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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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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