Cavorting with the Devil [Mi&Arthur]

[Arthur Kirkland]

It’s been two years of walking through those doors, and it still hasn’t quite lost its effect. There was the tension, the slow approach of anticipation. His fear and the thrill brushing beneath his skin was always carefully contained, fear of the unknown, for what this moment would hold for him—how he was going to keep playing this distasteful, delectable game, dancing this dangerous dance, and flirting so close to the edge and yet not quite beneath the threat of falling. At least not yet. Perhaps he hadn’t quite outlived his usefulness, or perhaps there was a certain pity that would trudge along with him being forever wiped from the face of this corrupt city and the politicians that it held. Whatever the case, Arthur was going to take each day with a measure of caution without ignoring his own taste for an appeal toward recklessness. It was a recklessness that constantly challenged whatever higher power existed in this universe, if it was willing to take him or if it wasn’t through playing its wicked game with him as its mere pawn.

Arthur’s visits to Mr. Collins’s office were usually ones of business—‘business’ being taken very liberally. He would enter through those doors of grandeur, within those walls of secrecy and immaculate glass, steel, and wood: cold materials. Nothing ever felt real here. And perhaps that’s why he was more cautious than usual whenever he ventured to meet with Michael, to slip into the part of the building where he would briefly slip out of his own role. His dress was one of business casual, edging more on the business side with his button down and tie beneath the softness of his sweater vest and coat. The winter chill was fast approaching and everyone seemed to be pulling out their coats, scarves, and boots. A edge of Arthur’s mouth was slightly chapped, both from rather consistently gnawing on it during the workday and moistening it whenever his mouth felt too dry. He could taste the chill and a hint of iron from the inside of his lip as he entered within Michael Collin’s secretary’s line of sight.

The secretary glanced over him, an expression of recognition and acknowledgement before going back to her work. Arthur was a common-enough sight there. And he was sure that she knew exactly what went on within those immaculate, not-quite-soundless walls—if she had not been a victim of it herself. Normally, she would tell him to wait until she had notified Mr. Collins of his visitor, but instead she informed Arthur that he wasn’t in his office, but would be shortly enough. Otherwise, she seemed rather uninterested in the other man's presence in the empty waiting room and went back to finishing her work. Ignoring decorum, as he’s wont to do with anything related to that office, Arthur slipped down the corridor, knowing this length of the building better than most until he reached the office doors. He straightened his jacket, almost in mock courtesy, with a very small curling of his cynical mouth, before he made his way inside.

It was easy to slip inside and a quick glance about the office told him that the secretary wasn’t lying. Truly empty. Though for how long it would remain that way was a mystery. He always found the place to be rather detached, impersonal—perhaps that’s what made it easier to become detached from a filth-ridden career. Arthur approached the large desk, his fingers trailing along the edge, like fingertips caressing a lover, the texture of the wood familiar beneath his fingernails from having blindly grasped at it in the past. As he circled the desk, he vaguely wondered if he’d ever left marks behind on the soft wood. It would be a shame to ruin such a lovely piece of furniture. But then again, Arthur didn’t doubt that if his presence was branded on the wood in some form or another, and that his wasn't the only one.

His eyes trailed over toward the black computer screen, the file cabinet and the drawers that likely held a great number of things that his eyes were never meant to graze over. Or perhaps it wouldn’t matter—Michael was always a careful man, at least Arthur took him for one after knowing him quite intimately for a number of volatile years. Finishing his curious saunter around the desk, he made it to the front of it, carefully setting down his papers to the side of it before leaning back against the polished surface, half seated, and waiting patiently. His palms were leisurely pressed against the surface on each side of him, fingers curling slightly against the wood—that familiar sensation bound with hints of desire and loathing. The click of the door as it opened broke the silence. His attention focused forward and that same peculiar curling of his mouth touched his expression again, that same mock politeness, not at all hiding the slightly humoured sarcasm beneath as he spoke. ”Your secretary was occupied, so I entertained myself with your impeccable security.” It wasn’t too common, but also not uncommon for Arthur to occasionally find his way into Michael’s office if others weren’t paying too much attention to it. Perhaps, then, it warranted the small intrusion.

[Mihai Chimet]

Before he'd left university, he never would have considered that such a large part of work–anyone's work–involved meetings. Meetings with coworkers, meeting with officials, meetings with the press. He'd been in and out for the most part of the morning, circles under his eyes and relying on caffeine to keep himself from glaring too harshly at anyone. Most of his coworkers had realized that his cooperation was best attained in the later hours of the day, but the higher-ups and the media didn't like to wait, and as much sway as he had, the unfortunate fact was that there were others with more. And so he'd been scheduled for most of the morning (as his secretary had said, "with much regret"), and he'd made the movements he needed with a plastered-on smile as natural as he could fake it, making sure that none of his answers were too acerbic for anyone's taste. It was all just part of the game, and he would play it whether he wanted or not. At least for awhile longer.

As inevitable as that contemplation was, it was still a relief to step back into his own office, a new cup of coffee in his hand and no appointments on the horizon. The drab, grey hallways weren't home, certainly not, but it did promise some time alone for replenishing his patience for whatever visitors and calls might chance upon him the rest of the day. Hence, he was disconcerted when his secretary greeted, then stopped him. She informed him that he'd been sought by Arthur Kirkland, who wanted him for "some business or another, which he didn't bother to share with me." As was expected. Arthur was one of his contacts for the MI6, after all (meaning they sent him whenever the data wasn't important enough to send someone higher, but which still needed a human hand to guard it), and the MI6 were secretive bastards. The number of times he'd needed to use underhanded ways to obtain the information he wanted was fast approaching the number of times he'd submitted an official request and had it met with any response other than rejection.

Mihai acknowledged her with a nod and a word of thanks, confirming that he would meet Arthur whenever he decided to show up again. "If he hasn't already decided to let himself in," he tacked on quietly, to himself. More than enough people had developed the bad habit of letting themselves into his office (or house or whichever other private place of their choosing) that he'd ceased to be very much concerned by it. He'd simply found another place to store those documents he absolutely could not have anyone else reading (and those were few and far between), and let the rest do as they pleased. After all, even if he didn't completely trust them, they were sensible enough to know that he had a few secrets of their own up his sleeve (and he cared little about what secrets of the state happened to be leaked, as long as it didn't interfere with his own business).

With a light push, his office door clicked and swung open smoothly, revealing the interior of the room–and his company. He remained in the doorway for a moment, resting his shoulder against the frame as his eyes traced the way Arthur leaned against his desk, his fingers curling around its edge. This would probably go the way it usually did, Mihai thought. Not that he would have any objections, if that were the case; Arthur was hardly bad company (nor bad for anything else), despite his subtle and not-undeserved reservations around Mihai.

"I'm glad to see you've made yourself at home," he replied in the same dry tone, "though Nadia wasn't so occupied she couldn't tell you I wasn't in at the moment." His voice held more archness than reproach, but he did wish people wouldn't make it more difficult for his secretary to do her job. With a small shrug, he left the doorway, shutting the door behind him, and stepped around to the other side of the desk. The new documents on its surface were taken in with a quick glance, then his eyes went back to Arthur. He settled into his chair and took a sip of his coffee before asking. "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Kirkland?" he asked, the formality of the words betrayed by his relaxed, casual posture.

Formality between them was a lost cause anyhow, and had become so years ago when he'd first met Arthur in an underground ring of criminals. Certainly, the fact that Mihai had been the one to turn its members over for arrest had rather put an obstacle in their relationship, but it had been somehow surpassed during their following acquaintanceship; forced, on the part of Arthur, to serve the MI6. Mihai wagered it was actually a fairly good deal on Arthur's part–god knows the rest of his compatriots were rotting away in prison cells–but Arthur would certainly not appreciate hearing that from him. And it wasn't any of his business anyway, but he had to admit he held a great deal of curiousity towards the extent of Arthur's feelings towards the government–and whether that was something that could be used.

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Arthur Kirkland