#harkcr

Clark was not a comforting presence by any means, but he was a steady one. A RELIABLE one. For better or worse, the cambion was usually the last left to turn to and lean upon.

So, he stood there quietly with his blank look of nothing in particular and let the vampire stumble and choke over his words with no real coherent end in sight. He did not sneer, he did not console, he simply existed there to be spoken at until Jeremy stumbled off towards the bathroom.

Satisfied with an cut and dry signal that the interaction had ended, he moved off to get busy with the very tasks he'd set for himself. The first was to leave a mismatched pair of casual loungewear outside the door. Clark did not often have company over to his personal residence, but there had been enough it seemed for him to have a small hoard of leftover items he now used as spares for any other houseguests that found their way through his doors.

The sun-proofing was double-checked and, finally, Clark put in a voicemail for some contact he seemed to have at a local donation clinic-—leaving nothing more than a: 'I'm calling in my favor. Call me back when you receive this, please.'

“Mycroft…”

Jeremy realised he’d been standing in his office doorway, staring, for almost ten seconds. His grip tightened, briefly, on the door handle, before he started forward, adjusting his tie with a sharp little motion. He could already feel the tips of his ears reddening– a habit he thought he’d trained himself out of at uni.

“Christ. What on earth are you–”

There was something…jarring…in seeing an old friend at such close quarters. Mycroft had aged at last, adding lines to what had always been a baby faced youthfulness, but it was still him, still Mycroft. Jeremy briefly wondered how badly he’d fared in the twenty-or-so years since they’d last met, and decided not to entertain that particular thought.

Convention told him to shake the man’s hand– to march forward with all the clipped politeness of any governmental meeting– to affect everything the last two decades had taught him. But something small and hard at the base of Jeremy’s throat refused to do it.

Part of him wanted to be angry, wanted nothing to do with this old face from an old, forgotten time. But another part– a much, much earlier part– suddenly bristled with surprised delight.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Oh look, Jeremy’s ears still did the thing where they went red. How very amusing. Mycroft had thought that perhaps the other man may have grown out of the habit, but he certainly was not complaining to see otherwise. It was almost tempted to allow a fond smile onto his lips but, despite the past between them, he kept his expression under control - cold and steeled, very much the man of ice that his reputation demanded of him.

Mycroft was still on the fence about whether or not he appreciated working with the Jonathan Harker Foundation. On one hand, it was delightful to see how his old friend had grown up. Jeremy (Murray now, apparently) had ditched those ridiculous outfits that he used to wear in favour of a far more respectable suit. More importantly, that stupid red hair was gone too. 

However, on the other hand, this was an old friend - somebody that knew far too much about Mycroft. Reminding Jeremy of his existence risked having the other man talk about that past - though, if he were to do so, he would be risking Mycroft do the same in return.

He shook the offered  hand, perfectly polite and with little hint of former familiarity. “I represent the interests of the British nation. You should have been expecting me,” Mycroft informed the other.

Truth be told, he only took the role for himself because of his previous connection to Jeremy. It was something that he could have easily handed over to somebody else and kept an eye on from afar, but it seemed to him the JHF could do with all the help it could get and, well, Jeremy had meant something to him at one point in time...

Ever since her unceremonious incarceration, Donna had been a less than cooperative prisoner. Not a peep had slipped past her veiled lips no matter how often her caretakers tried to coax her. Neither food nor promise of reward could move her. The woman’s moods were obvious despite the silent treatment. Sullen, aggressive, anxious, spiteful, childish. Fists balled and square shoulders hunched. Pacing. Cowering. She had already been sedated twice. The first was for taking to the wooden writing desk with her teeth. The second was to stop her splitting her own head open as she bashed it against her prison. This lack of control soured her disposition further. Curled on her cot, Angie doll clutched tightly to her breast, unmoving bar the rise and fall of her chest.

As artificial lights and stale recycled air signalled dawn, the host would discover something new. Donna was seated cross legged on the floor facing her shining cage. She leaned forward, veil billowing as she misted the glass with her breath, a pointed index finger tracing squeaking shapes in the surface. Her head lilted slightly at their approach, and against all hopes, she spoke. Her voice the dry, cold rasp of those unused to talking. 

“I spy with my little eye.... something beginning with...”

A hollow thunk, the pad of her finger slamming against the wall with enough force to echo across the chamber.

In a perverse sense, this was what she’d always wanted. To be displayed and admired for how truly special she was.  Countess Alcina Dimitrescu loathed it. It felt a little too on-the-nose, a little too much like poetic justice.  Her gloved hands traced the lancing cuts in the glass where she’d skirted her claws over it, to no avail but the sickly feeling of her nails moving in her fingers. These old claws of hers had cut metal like it was butter. Lady Dimitrescu was, in a word, stolen.  Of course, she didn’t look like a prisoner (and how strange to say that!  She was always the torturess, never the tortured). Make-up was a little blurrier, because she had kept it on for days - no sweat and no exterior living tissue meant that make-up, when applied well, could stay through several sleeps. Her clothes and signature hat were arranged beautifully. One wouldn’t think that only days prior, she’d screamed blue murder and even - though she was loathe to admit it, for it bruised her pride - hurt herself a little battling against this infernal glass. Endless, thick glass. Her tantrum had lasted only a minute, but she felt sick at the idea of some little pervert having video footage of her at anything less than her manicured self. It was all brought on by the way they’d left her on the floor. No bed. A too-small chair. An interrogation room. And, of course, she couldn’t damn well stand in it. It was too short. As each day passed, she etched a little notch into the wall, and said hello to her guard. Each day she planned a new way for them to die by her hand. Until then, the armed guard would provide a lovely confirmation that yes, indeed, this was a new day. A LADY OUGHT MAINTAIN HER SENSE OF ORDER,   she heard a voice through memory she hadn’t heard in a long time. Her finishing school’s headmistress, perhaps? She couldn’t quite recall. In any case, it was sound advice. She was the very picture of elegance and calm. Whilst she was a woman used to being waited on hand and foot, Alcina had been patient before about her goals. She could be again. The notches numbered three - her eyes were heavy with desire to rest, but she knew the implications of sleeping on a cold floor like a dog. Like a little servant, with nothing in the world to hold to. It was such an impossibly untoward thing to expect of her. She would sleep when she had a bed. Her goals? Reveal nothing - nothing about her creation, about Mother Miranda, or most importantly about her children. Sponge in information: eventually, a name would drop. She needed only to poke long enough to discover who it was that funded this little enterprise, and buy them off. Quite a lot of money for someone clearly very dedicated, she thought, miserably. But it was clear this institution didn’t exist for her. It predated her. Surely. Surely?  Just then a door sounded, and her golden eyes snapped  to attention. All nine foot six inches of Countess Alcina Dimitrescu shifted slightly, sitting more steadily onto the table, so as to be poised. Austere. Beautiful.  “Well, well. If it isn’t the hideous little manthing that abducted me.” Her voice was confident, warm with a sharp undertone. Her temper was flaring already, but it was of no matter. She would take this hideous situation in stride as everyone had always needed her to do, and she would travel back to the ungrateful Lords, probably laughing in Romania that she’d suffered the indignity of capture. Heisenberg would have a field day, hooting and hollering and no doubt do a mime joke, once he heard of this glass box foolishness. Miranda would be frustrated with her. Moreau would stammer out an apology for existing. Donna would be silent.  Her daughters? Violently, she cast that from her mind. It wasn’t time to think of them yet. Not until she was sure she’d live. “You have taken your time. Scared? Of little me?” Her faux-sweetness dripped with venom. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we.” Oh, she was tired indeed. Her beloved pleasantries were being skipped. Manthings didn’t deserve her manners anyway. The Lady threw back her head, black curls in tow. Her chin stayed high, her hat stayed angled just so. She valued appearances more than perhaps any other defence. Throughout this all she intended to retain her dignity. And then? She’d slaughter them. She would gorge herself bloated and drunk on their blood. It was only a matter of time. “I have a list of needs before I’ll speak. Should anyone enter my domain for any reason other than supplying my demands, I shall defend myself, as any innocent woman might do.”  While the term ‘innocent woman’ rang false even to her ear, it got the point across well enough: she did not deserve to be here. Her freakish height was the concrete block around her neck, as ever. Even if she’d lived a life of good, which she’d simply had too much fun to have done, she’d be the bloody steak to some organization, hoping to catch their first prey. And did they not understand?  She was  meant to be hunting them.  Rude. So terribly rude.

        Ask Box Trick-or-Treat

        * * *

Jeremy shot the man a glare over the top of his newspaper. The train car was almost completely empty now, save for them both-- forced by circumstance if not willingness to share a table seat during the earlier rush-- and an old lady up near the doors. Jeremy had been studiously ignoring his seat partner all the way from Ealing, content to stew in his own exhaustion and bubbling irritation all the way to London Bridge.

He set the paper down with care, flashing Adam the bright brittle smile of a man fully prepared to inflict himself upon unsuspecting members of the public.

“My day was, as it undoubtedly always is,” he replied. “A complete fucking nightmare.”

“Although funnily enough, I don’t recall requesting a nice little chat at the end of it.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last time, too.” 

It had taken Adam a while to recognise him, mostly because of the newspaper he was hiding behind like any sensible commuter who didn’t have a smart phone to check would. He’d even taken the time to double check on his BlackBerry because as much as Adam didn’t give a shit what other people thought of him even he wasn’t immune to the golden rule of London’s public transport system: no eye contact and, for God’s sake, no small talk. 

{ meme } | accepting