Recent Posts

Tag: Alfred F. Jones

Words: 1769

Notes: wow, please do not match this word count. went a little crazy. orz

Arthur had a late assignment the night before, gathering intel in a dodgy location of East London. As such, he had been wearing nondescript, casual clothing. He wanted to be just another face in a sea of people that evening. The issue was, Arthur had rather distinct features that were easy to remember, from his thick brows to his messy, pale fringe set sharply against them. Whenever he was on missions, particularly ones where he needed to be incredibly self-aware in a dangerous situation, he felt so stone cold. More so than usual. Locking away any feelings, any sensations someplace deep, in temporary limbo, while the rest of him simply adapted, wore fake expressions, and sleekly skimmed his way passed every barrier that stood between him and his objective. It was only after obtaining copies of computer important files and sliding the paper thin storage device in a secure place along the lining of his coat that he began to feel the slow thawing of his work persona. After he handed these files over to another agent, whom was given a different assignment than him with them, Arthur noticed just how late it had gotten. It was still evening, but the sun had completely gone, only the night sky and the light pollution from the city below remained, giving everything an odd orange-yellow glow.

He didn’t feel like he’d been thawing quickly enough, he decided after taking a rather brisk walk down the street. His gaze next landed on the location that he’d probably been subconsciously walking towards, one of the inner city bars that he occasionally came to after a particularly rigid day. Arthur found himself craving the only thing he ever really craved when it came time to head home to an empty flat immediately after an intense, emotionless mission: warmth. Even if it was artificial, even if it meant he had to pretend that it was the real thing for those brief moments, if only to feel a little more human and less like a mechanical drone who occasionally had his chain yanked by the organisation lording over him.

Opening the bar doors brought an immediate rush of noise, glass clinking, conversations, and laughter. Arthur found an empty stool at the bar where he ordered a double shot of his favourite whiskey. The false warmth was immediate and he could finally feel himself relax, that icy persona falling away from him, like shedding an old coat. Arthur was a rather revealing drunk at times; the liquor stripped away those barriers with heated fingers, leaving behind something much softer that few people ever really got the chance to see, a whisper of the man he might have been if his choices had been different earlier in life. His smile came a little easier, the warmth a little more accessible behind his eyes, and his words far bolder and smoother on his tongue. It was in that state that he noticed him. A very attractive man sitting across from him, far enough away for him to glance the man over without being noticed (at least, as far as Arthur was concerned), but close enough to appreciate the details.

He downed the rest of his whiskey before ordering another, along with an additional drink to be delivered to the man sitting across from him. Normally, he wasn’t this bold. Normally, he’d buy his drink and mind his own business. But before his mind, quite inhibited at the moment, could catch up to him in any capacity, he’d taken his freshly ordered drink and slid into the bar stool right next to the stranger just as the bartender finished mixing the additional drink for said man. Only then did he hear the man’s accent: American. Arthur tried his hand at drunken flirting, and he could only guess that he wasn’t half bad at it if the man hadn’t left. What they talked about had been about nothing in particular, where the man was from, his experiences in London so far. Arthur, likewise, offered very little about himself, but the harmless, silly topics were endless.

After he finished his next double shot, the memories blurred together. At some point, Arthur drew a little closer to him, made some stupid flirtatious joke, and Arthur’s warm fingers brushed against his when he reached for his nearly empty glass. He tried to order another, but didn’t remember it ever being delivered to him. No matter. His attention was now more on the man. Hands wandered a bit more an Arthur’s lowered words as he leaned over toward the mysterious man grew more suggestive and teasing. It was like something had possessed him, a charming and warm intruder whose sole purpose was to eventually pull the man into his flat and have his decadent way with him. The details were a blur, but Arthur remembered very nearly slipping the strange man his name before he left the bar, teasing instead that the man would have to learn it by coming to the same bar the same time tomorrow night.

Before slipping back into his jacket, Arthur dropped slurred, lilted words into the man’s ear, fingers brushing along the back of the lovely stranger's bar stool, “...welcome to London.”

...

His head pulsed the next morning.

His mouth tasted cotton dry as Arthur half slid out of his bed, wearing only his wrinkled button down and briefs, laying miserably on the hardwood floor of his flat with half the sheets wrapped tightly around his form. ”Fuuuck. What the hell is wrong with me…” he murmured against the cotton, sounding like a man on his last wretched leg. Only flashes of memory came back after his last double shot and he only felt that much more of a git. Drinking before a busy day at work was not all that usual for him. The drinking part; however, not so unusual.

Eventually, he pulled his way out from his tangled bed sheets and eventually into the shower, his hair a royal mess, far messier than usual. His headache began to subside after drinking copious amounts of black tea and a few painkillers. Glancing up at the mirror over his sink, he could see that he cleaned up well, looking less like a man who was trying to hide the fact that he was slightly hungover. Slightly.

The commute to work was torment, with the excessive noises and the universe apparently decided to torture him further with an unusually sunny morning for London. It wasn’t until he was at the elevators within the building that housed the M16 operatives that he rubbed tenderly at his temples. Upon reaching his floor, it was only when he spotted Agent Thompson walking across the offices toward one of the meeting rooms that he remembered today was the day that he would be receiving his assigned partner from the CIA.

An internal groan resounded. Not that Arthur necessarily minded the concept of partners, but like most agents, he preferred to work alone. Maybe the seasoned CIA agent would take one look at him, seeing how young (and quite possible how slightly hungover) he was, and immediately request a transfer. Arthur was expecting some crusty old bloke as stuck in his ways as an old mutt, his thoughts rummaging through possible scenarios, while he took a moment in his own office to straighten his tie and pull at the small wrinkles his shirt. Taking another sip of his strong tea, he left his office when someone came to collect him.

As soon as Arthur entered the small conference room, he first noticed Agent Thompson speaking with… that's right, the enigmatic, lovely man from the bar last night. Normally Arthur was very good at keeping his reactions to himself, but this was the definition of the insane workings of the universe, and he couldn’t help but to stare at the man. And yes, being sober didn't make him any less attractive than the night before. Damn him.

Agent Thompson introduced them and Arthur broke out of his brief trance, embarrassment, curiosity, interest, mortification, and brief hints of some of the same heated intrigue that he’d felt with the stranger the night before all bundled into a storm of feeling in his body, though the embarrassment spoke the loudest. He immediately went into professional mode and reached over to shake the man’s hand, delivering a firm, decisive shake. ”Agent Jones, a pleasure. It’s good to finally put a face to the name.” Or in this case, a name to the face.

Agent Thompson excused himself from the room, leaving the two agents alone. Arthur could already feel his face becoming warm, and sure enough, pink was dusting his cheeks. He cleared his throat slightly. ”I’m sure you’ve already been briefed that the purpose of this arrangement is to maintain close relationships between our two agencies—“ perhaps a bit too close and personal in this case, ”—in light of that, it would be redundant to say that given how agents tend to be rather particular and stubborn with the way that they like to do their job, I believe in being rather flexible in a partnership, so that neither of us feels restricted by the other’s approach.” That was the most important piece of information that he wanted to get across, but while doing so, he studied the face of the man he was going to be working with for an indefinite amount of time. Agents were good at reading people, and he more or less expected Alfred to do the same with him. Only… Arthur’s attention briefly wandered, still recalling the liquored details of last night. How his fingers had brushed along Alfred’s back and had once landed somewhere along his thigh in the middle of drinking. The touch warm, fingertips moving along the seam of his trousers. The colour in his face darkened. God, this was off-putting. He needed to concentrate.

”Would you like a brief tour of the place before we delve any further?” Now, Arthur broke a little from his formality and his lips curved slightly before adding, ”Not that there’s too much to see—just a rigid old building filled with rigid men stuffed in rigid suits.” Unless you’re into that sort of thing—stop! ”But it houses its secrets. Probably not as well as it should, being dubbed as London’s worst kept secret back when this location was ‘classified.’” The dry amusement flickered in Arthur's expression, thinking back when he’d been very much against organisations and buildings such as this. Quite passionately and dangerously so. He could house his secrets far more closely. Arthur’s hands found their way into his pockets, now shedding the air of formality for the time being. ”So, how do you like London so far?” Again, that ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Let me guess, not what you were quite expecting; it leaves much to be desired?"

MADE BY KIROUKO OF GANGNAM-STYLE