There is more to Captain Baker than meets the eye... People should realize this already.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Did You See Me Coming?
Captain Jeremy Baker sat at his desk outside General Matheson's office—the one the general officially only used by himself, but everyone knew he shared with General Monroe—doing paperwork. He had earplugs in, and was refusing to pay attention to anyone. Especially not his employers and best friends. It just wasn't worth it some days.
There was a dull thump against one of the doors. Jeremy sighed and reached into one of the desk drawers, pulled out a bag of crushed willow bark, dumped a large spoonful into his mug of tea, and put the bag back. He grimaced at the flavor his tea had taken on, but drank it anyways. He was going to have a headache later…
Exactly half an hour later, Jeremy pulled the earplugs out and fixed a pleasant smile on his face as Major John Faber came walking by. He made sure he looked busy with his paperwork, because giving Faber an—
"Hello Jeremy," Faber said kindly, stopping.
Giving Faber an opening of any kind was inviting a new headache. Jeremy hummed to show he was at least pretending to pay attention. He reached for a new inkwell when he realized the ink had run out in his old one. Faber grabbed the bottle out of his hands and unscrewed the top.
"'Thank you' is the polite response," Faber said, holding the bottle out of Jeremy's reach. Jeremy looked up, pen clenched tightly in one hand. His superior officer smiled and wiggled the bottle. The captain forced a pleasant smile and relaxed his grip on his pen—he had no desire to explain to General Matheson how he'd managed to snap the sixth steel pen in half in less than a week.
"Thank you, Major Faber," he growled, taking the bottle of ink form the man. Faber smiled.
"Was that so hard?"
Yes, Jeremy thought. "Not at all," he replied, smiling. "Don't you have work, sir?" he asked. Faber blew him a kiss and left. Jackass.
Jeremy sighed, resting his chin on one hand as he tapped the pen against his desk. "Some days, I really hate being me." He didn't, of course, but some days… Well, okay, some days he did. Some days…
Oh, being General Matheson's personal secretary and general aide was alright. It was a good job, and he got a lot of benefits that other officers didn't get. He got hot baths whenever he wanted them, fresh food—mostly fruits and vegetables that were hard to come by—and more time off than the other officers would ever have. On the downside…
On the downside, everyone was beginning to equate "secretary" with "whore". Faber took it as an opportunity to tease Jeremy whenever they met, although he was never cruel about it. Mostly, the guy just found it funny as all fuck. Then there were the others… Well, Neville never said anything—he was too wrapped up in his leggy blonde of a wife and his vicious little beast of a son to notice what went on in other peoples' personal lives—which was a blessing. Lieutenant Slotnick (who would stay that way if Jeremy had anything to say about it) had decided that Jeremy's rank was just a pretty title and had decided Jeremy was open to being groped by anyone who was…moderately attractive by conventional standards.
And then there was Corporal Strausser. Strausser was…worrisome. And a pain in the ass, mostly, but worrisome was a good way to describe it. (Although it had been hilarious to see that one girl yell "boiler room" before she got a truly magnificent groin attack in on the man before running away…) The man was a sadist. He had no respect for personal boundaries… And General Monroe kept him around to interrogate prisoners.
Jeremy sighed as he heard the clanking of chains echo through the hallway. The captain poured the rest of his bag of willow bark into his tea and knocked the whole thing back, shuddering as his mouth and throat burned. He was going to have more than one headache… The man knocked on General Matheson's door—three short raps and two long knocks, telling the president and the general to get straightened up and try to pretend they hadn't been fucking each other for the last half hour…
Corporal Strausser appeared, dragging a beaten-looking captive along beside him. Jeremy sighed and waved them through, tapping his pen idly on the desk as he waited for Strausser to leave the room again. He needed more tea, and there were three more requisitions to look over and get approved before he could leave for the day. There was a hot bath in his quarters—which, naturally, attached directly to General Matheson's quarters (which also happened to be President Monroe's quarters, but…)—calling his name. The tension was practically bleeding out of his shoulders already.
Strausser emerged exactly one minute later, checking his cuffs as casually as he possibly could. Jeremy had done his homework on the man, after the now-infamous "Boiler Room" attack. The man had three PhDs, a job that didn't meet his qualifications, and a laundry list of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants to his name. It was a pity none of those were available anymore… The point was, of course, that nothing Strausser did was casual or unplanned.
The captain counted to four and, on routine, as always, Strausser was spinning him away from the desk. The interrogator leaned in towards Jeremy, inhaling something only he could detect. Jeremy sat as still as possible, hands folded demurely in his lap. Strausser leaned forward, far too close for comfort, and darted his tongue out to lick at Jeremy's lips.
"When you get tired of them," Strausser whispered, "come find me."
Jeremy pointed at the nameplate on his desk. "I'm also an officer, and you are not. Get lost, corporal." Strausser shot him a dark smile as he left, making an obscene gesture before he vanished out of sight around a corner.
Captain Baker waited exactly three minutes before he pulled the bottle of whiskey he kept for emergencies out of the desk drawer that he always kept locked and poured himself a generous dose. The tea and willow weren't going to mix well with the alcohol, but he needed to kill a few brain cells to rid himself of the memory of Strausser. For the eighteenth time in a week. As usual.
There was a loud thump from the office behind him, causing Jeremy to start. He looked towards the ceiling and sighed.
"You hate me, don't you?" he asked, directing the question at no one in particular. The captain stood up, smoothed his coat down, and walked over to the door a short walk behind his desk. He knocked demurely, asking if everything was alright. The man waited exactly thirty seconds before he opened the door.
General Monroe had been disabled—probably by the prisoner ramming his head against the desk (highly probable, but unlikely given the general's location), or by hitting the man's skull against the marble mantle of the fireplace (unlikely, but more than possible to have happened). General Matheson was struggling against the prisoner, and losing. It was, after all, hard to fight when someone had their thumbs digging into your windpipe and was attempting to use you like a ragdoll and slam you into various pieces of hard furniture.
Jeremy sighed, walked up behind the prisoner, and calmly shot him in the head. He wiped the blood away from his face with a clean handkerchief and offered a spare to General Matheson. The general wiped his face free of the blood, bone, and brain matter, grimacing in annoyance.
"You couldn't have gotten him away from me first?" General Matheson asked, throwing the now-soiled handkerchief into the waste bin. He crossed his arms over his chest.
"He was strangling you," Jeremy pointed out.
"…good point," the general admitted, rubbing his throat with a grimace. "Remind me again why we keep listening to you about not giving you a promotion?"
Jeremy smiled. "Because people don't pay attention to the general's whore, and they don't watch their mouths around mere captains."
Miles laughed and kissed him, almost too tenderly to be the man who cheerfully ordered people in front of firing squads on a monthly to weekly basis. "That's why we love you, Jeremy."
Captain Baker smiled demurely and returned to his desk to finish his paperwork as servants dragged the corpse out of General Matheson's office and saw to President Monroe. Exactly one hour later, he tidied his desk up for the night, cleaned his gun according to regulation, and headed for his quarters.
Miles and Bass joined him in bed an hour and a half after that, and gave Jeremy several incredibly enthusiastic thank-yous for, once again, keeping the rebels from killing them.
After all, a body guard who was invisible was a good one.
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is this a plausible explanation for why Jeremy's still a captain? Drop a line and let me know!