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tampered2007-11-23 08:18 pm
razrsharp.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-11-23 08:18 pm
Log: Complete
When; Nov. 23 (evening)
Rating; PG
Characters; Christopher Styles![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
under_secretary, Nicholas Brocklehurst razrsharp
Summary; Nicholas finally unveils the ring and asks Christopher a question of utmost import.
Log;
"Good game," Nicholas said while inspecting the redness on his left elbow.
Styles had suggested a few engaging rounds on the racquetball court and far be it for Brocklehurst to decline. He wondered if the other man felt like they were falling into a mundane routine; morning, work, dinner, discourse, sleep, rinse and repeat. Secrecy had kept them on their toes in Washington, now they had no need for it, and there were no trials to challenge Christopher's naturally competitive streak. That or the American thought one or the other needed to drop a few kilos.
He ran his fingers through damp blond hair. "Care to take a walk?"
~~~~~~
Styles had been fighting his now almost constant stomachache when the idea for a game struck him. He needed the change in routine - the physical activity that was almost like sex when Brocklehurst was involved. He knew that they watched each other closely.
They were both out of shape, but it had been a good game. He stretched neglected muscles and nodded after a moment. A walk would ease them, draw out the lactic acid, and give him an activity to distract from his stomach.
"Sure," he said after a moment, looking up at Nicholas, "Where did you want to go?"
~~~~~~~~
How convenient of him. Nicholas smiled as he shrugged his jacket over his shoulders (the weather was colder these days); a small black box laid hidden in the left liner pocket. "The park isn't far from here," he suggested.
Some of the trees were still shedding their warm leaves, though by now it was dusk.
~~~~~~~
Styles pulled his own jacket tighter around him - he wasn't used to cold, really. When he lived in China, he had always had a lot of warm coats, and in Virginia it never got that terribly cold. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stepped a touch closer to Brocklehurst - just close enough to use the other man as a windbreaker.
They headed toward the park and he watched the leaves swirl around. Almost a year had passed...and here he was, alive, unharmed, protected.
The park was quiet, and that made it all the more appealing.
~~~~~~~~~~
He would never consider Christopher a frail delicate sort, but it amused Nicholas to see the shorter man sidle closer. He bumped him briefly as they walked.
"It isn't that cold, Christopher," the Englishman grinned before slipping an arm loosely around the other's waist. "With your complexion it'd never show," Nicholas quipped, regarding Styles' 'plantation' tan.
~~~~~~~~
Styles let the other man's hand idle there for a moment before he pushed it away in the kind of motion that suggested he needed space more than he didn't want touch. He wasn't a particularly demonstrative man to begin with, in any case.
"The wind makes it worse," he pointed out. It wasn't that cold, but it was cold enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His hand fell away without offense. It was almost like walking the Seventh Street District again, exercising subtle gestures that Christopher oh so casually rebuffed not because of what he was but because of who he was. Nicholas respected that, his hand settling at his own side.
"Come with me," he upnodded to the left then walked along a path that could have easily been mistaken for one in any other urban park from home, 'their world.'
Brocklehurst led them to a warmly lit circle of benches on smooth stone and gravel. Taller hedges surrounded the area, partially shielding the Virginian bred American from that nippy wind. And it was quiet here with no other city locals. He settled on one of the wood and iron benches then gestured for Styles to join him. Nicholas was rather pleased with this find.
~~~~~~~~~~
Styles followed, going down the path that reminded him oddly of one of the D.C. parks. The opening was small and private, and he sat down next to Brocklehurst without hesitation. In the City, there wasn't really a need, or a point to hiding.
They had experienced a number of pleasant days in Paris once where they didn't have to hide as much; Styles was willing to touch in public, which back in their world, had always been a rare thing to begin with. Here, he didn't feel as much of that old hesitation.
He sat down next to Brocklehurst and relaxed, even on the cold metal bench.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Nicholas' blue eyes glanced to the American again, silently, considering the brunette and the weight in his pocket. He was nervous, and Nicholas Brocklehurst, duplicitious bastard extraordinaire, was rarely anything but. Rather, he was very good at hiding it... except from Christopher Styles. Still he smiled.
"No wind, right," he fidgeted with the zipper tab on his jacket.
Twit. They knew each other's every move, the meaning of a subtle gesture, and the scent of their emotions. Styles would suspect in a heartbeat. "Christopher... I know you'd rather not remember the night before, but you know you'd never have to thank me for those things."
~~~~~~~
Styles' eyes were on Nicholas' lips, on his fingers, on his eyes, and he knew that something was very, very wrong. He crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips slightly. "It was a curse, Brocklehurst," he reminded him. "Of course I'm thankful, but it's not like I'm particularly overcome with the sentiment."
He fought the urge to stand up and walk away. If he was sane, that's what he would do in an instant - stand up, walk away, not let Brocklehurst finish his thoughts. But he didn't; something kept him in his seat.
Whatever was wrong, it wasn't about the thank yous from the other night.
~~~~~~~~
He'd never done this before, he didn't think he ever would, and Brocklehurst's largely solitary nature had made it difficult to understand the notion of proper etiquette for such an occasion. He wouldn't blame the army or the SIS, even if he'd dedicated over half of his lifetime to England. Nicholas was inept in this regard, but he was also one to take risks and challenges. Qui audet adipiscitur.
If he could hear anyone else follow the same line of thought Brocklehurst would label the individual a ridiculous idiot.
"I know it was a curse," the Englishman nodded, offering Christopher a mildly sheepish smile, "I know you aren't sentimental. I mean--" Sod this for a game of soldiers, Nicholas, he thought to himself. "My mum said I'd fall in love only once," he hurriedly reached into his pocket for that black velvet box to present the ring with its ten diamonds.
"Christopher Styles will you marry me?"
~~~~~~~~~
Styles could feel the air go.
It was like he had been punched. The world tilted violently - natural order was no longer natural. The sky was blue but Nicholas has just proposed and Styles, normally so verbose, normally so able to conjure up words to his bidding, was at a loss for them.
He looked up at the man who had defined his world for the last four years. He was the biggest secret, the most dangerous one, the best one, in more ways than one. He was the one who had gone to save him. He was the one who, when Styles had lost everything, was the icing on the cake.
He was such a good man.
Styles loved him with every bit of himself that was able to love.
"No." He said finally, steeling his face, not letting anything show through.
~~~~~~~~~
Nicholas sucked in his breath, made even colder by his anxiety. Men were supposed to propose when they were sure their significant other would say yes. But if that were the case then rings were a gesture of tradition by necessity, and government documents far more important. He didn't feel this way about Christopher. This wasn't an arrangement.
Perhaps Brocklehurst was old fashioned and deep down a hopeless romantic, just like his mother.
He loved Styles, the 'intern' he met four years ago, the young newly promoted undersecretary, the neatly encoded voice on his phone, and the ambitious force behind the loss of several lives; Nicholas' very reason for which he compromised a situation. He'd left Christopher once only to return because he couldn't place conditions on their relationship. It wasn't a matter of bait.
And Styles had just said no. The American was the only force that could surprise the spy and leave him most unprepared. He closed the lid over the shining white gold ring and returned it to his pocket. Nicholas averted his blue gaze, covertly.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly, "this doesn't change anything."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Styles mother hadn't taught him very much when he was a boy. She hadn't been a very good mother, or a very good woman. In every single case, Styles had always wondered what had driven his father to such desperation to marry her.
He had never found out the reason. He stood from the bench, not willing to look at Nicholas. It would take a minute before he could look down at the other man and not see his mother in himself. There was that pressure in the base of his stomach - he wanted to vomit, he wanted to get sick.
His body wouldn't let him. Instead he turned and tipped his head carefully to look at the other man. "Lets go home, Brocklehurst," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
~~~~~~~~~
The proposal was a bad idea, he should have listened, but Nicholas wouldn't allow himself to show regret. He didn't regret asking, not even for getting rejected, at the very least he'd tried what he'd set out to do. The rejection stung more like a slice from the razor edge of finely cut paper, and this one had Christopher Styles embossed across it. So god damned professional.
Brocklehurst only hoped the damage was minimal and could be undone. Most certainly not now.
"All right," Nicholas nodded as he stood from his seat. He took control of his composure, to appear as if this was only a small setback and one foolish mistake that he could easily get over. He felt so fucking sorry.
~~~~~~~~~
He hadn't known; he walked in silence, not aware of the cutting cold wind, and realized that as he walked. He hadn't known, or even realized. His suspicions were all dumb and pointless, his own paranoia, he had reassured himself, not an actual threat at all.
Once the apartment was in sight, he turned to look at Nicholas; really look at him for a minute. He sighed softly and closed his fists inside his jacket pockets.
Why the hell had Nicholas done that? What had possessed him?
Once at the door, he stopped Nicholas, the same feeling coming over him as what had passed when he thought Nicholas was about to leave him, back in Washington - that certain sense of desperation, that feeling of, be gentle, for once.
He didn't offer a touch, or even a meeting of the eyes, but instead tried his softest smile and a quiet, "We have leftovers, for dinner."
Normalcy. Or the barest glimmering attempt at it.
~~~~~~~~~~
He asked himself those same questions. Why had he done it? Nicholas had taken at least seven months just to come to terms with the fact that Christopher had died under his watch. Even with the overdose, he could have acted faster. He still remembered the feeling of Styles' eyelashes under his palm as he closed his brown eyes. Brocklehurst didn't want the brunette to think this was about his death or second chances.
He wanted to explain that, that he loved him very much and couldn't imagine a future without him. That had made the reality of last November cold and harsh. He was deeply convinced that whether or not Tyrgyzstan had happened he would have asked anyway. At the same time the Englishman wanted to say nothing at all in order to quickly return to normalcy.
He loved the way Styles tried to do the same for chrissake. Nicholas paused before him and listened. He nodded after a silent moment. "I'll warm up the étouffée," said the blond, mirroring the smile.
Rating; PG
Characters; Christopher Styles
under_secretary, Nicholas Brocklehurst razrsharp Summary; Nicholas finally unveils the ring and asks Christopher a question of utmost import.
Log;
"Good game," Nicholas said while inspecting the redness on his left elbow.
Styles had suggested a few engaging rounds on the racquetball court and far be it for Brocklehurst to decline. He wondered if the other man felt like they were falling into a mundane routine; morning, work, dinner, discourse, sleep, rinse and repeat. Secrecy had kept them on their toes in Washington, now they had no need for it, and there were no trials to challenge Christopher's naturally competitive streak. That or the American thought one or the other needed to drop a few kilos.
He ran his fingers through damp blond hair. "Care to take a walk?"
~~~~~~
Styles had been fighting his now almost constant stomachache when the idea for a game struck him. He needed the change in routine - the physical activity that was almost like sex when Brocklehurst was involved. He knew that they watched each other closely.
They were both out of shape, but it had been a good game. He stretched neglected muscles and nodded after a moment. A walk would ease them, draw out the lactic acid, and give him an activity to distract from his stomach.
"Sure," he said after a moment, looking up at Nicholas, "Where did you want to go?"
~~~~~~~~
How convenient of him. Nicholas smiled as he shrugged his jacket over his shoulders (the weather was colder these days); a small black box laid hidden in the left liner pocket. "The park isn't far from here," he suggested.
Some of the trees were still shedding their warm leaves, though by now it was dusk.
~~~~~~~
Styles pulled his own jacket tighter around him - he wasn't used to cold, really. When he lived in China, he had always had a lot of warm coats, and in Virginia it never got that terribly cold. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stepped a touch closer to Brocklehurst - just close enough to use the other man as a windbreaker.
They headed toward the park and he watched the leaves swirl around. Almost a year had passed...and here he was, alive, unharmed, protected.
The park was quiet, and that made it all the more appealing.
~~~~~~~~~~
He would never consider Christopher a frail delicate sort, but it amused Nicholas to see the shorter man sidle closer. He bumped him briefly as they walked.
"It isn't that cold, Christopher," the Englishman grinned before slipping an arm loosely around the other's waist. "With your complexion it'd never show," Nicholas quipped, regarding Styles' 'plantation' tan.
~~~~~~~~
Styles let the other man's hand idle there for a moment before he pushed it away in the kind of motion that suggested he needed space more than he didn't want touch. He wasn't a particularly demonstrative man to begin with, in any case.
"The wind makes it worse," he pointed out. It wasn't that cold, but it was cold enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His hand fell away without offense. It was almost like walking the Seventh Street District again, exercising subtle gestures that Christopher oh so casually rebuffed not because of what he was but because of who he was. Nicholas respected that, his hand settling at his own side.
"Come with me," he upnodded to the left then walked along a path that could have easily been mistaken for one in any other urban park from home, 'their world.'
Brocklehurst led them to a warmly lit circle of benches on smooth stone and gravel. Taller hedges surrounded the area, partially shielding the Virginian bred American from that nippy wind. And it was quiet here with no other city locals. He settled on one of the wood and iron benches then gestured for Styles to join him. Nicholas was rather pleased with this find.
~~~~~~~~~~
Styles followed, going down the path that reminded him oddly of one of the D.C. parks. The opening was small and private, and he sat down next to Brocklehurst without hesitation. In the City, there wasn't really a need, or a point to hiding.
They had experienced a number of pleasant days in Paris once where they didn't have to hide as much; Styles was willing to touch in public, which back in their world, had always been a rare thing to begin with. Here, he didn't feel as much of that old hesitation.
He sat down next to Brocklehurst and relaxed, even on the cold metal bench.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Nicholas' blue eyes glanced to the American again, silently, considering the brunette and the weight in his pocket. He was nervous, and Nicholas Brocklehurst, duplicitious bastard extraordinaire, was rarely anything but. Rather, he was very good at hiding it... except from Christopher Styles. Still he smiled.
"No wind, right," he fidgeted with the zipper tab on his jacket.
Twit. They knew each other's every move, the meaning of a subtle gesture, and the scent of their emotions. Styles would suspect in a heartbeat. "Christopher... I know you'd rather not remember the night before, but you know you'd never have to thank me for those things."
~~~~~~~
Styles' eyes were on Nicholas' lips, on his fingers, on his eyes, and he knew that something was very, very wrong. He crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips slightly. "It was a curse, Brocklehurst," he reminded him. "Of course I'm thankful, but it's not like I'm particularly overcome with the sentiment."
He fought the urge to stand up and walk away. If he was sane, that's what he would do in an instant - stand up, walk away, not let Brocklehurst finish his thoughts. But he didn't; something kept him in his seat.
Whatever was wrong, it wasn't about the thank yous from the other night.
~~~~~~~~
He'd never done this before, he didn't think he ever would, and Brocklehurst's largely solitary nature had made it difficult to understand the notion of proper etiquette for such an occasion. He wouldn't blame the army or the SIS, even if he'd dedicated over half of his lifetime to England. Nicholas was inept in this regard, but he was also one to take risks and challenges. Qui audet adipiscitur.
If he could hear anyone else follow the same line of thought Brocklehurst would label the individual a ridiculous idiot.
"I know it was a curse," the Englishman nodded, offering Christopher a mildly sheepish smile, "I know you aren't sentimental. I mean--" Sod this for a game of soldiers, Nicholas, he thought to himself. "My mum said I'd fall in love only once," he hurriedly reached into his pocket for that black velvet box to present the ring with its ten diamonds.
"Christopher Styles will you marry me?"
~~~~~~~~~
Styles could feel the air go.
It was like he had been punched. The world tilted violently - natural order was no longer natural. The sky was blue but Nicholas has just proposed and Styles, normally so verbose, normally so able to conjure up words to his bidding, was at a loss for them.
He looked up at the man who had defined his world for the last four years. He was the biggest secret, the most dangerous one, the best one, in more ways than one. He was the one who had gone to save him. He was the one who, when Styles had lost everything, was the icing on the cake.
He was such a good man.
Styles loved him with every bit of himself that was able to love.
"No." He said finally, steeling his face, not letting anything show through.
~~~~~~~~~
Nicholas sucked in his breath, made even colder by his anxiety. Men were supposed to propose when they were sure their significant other would say yes. But if that were the case then rings were a gesture of tradition by necessity, and government documents far more important. He didn't feel this way about Christopher. This wasn't an arrangement.
Perhaps Brocklehurst was old fashioned and deep down a hopeless romantic, just like his mother.
He loved Styles, the 'intern' he met four years ago, the young newly promoted undersecretary, the neatly encoded voice on his phone, and the ambitious force behind the loss of several lives; Nicholas' very reason for which he compromised a situation. He'd left Christopher once only to return because he couldn't place conditions on their relationship. It wasn't a matter of bait.
And Styles had just said no. The American was the only force that could surprise the spy and leave him most unprepared. He closed the lid over the shining white gold ring and returned it to his pocket. Nicholas averted his blue gaze, covertly.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly, "this doesn't change anything."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Styles mother hadn't taught him very much when he was a boy. She hadn't been a very good mother, or a very good woman. In every single case, Styles had always wondered what had driven his father to such desperation to marry her.
He had never found out the reason. He stood from the bench, not willing to look at Nicholas. It would take a minute before he could look down at the other man and not see his mother in himself. There was that pressure in the base of his stomach - he wanted to vomit, he wanted to get sick.
His body wouldn't let him. Instead he turned and tipped his head carefully to look at the other man. "Lets go home, Brocklehurst," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
~~~~~~~~~
The proposal was a bad idea, he should have listened, but Nicholas wouldn't allow himself to show regret. He didn't regret asking, not even for getting rejected, at the very least he'd tried what he'd set out to do. The rejection stung more like a slice from the razor edge of finely cut paper, and this one had Christopher Styles embossed across it. So god damned professional.
Brocklehurst only hoped the damage was minimal and could be undone. Most certainly not now.
"All right," Nicholas nodded as he stood from his seat. He took control of his composure, to appear as if this was only a small setback and one foolish mistake that he could easily get over. He felt so fucking sorry.
~~~~~~~~~
He hadn't known; he walked in silence, not aware of the cutting cold wind, and realized that as he walked. He hadn't known, or even realized. His suspicions were all dumb and pointless, his own paranoia, he had reassured himself, not an actual threat at all.
Once the apartment was in sight, he turned to look at Nicholas; really look at him for a minute. He sighed softly and closed his fists inside his jacket pockets.
Why the hell had Nicholas done that? What had possessed him?
Once at the door, he stopped Nicholas, the same feeling coming over him as what had passed when he thought Nicholas was about to leave him, back in Washington - that certain sense of desperation, that feeling of, be gentle, for once.
He didn't offer a touch, or even a meeting of the eyes, but instead tried his softest smile and a quiet, "We have leftovers, for dinner."
Normalcy. Or the barest glimmering attempt at it.
~~~~~~~~~~
He asked himself those same questions. Why had he done it? Nicholas had taken at least seven months just to come to terms with the fact that Christopher had died under his watch. Even with the overdose, he could have acted faster. He still remembered the feeling of Styles' eyelashes under his palm as he closed his brown eyes. Brocklehurst didn't want the brunette to think this was about his death or second chances.
He wanted to explain that, that he loved him very much and couldn't imagine a future without him. That had made the reality of last November cold and harsh. He was deeply convinced that whether or not Tyrgyzstan had happened he would have asked anyway. At the same time the Englishman wanted to say nothing at all in order to quickly return to normalcy.
He loved the way Styles tried to do the same for chrissake. Nicholas paused before him and listened. He nodded after a silent moment. "I'll warm up the étouffée," said the blond, mirroring the smile.
OOC:
OOC:
ooc;
ooc;
ooc;
Yeah, still me.