He woke the next god-knew-when hungover, his face burning and aching like crazy. He swore quietly, then winced as that moved things all over his face, and sighed, sitting up and getting a handle on himself. He'd had far worse. He dug around for a bottle of aspirin and downed a couple along with a glass of water from the bathroom, before starting to get dressed. He'd changed his mind about the vacation days. Keeping a low profile was a far cry from rolling over and exposing his belly. He'd be smart, not submissive.
Lorna woke up with the mother-of-all-crooks in her neck, paired with a throbbing hangover. She forced herself off the couch with a hiss and staggered into the bathroom to shower the smell of anti-septic and rum off her, downed five ibuprofen, then got dressed, a little more comfortably than usual. An aging sweater dress and leggings. Fuck the casual uniform, what was there to do today anyway that had anything to do with her?
He straightened himself out in the mirror one more time. The wounds on his face were puffy and red, but for the most part looked like he'd gotten on the bad end of a bar fight. He slid his gun into his shoulder holster, and headed into the hall.
She refused to leave her flat once she'd gotten ready for someone to call her down. Even when she heard him leave his own room, she reached for a week-old newspaper.
He considered seeing if she was up, but he didn't anticipate anything yet that he couldn't handle personally, so he climbed into the elevator and headed down.
Jim had been awake in his office for hours, setting up Moran's punishment. Lord Moran had been so easy to blackmail.
It was on his status update, fifth point down, after new hires. Minuscule. Insignificant.
Enraging.
Which was how he'd ended up here, watching some poor idiot scream and scream and continue to scream as he tested how many burrowing beetles a human could withstand while conscious without bleeding out. He was up to seventeen, taking his time.
When she'd been up for three hours, an underling sent word about the beetles, since they pertained to her. Moran's activities were thrown in as a side note. He was revisiting this, on his day off? Bad sign. She took the lift to the basement.
Heart failure six minutes into number 23 , he noted, tossing the book aside and starting to work to remove the insect from the still undulating corpse, before deciding it would be easier to dump the whole body in one of the tanks and just let them finish it off. He made short work of it, before considering his next move. Repeat of this experiment? Or something new?
She entered the room with a sharp word of warning from one of the janitors, her movements cautious. She took in the scene before her; the book, the tanks, the slightly squirming corpse. "Something wrong?" She asked lightly, stepping into the room only as much as she had to to close the door behind her. She didn't think he was one for unbidden, intense, a-man-possessed research.
"What gives you that impression?" he asked, walking over to a door on the far side of the room and throwing it open. The instant the door was opened someone could be heard crying, pleading, and he disappeared into the shadows. A moment later he returned with a woman by the back of her back, slamming her forehead into his work table to stun her before tossing her flat on it, starting to strap her down.
She watched the scene neutrally, waiting to speak until the woman was mostly secured. "This is... Unpredictable. Even for you. Has Jim done something else?"
"I don't see how my predictability falls into your area of concern, Harrison," he growled. The woman whimpered slightly and he whirled on her, eyes blazing. "Shut up," he warned, before walking over to the tanks.
She was convinced something was wrong now, but she knew pressing the issue when he was like this would only end in blood and tears for her. He'd have to let it out on his own. "Do you want help with your science project?"
"Pleas-" the woman had barely started speaking when he whirled on her, a thin, wicked knife in hand. A moment later she was screaming louder than ever, her tongue in his hand, but he seemed more content, tossing it into the tank and pausing to grab an electric brand to cauterize the wound.
"You hate the beetles," he said conversationally as he jammed the thing in the woman's mouth. She passed out.
"Yes," she agreed, leaning back against the door, running her thumb along the soft edge of her sweater dress. It would probably be ruined soon. She disliked seeing him like this, though. "But that doesn't matter."
"Please tell me you aren't being sentimental. That would be fucking adorable," he deadpanned, swearing slightly at the unconscious woman and tossing the brand aside, starting to dig through a drawer of chemicals.
"I would need to know what had crawled up your arse and died to feel sentimental, Moran. There's no need to be rude," she sighed, hating herself for how right he was. Not that she'd give him the fucking satisfaction of seeing that. "Is that a no, then?"
"I'm doing my job, Harrison. What are you doing? Don't you have something more useful to do than sitting around bothering me?" He hauled over an IV. "Go deal with my morning status update. I didn't have time to deal with it." He had, but if she was observant she'd get the picture from that and know to fuck off. If she didn't, that was her problem.
She sighed, taking a step off the door so she could open it. Even she knew better to disobey direct orders. "Yes, sir. You know where I'll be." She nodded curtly and then slipped out of the room, feeling vaguely frustrated.
He watched her go, then set to work setting his IV up, concentrating on his work and trying not to murder his victim before he got any useful information.
Lorna started looking for one of the several people who would have the update. For fifteen minutes, she was certain that they'd all taken a trip to Siberia, only then coming across Demmings in the lounge. He handed it to her without comment.
He left his victim to wake up, walking out of the room to go wash his hands of the last round of blood. Jim. Screw him. Fuck Jim and his precious little need to be absolutely right in everything.
She admitted to herself that she had not expected that to be the reason Moran was in a snit. Maybe snit was the wrong word. She'd certainly be upset if her lordly father was being coerced into planting a bomb below parliament.
Stimulants had the effect he'd expected, causing the subject to bleed out more quickly, but also had the added bonus of agitating the subject beyond normal levels.
He was feeling more composed by the time he left the room and went upstairs to shower off the smell of blood and other fluids.
Lorna had finished up with the small tasks on the update - he'd already gotten to a few of them, she'd found - and had made herself comfortable watching a movie in her own flat. She had, however, left a bottle of bourbon outside his door. She'd stuck a smiley-face sticker on the cap. It was the most she could do.
He picked the bottle up, staring at it for a moment before pushing into his room and closing the door quietly behind him. He set it on his table and jumped into the shower, before changing into fresh clothes. As he headed back down to the lower levels, he paused, and then with a smirk flicked out his knife and carved a small smiley into Harrison's door. Then he headed into the elevator.
She paused the movie as she heard the tell-tale sounds of her door being disturbed, but by the time she'd gotten up and opened it to see what the damage was, he was gone. That bastard.
Jim, of course, was having great fun watching this wreak havoc, watching the security cameras throughout the building on his personal computer. The added benefit was that there was more getting done in the office than there had been in a week.
While he worked, however, he was planning, quietly. Thinking over what he knew, and what he could assume. By the end of the day his black expression hadn't wavered, but inside he was smirking.
For the first time in almost six months, he went home to his own apartment that night rather than staying on base. The place was new, boxes not even unpacked, but he'd grabbed a bag and the bottle of bourbon and it'd do.
Harrison didn't fail to notice that her neighbor had failed to return to his apartment across the hall. And she suspected that she hadn't missed it when she'd fallen asleep. The only question was how long he'd be gone.
He did take the next day off. Research. It took him a while to find a secure way to contact him. It'd been years. But he had connections that even Jim didn't know about, or at least didn't think were important. It took him most of the night and morning, and half the bottle of bourbon, but he had a connection. Now... for the next part of his plan.
She got the text from an underling later that morning. Not working today. Some part of her was concerned, but the majority of her was too busy being irritated that she had to take over for him. God, she hoped he came back.
He picked up a trash phone at a convenience store and texted her later that day.
Come over for drinks later? SM
She had literally no idea how to respond for a good fifteen minutes. Then she got up to deal with a fire in Costumes, and, when she finally checked her phone again, fuming and smelling a little bit of smoke, she replied:When? LH
Whenever you're done. I'll be up. SM
He added his address and tossed the phone aside, picking up another to text the first of his string of contacts that lead to his father.
Traffic looks bad tomorrow night. Best avoid cabs. S
Lorna officially clocked out at 10 at night, waving away some guy in an ugly Christmas sweater with a few last concerns. It wasn't even December. What was he doing? When she shook him off she flagged down a cab outside of HQ and gave the driver Moran's address, which had been completely unfamiliar to her until that afternoon. It was a little further away than she'd expected he would ever put himself, but she paid the cabbie and trotted up the stairs to his stoop to knock on his door all the same. She did, however, have a nagging suspicion that he was up to something.
He opened the door a few moments later, ushering her inside. Before either of them spoke, he ran a small device over her. It lit up near her sleeve cuff and without comment he slit into it with his knife, flipping the material and revealing a small circular device he was very familiar with. It took him barely a moment to slice the wire to the mic portion of the bug. It would continue transmitting, it just would translate dead air. Hopefully no one would notice a problem. "Come in," he said with a nod, tucking the knife away and heading further into the apartment.
She made a mildly disgruntled noise at the discovery of the bug on her, following him with a betrayed glance down at her sleeve. "You know, I thought the place you have in HQ was sparse. This is like an empty museum," she commented, sliding her hands into her pockets. "I didn't even know you kept another place."
"It's new. And I don't normally use it," he said, nodding to the lone couch. "Drink?"
"Do you even have to ask, at this point?" she raised her eyebrows, taking a seat. "I spent today sober. And thank god, because if I'd had to put out that fire drunk I might have burst into flames."
"I'm gone for a day and they fucking have a fire. Of course they do." He returned with two generous glasses and the bottle, passing her one and setting the bottle on the table before sitting on the couch and grabbing his laptop.
"They left the hot glue gun unattended. I nearly wrote 'twit' on their foreheads with the stuff once it was out, believe me," she muttered into her drink, taking a long sip.
"Should have. Might still do when I get back," he muttered, looking up as one of the four phones on the table buzzed. He picked it up and flipped it open.
I hate traffic. I'll take the underground.
She settled back on the couch and watched him for a moment, sipping her bourbon coolly. "Flying under the radar, Moran?"
"Boss told me to," he muttered with a sigh, tossing the phone aside. "Doesn't want me working in my nice, comfortable apartment, has me doing dirty work." He made a face. "Figured I'd let you come have fun anyway. I'm going to need a grifter."
Her entire face lit up. "Are you fucking serious? Christ, I haven't had decent work in months," she said emphatically, drumming the fingers of her free hand against her knee in excitement.
He swallowed a grin. This was going to be easier than he thought. "Good. I'll leave it up to you, you can either report directly to me, or to the Boss. Either way, what we discuss doesn't leave this room."
She tapped a finger against the rim of her glass. "Going to be hard to report to either of you if you're not in this room."
"Don't be a smartass," he retorted, glaring at her coldly. "It's not the time. Your choice. Do you want to report to me, or Moriarty?"
"You," she sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't need him in a snit again.
"You know, for someone who was thrilled to have work two seconds ago, you're being oddly difficult to work with," he said, a touch of warning in his tone. "I could talk to someone else if you don't feel up for it."
She sighed, although not disrespectfully. "I'm merely surprised that you even had to ask. You know how I feel about occupying the same room as him. Especially after the... glass.. incident."
"I just wanted to give you the chance," he said, putting his laptop on the table. "You saw the bulletin about Lord Moran's new involvement, I hope?"
She decided immediately not to bring up the time she'd asked about his background. "Yes. I don't know about the chances of success, though."
"That's where we come in," he said with a nod. "We're going to make sure that things go according to the boss's plans."
"Alright," she agreed, shrugging, and downed another sip of bourbon. "Just tell me what you need and I'll get it for you."
He nodded slightly, reaching over to bring up a picture on his computer. It was an ID photo of a slightly overweight man with a shiny scalp, wearing a safety orange vest. "Ernest Maccabee. Tram driver for the London underground. Lives in his mother's old house. Goes to work, goes home. Loves porn sites, children's shows, and too much beer. I need him eating out of the palm of your hand by tomorrow night. Think you can do it?"
She scoffed, crossing her legs and looking at him just a little bit imperiously. "I've done so much better. Yes, I can do it. When does his shift start tomorrow?"
"Seven p.m., but you'll need to contact him before then. He's closed in a driver's car once it starts, you won't be able to access him."
She nodded, like that was what she expected. She took another sip, considering. "I would go out and try to get him tonight, if I was certain that his shift ended in time, and that'd he be easily malleable. But then, people are also much more likely to be reckless when they've just met someone." She shrugged, settled herself down a bit more. "And I'm not dressed for it."
He shrugged, draining his glass. "I don't care how you do it. Just get it done."
She followed suit, and sat the glass on the table. "I will. I appreciate the work. Which is the reason I'm not going to bring up what happened with my door."
He smirked slightly. "You just did," he pointed out, returning his attention to the cell as it buzzed again.
"Damn straight I did," she muttered, looking around the room as he fiddled with his phone. The place was clean, despite how un-lived-in it looked. "I'm perfectly happy to surrender my clothes to your destructive tendencies, but the door is going a bit far, isn't it?"
"I was low on stickers," he muttered, raising an eyebrow and closing his laptop. "Besides, as I recall, you don't even like that apartment. You're always complaining when you have to stay there."
"Th- That's not the point. It's still mine, is the point," she sputtered, then heaved a sigh and rested her head on the back of the couch to look at the ceiling. "Nevermind. I'm like half dead right now. Unless you need me for something, I should go home."
"It's not yours, it's rented to you as part of the job. It's Jim's, technically, and I couldn't give a shit about his property at the moment." He straightened, stretched slightly. "Yeah, you can go. Unless you want to stay here. There is a functioning bedroom. Up to you."
She deliberated for a moment, wondering what he got out of letting her stay. She couldn't find the catch, but she was sure it would crop up sooner or later. Unfortunately for the saner part of her head, she was tired enough to risk it. "Yeah, okay," she agreed, lifting her head from the couch and running a hand through her hair.
He nodded, tilting his head towards the stairs. "Up that way. Bathroom's attached." He reached over for another phone and started typing.
"Thanks," she murmured, standing and picking over a few boxes to get to the stairs. Christ, but it was hard not to look the gift horse in the mouth. She washed her face in the bathroom (it was nice; everything looked very, very new) and then shuffled back into the bedroom to shed everything but her shirt and her pants, and crawled into bed.
He worked for a few more hours, and nodded slightly, before walking over to where Harrison had hung her coat, and with a small smile, reconnecting the hairline wire in the bug that ran to the microphone. Nothing solidified trust like exposing yourself.
He straightened and headed upstairs. Time to get a little sleep.