Title: Things That Go Bump in the Night
Author: LadyNRA
Rating: T - just in case. Not sure if I'll do any further chapters.
Spoilers: Nothing that fans don't know already
Characters: Artie
Genre: Adventure (more or less)
Disclaimer: The producers and Syfy may own it but Artie is just too much fun to keep tucked inside the Warehouse, so I set him free for a while.
Summary: A peek into Artie's past.
Author's Note: This started out as a writing exercise purely to give my muse some exercise and was never intended to be a 'story'. So like the true "Pantser" that I am, I started and just ran with it. Then I finished and realized I had not only given it an ending but left it open-ended for more if the inspiration hit.
THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
By Lady NRA
Stifling a massive groan due to screaming back muscles, Artie Nielsen glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were purplish circles forming under his eyes from far too little sleep and entirely too much exertion. Slowly, he dragged the razor over his four day growth of stubble, barely noting the crinkly noises the blade made as it passed over his skin. Struggling for increased concentration, he trimmed the edges of his goatee and angled down to do the same on his throat.
White shave cream still clung here and there by the time he was done but at least he didn't look like a bum anymore. Quickly he toweled it off.
Once more he thought about their previous mission. It had been a real bear and kept him and his partner not only on their toes physically, but mentally as well. Personally, he didn't care if he got results quickly and efficiently, or slowly and sloppily, as long he got home in one piece. Dealing with the 'garbage' he faced on an almost daily basis never guaranteed a happy outcome, but, knock on wood, he'd survived so far. And that was why he always forced a weak smile when thrusting the collected item into his supervisor's hands, goo filled pail and all. Heaven knew he never wanted his boss to see how unhappy he was. The man seemingly lived to make others unhappy and Artie didn't want to end up the object of his special attention.
However, the last assignment had taken far longer than anyone anticipated. A seemingly possessed pogo stick was pummeling innocent kids. Worse, it had a distinct dislike for any adult unfortunate enough to open their garage doors. As soon as daylight hit the interior of the garage, the seriously unbalanced pogo stick would drive right into the torsos of anyone standing silhouetted by the sunlight. That had resulted in several broken bones and a few cases of internal hemorrhaging. Believed to be possessed by a demon, the thing was going through a series of trash heaps, garbage trucks, and even one malicious re-gifting. And someone always ended up taking it home.
It wasn't the spawn of Satan inside that thing, Artie knew after reading the file. It had been an artifact for sure. His gut was never wrong about these things. Unfortunately it had changed hands a sufficient number of times, making the origin nearly impossible to determine. Like a good many artifacts that passed into his hands, he assumed he never would know what made it do the things it did. He'd learned he wasn't always going to find answers, although, Lord knew he tried anyway and that alone made him content.
What he wasn't content with, in general, was the thought that he had so little leisure time. He was either heading back to the Warehouse to drop off his cargo, or to collect another assignment. Then there was the brief time spent cleaning up and crashing into a bed at Wanda's B&B. Despite the fact that he traveled all over the world, he realized, as he looked into the bloodshot eyes reflecting back at him, that he hadn't been 'outside' purely for fun in more days than he could count.
Silently, but surely, he was growing more agitated with his workload. The smarmy smugness of his partner didn't help matters. James was always…well…James. He seemingly had no hot button. Never lost his calm, never lost his temper. A model Agent. He was also the only man in the organization who could pull one over on the supervisor everyone else referred to not-so-affectionately as Der Fűhrer.
Like Hitler, Ed Donaldson ran the Warehouse like any good despot ran a small army, constantly bellowing orders, gesticulating wildly, spitting when he talked, and pacing when he was upset. That pacing was the reason why the Persian rug in the office had a noticeably worn furrow down the center of it.
Artie had once marveled aloud that the carpet was only a year old and already needed replacing. Unfortunately for him, Der Fuhrer must have heard the comment, because the very first vacation day he'd had in weeks was spent boarding a plane for Iran under orders to buy a new rug. Artie's more semitic appearance might have made him less noticeable than others in the country but it was still a place hostile to foreigners and particularly to Jews, especially when said Jewish foreigners didn't speak a word of Farsi. He'd managed to complete the assignment in one piece. And he was still angry about it.
Artie frowned at his reflection again, grimacing as he brushed his teeth, spending the next few minutes pleasurably engrossed in imagining a multitude of ways to make the little weasel squirm. But, as always, he dropped those thoughts as he walked out the bathroom door. Donaldson was not only his boss but also his 'jailer'. Artie couldn't leave his job, unless he died. That was his penance for his 'crime', to serve the Warehouse for life or until a mishap with an artifact took that life. Mrs. Frederic had made that abundantly clear when she'd first showed up at the jail to collect him and several times thereafter inside the structure that had since become his place of employment. He'd mournfully lamented his loss of "freedom" even as he was grateful to not be in a cell with some tattooed biker named Bubba.
Throughout his period of adjustment, the ferret population had grown exponentially. The wishing pot loved him. And loved making ferrets for him and those ferrets then loved each other. Eventually it reached a point where Mrs. Frederic had regretfully called in specialists to trap the animals and promptly hidden the pot in an escape-proof environment.
Putting those thoughts behind him, Artie trudged down the stairs, hearing the oak flooring creaking with each step.
"Time for more exercise, Arthur!" James MacPherson purred in his British accent, making the offending words actually sound pleasant to the ears.
Unable to control his reaction, Artie automatically looked down at the protruding stomach that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his physique. The extra pounds had a vice grip around his middle despite his restraint during diets and the level of energy he expending during exercise.
"Give it a rest, James," Artie replied, trying to sound less surly than he actually was, but he noted the smirk grow on James' face. The man had poked him with a figurative rapier, drawn a tiny drop of invisible blood, and openly gloated.
"Why? My day is not complete unless I get at least one growl out of you. But since I've already succeeded, ah well, I'll let it rest. Tsk, tsk by the way," he glanced down at the pocket watch he always carried, "and before 8 a.m. no less, I suppose I can…how do you say it? Cut you some slack? At least until lunch time."
He sat down at the table, where a variety of fruits and scones were laid out, along with an urn of coffee, all neatly placed on a flowery and immaculate table cloth. James picked up a napkin and with a flourish, flicked it open, then lay it daintily across his lap. Waving genteelly at one of the other empty chairs, he smiled and said, "Truce?"
Hesitating, Artie studied his partner's expression. The smile on MacPherson's face didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did. But he was too famished to refuse. Sadly his hunger had been increased by some nameless agitation and that didn't begin to peter out until he'd finished his second scone and second cup of coffee.
As he peeled a banana, he pondered the decision to pair him up with James and it continued to boggle Artie's mind nearly every waking moment they were together. They were as different as night and day, both physically and temperamentally. They were the classic Odd Couple, his Mutt to James' Jeff. And still, Mrs. Frederic kept them together because they complimented each other. One's strength was the other's weakness and vice versa. Their retrieval record was the best of any Warehouse team in decades. And they'd succeeded in surviving through it all despite their occasional efforts to 'kill' each other. Like two brothers, they might have beaten each other up but would fight tooth and nail to protect each other from the enemy. And they had a common villain, or multiple villains to be more accurate, in the form of artifacts, objects that would maim or even kill their owners. To date, the artifacts were always forced to surrender.
James never seemed to fear failure, Artie almost always did. Well, perhaps that wasn't the problem. In reality, he tended to stress over having circumstances taking control away from him. He loved the quick and tidy retrievals that went according to plan or second best, the ones he was overly prepared for. But James loved throwing caution to the wind. And Artie was growing tired of dealing with James' recklessness. The previous mission had been a prime example. The snag had grown into a series of monumental failures, hence the four day trip. MacPherson positively glowed with glee as adrenalin surged. Artie cringed and mentally rehearsed all the facts and reviewed inventory to help him achieve a swift capture. And lately, there had been too many close calls. And too many uncomfortable conversations, mostly having to do with how artifacts could be used to help others.
If there was one thing Artie was certain of, it was that no artifact could be totally safe, and most were never safe under any circumstances. He turned an evil eye on his partner.
"We seriously need to have a little parlay," Artie bit out, trying to hide the depth of his anger.
James slid back against his chair and clasped both long-fingered hands in front of him, allowing them rest against his lean stomach. He rubbed the flat plane of his torso a second later as if to emphasis the difference between them. Another dig, Artie was certain. Both eyebrows beetled but he forced himself to relax.
Finally James spoke softly. "Fine, Arthur, spit it out. I'm not in the mood to hear you beat around the bush."
"Yesterday you almost got us killed. And the day before that and the day before that…"
James raised a hand up to flick away the concern. "Nonsense. Par for the course with artifacts. Nature of the job and all that."
This time the furry brows settled into a flat straight line. "Nature of the job, my ass!" He fought to control his volume. "You jump into each retrieval like it's a big game. A game you can't lose."
The answer surprised Artie. "Oh come now. It is a game. Us against the artifact. A new challenge each time. And we always win."
"For now. You're conveniently forgetting the rather long list of agents who didn't win. They are in graves all over the country. Or in asylums, or gone. Just gone." He sighed as if that thought was worse than the thought of death itself. "You need to slow down and think things through. Not rush into it like you're Superman. The man of steel is invincible, you are not and neither am I!"
A big yawn issued out of MacPherson's covered mouth. "Boring," he said in a sing-song voice.
"Deadly," Artie reinforced his point.
"You only live once, Arthur," James chided. "Carpe diem, and all that."
"Look, I promise to lay flowers on your grave if that'll make you happy. But I'll ask for a new partner before it gets that far. I don't want to end up spending eternity next to you!"
MacPherson laughed at that. "Touché." He threw a hand in surrender. "I promise to be more cautious, but only if you pledge to live a little, get a little joy from the challenge."
"No, there is no joy in any of this. Our job is to collect anything that smacks of artifact behavior and lock it up to prevent future problems. Pure and simple."
This time MacPherson sighed loudly and sincerely. "Arthur, Arthur, you are hopeless. You can't see the forest for the trees. Your poor put-upon self is not the prisoner it thinks it is."
"Oh? Tell that to Mrs. Frederic. Look at us. We aren't allowed out unless it's to feed us, to sleep, and to work. Wait, I take that back, you can go anytime you want. I don't have the same luxury."
Craning his head slightly, MacPherson replied, "True, which is why every…single…day…outside is precious." There was a glint in his eye. "Take advantage of it while you can."
For a second, Artie said nothing and then it hit him upside the head, hard. "A-are you saying you manipulated the situation yesterday—"
"—and the day before and the day before that, just to give you a little extra freedom? Yes, precisely."
For the next fifteen minutes, even after James had gone back upstairs to prepare for his short ride to the Warehouse, Artie sat at the table and daydreamed about the last four days of … freedom. And for the first time since coming to the Warehouse was grateful for those memories.