hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-07-21 08:50 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-07-21 08:50 am
HP/Alias – Where I End and You Begin
I said to myself the other day, 'Self, what do we think about Harry Potter/Julian Sark?' Self replied: 'Oh, hell yes. All that beautiful dysfunction in one place? Rock that shit.'
Harry Potter/Alias
*No* spoilers for HBP
Where I End and You Begin
The screaming would have been a tip-off –- if there had been any screaming.
There was no screaming -- there was, however, staring. And if the English abhorred anything more than a scene, it was obvious staring. Not that Julian could blame anyone for staring. Underneath all the mess, the boy (man?) appeared rather attractive, but that was no reason for the shopkeeper to drop Julian's entire carton of milk all over the floor. It was certainly no reason for that young Asian woman to clutch her son so tightly. Everyone was over-reacting in subtle ways; Julian felt it was all rather gauche.
True, it wasn't every day that a man with blood smeared on his clothing and forearms, clutching a piece of wood, ambled into the corner store in Hounslow. Julian felt certain he would've heard about it on the radio if that were the case, but that was no reason to lose sight of one's manners.
Even if it was seven-thirteen on a Wednesday morning.
Julian had told his superiors that there was something dodgy occurring in England. If they had just listened to him earlier perhaps he wouldn't have to do this now, but they had given him explicit instructions: he was to be in this corner shop, at this time, on this day. He was to meet his contact. His contact wouldn't necessarily know him, but Julian wouldn't be able to miss his mark.
His employers had made that very clear.
The man didn't seem terribly stable; he was holding a stick in his right hand, his fingers white from where he was struggling to keep it in his trembling grasp. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp with -– Julian took a step around the crisps display to check –- yes, Julian would know bone fragments anywhere.
The man opened his mouth to say something that sounded like -– Julian had no idea what he was trying to say, his lips were moving, but there was no sound. Judging from his lip movements, Julian thought he might be speaking Latin, but he couldn't tell. It was no Latin that Julian knew, and reluctantly, he made eye contact with his mark.
"I don't suppose you've just had the painters in?" he said rather recklessly. There was a particularly decorative smear of blood along the mark's right cheek as though he'd been finger-painting, and if Julian distracted the man, then he could remove the stick before anyone ended up missing an eye.
Julian could feel his own weapon, a well-oiled Luger, nestled safely in its holster -– but resorting to such violence seemed wasteful and time consuming. Julian had a schedule and a deadline. His employers wanted this young man, and they wanted him immediately. They had said Julian was not to take no for any answer.
Offer him everything they had said.
The man turned towards Julian and wiped his face with his forearm. He only succeeded in smearing the blood around; Julian found the mess strangely alluring.
"They're all dead," the man said matter-of-factly.
Julian took another step forward, compelled by some unnamed force. He felt he was advancing entirely too quickly, but couldn't seem to stop himself. "Are they now?"
"He killed them." The man's voice was flat. His words flowed without break as though Julian had just inquired about the weather.
"All the better for you since you're alive." Julian froze when the man pressed his piece of wood directly into Julian's throat.
The man stepped directly into Julian's personal space. He reeked of dirt and smoke and decay. Upon further examination, the blood smeared all over his features was mixed in with dirt and something that looked like soot. Julian could make out the green irises of his eyes behind the blood-streaked plastic lenses. "They were my friends," the man said coldly. "They died for me."
"Then so much the better for you –- do you really think you're doing them any good by threatening me with a piece of wood? Are you going to ram it through my oesophagus, is that it?" The man pressed that much harder, and Julian sighed in annoyance. "Either get on with it or stop mucking about; I don't have time for your indecisive nonsense."
The shopkeeper whimpered.
The young mother by the cases of Tango made a sobbing noise; her son stared with dark eyes, and Julian tensed slightly. Killing the woman and the child would distract from the progress he was currently making. The hairs on his forearms were standing on end with some emotion he couldn't name -- it made him uneasy. Julian knew fear and this was not it. He was not going to die from a piece of wood being pointed at his throat, but there was something about this man. He was electric -– and apparently, very unhinged.
"I can help you." Julian used his sultry voice; the one he used to get people into bed and guns directed at someone else's head. "Whatever you want. Guns, money, passports, women, men –- just tell me."
Julian held very still when the man pulled the stick away from his throat and rubbed the tip over Julian's lower lip. "I want my friends alive -– I want -– I don't know what I want."
The voice that moments ago had been so emotionless, now, wavered. The man stumbled over the words as though they were a physical blockade.
And then there was a commotion from behind the counter -- the shopkeeper had a knife. Everything happened entirely too quickly after that. Julian went for his gun, the young woman screamed, there was a flash of green light; the shopkeeper fainted.
Julian rolled his eyes, his tongue swiping at his lower lip. He could taste the rusty tang of blood, and his heart beat rapidly with excess adrenaline. "Well, that was just lovely. Do you induce that sort of panic in everyone you meet?"
He didn't expect the young man to fall apart at his question. He certainly didn't expect the shouting and the flailing. He made an executive decision that his life would be much easier if the mark were subdued, and the bones in Julian's right hand shifted when he punched the young man in the jaw. The man didn't collapse though, if anything he seemed more frenzied. Julian ducked when there was another flash of light.
"I don't have time for this," Julian gritted out. He struggled with the young man for the stick, eventually managing to knock it away.
Unlike his opponent, Julian's hands weren't slippery and sticky with blood, but the young man seemed impossibly lithe and spry. He had hands everywhere, and he wouldn't fucking capitulate; he wanted his piece of wood back.
It would've been invigorating if Julian didn't have places to be. In the end, he was forced to endure several blows to his kidneys, bite-marks, and having six tins of beans thrown at his head. The madness only ceased once the young man regained his stick of wood.
Julian hated it when people stepped on his neck: it made it very hard to breathe.
"I don’t know what you want," the man said, pointing his piece of wood at Julian, "but whatever it is, I haven't got it."
The blood supply to Julian's head was diminishing rapidly and it made it hard to think, let alone breathe. "I've been sent to make you an offer," he rasped out. "Nothing more."
"I don't want your money," the man spat.
"You don’t know what you want," Julian countered; ignoring the spots clouding his vision "You said so yourself. Perhaps you should hear my offer before you break my neck."
The man pressed the heel of his trainer harder onto Julian's windpipe and then withdrew. Julian gasped for air as elegantly as he could, which in truth, was not very elegantly at all.
Julian pushed himself up, rubbed at his neck as his mark crouched down next to him. The blood covering his forearms and face was now smeared on Julian as well, and Julian sighed, reaching inside his jacket for a handkerchief. The man grabbed at his wrist too late; Julian took the safety off his gun and pressed it to the man's forehead.
"All my employer requires is that I make you an offer. All you have to do is come with me. I will bring you back here to the catatonic shopkeeper and the shrieking women when we are done, if that's what you require. It makes no difference to me."
Of all the things Julian expected, amusement was surely not one of them. The man's laughter was high-pitched and tight. He seemed terribly close to hysteria, and for the first time, Julian began to consider the ramifications of his employer's offer.
"Do you really think I'm afraid of your Muggle weapons?" the man said, collapsing onto the flooring across from Julian. He held tightly to the stick of wood, brushing matted hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand to reveal a lightning-shaped scar, his hand knocking the barrel of Julian's gun away. "I just killed the most powerful man you've never heard of. Kill me, if you want."
Julian sighed and re-fastened the safety. "That would defeat the purpose Mister..."
"Potter. Harry Potter."
"Very well, Mr Potter. I give you my word that I don't intend to kill you; I just want you to hear me out. Will you grant me that much?"
Potter shrugged. "I've got nothing else left."
Julian nodded. "So perhaps I can give you something after all. Is there any particular place you'd care to have dinner? Any specific designer you fancy?"
Potter tilted his head to the side, considering Julian as though he were speaking another language. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Julian said, reholstering his gun and pulling out his mobile phone. "You need a bath and some proper clothing; I cannot possibly take you seriously when you are covered in blood and wearing your dressing gown."
Potter remained on the ground when Julian stood up. "Why me?"
"I have no idea -– more importantly, I don’t care. I am not paid to care."
"This is just random, right?" Potter got to his feet warily. "This isn't about a prophecy or anything?"
Julian narrowed his eyes. "Did I say a prophecy sent me here? I said I'm here at the behest of my employers, although now I'm beginning to think you're far more trouble that you're worth. Perhaps I should just leave you here."
There was no way Julian would come back from a mission empty handed, but Potter didn't need to know that.
Julian turned and stalked down the aisle towards the exit. According to the plans he'd been given there was a front door and back door -– he felt that a quieter departure might be required. The fact that the police hadn't arrived yet -- for they had most certainly been rung to come and see about the man covered in blood wandering down the High Street -– was just an anomaly.
"I'll come," Potter called after him.
Julian's stride never paused. "Then hurry up, Potter. Whatever happened to you up until this point doesn't concern me; this offer does. And despite whatever you may think, the world does not revolve around you."
Potter's voice was right behind him when he answered, and Julian's stomach fluttered slightly. "I don't want the world to revolve around me anymore." Potter's tone was low and gravelly as though he'd smoked too many cigarettes.
Julian paused and opened the back door. The sky over Hounslow was grey, and there was a sharp wind blowing in from the east. Julian detested visiting the countryside; everything was so provincial. He couldn't wait to get back to civilisation. "So you've already made your decision then."
Potter stopped in the doorway, turning towards Julian and blocking the exit with his body. "You haven't even made me an offer yet," he pointed out. Potter placed the stick of wood between his teeth, and unzipped his dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor.
Julian absently took in the threadbare jeans and the worn tee shirt with holes around the neck as Potter kicked the dressing gown away. Potter tapped his glasses with the stick of wood and the crack disappeared. Julian's left eye decidedly did not twitch as he considered Potter curiously. "I don't think the offer is the point."
"So what is the point?" The quavering uncertainty was gone from Potter's voice. He sounded positively inquisitive. His emotional range was rather more vast than Julian was accustomed to -– in his line of business there was simply functioning or not, but Harry Potter seemed to contain vast multitudes.
Julian was almost intrigued, but intrigue only tended to lead to exorbitant body counts.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I would be here if I had that answer?"
"No, I guess not."
Julian made a tsking sound. "You should never guess, Mr Potter. Guessing is what gets people killed."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You're just full of surprises aren't you?"
"You have no idea."
"That, apparently, is why I'm here."
--end—
Beta by the incomparable![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oxoniensis. Technical support from serialkarma. Title provided by the estimable Mr Thom Yorke. Originally inspired by a certain predilection that certain people have for other people covered in blood -- if you followed that, I was probably talking about you.
I think this may need another part. Or two.
Harry Potter/Alias
*No* spoilers for HBP
Where I End and You Begin
The screaming would have been a tip-off –- if there had been any screaming.
There was no screaming -- there was, however, staring. And if the English abhorred anything more than a scene, it was obvious staring. Not that Julian could blame anyone for staring. Underneath all the mess, the boy (man?) appeared rather attractive, but that was no reason for the shopkeeper to drop Julian's entire carton of milk all over the floor. It was certainly no reason for that young Asian woman to clutch her son so tightly. Everyone was over-reacting in subtle ways; Julian felt it was all rather gauche.
True, it wasn't every day that a man with blood smeared on his clothing and forearms, clutching a piece of wood, ambled into the corner store in Hounslow. Julian felt certain he would've heard about it on the radio if that were the case, but that was no reason to lose sight of one's manners.
Even if it was seven-thirteen on a Wednesday morning.
Julian had told his superiors that there was something dodgy occurring in England. If they had just listened to him earlier perhaps he wouldn't have to do this now, but they had given him explicit instructions: he was to be in this corner shop, at this time, on this day. He was to meet his contact. His contact wouldn't necessarily know him, but Julian wouldn't be able to miss his mark.
His employers had made that very clear.
The man didn't seem terribly stable; he was holding a stick in his right hand, his fingers white from where he was struggling to keep it in his trembling grasp. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp with -– Julian took a step around the crisps display to check –- yes, Julian would know bone fragments anywhere.
The man opened his mouth to say something that sounded like -– Julian had no idea what he was trying to say, his lips were moving, but there was no sound. Judging from his lip movements, Julian thought he might be speaking Latin, but he couldn't tell. It was no Latin that Julian knew, and reluctantly, he made eye contact with his mark.
"I don't suppose you've just had the painters in?" he said rather recklessly. There was a particularly decorative smear of blood along the mark's right cheek as though he'd been finger-painting, and if Julian distracted the man, then he could remove the stick before anyone ended up missing an eye.
Julian could feel his own weapon, a well-oiled Luger, nestled safely in its holster -– but resorting to such violence seemed wasteful and time consuming. Julian had a schedule and a deadline. His employers wanted this young man, and they wanted him immediately. They had said Julian was not to take no for any answer.
Offer him everything they had said.
The man turned towards Julian and wiped his face with his forearm. He only succeeded in smearing the blood around; Julian found the mess strangely alluring.
"They're all dead," the man said matter-of-factly.
Julian took another step forward, compelled by some unnamed force. He felt he was advancing entirely too quickly, but couldn't seem to stop himself. "Are they now?"
"He killed them." The man's voice was flat. His words flowed without break as though Julian had just inquired about the weather.
"All the better for you since you're alive." Julian froze when the man pressed his piece of wood directly into Julian's throat.
The man stepped directly into Julian's personal space. He reeked of dirt and smoke and decay. Upon further examination, the blood smeared all over his features was mixed in with dirt and something that looked like soot. Julian could make out the green irises of his eyes behind the blood-streaked plastic lenses. "They were my friends," the man said coldly. "They died for me."
"Then so much the better for you –- do you really think you're doing them any good by threatening me with a piece of wood? Are you going to ram it through my oesophagus, is that it?" The man pressed that much harder, and Julian sighed in annoyance. "Either get on with it or stop mucking about; I don't have time for your indecisive nonsense."
The shopkeeper whimpered.
The young mother by the cases of Tango made a sobbing noise; her son stared with dark eyes, and Julian tensed slightly. Killing the woman and the child would distract from the progress he was currently making. The hairs on his forearms were standing on end with some emotion he couldn't name -- it made him uneasy. Julian knew fear and this was not it. He was not going to die from a piece of wood being pointed at his throat, but there was something about this man. He was electric -– and apparently, very unhinged.
"I can help you." Julian used his sultry voice; the one he used to get people into bed and guns directed at someone else's head. "Whatever you want. Guns, money, passports, women, men –- just tell me."
Julian held very still when the man pulled the stick away from his throat and rubbed the tip over Julian's lower lip. "I want my friends alive -– I want -– I don't know what I want."
The voice that moments ago had been so emotionless, now, wavered. The man stumbled over the words as though they were a physical blockade.
And then there was a commotion from behind the counter -- the shopkeeper had a knife. Everything happened entirely too quickly after that. Julian went for his gun, the young woman screamed, there was a flash of green light; the shopkeeper fainted.
Julian rolled his eyes, his tongue swiping at his lower lip. He could taste the rusty tang of blood, and his heart beat rapidly with excess adrenaline. "Well, that was just lovely. Do you induce that sort of panic in everyone you meet?"
He didn't expect the young man to fall apart at his question. He certainly didn't expect the shouting and the flailing. He made an executive decision that his life would be much easier if the mark were subdued, and the bones in Julian's right hand shifted when he punched the young man in the jaw. The man didn't collapse though, if anything he seemed more frenzied. Julian ducked when there was another flash of light.
"I don't have time for this," Julian gritted out. He struggled with the young man for the stick, eventually managing to knock it away.
Unlike his opponent, Julian's hands weren't slippery and sticky with blood, but the young man seemed impossibly lithe and spry. He had hands everywhere, and he wouldn't fucking capitulate; he wanted his piece of wood back.
It would've been invigorating if Julian didn't have places to be. In the end, he was forced to endure several blows to his kidneys, bite-marks, and having six tins of beans thrown at his head. The madness only ceased once the young man regained his stick of wood.
Julian hated it when people stepped on his neck: it made it very hard to breathe.
"I don’t know what you want," the man said, pointing his piece of wood at Julian, "but whatever it is, I haven't got it."
The blood supply to Julian's head was diminishing rapidly and it made it hard to think, let alone breathe. "I've been sent to make you an offer," he rasped out. "Nothing more."
"I don't want your money," the man spat.
"You don’t know what you want," Julian countered; ignoring the spots clouding his vision "You said so yourself. Perhaps you should hear my offer before you break my neck."
The man pressed the heel of his trainer harder onto Julian's windpipe and then withdrew. Julian gasped for air as elegantly as he could, which in truth, was not very elegantly at all.
Julian pushed himself up, rubbed at his neck as his mark crouched down next to him. The blood covering his forearms and face was now smeared on Julian as well, and Julian sighed, reaching inside his jacket for a handkerchief. The man grabbed at his wrist too late; Julian took the safety off his gun and pressed it to the man's forehead.
"All my employer requires is that I make you an offer. All you have to do is come with me. I will bring you back here to the catatonic shopkeeper and the shrieking women when we are done, if that's what you require. It makes no difference to me."
Of all the things Julian expected, amusement was surely not one of them. The man's laughter was high-pitched and tight. He seemed terribly close to hysteria, and for the first time, Julian began to consider the ramifications of his employer's offer.
"Do you really think I'm afraid of your Muggle weapons?" the man said, collapsing onto the flooring across from Julian. He held tightly to the stick of wood, brushing matted hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand to reveal a lightning-shaped scar, his hand knocking the barrel of Julian's gun away. "I just killed the most powerful man you've never heard of. Kill me, if you want."
Julian sighed and re-fastened the safety. "That would defeat the purpose Mister..."
"Potter. Harry Potter."
"Very well, Mr Potter. I give you my word that I don't intend to kill you; I just want you to hear me out. Will you grant me that much?"
Potter shrugged. "I've got nothing else left."
Julian nodded. "So perhaps I can give you something after all. Is there any particular place you'd care to have dinner? Any specific designer you fancy?"
Potter tilted his head to the side, considering Julian as though he were speaking another language. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Julian said, reholstering his gun and pulling out his mobile phone. "You need a bath and some proper clothing; I cannot possibly take you seriously when you are covered in blood and wearing your dressing gown."
Potter remained on the ground when Julian stood up. "Why me?"
"I have no idea -– more importantly, I don’t care. I am not paid to care."
"This is just random, right?" Potter got to his feet warily. "This isn't about a prophecy or anything?"
Julian narrowed his eyes. "Did I say a prophecy sent me here? I said I'm here at the behest of my employers, although now I'm beginning to think you're far more trouble that you're worth. Perhaps I should just leave you here."
There was no way Julian would come back from a mission empty handed, but Potter didn't need to know that.
Julian turned and stalked down the aisle towards the exit. According to the plans he'd been given there was a front door and back door -– he felt that a quieter departure might be required. The fact that the police hadn't arrived yet -- for they had most certainly been rung to come and see about the man covered in blood wandering down the High Street -– was just an anomaly.
"I'll come," Potter called after him.
Julian's stride never paused. "Then hurry up, Potter. Whatever happened to you up until this point doesn't concern me; this offer does. And despite whatever you may think, the world does not revolve around you."
Potter's voice was right behind him when he answered, and Julian's stomach fluttered slightly. "I don't want the world to revolve around me anymore." Potter's tone was low and gravelly as though he'd smoked too many cigarettes.
Julian paused and opened the back door. The sky over Hounslow was grey, and there was a sharp wind blowing in from the east. Julian detested visiting the countryside; everything was so provincial. He couldn't wait to get back to civilisation. "So you've already made your decision then."
Potter stopped in the doorway, turning towards Julian and blocking the exit with his body. "You haven't even made me an offer yet," he pointed out. Potter placed the stick of wood between his teeth, and unzipped his dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor.
Julian absently took in the threadbare jeans and the worn tee shirt with holes around the neck as Potter kicked the dressing gown away. Potter tapped his glasses with the stick of wood and the crack disappeared. Julian's left eye decidedly did not twitch as he considered Potter curiously. "I don't think the offer is the point."
"So what is the point?" The quavering uncertainty was gone from Potter's voice. He sounded positively inquisitive. His emotional range was rather more vast than Julian was accustomed to -– in his line of business there was simply functioning or not, but Harry Potter seemed to contain vast multitudes.
Julian was almost intrigued, but intrigue only tended to lead to exorbitant body counts.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I would be here if I had that answer?"
"No, I guess not."
Julian made a tsking sound. "You should never guess, Mr Potter. Guessing is what gets people killed."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You're just full of surprises aren't you?"
"You have no idea."
"That, apparently, is why I'm here."
--end—
Beta by the incomparable
oxoniensis. Technical support from serialkarma. Title provided by the estimable Mr Thom Yorke. Originally inspired by a certain predilection that certain people have for other people covered in blood -- if you followed that, I was probably talking about you.I think this may need another part. Or two.
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