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Sands!
I can't believe nobody else has done this yet. Seriously. I've lost my faith in slashdom again. (Crossover. Set several years pre-movie, season sevenish or eightish)
Sands caught the stranger unawares as he was going through his bags. The first bullet caught him in the arm as he was dodging, but he didn't even flinch. He avoided the next two by ducking behind the hotel bed and when he came back up he had his own gun aimed at Sands.
"I don't believe in Mexican standoffs, fucker," Sands snarled.
"That's good, because I'd lose," the other man said. "Look, if I were to put my gun down for ten seconds, would you stop shooting long enough for me to show you something?"
He seemed to be trying his best to look naive and harmless, which pissed Sands off, because that was his shtick. On the other hand, Sands was curious, and he could always shoot the guy anyway. He smiled. "Of course. You seem to have gotten the idea that I'm a violent person. I can't imagine why."
The other man rolled his eyes and dropped his gun on the mattress, then awkwardly dug in the pocket of his jacket with the same hand. His other was wounded, then, despite the lack of visible blood. And why the fuck would anyone wear black leather and gloves in this godawful climate anyway?
The man tossed something across the bed and he picked it up and flipped it open. An ID. "Vasily Arntzen, SVR. Very interesting. Your English is very good." He threw it back over then lit in a chair, keeping his gun steady. "I admit, that might make things messier to clean up. Okay, you get to explain why you broke into my hotel room and maybe I won't even kill you afterward."
Arntzen raised his eyebrows. "I'm honored. My superiors sent me here to look into some damn black-market medical ring. Me, I'd just as soon kill the fuckers and go home, but you know bureaucracy, they want evidence first, so I'm probably going to be stuck here for weeks. And I'd heard the local CIA had a tendency to get territorial, so I thought I'd check in first. You are Agent Sheldon Sands, right?" He held out his hand to shake.
"Just Sands," he growled, conciliated for now. "Not even my parents used that name."
"Damn, not another one," Arntzen muttered. "No, I can handle this. You aren't going to beat me up, are you?"
"Now why would I feel the need to do something like that when I have a gun?"
"Wonderful. A man who's actually rational for once," he said happily. "I love interagency cooperation." He flopped down on the bed and pulled off his glove with his teeth. "By the way, why do you have a fake arm in a bag under your bed?"
"Why is that any of your business?"
He looked up. "I was just wondering, if you didn't need it, if I could borrow it. Since you kind of shot mine up."
Sands blinked. ". . . You only have one arm."
"I can tell I'm dealing with a real first-class intellect here," he said. "*Yes*, I only have one arm." He'd pulled his jacket awkwardly off and wsa fiddling with the straps on a prosthetic which was basically splintered just below the elbow. "They don't generally put sociopaths on disability, you know. We're too useful in the field." He cussed to himself for a second over the arm, the added, "Besides, if they put me on a desk job they were probably afraid I'd blow up the building."
"Do you have a history of doing that?" Sands asked, fascinated despite himself.
Arntzen looked up at him through his lashes. "Not recently. Why *do* you have a fake arm, anyway? You weren't expecting me? Goddamn it, if that bastard is working behind my back again I'm going to lace his cigarettes with tobacco beetles--"
"I took it off a corpse a few weeks ago," Sands said. "The guy got dismembered anyway in the course of my investigations but the arm would've been too recognizable. Besides, I thought it might come in handy sometime. Feel free to try it on for fit," he added sardonically, since it was pretty clear the Russian was going to anyway.
"Greatness," he said, grinning as he hopped off the bed. "The Lord will provide."
-----Screw that. Plot? What plot? Let's skip to a slashy bit:
Alex leaned back against the bathroom door and looked at his watch again. "You know, you'll go blind if you do that too much," he called.
There was a sudden movement inside the room, then Sands called back, "Fuck you. Do you have any idea how horny getting shot at makes me?"
"Yeah, yeah, join the club," Alex yelled back. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to scrub off dried blood with only one hand? I just want to shower and go to bed, damn it!"
A pause. "I could help you with that, you know."
Alex grinned. "Which part, the shower or the taking me to bed?"
. . . and even longer pause. "Whichever--"
-----and even later:
"What's wrong with Sheldon, anyway?" Alex asked sleepily. "I mean, I could get it if it were something weird-ass like Fox or something, but Sheldon's a perfectly good old-fashioned name."
"Ha," said Sands, rolling over. "If you don't know already, then you don't have the cultural context to understand." He added, "You don't really know anyone named Fox, do you? That's hilarious."
"He was named after the movie studio, according to his father," Alex mumbled. "I think his mother did a lot of Valium around that time. No, seriously, why not Sheldon?"
Sands sighed and draped an arm dramatically over the bed. "Have you seen 'When Harry Met Sally'?"
Alex snorted. "What, are you afraid we've ruined our beautiful friendship?" He looked down at Sands. "I don't think you need to worry about that."
"Ha-fucking-ha," said Sands. "No. She-el-don," he drawled.
Alex blinked once, and then he got it, and burst out laughing. "Okay, I take that back. I guess you do have something to worry about after all."
"Fuck you," Sands said without heat. "My gun is within reach, you know."
Alex nodded sagely. "Phallic overcompensation."
Bloody britishisms. *stabs*.
Pre-movie, during Book 4:
Sirius had come to this tropical Muggle resort to relax a little while he hid, but he found himself spending most of his time cautiously watching the dark-haired American, who had been watching him in return. He reminded Sirius in an odd way of James, the way you were never sure if that look in his eyes was mischief or malice or if he even made a distinction between the two. They had been spending the past week circling each other like two stray dogs trapped in the same alley . . . .
Sands caught the stranger unawares as he was going through his bags. The first bullet caught him in the arm as he was dodging, but he didn't even flinch. He avoided the next two by ducking behind the hotel bed and when he came back up he had his own gun aimed at Sands.
"I don't believe in Mexican standoffs, fucker," Sands snarled.
"That's good, because I'd lose," the other man said. "Look, if I were to put my gun down for ten seconds, would you stop shooting long enough for me to show you something?"
He seemed to be trying his best to look naive and harmless, which pissed Sands off, because that was his shtick. On the other hand, Sands was curious, and he could always shoot the guy anyway. He smiled. "Of course. You seem to have gotten the idea that I'm a violent person. I can't imagine why."
The other man rolled his eyes and dropped his gun on the mattress, then awkwardly dug in the pocket of his jacket with the same hand. His other was wounded, then, despite the lack of visible blood. And why the fuck would anyone wear black leather and gloves in this godawful climate anyway?
The man tossed something across the bed and he picked it up and flipped it open. An ID. "Vasily Arntzen, SVR. Very interesting. Your English is very good." He threw it back over then lit in a chair, keeping his gun steady. "I admit, that might make things messier to clean up. Okay, you get to explain why you broke into my hotel room and maybe I won't even kill you afterward."
Arntzen raised his eyebrows. "I'm honored. My superiors sent me here to look into some damn black-market medical ring. Me, I'd just as soon kill the fuckers and go home, but you know bureaucracy, they want evidence first, so I'm probably going to be stuck here for weeks. And I'd heard the local CIA had a tendency to get territorial, so I thought I'd check in first. You are Agent Sheldon Sands, right?" He held out his hand to shake.
"Just Sands," he growled, conciliated for now. "Not even my parents used that name."
"Damn, not another one," Arntzen muttered. "No, I can handle this. You aren't going to beat me up, are you?"
"Now why would I feel the need to do something like that when I have a gun?"
"Wonderful. A man who's actually rational for once," he said happily. "I love interagency cooperation." He flopped down on the bed and pulled off his glove with his teeth. "By the way, why do you have a fake arm in a bag under your bed?"
"Why is that any of your business?"
He looked up. "I was just wondering, if you didn't need it, if I could borrow it. Since you kind of shot mine up."
Sands blinked. ". . . You only have one arm."
"I can tell I'm dealing with a real first-class intellect here," he said. "*Yes*, I only have one arm." He'd pulled his jacket awkwardly off and wsa fiddling with the straps on a prosthetic which was basically splintered just below the elbow. "They don't generally put sociopaths on disability, you know. We're too useful in the field." He cussed to himself for a second over the arm, the added, "Besides, if they put me on a desk job they were probably afraid I'd blow up the building."
"Do you have a history of doing that?" Sands asked, fascinated despite himself.
Arntzen looked up at him through his lashes. "Not recently. Why *do* you have a fake arm, anyway? You weren't expecting me? Goddamn it, if that bastard is working behind my back again I'm going to lace his cigarettes with tobacco beetles--"
"I took it off a corpse a few weeks ago," Sands said. "The guy got dismembered anyway in the course of my investigations but the arm would've been too recognizable. Besides, I thought it might come in handy sometime. Feel free to try it on for fit," he added sardonically, since it was pretty clear the Russian was going to anyway.
"Greatness," he said, grinning as he hopped off the bed. "The Lord will provide."
-----Screw that. Plot? What plot? Let's skip to a slashy bit:
Alex leaned back against the bathroom door and looked at his watch again. "You know, you'll go blind if you do that too much," he called.
There was a sudden movement inside the room, then Sands called back, "Fuck you. Do you have any idea how horny getting shot at makes me?"
"Yeah, yeah, join the club," Alex yelled back. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to scrub off dried blood with only one hand? I just want to shower and go to bed, damn it!"
A pause. "I could help you with that, you know."
Alex grinned. "Which part, the shower or the taking me to bed?"
. . . and even longer pause. "Whichever--"
-----and even later:
"What's wrong with Sheldon, anyway?" Alex asked sleepily. "I mean, I could get it if it were something weird-ass like Fox or something, but Sheldon's a perfectly good old-fashioned name."
"Ha," said Sands, rolling over. "If you don't know already, then you don't have the cultural context to understand." He added, "You don't really know anyone named Fox, do you? That's hilarious."
"He was named after the movie studio, according to his father," Alex mumbled. "I think his mother did a lot of Valium around that time. No, seriously, why not Sheldon?"
Sands sighed and draped an arm dramatically over the bed. "Have you seen 'When Harry Met Sally'?"
Alex snorted. "What, are you afraid we've ruined our beautiful friendship?" He looked down at Sands. "I don't think you need to worry about that."
"Ha-fucking-ha," said Sands. "No. She-el-don," he drawled.
Alex blinked once, and then he got it, and burst out laughing. "Okay, I take that back. I guess you do have something to worry about after all."
"Fuck you," Sands said without heat. "My gun is within reach, you know."
Alex nodded sagely. "Phallic overcompensation."
Bloody britishisms. *stabs*.
Pre-movie, during Book 4:
Sirius had come to this tropical Muggle resort to relax a little while he hid, but he found himself spending most of his time cautiously watching the dark-haired American, who had been watching him in return. He reminded Sirius in an odd way of James, the way you were never sure if that look in his eyes was mischief or malice or if he even made a distinction between the two. They had been spending the past week circling each other like two stray dogs trapped in the same alley . . . .
no subject
I guess I'm gonna have to see that movie sometime, aren't I?
no subject
I think you should buy me the dvd for my birthday. Only watch it first, of course.
no subject
*ponder* I actually don't have anything for you atm. Except a vague plan to buy lots of rum and make you drink it while watching xf dvds.
no subject
Rum and dvds sounds like a fine plan.
no subject
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