tampered | Oh Lonesome Train, Oh Lonesome Track

Current Mood: bouncy
Current Music: Lonesome Train-Johnny Burnette

Oh Lonesome Train, Oh Lonesome Track

When; 10:30PM--Onward
Rating; R (for violence and language)
Characters; Nicholas Brocklehurst

razrsharp and Elle Driver

venomouselle
Summary; A cursed, ornery assassin gets a visit from a friend looking to make amends. Assassins don't make nice very well.
Log;

Elle had given up attempting to sleep off the curse that made everyone aware of her thoughts. Now aware of it, and close to ending the third day of misery her sanity was starting to crackle. I can't take much more of this. Suicide is starting to sound pleasant. Irritated, the covers were shoved aside. She lit another cigarette and shuffled from the small bedroom, making a beeline for her sound system, swapping Sinatra for good old Johnny Burnette.

Music could help a little couldn't it? I don't have to think about Christopher Styles and his likely love affair with Nicholas Brocklehurst. Fuck them. Anger spiked like a thorn. Elle herself was a liar, a thief and a cheat but didn't enjoy being on the other end of the action in the slightest. Especially when her own tender feelings were involved.

Two more hours. Just two more hours and things would be normal, she thought to herself cranking the dial. So what if the rest of the building was already asleep. Already with the first guitar line, Elle felt a little better as she crossed the hardwood floor barefoot. Dressed down for the night with no one to impress, she wore grey soft cotton capris and a black thank top. Johnny B began to wail, clouding her thoughts of humiliation and anger allowing petty, simple thought process to flow. An omelet would be good. I can manage that. Easy. No fuss. With toast perhaps?

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Was that knocking? Egg in hand, the assassin paused turning toward the door. Sounds like. She set it aside, pan waiting on the stove. Upon reaching the door, Elle figured it was someone complaining about the noise already. "Yeah, it is loud for the hour I guess," she growled turning knob, "but you know what? You can just suck--"

Seeing Nicholas at her doorstep set off prickles of alarm as her jaw dropped a little and eye widened. Oh hell. What is he doing here? Shit. Regaining her composure and attempting to quiet thoughts she cleared her throat. "Not interested. Fuck off," and began to close the door.

Nicholas arched a brow. Two tones of voice, a curse in her thoughts? He shook his head and placed a hand on the door, to keep it from shutting in his face.

"Styles told me you could use the company," he insisted, blue eyes sincere.

That was probably his mistake.

The resisting weight on the door, made her stop. Maybe he has good things to say. For a split second, there was optimism that froze and sunk. For Styles. How sweet. Makes me fucking sick.

Her lips curled into a sneer as the door flew open all of the way and she swung a leg forward, aiming for the crotch.

"What," Brocklehurst asked, his brow furrowed over her words. Speaking in third person--

"Shit!" He jumped back when the door opened wide, blue eyes catching sight of her foot. That combined with her sneer... Well narrowly missing that blow to his crotch was a fucking godsend. Nicholas' back crashed into the wall opposite her door. He quickly dodged sideways in case she came flying at him with a second attack. Instinct took over; she wasn't finished with him yet.

"Elle," he raised his hands in a gesture of (defense) surrender, "I came here to talk." The Englishman knew she wasn't interested in that.

The curse be damned, Elle really didn't give a care about whether or not he was aware of her thoughts. Wrong time to drop in. She stepped into the hallway and twisted her fingers into the collar of Brocklehurts' blue shirt and roughly clamped his belt in the other fist as she peeled him off of the door. Talk. Right. More half truths for me to believe?(The woman within and her three kids would likely exact their revenge by their own loud hallway behavior in the future in retaliation.) Turning on the balls of her feet, Elle lugged the Englishman into her apartment stepping in after the tumbling man to shut and lock the door.

"Actions can say a lot more than words," she fired back.

"I can see that," he fired back, his tone harboring an undercurrent of resentment. Fuck. Nicholas reached for her wrist, but like her namesake Elle was fast. And surprisingly strong.

Brocklehurst went crashing towards the floor. He tucked into a roll to avoid breaking his nose on the wood till his back hit the carpet's edge. Carpet? The couch. Before his feet could weigh the rest of his body down he kicked against the edge of the couch, flipping backward to his feet. Not good enough, she was behind him and had the advantage. Nicholas whirled around to face Elle, lunging low as his heel slid along the hardwood to sweep her.

Not bad, not bad at all. She managed a jump to stand on the wooden coffee table, narrowly evading being swept off of her feet. Magazines and a coffee mug slid off of the table, inconsequential to the impromptu battle. Elle grabbed a fist full of spiked blond hair and pulled it into a raised knee.

Opportunity caught his eye.

He grabbed the mug as it fell, just as she grabbed his hair. Impact. Christ that fucking hurt. Blood spilled from his nose immediately from the crack. Nicholas used the makeshift weapon to force her to release. He slammed the bottom edge against her wrist, making sure to break the mug on that knob of bone.

She had intended to crush her knee into his face for a second or third time. The force of porcelain slamming onto her wrist, brought a cry of pain that immediately ended her grasp on Nicholas' head. Cradling the throbbing hand against her chest she used the other wrist to strike down against his shoulder. Tricky son of a bitch!

The second she struck his shoulder, Nicholas relinquished the ceramic handle to grab the offending wrist. He didn't growl, he hardly said a word as he reached up to grasp farther along that same arm then roll back against the floor. He intended to take her down with him... using his own leverage to send her over him and into the island separating the living room from the kitchen.

Elle felt the tug forward and realized her position on the table was not a good one. Try a she might to throw her weight backward, it would not end well for her shoulder. Begrudgingly, she was hauled. Head over heels, once she fought to control the roll while keeping pressure off of her wrist. There wasn't any way she could avoid it but took the impact on her side.

Finally. She was like a bloody pit bull with her relentless attack. He scrambled to his feet, tasting copper on his lips and feeling it trickle down his neck. Brocklehurst tightened his hands into fists, held up and ready should Elle come after him again, but now he was on the defensive.

"I said we should talk," Nicholas spat words with his blood.

She stood and examined her wrist a moment and then lifted her blue eye to glare at him. Not the good wrist. Should be okay. Ice would help later when it really starts to swell. Elle breathed in and out slowly, approaching him in a stroll.

What could be said now? The assassin came to a stop three feet away, calm collected mannerisms fell away again to violence as she slammed the heel of her uninjured hand up into his chin and jabbed him in the stomach with the opposite elbow, ready to attempt to knock him off of his feet with a sweep.

"Are you listening to me," asked Brocklehurst. His breathing was audible, chest rising up and down from the adrenaline rush as she approached him. Blue eyes took in every motion, every subtle gesture, even the blinks of her single good eye, to see what she'd do next.

Fucking snakes. Her hand connected with his chin before he could block it, snapping his head back. The jab to his stomach nearly doubled him over, but it also brought her within close range. No regrets now. Nicholas slammed his heavy knuckles across her jaw. Then he delivered his own kick to her stomach, to further gain some much needed distance.

Elle bowed in half as she worked her jaw, wincing through instant hurt. She would not be kept down long, sparing her chin a rub before springing at him again with a few signature tiger crane swipes, advancing as he retreated.

Shit shit shit, she was still coming after him like a mad woman. Brocklehurst gambled on this one. He suddenly reversed his retreat to slam his shoulder into Elle, using his outer arm to shield his already bleeding face from further damage. He throw his weight into it, looking to force her back down on the floor, this time with him on top. A risk really, but she wouldn't kill him... right?

What the fuck?A few strikes managed to land their mark but now she had a good deal of mass pushing at her with a football player intent to drive her away. Down was the feel. Elle didn't like that one bit. Nicholas was a lot heavier than her, and stepping away from him with the brunt of his weight pushing at her made a stumble inevitable.

FUCK. Elle Driver was going down.

What was a scratch to his cheek when his nose was already gushing mad. Too much fighting without stopping the bleeding would inevitably make him light headed. He couldn't take that risk.

Nicholas crashed on top of her, no doubt flecking some of his own blood onto her face. To make sure she didn't try to reverse their positions he brought his knees inward to straddle her waist. Christ she'd probably aim for his balls again. To deter her focus, he went straight for the real threat. The MI6 agent knew the assassin for almost two months now, but he'd been trained in the terror of psychology for over two decades of his life. He just had to pick the right target.

Bloodied fingers straightened then struck down for her single remaining eye. His nails, trimmed and filed modestly, stopped short of Elle's cornea by a centimeter.

Zero to panic, her vision was roughly consumed with his fingers.Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my Fucking God. Elle clenched her teeth and set her jaw, pursed lips trembling. Each breath flowed in and out of her nostrils in a rapid pant. Would the bastard do it? Not a fucking thing I could do to stop him. Oh shit. Oh my God. Her eye welled while blinking again and again as though that would clear her sight.

Elle lay prone and still, save for the rise and fall of her chest. Blond hair fanned out. Couldn't someone just try and kill me?

"Jesus, I'm not going to do it," Nicholas answered her thoughts. He'd yet to figure out that that's what they were, her inner thoughts laid bare on her tongue.

Brocklehurst pulled his hand back and stood up, careful to step aside as quickly as possible should Elle have another whiplike gesture to deliver to his legs. He brought his sleeve to his face to wipe away the blood. A good suit ruined, this one. Fortunately he had more than one, but this was a tragic waste of silk and wool, damn. Blue eyes glanced her way again, sharp and stern but restrained.

"And I'm not going to kill you," the Englishman added. "Fucking Hell," he hissed from the pain.

They could have seriously tried to kill each other; she with her katana almost always hidden till she needed the fangs to come out, he with his sleek pistol strapped to his ankle for complete concealment. Brocklehurst still had it buckled there.

Elle remained on her back, breathing out of her mouth attempting to cease the inward tremble of her stomach and nausea invoked by truly painful memories of having not one but two eyes snatched from her skull. "May as well, if you're going to fight that dirty."

Elle sat up slowly, her back didn't hurt too much. Not for now. Fucking cheap easy way out.

Awww. Someone's outfit doesn't look so nice anymore.

He didn't even know how she lost the eye, only that there was a high probability losing the other one would cut her nerve. Nicholas would have congratulated himself were it not for the blood that continued to flow from his nose. He only stared at her, listened to those words. Cheap? As cheap as throwing him back into her apartment. The Englishman looked as if he were about to say something. Instead he turned into her kitchen to invite himself to the destruction of one of her dishtowels. The balled up fibers soaked the blood from his nose.

"You don't take fighting dirty well for a tough bitch," Nicholas countered. Incidentally, he situated himself close to the knives. Safety precaution.

"You're replacing that," she said now on her feet. Arms crossed. His blood was on her face and clothes. Christ, what a bleeder.

"Correction: I don't mind fighting dirty. I just can't stand it when it isn't to the death." Walking slowly, quietly heel to toe closer to him. She did have utensils out for her forgotten omelet. The nearest knife now lay resting against the inside of her upper arm. There. Much better.

"Why the hell would Christopher send you here? And why is this such a surprise to you?"

"You fucking broke my nose, Elle," growled Brocklehurst, his accent dipping a bit heavier into his inner city London heritage, "only after you tried to stomp on me bollocks."

He turned the faucet on to rinse the blood away, not that it would do Nicholas any good. "Because he's a bloody cunt," he answered with distaste. Christopher had to know he'd sent him into a danger zone, the man was a brilliant profiler. "What surprise are you talking about," asked the Englishman, turning to face her again.

"Oh I'm sure I did. And you did a nasty number on my wrist, are we going to continue from there?" she retorted, dripping with sarcasm. Cry me a river, build me a bridge and then maybe, just maybe I'll get over it, you lying sack of shit.

Elle leaned on the counter and allowed him to use her sink. The unwashed dishes now were soaking in rather bloody looking water. Splendid.

"The surprise," she said, standing rather close to him, "is the kitchen knife dangerously near your nads. Feel that poke? Wouldn't end pleasantly." Elle whet her lips. I'm going to make sure that you regret fucking with me.

"Do I have your attention? I find it very hard to believe you just trip in her all nice like. You wanted to talk? Fucking run your mouth before I stick you."

"Do you want to go down the list of who did what first," he replied in a short and clipped tone, caring little for the bloody water over her dishes.

His spine stiffened when he felt the hard object just under his balls. Christ, Nicholas should have known better than to trust her in close proximity again. Truthfully he'd never seen her like this, knew she was capable of it, but not to what extent. At the same time, Brocklehurst felt it wasn't at the point where he needed his gun. Fucking Christopher, he'd give the man a fucking hiding for orchestrating this bullshit.

"What do you want from me? I came because I heard you weren't doing well," said the blond man, completely firm in tone.

"Weren't doing well? Weren't doing well?" she echoed, each time her voice raising just a hair. "I can't keep my own goddamn thoughts to myself, you're likely involved with that newly out of the closet weasel who is in love with you and you thinking waltzing over is going to make me feel better?"

Too much, Driver. Cool it. A bit. Just cool it. You do have him by the balls. Her grip on the knife tightened, but remained just uncomfortably prodding the Englishman.

"I am going fucking CRAZY and midnight isn't close enough just yet." Is the oven clock right?

They were at least an hour from midnight, unfortunately for Elle Driver. Brocklehurst quirked a brow, it figured his hunch was correct only after the fact. He paid no mind to her calling Styles a weasel, that was normal for the young ambitious former undersecretary. She did have him by the balls, that he couldn't argue against.

"Do you have a problem with Styles and myself," he asked her carefully, his gaze serious as if the potential danger she posed to Christopher outweighed the danger she posed to himself right now. "I thought we were talking about you."

An hour, could she stay sane that long?

"Fuck yes, I have a problem with you and Styles. That just screws everything up. We are talking about me. Good god, are you dense or something?" Abso-fucking-lutely clueless this one. You meet a man for coffee and fucking lick his cheek. That should have been a sign.

"Don't tell me you have been completely ignorant to my intentions," Elle's blue eye was set in a glare looking from one of Nicholas' to the other. Hand to hand combat and no weapons.

God that takes me back... but no happy ending right now. Valiant's sticking it to someone else's Charming.

"What? We meet for coffee and tea, you licked me over a bloody curse just as you're cursed right now," he replied, bold still despite the knife to his crotch.

Being ignorant of her intentions was another story. "You've never even seen my flat," said Nicholas, his tone a little more calm and cool. It was true wasn't it? Perhaps he'd never directly shut her down, but neither had he ever invited her to his apartment. They'd barely seen each other beyond their meetings at the café. How did she interpret that?

"I'm not Constantine," he added, even calmer, as if to remind her.

"Are you honestly questioning why a woman would lick a man? The curse was just an excuse." Did she really need to justify herself? You really are gay. Sometimes a lady likes to think that she doesn't need to write an invitation for a man to fuck her senseless. I thought a lot of things. I thought I was doing something the right way for once.

"So? I thought that taking the long road would end up at the right place and make it even better."

The slow drift to the core of her out burst ceased. John? He thought--? NO. "Get out." Elle pulled away the knife and threw it beyond Brocklehurts' head. "Get the fuck out. And leave me alone." She pulled away from him as though he were plagued.

"If you needed to know I am gay. A ponce, a shirt lifter, a bloody bender," he raised his hand in a circular gesture that suggested 'and a myriad other epithets you're free to use.'

"What straight man in his right mind would to take his time with you," Nicholas asked while shaking his head. Was it the accent? His British mannerisms? He thought Elle had to know she was an exceptionally handsome woman, her forward nature attracted impatience and thus a complete do-away with social niceties. That was her style, he'd presumed.

"Shit," he ducked when the steel went flying. Poor aim. She was pissed now. "Elle," said the blond man trying to reason, but he also continued towards the living room.

"That would have been just perfect to know sometime ago before I had a game plan!" she growled.

"Like I should know what kind of straight men in their right minds or not think." Or gay men for that matter. Screw em, screw em all.

She didn't stay still to lament the poor flying knife that hit the wall behind the sink before plopping into the bloody water. Elle turned her back to him, and scrounged through a coat draped over a chair. Brocklehurst had a small, cylindrical pastel green package fly at him from over her shoulder.

"Why does it matter," asked Brocklehurst, anger approaching his own voice.

There hadn't been a moment when the opportunity called for sexual revelations, his or hers. Neither had he told the woman about his arrival, or what had happened prior to Styles', now that could have been an eye-opener. Nicholas felt it wasn't her business. Hello, my name is Nicholas Brocklehurst. I'm what you Americans call a faggot, and I'd prove it to you were my last serious partner not shot and killed. Christ was he glad to not have her curse.

He stared at her in disbelief, his back to the front door--when he was almost pelted by a green object. Reflexes, Nicholas. He caught the possible weapon. "Now you're throwing trash at me?" The Englishman shook his head, the item seemed harmless.

Why does it matter? I would have stopped orchestrating the attempts to be more than friends and stuck to just focusing on friends. Maybe I wouldn't feel like such a fool right now. "Forget it. Just forget it." And you talk about John. Like you know anything. Oh shit this is all so fucked up.

Elle crossed her arms and approached Nicholas and his position at the door. "It's to stick up your nose. Works better than a tissue. That fucker may bleed more." Is he going to move aside so I can put him out, or do I have to escort him out the way he came in?

Orchestrating. Planning. Aiming to what, have a relationship or simply get him in bed? That name again.

Nicholas could tell what it was now, the cylindrical shape with the feminine floral pattern on the packaging. He held up the tampon, his mouth almost sneering in kind. "I know what it is," Brocklehurst's eyes narrowed, "I'm letting myself out."

He undid the lock and made his exit without a word. She was right about the bleeding, and he really didn't want to bleed anymore. Not over this.

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Oh Lonesome Train, Oh Lonesome Track

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