tampered | Log; ongoing

Log; ongoing

When; September 22nd, 9pm
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Brocklehurst

razrsharp and mystery!boy

repairedbywebs
Summary; Brocklehurst needs to stop following strange boys home.
Log;

He was heading home; but even before then, even when he had been having a conversation at the fountain he had known that he was being watched and followed. It was something he was used to. His shoes hit the pavement, the flat broad heels clicking, drowning out the sound of the other man's shoes, even as the larger blonde used a lighter tread. He pulled on his tailored coat, inky black with just a hint of a pinstripe, and buttoned it with long fingers.

Step into my parlor...

Halfway back, somewhere between building six and seven, he stopped. His instincts were impeccable; his reactions perfect. He waited and finally turned, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light. "Do you follow every cute boy home, or am I just lucky?" he asked his timbre deep, his accent sharp and distinct. The words had their own flavor when he let go of the American accent, a lower pitch which, while unnecessary, made him oddly pleased.

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Spooks were groomed to gather information from the shadows or hide in plain sight. Nicholas Brocklehurst had mastered both methods and decided the former was best against someone who probably knew him. He'd been watching the boy since he'd appeared in the Square, counting the individuals with which he spoke directly. The Englishman recognized only two himself and was unable to hear their actual conversations.

Eventually he stepped out of the dark corners to follow his subject on foot.

"I'm lucky to learn that you happen to be heading home," Nicholas replied just as coolly, clad in black from his jacket to his shoes. No tie for the weekend. "Do you always dress so well," he asked the shorter boy, blue eyes sharp and attentive.

He cocked his head as he watched the other man ooze out of the shadows. Brocklehurst was smooth, he had to admit to himself. He hadn't caught the spy watching him until the end of his conversation with the Corinthian's plaything, and then he had sensed him moving after him. How unusual. Dinner didn't normally follow him home.

He knew that coming out in this dress was a good idea, but he couldn't eat Brocklehurst, that was sure to garner attention. Besides, in his own way, he admired Brocklehurst. Not many people could deal with Rosiel during the day and Styles during the night.

"Always. Never a need to dress poorly," he added after a moment. "Are you going to keep following me home?" he asked, taking a half step forward. The dim light highlighted the paleness of his skin, the slight shadow of a beard. "I rather like the spy look."

"Does that include the application of a five o'clock shadow," the 'spy' smirked briefly.

His light tread brought him steps closer to the other man who he presumed was not a man at all. Brocklehurst had heard of the skirmishes between the shifting kind but he hadn't considered this particular type of change at all. Of course he could be wrong, but his instincts, that of an MI6 agent and a gay man, said otherwise.

"I could but I wouldn't want to intrude," Nicholas shook his head then smiled. "Weren't you taught not to invite strange men into your home?"

"This particular shadow needs to be shaved off," he said, rubbing one hand against his cheek, "but I'm afraid I've been particularly lazy today."

It was true - he remembered the smell, almost bathing in creosote to get that particular odor that even perceptive noses couldn't find human scent under - but the five o clock shadow had stayed, partly out of desire and partly out of spite.

"You wouldn't be intruding," he said, taking another step forward. "My home seems to be public property on the besides." He smiled, and asked, "So to what do I owe the honor of your company?

"I didn't take you for the sort who needs to flick a razor every morning," Nicholas replied.

He noticed his accent, distinctly Namibian. Then there was the scent of Silk Cut about him, and not because he'd been speaking with Constantine. The two elements combined were too rare to be a mere coincidence. Firstly, the Gallagher brand advertised the cigarettes for women and last he saw a young girl of South African descent had purchased them.

Brocklehurst took three more steps along the boy's side so his demeanor wouldn't imply he meant to cut off the other's path. His true intention still hidden. "Curiosity," the Englishman smiled.

"Usually, I'm not," he admitted casually, the truth much more rewarding than a lie. "Today was different."

He preferred his accent because it was harder to get the smoother, rounder American syllables out when his voice was so much deeper; on the besides, it attracted a different sort of person, the sort that was intrigued by the exotic.

"Curiosity?" he repeated, his tongue touching his upper lip for a moment, just a flick of pink. "What is it you want to know, then?"

"Who benefits," Nicholas answered in his own deep British accent, the Brixton beaten out of it and replaced by polished words and formal syntax. He dared to raise his hand to the boy's shoulder, pressing them both towards the wall.

Ms. Wallace, Mr. Wallace, whoever she was tonight, had a game at hand. Brocklehurst could smell it. If playing along satisfied the boy then so be it, the benefits outweighed the consequences in his opinion. Ends, not means. He smelled of Benson&Hedges, menthols specifically.

Brocklehurst's hand was large; strong against his shoulder. He flicked his pale brown eyes to Brocklehurst's bright blue ones, trying to puzzle out the emotion there but finding that he couldn't; he was never very good at deciphering what people were feeling, only what they were thinking, only their motives.

He put one hand flat against the wall and tipped his chin up to look the other man in the eye and replied, "Why should I tell you?"

He still smelled of the Silk Cuts, creosote and battery acid (the last a side effect of working on the bikes all day) but his suit was silk. With his free hand he reached up to his shirt collar, easing it away from his skin, drawing attention to his throat.

Large enough to appear as if he were pinning the younger, much younger man to the wall. But Brocklehurst knew better, the pressure he exerted was more of a firm gesture than an aggressive strike. He'd heard the details, words on the grapevine, how he... she had dispatched Anita Blake. Still the blond's blue eyes didn't express a single drop of fear. Nicholas exuded confidence and carefulness.

"Because I'm asking nicely," he smirked before the boy's exposed throat drew his gaze downward. Nicholas flicked his blue eyes back up to the other's darker ones briefly, then his lips brushed along the side of his neck. "Very nicely," he whispered into the boy's ear.

There was a release of chemical; pheromone, scentless and heady. It was an accident, a loss of control. He hoped it wasn't enough to drive the blonde to do something he would regret - it wasn't fear, or lack of desire that made him feel that way, it was the true intention that if he went home with a case of pheromone head, more in the City would turn against him.

But he always did have a thing for blonde British men.

His hands curved around Brocklehurst's hand, and pressed it against his flat chest. "There's only one person who benefits," he whispered back, his voice getting deeper, huskier, his accent sharper and more defined "and that's me."

He inhaled the boy's skin, feverishly hot (fucking unnatural) and smooth despite the stubble that covered his jaw. He recognized the heady scent as well, naturally detecting it as he'd been trained to do in the field. The smell of needs must, but a need for what? Nicholas kissed his throat, even dared to nip it as his mouth made its way back to the brunette's ear. He had both hands on him now, pressing that silk to the bricks.

"If you wanted," he said between kisses, "a challenge... You should have tried this on Styles." Brocklehurst smirked, staying where he was in such a compromising position.

Lips on his throat, chemicals firing in his head - it wasn't emotion, not real emotion, it was drive, that craving for the chemicals to release. He had an odd sexuality, not driven by anything vaguely mammalian, but rather by sensations of chemical change, the feeling of them moving through each individual part of him.

He smiled and muttered, fondly, the words more native than he expected, "So'n helsem." You bastard, but in a different manner. He knew he wasn't going to get any from the older man, not unless he turned up the pheromone release, shifted them.

Would it hurt to try? He shifted again - erection, how different, odd, he had to remember it - and muttered, "You're teasing, now, that's not playing nicely."

The chemical change was doing wonders for Brocklehurst's senses. He remembered this, had done it time and time again, mixing business with pleasure. It was how he met Christopher after all, but it was that same pleasurable asset turned deeply committed significant other who kept him from going further. This ethereal boy, while handsome and perfectly carnal in his own right, was not his ambitious silver foxed man. The scent only urged Nicholas to drop his surveillance all together and go home to pull Christopher out of bed for a quick one.

"You slut," the Englishman replied in kind. Understanding languages was one thing, but insults were universal. He also felt the hardness against his thigh. The boy was right; now he was just being unfair. "What are you playing at," asked Brocklehurst as he stood up straight, removing his hands from him.

The sound of rumpled silk fell into place, and he pressed himself back against the wall, hands flat against the brink, his mouth open, his breath curling up into the air.

His reactions were instinct more than anything. No person who had lost their virginity in their right mind went more than six months without sex, but he had; a year of abstinence, workaholic tendencies overcoming his better judgment. The chemical rush had pinned him to the wall.

"I'm not playing. You were kissing me," he breathed. "What do you want me to tell you, then?"

"No, this," he gestured to the boy's form, from head to toe.

Completely male on the surface, but Brocklehurst knew better. Ever since he'd had that exchange with her on the network, about emotions. This boy had the same 'restraint', the same machinations that lured another to make the first move. Nicholas had demonstrated it as much, down to that erection he felt on his thigh. He wasn't going to offer to take care of it for the brunette.

Hunting was another issue.

The British man was too sharp, too clever, his blue eyes saw too much. He pressed himself back against the wall and closed his eyes, willed his mind blank, but the blankness didn't come.

"You act as if you've never seen a man before," he muttered. "I certainly hope you weren't expecting a woman, otherwise you should probably go home and tell your boyfriend you changed your mind about your sexuality." The words may have sounded nasty, but the tone wasn't bitter; he was simply riled up. Oversexed.

He would avoid the issue of how as long as he could. Too many people in the City knew already, and this man wasn't Light Yagami, to be controlled so easily through fear and pretty words.

"You're nowhere near a cold shower aside from the fountain. Do you really want me to elaborate on my experiences with men?"

Brocklehurst cocked a brow at him, initiating a challenge he didn't think the boy would accept. Not when he had hormones, pheromones, adrenaline, and an erection that may or may not have come down. He adjusted his jacket, collars neat and held up, covering his own throat. Nicholas shook his head as his gaze leveled on Saya again.

"I see it's personal. I had business to discuss with you. Perhaps another time."

The word "business" made his brain snap back into action. The chemicals weren't going away, the erection was certainly going no where, but if he needed business to be taken care of, he would.

It wasn't personal; it wasn't an issue of having something so inequitably pathetic as a crush. He squared his shoulders, twisted back slightly and said, "Business comes first. What do you need?"

Getting him back for it would be a joy for both of them.

He should have felt bad for giving the boy, the woman, blue balls but were he to bend and show sympathy Nicholas was sure Saya would lose all respect for him. He remained cool and unassuming, just another pair of acquaintances discussing matters in the urban landscape. Never mind the erection the shorter one sported.

As if in a gesture of peace, Brocklehurst pulled a mint green carton from his pocket. Benson&Hedges menthols. "Guaranteed to help," he nodded to the boy, tapping out a cigarette for himself. Christopher hated it.

"A black tie event next week. Are you in attendance," he offered one of the cancer sticks to Saya.

He took one carefully and pulled the lighter he had been using earlier from his pocket. As a woman, he didn't smoke; he hated the smell, the flavor, everything, but as a man it helped hide the familiar lack of scent; it threw the werewolves off.

He lit it and took a drag. The edge was off - just a touch. Not enough. "I'm invited but haven't been formally given an invitation," God bless Asher not knowing code, "and intend on being there. Why?"

"I've a green recruit who could use a date with an invitee. Do you have plans already?"

Nicholas lit his own cigarette and took a pull. Old habit but not enough to have stained his fingers and teeth like others with a nicotine vice. He was grateful for it, how the carcinogens hadn't gravely affected his health. All the more reason to quit while he was ahead. Blue eyes studied the warm embers, then he took another drag.

"I don't think with a date is the best way for me to arrive." He examined the other man and took another drag. Blue balls. He remembered why he avoided this form. "I was planning on going alone."

He thought about it and cocked his head, "What was your agent going to do?"

Quick of Saya to deduce the objective was anything but to have a fucking good time at Lacroix's little party. Nicholas exhaled to the side as he tapped the ashes off his cigarette. He was a natural.

"Keep his ears open and network. Nothing I wouldn't do, but I'm not going," Brocklehurst shrugged briefly. Christopher didn't want him to go, and what he wanted Nicholas obliged with good reason. It was a shame to pass up the opportunity to don a tuxedo though. Then he would have been the spitting image of the type of men the SIS wanted to advertise.

He snorted and brushed imaginary dust from his pants, then crossed the distance between them. He was short, but not so short as to not be able to use some of the extra strength he had.

He grabbed the other man's collar and pulled him down, whispering, "I'll do you one better, Brocklehurst. Expect a complete transcription of the entire evening, every single conversation, with no flaws at all."

He released this hold on his pheromones, the chemical spewing into the air, potently virulent through his skin. He pulled the man in to a kiss, locking their lips for a minute, then smiled and pushed him away. "Games are designed for more than one person," he said, laughing. "No hard feelings." No feelings as all, "I'll see you soon."

He spun on his heel, and walked determinedly through the night.

Imaginary dust to settle the tent no doubt, but Brocklehurst allowed Saya the dignity of doing so without his blatant stare. He just enjoyed his cigarette, knowing if Styles was awake upon his return he'd bloody well hear about it in Styles' own terse yet foreboding manner. May as well finish the fag now. He blew another warm puff into the cool air.

What? Nicholas carefully leveled his ash away from the boy when he took him by the collar, blue eyes shielded and penetrating all at once. He accepted Saya's gesture with cool nonchalance.

"You're--" capable of such tapping, he meant to ask were it not for the unexpected kiss. It played out like classic non-lethal revenge. Not even his cigarette could dull the shock of petulant pheromones that swirled by scent, touch, and taste. Ache.

The embers had already reached the filter by the time Saya pushed him away. Shit. He flicked the wasted fag to the sidewalk and regained his composure.

"Considerably," said Nicholas as the other turned away. Secretive as a woman and a man, but Saya had delivered before, and more than once. He shook his head and checked the time, then calculated the minutes he had between now and the ETA at home. Styles would know and not give.

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Log; ongoing

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