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a mite whimsical in the brainpan ([info]tigerkat24) wrote,
@ 2007-12-31 12:00:00

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
o hay look no more fic

Sir Percy Blakeney was decidedly unamused. Which was new, for him. He spent most of the time amused, and on the whole it made life much more pleasant, but really, this was the outside of enough. If only Andrew hadn't found him he might have gotten away with this little escapade entirely; now he simply had to explain somehow.

It didn’t help that Marguerite had, upon seeing him, immediately clamped her hands tight across her mouth, and was even now staring at him through wide eyes while making odd snorting noises that he suspected meant suppressed laughter.

“This is not my fault,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes said, again.

“Oh, do shut up, Andrew,” Percy said, wearily. “It’s hardly my fault either.”

Andrew ignored him. “I found him like that by the Serpentine,” he told Marguerite, who wasn’t, apparently, listening. “Thought I’d better bring him straight home.” He paused, glanced at Percy, leaned over to Marguerite and whispered loudly, “Between you and me I think he’s a bit foxed.”

“Andrew!” Percy snapped. “I am neither foxed nor deaf!”

Marguerite recovered herself enough to say, “You are, however, somewhat improperly dressed. Really, Percy, what were you thinking?” Her eyes danced. “Were you swimming in the Serpentine?”

“Certainly not. Lud, the very idea!” He attempted a haughty sniff. Mistake—Marguerite clapped her hands over her mouth again. Percy went on undaunted. “I was, if you must know, speaking with a gentleman who is concerned for his family in France. Which reminds me, Ffoulkes, we’ve a trip to make next week.”

Andrew nodded. “All right then,” he said. “I’ll just, er, take myself off and tell the chaps then.”

“Yes. Do.”

Percy could manage a rather good icy tone when he chose; Andrew bowed awkwardly to Marguerite, and then fled for the door.

Marguerite had used the time to compose herself again, and had wrestled her face an appropriately stern expression. She still had those tiny crinkles around her eyes that meant she was doing her damndest not to laugh, though. Percy began to feel the faintest glimmerings of amusement.

“This gentleman of yours,” she began, and he was rather impressed with the steadiness of her voice; but then she had been an actress. “He is worried for his family in France.”

“Very,” Percy said.

She nodded. “Understandable and quite commendable. What I find puzzling, my dear, is exactly why he required you to be naked.”

Percy lifted his chin and gave her his best scornful, empty-headed stare. “La! To ensure I wasn’t armed, of course!”

Marguerite choked, turned away, let out several muffled sniggers, and turned back with her stern frown back in place. “And you are dripping wet because…?”

That was a little more embarrassing. “Andrew startled him and he pushed me in the Serpentine,” Percy muttered, then gave her his best inane grin as a distraction.

That did it—Marguerite fled the parlor, uncontrollable giggles wafting in her wake. Percy stared after her thoughtfully, then grinned. That had actually gone rather well.

Now if he could only get upstairs and into the bath before she went over his story again and realized that it didn’t make the least bit of sense. He wanted to be clean and dressed before he had to tell her what had really happened.



Murphy is walking through the morgue when she hears.

“…this is a fertile land, and we will thrive!”

She recognizes those lines, she thinks, and she knows she recognizes the voice; that’s definitely Butters. But what is he doing? She pushes the door open, peers in.

“I think we should call it your grave!”

He’s got a kidney in one hand and a… is that a lung? …in the other, and is doing voices for each, like an overgrown kid.

Butters drops the organs back into the body when he hears her giggling, but by then it’s much too late.



Oliver was feeling rather important at the moment. Here he’d been thinking Commander Luccio didn’t like him very much, but she’d entrusted him with an important message to Commander Morgan! Well, maybe it wasn’t so much that she didn’t like him, he amended mentally, as that she thought he said stupid things.

He couldn’t really deny that. He had a rather spectacular bruise to prove it.

Whatever.

Oliver had never actually met the Commander, only seen him at a distance. A very imposing man, precisely the sort of person one imagined as a Commander. He probably lived in a spare, spartan set of rooms, Oliver decided. And wore his cloak all the time. A fashion disaster, but definitely impressive.

In order to test his hypothesis, he proceeded smartly up the walk to Commander Morgan’s home—he’d been threatened with several different deaths if he revealed the location, which was insulting if he thought about it, so he didn’t. Much more fun to revel in the importance of it all. He arranged his face into a suitably serious expression and knocked.

There was a slight delay in opening the door; but it was the Commander, looking somewhat harried and carrying a small child in one arm. "Yes?" he asked. He wasn't wearing his cloak, Oliver noted.

The child derailed Oliver completely, and for a moment all he could do was blink. “Uh…”

The Commander sighed. "Spit it out, son," he said, not unkindly. "I'm a little busy."

“Commander Luccio sent me,” Oliver blurted, after a moment. He was still staring at the kid. “She said there’ve been developments with the…um, the operations in India…um.”

"Report to me, not to my son."

Son? “Really?” he asked, not thinking, then realized he’d been rebuked. “Um, yessir, sorry, sir. She wrote most of it down.” Oliver scrambled for the letter, trying to remember which pocket he’d put it in and failing miserably.

Fortunately, the boy didn't realise how hard the Warden Commander was trying not to smile. Also fortunately, Morgan succeeded.



Snug in his father's arms, the baby sighed and gurgled a little.

Oliver finally located the letter (hiding in his left pocket) and held it out, sneaking sideways looks at the baby. “She said I was to wait for a reply?” he ventured, rather than said.

Morgan skimmed over the letter, arching an eyebrow as he noticed the postscript: Luccio had requested a summary of Oliver’s actions. "Very well. Just a moment." Turning the letter over, he scribbled a reply and added, 'The boy still needs work on concealing what he is thinking. Arthur surprised him.'

The boy in question shifted from foot to foot, and took advantage of the Commander’s distraction to stare at the baby again. Really, the Commander had a son? You just didn’t think of someone like him with any family at all, much less children, much less being good with children. It boggled the mind.

Quickly, Morgan folded up the letter and returned it to Oliver. "My greetings to Commander Luccio."

Oliver bobbed his head in agreement, stuck the letter into his left pocket again and hesitated. “Um, sir?”

Morgan arched an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

“Um,” Oliver said, miserably. “Um. Son?”

The other eyebrow joined the first. "Is it that surprising?"

“Um.” He was starting to go crimson with embarrassment. “A little. A lot. Yes. Er.”

"Why?"

Oliver, painfully aware that he was treading on extremely thin ice, made expansive, vague, and above all noncommital motions. “You’re a bit… well… not very… er…”

"Contrary to popular belief," Morgan said gently, "I am not a Warden all of the time."

"Could have fooled us," Oliver muttered.

"I heard that," was the mild reply.

Oops. Oliver went bright red again and stammered out a somewhat incoherent apology.

"Learn to control your face and your voice," Morgan suggested kindly. "It will do you much better in the long run."

“Yessir,” Oliver said, eyes down. He was beginning to suspect that he had been set up.

"Back to your Commander," he ordered now.

“Gone, sir,” the younger man said, and immediately about-faced and marched away, heading for a local park where he’d emerged from the Nevernever.

He had a sinking feeling that he would never hear the end of this.



Detective-Sergeant Karrin Murphy came skidding around a corner, chasing Harry—how did he always manage to get into these situations, why did she always say she’d help, one of these days maybe she’d learn—ducked behind a projecting bit of wall, and ran directly into someone who wasn’t there.

“D’Arvit!” Thin air was swearing at her.

It probably said something about her tolerance level, she reflected wearily, that this didn’t faze her beyond a blink.

Murphy whirled, shot a man in the knee, and was surprised when he went down without a sound. The mystery was solved when a second later, three bolts of bright liquid light scythed over her head and cut down her other three pursuers. Dead, or unconscious, she wasn’t sure, but the invisible person behind her must have gotten them.

The invisible person must also be taller than her, but she had come to terms with that. Everyone was taller than her.

Anyway. Invisible person was not her problem at the moment, since they were clearly on the same side. She stayed on guard, peering carefully around the corner, for a solid minute before she decided that no one else was coming, holstered her gun, and turned around.

At first she thought invisible person was still invisible. Then someone cleared their throat ostentatiously, and Murphy looked down.

“Well,” she remarked, after a moment. “I don’t see someone shorter than me every day.”

The fairy—though those wings looked mechanical; interesting touch, that—made a rude noise, and said, “Bite me, Mud Woman. I take it we’re on the same side?” She nodded at the four men collapsed in a neat heap in the center of the hallway.

“I suppose so,” Murphy said. “You must be Holly Short.”

The fairy’s gaze snapped onto her, eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?” she demanded.

“Butler,” Murphy said, and Holly Short relaxed. “I’m Karrin Murphy, he may have mentioned me. Did you see a tall guy go sprinting past?”

“They’re all tall to me, lady,” Holly said.

Murphy shrugged. “This one’s taller than usual,” she said. “Skinny like he doesn’t eat. Brown eyes, dark hair, nose you could plow a field with…”

Holly shook her head. “Nope. Nobody came through here until you did.” She looked suddenly troubled. “Which is bad. I was expecting the others by now.”

Murphy was busy doing her own mental swearing. “So was I,” she said. “Bugger. They got caught, didn’t they.”

“Probably,” Holly said, sounding resigned. “Why do I do this to myself? Why?”

“Know that story,” Murphy muttered. “Why are you here? The Fowl kid’s not exactly what I’d call persuasive. More like irritating.”

Holly sighed, checking the small gun she held. “He gets less irritating when you get to know him.” She paused, thought for a moment, then said, “No, he doesn’t. I guess you just get used to him.”

Murphy laughed. “So he is persuasive.”

“He asked, and I said yes. I should just stop saying yes.”

“Been there, done that, bought the entire fucking wardrobe,” Murphy said. “Only mine doesn’t come with a bodyguard. And he’s way more prone to bodily harm. And definitely not a genius.”

Holly made a muffled sound that Murphy could have sworn was a laugh. “Good thing, too. One of Artemis is bad enough.”

“True that.” She sighed again, then shrugged. “Oh well. Time to go get them out of whatever mess they’re in. Do you think Butler’s with them?”

“Must be.” Holly activated the wings and rose slowly until she was on a level with Murphy’s head. “He won’t usually leave Artemis.” A fleeting smile crossed her face.

Murphy chose not to ask for the moment. She could always ask Butler later. There had been a certain fondness when talking about Holly Short.

But how would that…

No, later. Definitely later.

Possibly never.

“Let’s go rescue the boys,” she said.


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