Title from 'The Galloping Hour: French Poems' by Alejandra Pizarnik.
I check for you in the wind. You're not a cry. But I check for you in the wind.
Night opens me and it's you.
Return once again. Your inexpressible face revealed to me
the inner tearing. Your eyes blind everything, even the night,
your name written inside me.
Return as ever. Your eyes are my only conveyance to
death's other face.
Each word is you begging to utter it. Each word is the long
invitation to memory.
Return, while night clatters and mirrors open and
everything tears inside because of your absence. Everything
wants to get on with the wind, the sky. To register a terrible
gesture, some way of being without you, an impossible.
Your eyes begin in my eyes which no longer see you.
Begin in my voice which no speaks to you. Die out in
my hands which no longer touch you. Your eyes are inscribed
in my flesh. No one can bear to see me now. Sinister tattoo. I
do the rain, I do the sun. For want of your eyes in my eyes.
In this world, there are soulmates. People who you are destined to be with, a perfect match and a perfect heart. Upon reaching prepubescence, words will begin to slowly rise from beneath your skin, dark and blurred like a tattoo, slowly sharpening over the course of several weeks until the words are clear. The first words your soulmate will speak to you, carved into your skin for eternity. There are cases where your words may not be clear; reports of hand gestures to communicate sign language, raised bumps like small moles for the blind to read and know, foreign languages, the occasional bare flesh until your soulmate is born and their words set into your skin, should there be a large enough age difference. Words have been known to fade and vanish, the flame of life snuffed too soon before a meeting.
He's not sure how the assassin got into his office. Anthea gave him no warning nor any sign that he should expect a guest, there are no windows to enter through and the venting is small and has more chemical and microbial purification filtering in it than is used on rockets or spaceships. The two different escape tunnels that go deep below the city to hidden bunkers and a labyrinth of connections to other buildings are situated behind large bookcases and require an array of biometric identifiers to open (a retina scan, two different finger prints, a saliva sample), currently only set to him and his assistant, should the need arise. Mycroft would have noticed the shifting of fibers on the carpet if the bookshelves had swung. They had not. The man simply should not be here. And yet, here he was, black combat boots resting on his heavy wooden desk, ankles crossed and leaning back comfortably in his chair, worn jeans and a slightly too-tight nondescript dark grey shirt and a warm-brown leather jacket. He's not even dressed like a proper assassin, for god's sake! This ruffian has made himself at home at his desk in his leather chair and is twirling one of his fountain pens in his left hand, a sleek gunmetal grey Colt M45A1 resting in a steady grip on his thigh. He doesn't even have a silencer, the goddamn nerve! To expect to shoot him and get away with it after, without even trying to be stealthy? Arrogant and incredibly rude!
The blonde killer starts to open his mouth, a crooked smile that the man most likely thinks is charming, about to make a request. They always make a request. That's the upside to the almost regular attempts on his life, a clever person would simply kill him and consider the job done. People were never so clever, always wanting something, information mostly, a man in his position had swathes of things that would make the foundation of society crumble. They always wanted something. Normally a smart move against any other man, but not shooting Mycroft immediately set the path of fate down in his favor, sealing the death of whoever thought they held his life in their hands. "If you're going to kill me, please do so before my 1 o'clock." There's a thin smile on his lips, a chilled look in winter-sky eyes as he cuts off the assassin. (ex-military, out for several years but not out of practice. Self-assured. Confident, smoking habit. Ambidextrous, bisexual. Sniper. Not a hired gun.)
Startling blue eyes widen in surprise, and the pen twirling over his knuckles in a creative little hand trick falters for a second before he catches it with a flick of his wrist and puts in back down on the desk. (Not from my casual nature of my supposed death? Surprised by-?) His voice is deep and his accent is rough, but his words hold the measured inflection of a scholar (Oxford, rich family, disowned or disinherited) and a raised gentleman, though it is obviously something the blonde trained himself out of. Not entirely gone to Mycroft, however. "Mmm, and here I planned for us to grab tea before I shot you."
And it is Mycroft's turn for his eyes to widen, despite the well-trained chilled facade. His mouth feels uncomfortably dry, his tongue like it was coated in cotton. Oh. That's why the killer was surprised. He wonders if the warm burn of dark ink on his clavicle is real, or imagined. The soldier lifts his feet off the desk and plants them on the expensive rug on the floor, leaning back in the chair with an earnestly wide grin on his face as he runs a hand through his hair, mussing the just-too-short-to-be-shaggy locks up. "Well fuck me up, that's a bit of a wrench in things, Mr. Holmes." The gun is slid into a shoulder holster under the jacket, and his would-have-been assassin lifts the edge of his shirt, displaying a spread of tanned skin striped with an array of sun-bleached white scars and dark ink. Mycroft cannot read all the words as they dip down his assassin's (soulmate's?) hip bone and vanishes out of sight under low-riding jeans and a band of elastic from his pants. He can read enough though, recognizing the flowing script of his own handwriting. 'If you're going to kill me, ple-' and then the words dip out of sight. Someone had tried to ruin the words (Angle is wrong for self-harm, jagged to create more scar tissue, torture?) and a pale scar creates a strike-through on the words, but whatever fate or magic that creates the words refuses to allow them to be covered and they rose to the top of scar tissue. He nods at Mycroft and drops the shirt, and Mycroft knows what he wants.
His lips twist into a scowl, but he reaches up and loosens the dark navy tie by his neck and unfastens his shirt collar, pulling the left side open a bit more aggressively than necessary to show a smattering of freckles on pale skin, and the disgustingly annoying scrawl on his skin, dark and bold. Mmm, and here I- he closes his collar and fixes his tie with an annoyed look fixed on his face. Soulmates and their presence was a nuisance on the best days of his work, interfering in everything from office politics to time-sensitive deals with other countries and the powers that be. Too often did some fool find their 'true love' across the table of a debate or treaty discussion. Irritating. "Yes. I suppose it may, for you. Thankfully, I will not feel the least bit of guilt having your head removed from your shoulders."
The man 'hmms' at him like he is used to such threats, and pulls a sleek nondescript black phone from his jacket pocket, flipping it open and pressing a button. Whoever his supposed-soulmate is calling answers before there is even a ring, and the blonde's face lights up in a pleased expression. He holds a finger up at Mycroft, 'just a second, please', he mouths.
'Oh, take your time.' He gestures back, a sardonic little smile on his face. He'a treated to a thumbs up at his mocking reply.
"No, I'm not done yet." There is a muffled voice on the other end, and Mycroft steps closer to hear, approaching the edge of his desk. He'll have to have it cleaned after. Blue eyes track him, a measured calculating stare, a smart reaction given the thin ice they stand on. "I'm cashin' in my favor, Boss. Want this one alive, he's mine now." There is silence for a moment, and then a long cacophony of shrieks from the phone and the blonde rolls his eyes and holds it away from his ear. -The Iceman, MORON?!- and said moron presses a button and the familiar Irish lilt is muted mid-sentence, rolling his eyes with a huff. "Fucking drama queen, " he says as way of explanation, full lips titled in a hint of a smile and Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Of course, it was Moriarty, the irritating pest had been pestering him about their work deals for weeks now, and his... ugg, soulmate unmutes the phone. -and if you don't, Moran, I will personally- "No, you won't do a thing." The warmth in his voice is still there, but a hard steel line runs beneath it, commanding attention. "You owe me, remember? Time to cash up." Another long line of silence, and then a sigh and a whining that reminds Mycroft of another irritable genius. -But whyyy him! I said I'd buy you- "Inkmates, us." A disgustingly casual term to describe what should really be called something akin to slavery in his mind. There is a long enough pause that Mycroft would think the line was disconnected if not for the lack of a dial-tone. -Aw, Bas- Moriarty is crooning now, a teasing lilt in his voice, -Such a softy. Should kill you for that, you know.- "Mmm," 'Bas', as he appears to be nicknamed, picks at a piece of lint on his shirt and flicks it away, corners of his lips upturned in a disgustingly honest expression of fondn(ess. "Add it to the rest of the reasons you wanna kill me, and we'll put a pin in it for now." A laugh comes through, a sound rather different from the manic cackling and acted drama Mycroft is used to from the oily man. -Be back in time to cook dinner, and don't forget to mention the-
"Yup, yup," Bas is talking over him now, "Sorry, no work on dates." There's the sound of indignant squawking and he hangs up before the man can respond. "Sorry 'bout that, Jimmy can be a bit of a loose cannon if I don't check in before ruining his day." Jimmy? The phone is slid back in his pants pocket and Bas stands, resting a palm on the desk and leaning across it with an outstretched hand. Mycroft doesn't extend his own. "'M Seb, pleasure to meet you." He's got another charming grin on, and this close Mycroft can see the five o'clock shadow growing in and the callouses on his hands, the dip of a scar down his shirt. He realizes with an uncomfortable start that he actually found this grin charming. Oh god, no.
The name registers in his head then, a long buried file of a dead man. "Colonel Sebastian Moran," he tilts his head, looking at him with curious eyes. "You died in Tinchuley."
The grin falters ever so slightly, and the hand is withdrawn and shoved into his jacket pocket. "Mm, left to die, actually. By your lot. Funny how a man who gave so much was not worth going back for, isn't it? Lucky for you and the ink on your chest that my head was bought by a spider, huh?" Maybe. Maybe not. Mycroft would have been lying if he said he had not been torn with a mixture of relief and sorrow the first time the writing on his clavicle burned and started to fade, a sign that his supposed 'soulmate' had died. And then it had flared back. Over the course of eleven years it had done that twice more, each time bringing the same wretched feeling. He should have known his mate was a risk taker and a soldier then. He had not.
"Jimmy." Mycroft says as both a question and an answer. Sebastian was not wrong. He had been classified as a valuable asset, however... He knew things he should not. He did things he should not, questioned orders and got men killed, had a temper an ocean wide. He had been deemed 'not worth the casualties' after capture in Tinchuley, and listed as KIA after not resurfacing after two years.
Sebastian winces at his use of the nickname. "Don't call him that, or my claim'll mean nothin' to him. Annoying little shite'll just reassign me and buy me a bike like he wanted." There's a barely noticeable rise in Mycroft's brow, but the man must be used to dealing with ticks of minute facial expressions from his own boss because he explains immediately. "First time I road bitch on my bike he crashed us into a fuckin' river and flooded the engine." Sebastian looks legitimately sad at that, "Had to scrap'er and he kept saying he'd buy me a new one but it doesn't work like that. Spent years building that little beauty just for some prick to crash'er 'cause we were getting shot at. Fuck no, made that arsehole owe me one."
He talks too much. Even if it is easy to let him- Oh. Not a snowball's chance in hell. Mycroft pinches his lips and gives a polite smile, the one reserved for the true idiots who worked under him. "Lovely story, now get out before I kill you." Oh no. He was going to kill him originally. Why give him a chance?
"Sounds good to me. You said you've got a meeting at one, wanna skive off and grab lunch?" The charming smile is back, corners of rather pretty (good God, no!) blue eyes wrinkled. "Got this great little fish 'n chips place about two blocks from here."
No, I do not want to 'skive off' and have fish 'n chips. Is what he meant to say, but apparently his body decided to stop listening to him anymore because he leans forward, pressing a button the intercom on his desk. "Anthea, reschedule my 1 o'clock." Blue eyes dance with mirth at his actions and Mycroft looks back over to Sebastian in time to catch a lingering gaze on his suited form. God help me. "I'm taking a late lunch."