the alcohol off with a cigarette-lighter. When it was hot enough, he told Lester to look away then held the man’s injured hand down on the table and started to rotate the tip of the drill bit in the middle of Lester’s swollen nail, taking care to stay well away from the quick.
In a matter of moments, he was through the nail and bright red blood started to well out of the hole he’d made. He gently squeezed Lester’s finger to keep the blood flowing, knowing that the intolerable throbbing would have started to subside already.
“Fucking hell,” Lester breathed, having disobeyed Ryan’s instruction and watched the entire procedure.
“I told you it would be OK,” Ryan said, wiping away the blood with another swab. The pressure needed to be released within 24 hours of the initial trauma to make much of a difference and they’d clearly caught it in time. “You might not even lose the nail,” he told him. “But I’d wear a glove when you see your kids, if you don’t want any awkward questions.”
“You don’t know my kids,” Lester said ruefully. “Awkward is their middle name. They take after their mother in that regard.”
“You seem on good terms with your ex-wife,” Ryan commented. It was none of his business, but he wanted to keep Lester’s mind off what had happened to him until the painkillers and the alcohol had started to do their work. The next thing on the agenda would need to be food.
“Marriage of convenience,” Lester said. “She’s happily living with another woman now and we have joint custody of the kids.”
It was Ryan’s turn to look surprised.
Lester laughed, genuine amusement in his eyes. “I wondered what it would take to make you do a double-take, Ryan.”
The sat in companionable silence and then Ryan said, “I’m going to make a couple of omelettes. I saw some mushrooms and cheese in your fridge. How does that sound?”
“Like something I could eat one-handed,” Lester acknowledged.
He wolfed down the omelette as soon as Ryan put it in front of him, and after half an hour, it even looked like it might stay down, so Ryan made another one. That went down in double-quick time as well.
“Bed,” he said half an hour later. “You’ve had fuck-all sleep for nearly three days.” Before Lester had time to object, Ryan added, “I told you before, you can trust me. By the time you wake up, I should have heard from Sam Vincent.”
The pills, the whisky and the relief from pain did their work. Lester was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, lines of exhaustion etched deeply on thin cheeks masked by three days’ growth of stubble.
Ryan poured himself more coffee and settle down in the living room to await Sam Vincent’s call.
*****
At 7.30am Ryan’s mobile vibrated in his pocket.
He swiped the screen to accept the call and heard Sam Vincent say, “It’s all fine. Jane’s worked her magic. The whole thing’s been swept under the carpet. Your boy’s safe now. Job well done, Ryan, thanks.”
“What’s so important about this guy?” Ryan asked quietly.
“He’s fucking good at what he does,” Vincent replied. “And he’s as straight as a die.” Vincent paused a moment and added, “Well, as far as work goes, anyway. See you around, Ryan. It looks like we’ve all lived to fight another day.”
Ryan stared thoughtfully at the phone screen after Vincent had cut the call.
It looked very much like all was well that ended well.
A noise in the doorway made him look up. Lester was standing there, freshly-shaved, damp hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in a green cashmere sweater – the man clearly liked green – worn over a pair of expensive-looking black jeans. The understated sartorial elegance was somewhat spoiled by the somewhat battered pair of slippers on bare feet, but overall, it was still an impressive transformation.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked calmly.
“Everything’s fine,” Ryan said with perfect truth.
Lester smiled. “Thank you. In return for saving my life, what would you say to dinner at the best Italian restaurant in London? Poor reward, I know, but Giovanni makes the most wonderful pasta outside Naples, and his tiramisu has been known to reduce grown men to tears.” There was an unaccustomed hesitancy in the man’s voice, despite the lightness of his tone.
Ryan returned the smile. “Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Now all he had to do was find a way of checking his weapons back in, delivering his report and buying a change of clothes.
Compared to what he’d already achieved, that should all be a piece of piss.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.The drive across London in the middle of the night didn’t take long and, much to Ryan’s relief, none of the coppers he passed gave the battered vehicle a second glance.
The security guard in the small booth at the entrance to the underground car park that served Whitehall Court didn’t look impressed when he drove up, but the man took one look at Lester and promptly raised the barrier for them without a word.
A lift took them up to the fourth floor. Lester led the way through the corridors to a white-painted door then turned to Ryan, white-faced. “I haven’t got my keys. I can’t let the concierge see me like this… could you… if I phone reception…?”
Ryan pulled a small pouch out of one of his pockets. “We do learn less destructive ways of dealing with doors as well.”
The lock wasn’t particularly secure or sophisticated and he had the door open within a minute. “Get someone in to change the lock, sir, just as a precaution.”
Lester nodded then bolted for what Ryan presumed was the bathroom. Ryan heard more retching from behind the closed door. Mindful of the man’s earlier statement, Ryan took a quick look around, with one objective in mind.
The flat appeared to have two bedrooms, one presumably with an en-suite bathroom. There was another bathroom and a surprisingly spacious kitchen but the real surprise was the living room. A floor to ceiling picture window looked out across the river, with the most jaw-dropping view of the London Eye, still lit up, even though it was now nearly 2am. The place must be worth a fucking fortune. Either Lester had a substantial private income, or being a government hatchet man paid extremely well. Although whether it inspired any loyalty was now open to some doubt.
Ryan’s eyes fell on a glass-fronted mahogany drinks cabinet on one side of the room. He poured a large slug of whisky from a distillery he couldn’t pronounce into a heavy-bottomed glass. There would no doubt be some painkillers somewhere in the flat but mindful of Lester’s earlier statement, the whisky would almost certainly do for now.
He could hear the bog flushing and a tap running in the en-suite off the master bedroom. He found Lester leaning on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror, with water dripping down his face. Ryan turned the tap off and handed him the whisky. Lester’s hand shook and the glass rattled against his teeth, but he managed to swallow a large mouthful without coughing. The rest followed in three gulps. Ryan took the glass off him before it shattered in the sink.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
Lester thought for a moment then replied, “The night before they snatched me.”
“Fucking bastards,” Ryan said quietly.
To his surprise, Lester laughed. “I was quite grateful, actually, as they had no intention of letting me off that chair.”
That explained why the man’s legs had been so shaky. It also explained why his trousers stank of nothing worse than piss.
“Can you manage to get your clothes off and have a shower?” Ryan asked. “Once you’ve done that, I’ll take a look at your hand and find you something to eat.”
Lester gave him a look of gratitude. “You’re an eminently practical man, Ryan. You’re also still armed to the teeth. Should that worry me?”
Ryan shook his head. “No, but we both have phone calls to make.” He handed Lester the phone he’d picked up from the living room.
Lester took it. His ex-wife answered as quickly as she’d done the first time. “I’m home,” he said simply. “Put me on speaker and let me talk to the kids as well.”
Ryan left the bathroom to give the man some privacy, taking the whisky glass away to refill it. The booze would go straight to the man’s head after two days with no food, but that was no bad thing. He’d probably only throw it up again, anyway, from what Ryan had just seen. He gave Lester five minutes then went back in the bathroom. Lester was sitting on the lid of the bog, staring down at his shoes, the phone on the floor next to him.
“The answer to your earlier question is apparently not,” Lester said. “No, I don’t appear to be able to undress myself.”
Ryan balanced the whisky glass on the sink and went down on one knee so he could unlace Lester’s shoes and pull them off. He was mildly surprised the kidnappers hadn’t done some damage to his feet, but maybe they’d been working up to it. Once he had Lester’s shoes and socks off, he let the man have another drink of whisky. This time his hands didn’t shake quite so much.
When he’d finished, Ryan turned on the shower and then helped Lester to his feet. It only took a matter of moments to help the man out of his soiled clothes and steer him into the cubicle. The dark bruises that had blossomed on Lester’s abdomen and hips told their own story. It was no wonder the man had been moving so stiffly.
“Did they rape you?” Ryan asked. There was no easy way of asking that sort of question.
Lester shook his head. “The bruises are because I had the temerity to fight back in the van. Nothing’s broken, I can assure you of that. My hand hurts like hell and I’ve got a stinking headache but that’s about all.”
“When did they do that to your nails?”
Lester looked surprised by the question, but replied quickly, “Earlier today. It was still light, but only just. They wanted a few tasty bits of information to drive up the bidding. They hit the middle one with a hammer after sticking the needle in,” he added.
Ryan winced. He was impressed that the man had managed to have the presence of mind to feed them bullshit. Usually when the torture started, the average person would be quite happy to sell their own grandmother down the river to make it stop. Lester was clearly made of somewhat sterner stuff.
The man also seemed surprisingly unconcerned by his nakedness, but maybe that was just a minor indignity after all he’d been through. Lester took another mouthful of whisky and then stepped into the shower cubicle. Ryan bent down to gather up the filthy clothing. He’d no doubt find a bin bag in the immaculate kitchen. The only things worth salvaging were the shoes.
Once the clothes were tidied away, Ryan found a large Bialetti stovetop espresso maker and set it down on the expensive hob. There was ready-ground coffee in a jar on the counter. He doubted Lester would object to it not being freshly-ground, in the circumstances.
Ten minutes later, Ryan had drunk half the coffee and made a short but comprehensive phone call to the DSF. The man had sworn like a docker when he heard about the PM’s apparent change of mind. His instructions were short and to the point: keep Lester alive and let Vincent’s boss smooth things over. Jane Cochrane, the head of MI5, was the sort of woman capable of dealing single-handedly with an alien invasion, so his boss seemed relatively certain of the outcome, but it did leave Ryan wondering what sort of man Lester was if people at that level were willing to potentially put their careers on the line for him. Mind you, if the pundits were to be believed, the PM wasn’t expected to survive the next election, which was already looming on the horizon.
Once the call had ended, Ryan poured the rest of the coffee into a mug and doubled its volume with milk before putting some more on to brew for Lester. It was time to get him out of the shower and take a closer look at what the sods had done to him.
To his surprise, Lester had managed to get out of the shower and was starting to dry himself, but it wasn’t the easiest operation to conduct one-handed, as Ryan had discovered for himself on the occasion someone had seen fit to relieve him of three fingernails on his right hand.
He asked permission with a raised eyebrow and was granted it with a nod of the head. Ryan had the man dried and into a pair of dark green silk pyjamas in less than five minutes. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on the Lester’s lean frame and it looked like he managed to keep himself in good shape. Ryan kept his examination strictly clinical. Lester was right when he’d said the damage to the rest of his body was relatively superficial, but he was going to need a shot of antibiotics in case the needles they’d used under his nails hadn’t been clean. The nails were blackened with dried blood, but only one appeared to be particularly swollen. Ryan knew the best way to deal with that, but whether Lester would let him was another matter.
A pair of warm slippers and a silk dressing gown completed what the well-dressed hostage victim was wearing for London Fashion Week. Lester settled down in a chair in the kitchen and drank a large shot of espresso laced with more whisky. The shower had brought some colour back to his face, and his hands were no longer shaking, so progress was definitely being made.
After the conversation with the DSF, Ryan had gone so far as to lay both the Remington and the MP5 down on a chair next to him in the kitchen, but he kept the SIG holstered on his thigh. He wondered what progress Sam Vincent was making. He took out the small pouch that contained his lock picks and removed a thin drill bit from it.
Lester’s eyes promptly went wide with fear and Ryan cursed himself for not having made his intentions plain.
“We need to release the pressure under that middle nail,” Ryan said. “It won’t hurt, I promise you. The pain relief will be instant.”
Lester raised one elegant eyebrow. It was probably a poor shadow of what he was normally capable of, but it was still effective enough.
Ryan grinned. “I’ve just saved your life, I’m sure you can trust me a bit further. I learnt this trick from a field medic, and it works a treat, I promise you.”
When Lester didn’t protest, Ryan took an antiseptic swap out of the small medical kit he carried as well, along with two heavy-duty pain killers. He pushed them over the table to Lester who promptly washed them down with a mouthful of coffee. His eyes widened again when Ryan dipped the thin piece of steel into what was left of the whisky and then started to burn the alcohol off with a cigarette-lighter. When it was hot enough, he told Lester to look away then held the man’s injured hand down on the table and started to rotate the tip of the drill bit in the middle of Lester’s swollen nail, taking care to stay well away from the quick.
In a matter of moments, he was through the nail and bright red blood started to well out of the hole he’d made. He gently squeezed Lester’s finger to keep the blood flowing, knowing that the intolerable throbbing would have started to subside already.
“Fucking hell,” Lester breathed, having disobeyed Ryan’s instruction and watched the entire procedure.
“I told you it would be OK,” Ryan said, wiping away the blood with another swab. The pressure needed to be released within 24 hours of the initial trauma to make much of a difference and they’d clearly caught it in time. “You might not even lose the nail,” he told him. “But I’d wear a glove when you see your kids, if you don’t want any awkward questions.”
“You don’t know my kids,” Lester said ruefully. “Awkward is their middle name. They take after their mother in that regard.”
“You seem on good terms with your ex-wife,” Ryan commented. It was none of his business, but he wanted to keep Lester’s mind off what had happened to him until the painkillers and the alcohol had started to do their work. The next thing on the agenda would need to be food.
“Marriage of convenience,” Lester said. “She’s happily living with another woman now and we have joint custody of the kids.”
It was Ryan’s turn to look surprised.
Lester laughed, genuine amusement in his eyes. “I wondered what it would take to make you do a double-take, Ryan.”
The sat in companionable silence and then Ryan said, “I’m going to make a couple of omelettes. I saw some mushrooms and cheese in your fridge. How does that sound?”
“Like something I could eat one-handed,” Lester acknowledged.
He wolfed down the omelette as soon as Ryan put it in front of him, and after half an hour, it even looked like it might stay down, so Ryan made another one. That went down in double-quick time as well.
“Bed,” he said half an hour later. “You’ve had fuck-all sleep for nearly three days.” Before Lester had time to object, Ryan added, “I told you before, you can trust me. By the time you wake up, I should have heard from Sam Vincent.”
The pills, the whisky and the relief from pain did their work. Lester was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, lines of exhaustion etched deeply on thin cheeks masked by three days’ growth of stubble.
Ryan poured himself more coffee and settle down in the living room to await Sam Vincent’s call.
*****
At 7.30am Ryan’s mobile vibrated in his pocket.
He swiped the screen to accept the call and heard Sam Vincent say, “It’s all fine. Jane’s worked her magic. The whole thing’s been swept under the carpet. Your boy’s safe now. Job well done, Ryan, thanks.”
“What’s so important about this guy?” Ryan asked quietly.
“He’s fucking good at what he does,” Vincent replied. “And he’s as straight as a die.” Vincent paused a moment and added, “Well, as far as work goes, anyway. See you around, Ryan. It looks like we’ve all lived to fight another day.”
Ryan stared thoughtfully at the phone screen after Vincent had cut the call.
It looked very much like all was well that ended well.
A noise in the doorway made him look up. Lester was standing there, freshly-shaved, damp hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in a green cashmere sweater – the man clearly liked green – worn over a pair of expensive-looking black jeans. The understated sartorial elegance was somewhat spoiled by the somewhat battered pair of slippers on bare feet, but overall, it was still an impressive transformation.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked calmly.
“Everything’s fine,” Ryan said with perfect truth.
Lester smiled. “Thank you. In return for saving my life, what would you say to dinner at the best Italian restaurant in London? Poor reward, I know, but Giovanni makes the most wonderful pasta outside Naples, and his tiramisu has been known to reduce grown men to tears.” There was an unaccustomed hesitancy in the man’s voice, despite the lightness of his tone.
Ryan returned the smile. “Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Now all he had to do was find a way of checking his weapons back in, delivering his report and buying a change of clothes.
Compared to what he’d already achieved, that should all be a piece of piss.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 06:58 pm (UTC)“And he’s as straight as a die.” Vincent paused a moment and added, “Well, as far as work goes, anyway.
*double-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee*
A pair of warm slippers and a silk dressing gown completed what the well-dressed hostage victim was wearing for London Fashion Week
LOL!
Just loved Ryan having to undress him, all the vomiting, the flat generally, and Ryan on his knee, of course. Sooo glad you wrote this, it is the perfect companion for any Lester/Ryan universe.
no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 07:08 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you like it! That story was crying out for a prequel and it was a pleasure to oblige.
no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 07:52 pm (UTC)It's been a brilliant story.
Now hot shagging please?
*makes puppy eyes*
no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 08:11 pm (UTC)*g*
If I can remember how to write smut, I'll see what I can do :)
no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 12:48 pm (UTC)“And he’s as straight as a die.” Vincent paused a moment and added, “Well, as far as work goes, anyway. Sneaky Vincent.
Ouch for the drill-through-nail bit.
*purrs*
no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-03 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 04:58 pm (UTC)Gorgeous fic.
Lester's flat sounds amazing! I want a that flat!
no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-07 04:34 am (UTC)but it did leave Ryan wondering what sort of man Lester was if people at that level were willing to potentially put their careers on the line for him
Mmmmmmmm. Niiiiice.
“And he’s as straight as a die.” Vincent paused a moment and added, “Well, as far as work goes, anyway.
*snicker*
So much said with so few words...
Delightful.
no subject
Date: 2015-08-07 07:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-14 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-14 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 09:01 pm (UTC)