Fiction: Soft Centre
Feb. 14th, 2010 02:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kethniName: Soft Centre
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Genre: Slash, humour
Rating: PG/R
Warnings: Wilful abuse of innocent metaphors and aggravated assault of the common simile. Adult language and sexual situations.
Note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amles80 who wanted ‘something in the style of Hardboiled.’
Word Count: 6100 approx
It’s early, so early that even in the city of Angels only the sinners are walking the streets. Not that there aren’t plenty of sinners indoors as well; hell, the best place for a fallen angel is in bed, dirtying up the sheets. My personal fallen angel is lying in bed, sated and sleeping after sullying himself with my body.
Why he chooses to dally with me is a mystery to everyone, including me. Beautiful, smart, and rich he could pick anyone to warm his bed, but somehow he’s got me. Dirt poor, downtrodden, and down on my luck, there’s no queue to take a tumble into my bed. Hell, I don’t even have a good-hearted secretary secretly in love with me, and that’s part of the specification. Every gumshoe has a Tess Truehart, pining away for him.
Not me, I scored the big one. The beautiful, classy, dangerous type, the one who’s supposed to lead me by the nose, or other body part, and then stab me in the back, or waltz off with some other glitzy upper class type, set his cap at me and made his play.
What was I going to do, say no?
It can’t last, nothing does. Him hooking up with me is like that Barnum exhibit, the one with the lion, tiger, panther, and lamb, and yours truly is the lamb. One morning he’ll wake up, realise he’s a tiger, and then he’ll be picking me out of his teeth. Sooner or later he’s going to realise guys like him just don’t mess with schmucks like me, not unless it’s for fun. I’m nothing but a blip, a mistake, and Mohinder’s too bright, brighter than me, to make the same mistake more than once. Sure, I could stop it. I should stop it. I should break it off first, with some style, with some dignity. God knows I’ve tried, but he’s got his hooks in deep and they aint coming out with him tearing them out. Sure as hell, I don’t have the strength to rip them out of me.
‘Matt,’ he murmurs in his sleep. Voice like... I want to say an angel but I already used that one and besides, it’s not. It’s throaty and raw from screaming out in bed last night. Voice like a devil, like one of those with wings that come in the night to fuck you, and suck out your soul. He’s had my soul out a hundred times over. He’s had it and he’s welcome to it, I never found a use for it. He’s had my body, my soul, hell he can have the coins in my pockets and the shirt off my back if he wants them. When he leaves me, and he will, he’ll leave me naked, raw, and broken like a sinner on the rack.
And it’ll be worth it. Even though I know he’ll gut me and leave me bleeding on the floor, it’ll be worth it.
Another day of dumpster diving and lurking in the bushes, hell if you want glamour and giggles then you’re reading about the wrong guy. But it pays the rent and keeps me in trench coats and TV Guide, as well as keeping me... uh on the streets. Really, would you want someone like me wandering around with nothing much to do?
I’m dropping off my negatives when my cell rings. Yeah, yeah, sing me a song about the digital revolution, those things just aren’t the same. You can’t shutterbug a hundred shots a minute with a digital camera, hell, you can barely take one a minute on a digital camera. Besides, I’m an old-fashioned guy, and I like a photograph I can get hold of, and that comes with nice solid negatives. Negatives have saved my ass more than once.
‘Parkman?’
‘Mr Parkman, this is Bob Bishop from Primatech. I’d like you to come in and discuss the possibility of an engagement.’
The blonde bombshell’s daddy, less I miss my mark. Her daddy and Mohinder’s boss, this should be an interesting conversation.
‘You offering me a job or a ring on my finger, Mr Bishop? Because I have a boyfriend and I’m not the kind of boy who cheats.’
‘Very amusing Mr Parkman,’ he says. ‘Shall we say three o’clock? I believe you know the location.’
Let’s see, it’s two now and it’ll take me maybe twenty minutes to get there. Enough time to grab a coffee and give Mohinder the heads up about my imminent visit. Maybe he can clue me in on what Daddy Bishop’s got in mind.
‘Sure thing Mr Bishop, I’ll be there at three.’
Primatech, now there’s a nest of vipers of another colour. I’ve only seen the building from the outside, and then only once while dropping off Mohinder. The way he drives that sporty number it’s a miracle he’s only wrapped it around a tree once, and then he climbed out without a scratch. If that had been me, I’d have been on my back like the roaches. But the world loves the beautiful people, and god knows Mohinder lives a charmed life, unlikely choice of bedfellows aside. I should resent it, hell it’s not as if it’s fair that they get to be beautiful and get all kinds of special treatment. But people like me, we’re hardwired to fall down and pray at the feet of people like them. Hey, we get to look at them right? They only get to look at us.
I ring Mohinder on the way back to the car. If I’m going to tap dance in his dancehall then I at least should let him know before I trample on his toes.
‘Mohinder Suresh?’
‘Hey Doc, it’s me.’
‘Hello, Matthew,’ he says warmly, and I can hear the smile. ‘You know I hate it when you call me “Doc”, I think you do it purely to aggravate me.’
‘Gotta irritate an oyster to make a pearl.’
He snorts and there’s a creak like he’s sitting down. ‘You and your tortured metaphors, one day you’ll be called to account for crimes against the English language.’
‘Yeah, yeah, poor metaphors and similes, boo hoo. I’m on my way to Primatech; the big boss there just extended the love and reached out to me.’
‘No, it’s no good. You’re going to have to give me a translation,’ he says lightly. ‘Why are you coming to Primatech?’
‘Bishop rang me up and invited me in for a conversation. You don’t know what about?’ I get into the car and start the engine.
‘I’m entirely in the dark. I’m also terribly offended you aren’t coming to see me,’ he purrs. ‘That’s not very friendly is it?’
‘You want to get friendly? We can get plenty friendly. I like getting friendly.’
He laughs down the phone. ‘Mmm, I like the sound of friendly. Would you like me to try and find out what Bob wants?’
‘Nah, I’ll be there soon enough,’ I say lightly. ‘But if he’s planning to serve notice he wants you, then he’ll have a fight on his hands.’
‘I should hope so!’
‘See you when I see you.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ he replies.
Primatech Paper, boys and girls, surely the only paper company on the planet employing a geneticist on staff for research. Not to mention the rumours of human testing, government contracts, and security service involvement, yeah, Primatech is to paper what Peter Parker is to newspaper journalism. What kind of a person gets stuck going through life with an alliterative name anyway? Peter Parker, Clark Kent – yeah it counts, don’t make me come over there – Scott Summers, Reed Richards, anyone would think comic book writers couldn’t keep the names straight. Not that it’s just the guys, Lois Lane, Lana Lang – although I guess that mean Superman could yell out ‘L! L!’ without getting a sock in the jaw – Vicky Vale, although of course the best Catwoman was Selina Kyle, rrowar.
Damn, where was I? Oh, yeah, Primatech, the only paper company in the world with gun toting guards and an electric fence. Yeah, they’re not hiding anything.
Not that I have any idea what they’re hiding. Mohinder doesn’t tell and I don’t ask. I’m curious, sure who wouldn’t be, but not enough to ask. Besides, one of the laws of the universe is that all jobs are boring. Hell, I bet even James Bond goes home of an evening thinking if he has to seduce just one more female assassin and see one more bad guy in a leather swivel chair then he’ll scream.
There’s a guy with a gun guarding the gate. Hey, look ma, maybe I could be a comic book writer too!
‘What do you want?’ he demands, all beef jerky and last night’s beer pickling in his pores.
‘Matt Parkman, here to see Bob Bishop.’
‘Mr Bishop is expecting you,’ he says, laying it all heavy on the “Mr.”
‘Thanks, I’ll tell Bob you were a peach.’
The blonde bombshell is all over me like stupid all over Dubya as soon as I walk in the door. ‘Hey Mr Detective! What’re you doing here? Ooh, are you here for a booty call?’
‘I don’t know Ms Bishop; it was your dear old dad who called me.’
‘Oh, ick!’ she squeals. ‘No, no, no.’
‘Woah, watch the hands, sweet cheeks, I’ve got a boyfriend you know,’ I say, prying off her hands and holding them in front of her. ‘Aren’t there some nice boys around for you to grope?’
‘Boys, pfft!’ she giggles. ‘I prefer men.’
‘Don’t we all?’
She gives me a squinty smile. ‘You like women too! I heard all kinds of things about you and Mrs Petrelli.’
Of all the women in the world with little or nothing in common, Elle Bishop and Angela Petrelli have got to be near the top of the tree.
‘Right now, Ms Bishop, I like Mohinder, that’s where I start and end.’
‘Aww, you’re a Momo-sexual!’ she giggles. ‘If I take you to see him, can I watch you screw?’
Fag hags, queen bees, fruit flies, fairy godmothers; it’s not just straight guys who get turned on watching the opposite sex boinking each other.
‘It’s a nice offer but I’m here to see your dad, not Mohinder.’
‘Oh right! Right,’ she says, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. ‘I forgot. Okay! I’ll show you to Daddy.’
Bob Bishop is an older guy, fifties maybe, and he’s all mild manners and old-fashioned courtesy. All soft voice and cultured office, in this shark pool? Yeah right, play me another tune brother; that bird won’t fly. The office is all African artefacts, musical instruments, and the kind of art that middle-aged guys with no taste buy because the blousy blonde at the art gallery said it was the up and coming thing.
Of course, I’ve got to play nice, even if the man makes my skin crawl, because he’s Mohinder’s boss. Just because I know Mohinder’s going to leave me doesn’t mean there’s any reason for me to throw away what time I do have. When it ends, if I have any choice, it’ll be because he’s chosen it, not because I’ve screwed up.
‘Industrial espionage,’ he says.
‘Say what?’
He sighs and leans back in his chair. ‘Someone is stealing our formulas and passing them on to our rival company. I’d like you to discover whom.’
‘Are you sure? They have machines for analysis right?’ Hey, I listen to Mohinder when he talks, even if I only understand one word in six.
‘Not for the kind of formula I’m talking about,’ Bishop waves a hand dismissively. ‘We’re not making cookie dough or shampoo here, Mr Parkman.’
Nah, you’re making “paper,” and that boys and girls is just how domesticated I am now, because I don’t even say it aloud. ‘Well, that’s as maybe, because this isn’t my line, not at all. I’m a low rent gumshoe, not some hotshot corporate security investigator.’
‘True,’ Bishop agrees. ‘But you’re already somewhat familiar with some members of the staff and that means we can cut down significantly on the lead-in time. Additionally, Angela Petrelli considered you trustworthy, and she wasn’t a woman to trust easily.’ He gives me a shutter of a smile. ‘We can assign someone to help you with the more technical aspects of the investigation if that will help.’
‘This would be all of them because I’m not a corporate investigator.’
Bishop sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘Mr Parkman, we’ve already had someone go through all the computer records. We are at least capable of the technical aspects of an investigation. Where we are lacking, what we are asking you for, is expertise in assessing the human side of the equation. We know that it is being done, but the technical evidence does not exist to prove who is doing it.’ He smiles a Mr Rogers smile and shrugs like a good old boy. ‘You can help us out by simply using your natural talent for reading people.’
Mohinder greets me at the door, wrapping my tie around his fist and pulling me into a slow kiss.
‘You’re late,’ he pouts.
‘Sorry, your evil boss kept me longer than I expected,’ I explain.
‘I should quit just for that,’ he says, walking back into the apartment.
‘Don’t do that, then we’ll both be bums,’ I say, following him into the kitchen.
‘Hmm, I could help you on your cases,’ he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. ‘We could hide in the bushes together.’
Mohinder’s beautiful, like a tiger, like a flame, like the edge of the cliff whispering “jump.” One look at him and my heart starts tangoing. I’m dying by inches, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Some nights I see him glowing in the darkness and all I can hear is my heart slamming against my ribs.
‘You could, but then I’d have no incentive to ever come out of the bushes,’ I say, putting my jacket on the table and kicking off my shoes.
‘Matthew Parkman,’ he purrs, stepping closing and playing with the buttons of my shirt. ‘Put your shoes and clothes away properly or I won’t have to spank you.’
‘Damn, harsh Doc!’
He points at the door. ‘Out! Put your things away you big baby.’
‘Waah waah!’
Until the fates pitched Mohinder into my lap, I never met a guy who wanted to chit-chat after making the beast with two backs*. Hell most of us don’t want to talk before sex. What the ladies call foreplay and the gentlemen procrastinating is much less common when it’s two men fornicating. Sex is a good meal, making love is like a good meal where you have to eat your vegetables, and who’s going to eat vegetables when chocolate pudding is on the menu?
*Hey, it’s Shakespeare, nobody said it was tasteful.
But Mohinder, though, he likes to chatter after sex. Since he’s all vulnerable and fuzzy after sex you’d think he’d keep his trap shut, but he’s got some weird urge to roll over and show his belly, rather than guard his flank.
‘I’m a little anxious about you getting involved in Primatech business,’ he says, slim fingers tugging at my chest hair.
‘Oh yeah?’ Hey, I just got an extremely thorough servicing from my younger lover, you’re lucky I can string two words together. Did I mention he’s younger? Eight years or so, one more karmic bomb ticking away. A schlub like me with someone smart, sexy, beautiful, and younger? Oh, I’m in so much shit once I get the bill for this. Karma is going to slam me but good when it all comes tumbling down.
‘Yes, Primatech’s business practices aren’t exactly going to win any awards for ethics,’ he says wryly.
‘Yeah? Neither would mine,’ I point out. Damn I’m sleepy. Tell me a bedtime story, Mohinder; tell me a story of knights, and dragons, and goblins. Sing me a lullaby about babies in treetops.
Instead, he snorts and shakes his head, lush curls catching the flickering lamp light. ‘That’s really not the same. I’m serious, Matt. You might find out things about me that you didn’t want to know.’ He licks his lips, pink tongue glistening like a virgin’s thighs.
Shut up, I’m tired.
‘Are you cheating on me?’
He rolls his eyes, and I know what I thought anyway, he’s not cheating. He’d dump me before he did something like that. He’s the honourable type. Me? I’ve got no pretentions to being honourable.
‘No, I’m not cheating on you.’
‘Then I don’t care,’ I admit. ‘Night Mohinder.’
He’s all business in the morning; crisp blue suit, shoes shining like sun on a lake, and slicked back hair. It doesn’t suit him. My tiger needs freedom to prowl, not be straitjacketed into a shirt and tie. He was designed for long, languid neutrals, not stark black or corporate blue.
‘You look smart,’ I say, not entirely true, but an acceptable lie. Acceptable lies are what keeps the world spinning, what keeps civilisation on track, what stops us from tearing each other apart like starving dogs. We can’t cope with complete honesty, we can’t cope with speaking it, and sure as eggs are eggs we can’t cope with hearing it. Complete honesty would have us damaged, destroyed, or dead before the sunset.
‘You’re a liar,’ he says, smiling at me.
‘Yeah but I’m honest about it,’ I say. ‘Do you want to know what your boss has got me doing at Primatech?’
He grins, and pulls me closer by the lapels of my jacket. ‘I do, but I’m sure you won’t tell me.’
‘Now why would you think that, Doc?’ I ask, kissing the side of his face. ‘You know you’ve got me leashed and tethered like a junkyard dog.’
‘Sweet, sweet lies,’ he purrs.
‘Your boss, he thinks someone’s selling secrets,’ I say.
‘Then you certainly shouldn’t be telling me about it,’ he says, twisting my tie around his fingers. ‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Well... theoretically, if a man had things he wanted to hide from an investigation, he’d have a couple of hours before I got there. Three, maybe, if I were to have some sort of car trouble on the way. I could see that happening.’
‘What?’ he asks blankly.
Damn, guess I misunderstood that whole “find out things about me that you didn’t want to know.”
‘Hide your porn, clear off the eBay auctions details from your internet history, that sort of thing.’
He takes a step back and frowns curiously at me. ‘Are you... do you think I’m selling secrets?’
‘Hey, you know, I’m just giving you a little advance info that’s all.’ Dig, dig, dig that hole, Parkman. Maybe you’ll hit Australia.
Mohinder straightens his tie and pushes back his hair, still pissed and uneasy. That shouldn’t be sexy but hell; Mohinder makes breathing in and out look like a slow slide down the lap-dancing pole.
‘I’ll see you around Primatech.’
‘Mmm,’ he agrees, kissing me softly. ‘You do that.’
I’m half expecting Elle the human Barbie doll to be the one providing “technical support,” but instead, it’s an older guy, solid and CIA slick, all blank smile, even voice, and condescending manner. He’s tall, taller than me even, and he’s got these horn-rimmed glasses; school principal meets secret agent.
He’s got a piece under his jacket and he carries it like it’s always been there, like it’s a part of his body. They tell me that he’s a paper salesmen and that’s twenty-five types of bullshit. He’s security, or something like it. Gun for hire, private soldier, hired killer. You can see it in his eyes.
When I agreed to take this case I figured Bob Bishop – an unlikely superhero but they’re the best kind – was up to something way worse that a little corporate theft, and that he wanted to throw a little mud around. Now I’ve got my faults, and plenty of them, but I don’t think insanely overestimating my capability is one of them. I’m sure as hell not fool enough to think that hiring me makes any kind of sense. Oh, I’m sure I’m plenty cheaper than the corporate crimebusters, all of them twenty year-old ex-hackers just out of jail, and looking so slick as they spool out that lingo. Me? I’m an alley and street man, not a boardroom and offices guy. My life is bad suits and fast food. I lurk outside motels and parked cars, watching the furtive fumbles of my social superiors as they throw away their marriages for a little lick of the forbidden lollipop. Sometimes, now and then, I do missing person cases, which mean turning over filthy hostels, huddling up to the homeless, and annoying nurses at the local hospitals. Near enough nobody wants to be found, just like near enough nobody really wants glossy 10 x 8s of hubby humping Harriet, or Henry, although wifey wriggling with Winona tends to take longer to get the same reaction.
I’m a cockroach. I’m scum. I’m the nasty, dirty oil greasing the wheels of civilisation and I’ve got no illusions about it. What I’m not is the guy anyone brings in for delicate security work. Not to mention, I’m shacked up with Mohinder. That should automatically disqualify me, yet here I am.
So, yeah, Bishop’s either stupid, which he doesn’t seem to be, or up to something; he’s probably planning to play me for a patsy, maybe with Mohinder as the final icing on the cake. Mind you, around here the only thing more suspicious than being up to something, is not being up to something.
Did that make sense? I’m not sure that made sense.
Anyway, my helper, Bennet, he’s definitely up to a whole host of “somethings,” although whether any of those have anything to do with these stolen formula’s... meh. I guess I’ll find out, not that I care. Primatech just pay me the check and I’ll be on my way. Look what happened the last time I strayed past the limit of my remit, I ended up with Heidi Petrelli shoving a gun in my face. I don’t like guns. Guns make me nervous, especially, especially, when they’re pointed at me.
‘I’ve arranged for you to interview everyone with access to the data,’ Bennet says. ‘That’s the formulators, the technicians, the review committee, and the first run production staff.’
‘Okay, and which of those are you?’
He gives me a blank smile. ‘Oh, I’m just a paper salesman.’
‘Uh huh, but you do have that access. Don’t kid a kidder Mr Bennet, I got a shiny silver dollar says you have access to all that data. Are you going to call my dollar a liar?’
Bennet seems actually almost human when he smiles this time. ‘I have access to the formula’s now,’ he says carefully. ‘However the last theft was six weeks ago, and I was on a leave of absence at the time.’
‘Huh, well I’m just the gumshoe your boss hired on the cheap, but since we’re talking about someone stealing... what do you call it, intellectual property? How can you be sure when they were stolen?’ I ask.
He pauses and tucks his hands in his pockets. ‘That’s when they were sold to a rival company,’ he says slowly.
‘That’s when your spy over there told you they were sold? You corporate boys and your games,’ I say. ‘You’re all as bad as each other.’
‘Do you have a point, Detective?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows.
‘Just that you don’t know when they were stolen, only when they were sold.’ It’s moments like these, when the smug and the smart realise they don’t know everything, which puts a little extra bounce in my step.
‘Well, I’m sure that... I’m sure that’s already been taken into consideration.’
‘Sure thing, sport. Take me to your torture chamber and we’ll put the first victim on the rack.’
It’s lunchtime and while everyone here is lying through their teeth about something they’re none of them apparently lying about selling secrets. Bennet ducks out to take a call from someone called Claire, tone of voice says kid but I’ve learnt not to jump to conclusions, I let myself out of the meeting room. It’s time to get a feel for the highways and byways of the building. On the stage of life, there’s a lot to be learned from the dressing rooms and props departments.
The secret to this kind of thing is look as though you have every right to be there. If you can, carry a clipboard. Fortunately, I have one in my briefcase. I get looks, lots of looks from office girls in tight, short skirts and low cut tops, but nobody is paying them to ask questions of someone who looks like he’s every right to be here.
I follow the signs over to the technical centre, which I figure, is a good bet to be Mohinder’s lair. Hell, if I’m playing with the suited sort I might as well get the benefit of seeing my tiger. I
I see him in a corner of otherwise empty lab all tight and friendly-like with Gabriel Grey. Huh. The technical centre is a series of labs with half glass walls, as if someone started making a regular complex and decided to go with “whacked out fun fair” as a theme instead. That’s how I can see them way down at the far end of the building, but only from the waist up. All close and chatty with Gabriel Grey, a guy he’s supposed to hate.
Someone opens a door and they spring apart, I don’t want to say “guiltily” but I’ll be lying if I don’t. It could be work, I guess, I never found out what Grey actually does, or it could be sex, which I don’t believe. Or hell, one of a million other things I haven’t even thought about. There’s no reason to flaky about it; I’m a grown up, Mohinder’s all kinds of grown up, there’s no reason to get all bent out of shape about it.
Sure. And if I had wings I’d be the fairy Tinkerbell.
‘Can I help you?’
Well I guess they can’t all be good little sheep. This one is bespectacled and has the short hair and little make-up look of a woman more interested in comfort than style. She’s also reading my ID badge as I weigh her up.
‘I’m performing a security investigation,’ I say.
‘Your badge is coded blue,’ she says folding her arms. ‘This is a gold area. That means you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Oh, did I take a wrong turn?’ I ask all sweet and innocent. Girl’s looking stern as she can but her eyes are bright. I may be a schlub in a nasty suit but now and then I can still get someone’s eyes all bright.
‘Uh huh,’ she smiles, shaking her head. ‘Look... Mr Parkman, you can flash me that sweet smile and crank up the charm to twelve, but you still shouldn’t be in here. So how about I walk you out of here?’
Someone taps sharply on the glass and Mohinder slinks into the room. ‘Have you come to take me to lunch, Matt?’
‘He told me he’d taken a wrong turn,’ she says, rolling her eyes and waving a hand. ‘And he tried playing all sweet and innocent.’ She taps my clipboard. ‘I thought he was the ethical auditor paying us a surprise visit.’
‘Oh Matt’s very sweet and innocent,’ Mohinder says, smirking and playing with my lapel.
Mohinder drags me to the canteen for lunch and there’s an odd mix of office workers, geeky types in lab coats, and factory workers at the tables.
‘You’re quiet,’ he says, playing with his fork. ‘I hope you’ve not been listening to gossip about me.’
‘Is it worth listening to?’
He smiles and shrugs, but he’s edgy and distracted. ‘Depends how you like listening to baseless fantasies.’
‘I’m just here to work out who’s stealing these formulas,’ I promise.
‘You were very interested in gossip at Angela’s,’ Mohinder says mildly. ‘Now you’re not?’
‘I wasn’t dating you then. I’m not going to trample all over your privacy for the sake of two hundred dollars an hour plus expenses,’ I say. ‘Have you finished with your fries?’
He pushes them over and folds his arms. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong?’
‘You’re tense,’ he says mildly, batting those big brown eyes. ‘Don’t say you’re working, you were working at Angela’s, and you weren’t this tense.’
‘Maybe you were fooled by my hard shell, and now you’ve seen my soft centre,’ I say with a wink.
He taps the tabletop and smiles slightly. ‘I’ll give you a massage tonight,’ he murmurs.
‘Mmm...’ Mohinder’s touch is anything but soothing, difficult as he finds to believe. For a smart guy he really has no idea of the effect he has on me. A massage from him is about as relaxing as being plugged up to a lightning conductor.
‘Uh oh,’ he laughs, looking over my shoulder. ‘You guard dog has tracked you down.’
It’s Bennet, marching across towards us with the fixed, faint smile of someone absolutely determined not to lose his temper.
‘Detective Parkman,’ he says, hands clenched. ‘Aren’t you a scamp? We’ve been looking for you.’
I point my spoon at him. ‘I have a question for you, when was the last time you were audited?’
‘For what?’ he asks cautiously. ‘Safety, Quality, financial...’
‘All of them,’ I ask, watching the wheels turning fruitlessly,
‘I’m not sure,’ he says finally. ‘But I’ll find out. Who do you want to talk to next?’
I’m not smart, hell I’m all kinds of dumb, but sometimes dumb plus luck and time beats smarts hands down.
‘I tell you what, you find out all the visitors that have been here in the past... two years, and when they were here, and I’ll go have a wander around the factory.’
Whistle while you work... some days it’s good to be the private dick. Bennet’s swimming in paperwork as I go back into the office with my pilfered booty.
‘You got that list of dates for the thefts?’
‘Somewhere,’ Bennet asks, paper spilling out of his arms like water from a burst pipe.
‘Are you going to pout or are you going to help? Because Mohinders looks so much prettier pouting than you do. So knuckle down, or leave. Actually, just leave. It’ll make the denouement so much more exciting.’
Bennet rolls his eyes. ‘Are unnecessary dramatics part of the job specification?’
‘Hell, yeah. Toodles Bennet, have fun. Oh, and would you tell Bob Bishop I’ll need to see him in... three hours?’
A couple of hours later the door opens, without a knock or nothing, and I hear the rattle of crockery.
‘Hello?’
‘Coffee break,’ Mohinder says, easing into the room carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups, saucers, biscuits, and all that stuff. The whole nine yards of little silver jugs and china cups.
‘What I do to deserve this? Is my birthday?’
He smiles as he sets out the coffee things. ‘When it’s your birthday I’ll serve you breakfast in bed off my naked body.’
Naked... a wah... aah
Mohinder snaps his fingers in front of me. ‘Close your mouth, you’re drooling.’ He finishes pouring the coffee and sits down. ‘I’m surprised you let me in the room. Here you are with all your evidence.’
‘In case any of it implicates you?’ Whoo, I got my voice back. So much more fun for later. ‘And me without a shredder.’
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he laughs.
‘If you were implicated? Sure I would,’ I say picking up the tiny cup. ‘Just say the word.’
He shakes his head and picks up his own cup. ‘I thought I could tell when you were kidding.’
‘Here’s a tip, handsome, I’m not,’ I say, winking at him.
Mohinder puts his cup down again. ‘Why do you... do you think I’m the thief?’
‘No,’ I promise, patting his hand. ‘But I wouldn’t care if you were.’
‘How can you say that!’
What we have here is a failure to communicate. I feel like I should be wearing mirrored glasses. Meanwhile my tiger is staring at me like he’s waiting for the holy word to come down from on high.
‘Mohinder relax, I know you didn’t,’ I say. ‘Is this why you didn’t want me taking this case, because you’d get all bent out of shape?’
He purses his lips and glances out of the door. ‘You think I’m... why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?’
‘I’m not pretending,’ I say. ‘You think I’m going to chuck away what I’ve got with you because you maybe put your hand in the corporate cookie jar?’
Mohinder picks up his coffee and finally takes a sip. ‘I expect you to... expect more of me.’
Okay, complex. ‘Mohinder, I’m not making any claims on you beyond being a good boyfriend. Whatever it is that you’re doing, whatever it is you’re so twitchy about me finding out, I don’t care.’
‘Why not?’ he asks quietly. ‘Why don’t you care what I’m doing?’
‘Mohinder, one of these days you’re going to wake up and realise you’re shacking up with someone ten rungs or so beneath you on the ladder. I don’t know when that’s going to be, but I’m not going to throw away what time I’ve got.’ I sit back. ‘You’ve got your hooks in me but good, and I’d be real grateful if you’d take them out with care when the time comes. I’ll be bleeding everywhere as it is without being shredded.’
His mouth opens and closes and his fingers scratch and scrabble at the table. ‘Is that what you think? I’m not...’ He trails off and looks at the door briefly. ‘This isn’t really the place to discuss it. But you’re wrong.’ He winds my tie around his hand and pulls me close. ‘You always misjudge me.’ Mohinder kisses me softly. ‘I don’t know why I put up with you.’
‘Me neither. Now take a hike, beautiful and let me work.’
I put the sheet of paper down on the desk and the colour drains from Bishop’s face like blood from a corpse. He snatches it up and folds it neatly into quarters.
‘This is our brand new formula,’ he says mildly. ‘May I ask where you got it?’
‘I told your QC lab I needed it for an investigation,’ I explain. ‘This is exactly what your thief did; asked for job sheets as part of her audit and then sold them on. As you can see, here, and here each sale came within six to eight weeks of a visit from your ethical auditor.’
In bed, in the dirtied warm sheets, Mohinder lies down beside me and walks his fingers over my stomach.
‘You saw me with Gabriel today, didn’t you? Amber said you’d been in the lab a few minutes before I walked over to you.’
‘I saw you chatting, yeah,’ I admit. ‘You want me to say it bothered me? Yeah, it bothered me a little.’
‘He’s moving to a rival company and he was making me an offer, a professional offer, to move,’ he says, kissing me softly.
‘That’s what you were worried about me finding out?’
He winces and shakes his head, and the light dances across his face. ‘No, I’m working on the elimination of certain genes. A type of eugenics. A lot of people are... uncomfortable about it.’
‘Don’t do it if you’re not comfortable,’ I say, resting my hands on his waist. ‘But don’t worry about me. Mohinder, you own me, you know that.’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘I do all the running, I always have, and that’s alright because I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere, now or in the future.’ He crosses his arms across my chest. ‘Now kiss me and tell me you love me. Or I’ll sulk all evening.’
‘I love you,’ I say, leaning up to kiss him.
The end
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Genre: Slash, humour
Rating: PG/R
Warnings: Wilful abuse of innocent metaphors and aggravated assault of the common simile. Adult language and sexual situations.
Note: For
amles80 who wanted ‘something in the style of Hardboiled.’Word Count: 6100 approx
It’s early, so early that even in the city of Angels only the sinners are walking the streets. Not that there aren’t plenty of sinners indoors as well; hell, the best place for a fallen angel is in bed, dirtying up the sheets. My personal fallen angel is lying in bed, sated and sleeping after sullying himself with my body.
Why he chooses to dally with me is a mystery to everyone, including me. Beautiful, smart, and rich he could pick anyone to warm his bed, but somehow he’s got me. Dirt poor, downtrodden, and down on my luck, there’s no queue to take a tumble into my bed. Hell, I don’t even have a good-hearted secretary secretly in love with me, and that’s part of the specification. Every gumshoe has a Tess Truehart, pining away for him.
Not me, I scored the big one. The beautiful, classy, dangerous type, the one who’s supposed to lead me by the nose, or other body part, and then stab me in the back, or waltz off with some other glitzy upper class type, set his cap at me and made his play.
What was I going to do, say no?
It can’t last, nothing does. Him hooking up with me is like that Barnum exhibit, the one with the lion, tiger, panther, and lamb, and yours truly is the lamb. One morning he’ll wake up, realise he’s a tiger, and then he’ll be picking me out of his teeth. Sooner or later he’s going to realise guys like him just don’t mess with schmucks like me, not unless it’s for fun. I’m nothing but a blip, a mistake, and Mohinder’s too bright, brighter than me, to make the same mistake more than once. Sure, I could stop it. I should stop it. I should break it off first, with some style, with some dignity. God knows I’ve tried, but he’s got his hooks in deep and they aint coming out with him tearing them out. Sure as hell, I don’t have the strength to rip them out of me.
‘Matt,’ he murmurs in his sleep. Voice like... I want to say an angel but I already used that one and besides, it’s not. It’s throaty and raw from screaming out in bed last night. Voice like a devil, like one of those with wings that come in the night to fuck you, and suck out your soul. He’s had my soul out a hundred times over. He’s had it and he’s welcome to it, I never found a use for it. He’s had my body, my soul, hell he can have the coins in my pockets and the shirt off my back if he wants them. When he leaves me, and he will, he’ll leave me naked, raw, and broken like a sinner on the rack.
And it’ll be worth it. Even though I know he’ll gut me and leave me bleeding on the floor, it’ll be worth it.
Another day of dumpster diving and lurking in the bushes, hell if you want glamour and giggles then you’re reading about the wrong guy. But it pays the rent and keeps me in trench coats and TV Guide, as well as keeping me... uh on the streets. Really, would you want someone like me wandering around with nothing much to do?
I’m dropping off my negatives when my cell rings. Yeah, yeah, sing me a song about the digital revolution, those things just aren’t the same. You can’t shutterbug a hundred shots a minute with a digital camera, hell, you can barely take one a minute on a digital camera. Besides, I’m an old-fashioned guy, and I like a photograph I can get hold of, and that comes with nice solid negatives. Negatives have saved my ass more than once.
‘Parkman?’
‘Mr Parkman, this is Bob Bishop from Primatech. I’d like you to come in and discuss the possibility of an engagement.’
The blonde bombshell’s daddy, less I miss my mark. Her daddy and Mohinder’s boss, this should be an interesting conversation.
‘You offering me a job or a ring on my finger, Mr Bishop? Because I have a boyfriend and I’m not the kind of boy who cheats.’
‘Very amusing Mr Parkman,’ he says. ‘Shall we say three o’clock? I believe you know the location.’
Let’s see, it’s two now and it’ll take me maybe twenty minutes to get there. Enough time to grab a coffee and give Mohinder the heads up about my imminent visit. Maybe he can clue me in on what Daddy Bishop’s got in mind.
‘Sure thing Mr Bishop, I’ll be there at three.’
Primatech, now there’s a nest of vipers of another colour. I’ve only seen the building from the outside, and then only once while dropping off Mohinder. The way he drives that sporty number it’s a miracle he’s only wrapped it around a tree once, and then he climbed out without a scratch. If that had been me, I’d have been on my back like the roaches. But the world loves the beautiful people, and god knows Mohinder lives a charmed life, unlikely choice of bedfellows aside. I should resent it, hell it’s not as if it’s fair that they get to be beautiful and get all kinds of special treatment. But people like me, we’re hardwired to fall down and pray at the feet of people like them. Hey, we get to look at them right? They only get to look at us.
I ring Mohinder on the way back to the car. If I’m going to tap dance in his dancehall then I at least should let him know before I trample on his toes.
‘Mohinder Suresh?’
‘Hey Doc, it’s me.’
‘Hello, Matthew,’ he says warmly, and I can hear the smile. ‘You know I hate it when you call me “Doc”, I think you do it purely to aggravate me.’
‘Gotta irritate an oyster to make a pearl.’
He snorts and there’s a creak like he’s sitting down. ‘You and your tortured metaphors, one day you’ll be called to account for crimes against the English language.’
‘Yeah, yeah, poor metaphors and similes, boo hoo. I’m on my way to Primatech; the big boss there just extended the love and reached out to me.’
‘No, it’s no good. You’re going to have to give me a translation,’ he says lightly. ‘Why are you coming to Primatech?’
‘Bishop rang me up and invited me in for a conversation. You don’t know what about?’ I get into the car and start the engine.
‘I’m entirely in the dark. I’m also terribly offended you aren’t coming to see me,’ he purrs. ‘That’s not very friendly is it?’
‘You want to get friendly? We can get plenty friendly. I like getting friendly.’
He laughs down the phone. ‘Mmm, I like the sound of friendly. Would you like me to try and find out what Bob wants?’
‘Nah, I’ll be there soon enough,’ I say lightly. ‘But if he’s planning to serve notice he wants you, then he’ll have a fight on his hands.’
‘I should hope so!’
‘See you when I see you.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ he replies.
Primatech Paper, boys and girls, surely the only paper company on the planet employing a geneticist on staff for research. Not to mention the rumours of human testing, government contracts, and security service involvement, yeah, Primatech is to paper what Peter Parker is to newspaper journalism. What kind of a person gets stuck going through life with an alliterative name anyway? Peter Parker, Clark Kent – yeah it counts, don’t make me come over there – Scott Summers, Reed Richards, anyone would think comic book writers couldn’t keep the names straight. Not that it’s just the guys, Lois Lane, Lana Lang – although I guess that mean Superman could yell out ‘L! L!’ without getting a sock in the jaw – Vicky Vale, although of course the best Catwoman was Selina Kyle, rrowar.
Damn, where was I? Oh, yeah, Primatech, the only paper company in the world with gun toting guards and an electric fence. Yeah, they’re not hiding anything.
Not that I have any idea what they’re hiding. Mohinder doesn’t tell and I don’t ask. I’m curious, sure who wouldn’t be, but not enough to ask. Besides, one of the laws of the universe is that all jobs are boring. Hell, I bet even James Bond goes home of an evening thinking if he has to seduce just one more female assassin and see one more bad guy in a leather swivel chair then he’ll scream.
There’s a guy with a gun guarding the gate. Hey, look ma, maybe I could be a comic book writer too!
‘What do you want?’ he demands, all beef jerky and last night’s beer pickling in his pores.
‘Matt Parkman, here to see Bob Bishop.’
‘Mr Bishop is expecting you,’ he says, laying it all heavy on the “Mr.”
‘Thanks, I’ll tell Bob you were a peach.’
The blonde bombshell is all over me like stupid all over Dubya as soon as I walk in the door. ‘Hey Mr Detective! What’re you doing here? Ooh, are you here for a booty call?’
‘I don’t know Ms Bishop; it was your dear old dad who called me.’
‘Oh, ick!’ she squeals. ‘No, no, no.’
‘Woah, watch the hands, sweet cheeks, I’ve got a boyfriend you know,’ I say, prying off her hands and holding them in front of her. ‘Aren’t there some nice boys around for you to grope?’
‘Boys, pfft!’ she giggles. ‘I prefer men.’
‘Don’t we all?’
She gives me a squinty smile. ‘You like women too! I heard all kinds of things about you and Mrs Petrelli.’
Of all the women in the world with little or nothing in common, Elle Bishop and Angela Petrelli have got to be near the top of the tree.
‘Right now, Ms Bishop, I like Mohinder, that’s where I start and end.’
‘Aww, you’re a Momo-sexual!’ she giggles. ‘If I take you to see him, can I watch you screw?’
Fag hags, queen bees, fruit flies, fairy godmothers; it’s not just straight guys who get turned on watching the opposite sex boinking each other.
‘It’s a nice offer but I’m here to see your dad, not Mohinder.’
‘Oh right! Right,’ she says, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. ‘I forgot. Okay! I’ll show you to Daddy.’
Bob Bishop is an older guy, fifties maybe, and he’s all mild manners and old-fashioned courtesy. All soft voice and cultured office, in this shark pool? Yeah right, play me another tune brother; that bird won’t fly. The office is all African artefacts, musical instruments, and the kind of art that middle-aged guys with no taste buy because the blousy blonde at the art gallery said it was the up and coming thing.
Of course, I’ve got to play nice, even if the man makes my skin crawl, because he’s Mohinder’s boss. Just because I know Mohinder’s going to leave me doesn’t mean there’s any reason for me to throw away what time I do have. When it ends, if I have any choice, it’ll be because he’s chosen it, not because I’ve screwed up.
‘Industrial espionage,’ he says.
‘Say what?’
He sighs and leans back in his chair. ‘Someone is stealing our formulas and passing them on to our rival company. I’d like you to discover whom.’
‘Are you sure? They have machines for analysis right?’ Hey, I listen to Mohinder when he talks, even if I only understand one word in six.
‘Not for the kind of formula I’m talking about,’ Bishop waves a hand dismissively. ‘We’re not making cookie dough or shampoo here, Mr Parkman.’
Nah, you’re making “paper,” and that boys and girls is just how domesticated I am now, because I don’t even say it aloud. ‘Well, that’s as maybe, because this isn’t my line, not at all. I’m a low rent gumshoe, not some hotshot corporate security investigator.’
‘True,’ Bishop agrees. ‘But you’re already somewhat familiar with some members of the staff and that means we can cut down significantly on the lead-in time. Additionally, Angela Petrelli considered you trustworthy, and she wasn’t a woman to trust easily.’ He gives me a shutter of a smile. ‘We can assign someone to help you with the more technical aspects of the investigation if that will help.’
‘This would be all of them because I’m not a corporate investigator.’
Bishop sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘Mr Parkman, we’ve already had someone go through all the computer records. We are at least capable of the technical aspects of an investigation. Where we are lacking, what we are asking you for, is expertise in assessing the human side of the equation. We know that it is being done, but the technical evidence does not exist to prove who is doing it.’ He smiles a Mr Rogers smile and shrugs like a good old boy. ‘You can help us out by simply using your natural talent for reading people.’
Mohinder greets me at the door, wrapping my tie around his fist and pulling me into a slow kiss.
‘You’re late,’ he pouts.
‘Sorry, your evil boss kept me longer than I expected,’ I explain.
‘I should quit just for that,’ he says, walking back into the apartment.
‘Don’t do that, then we’ll both be bums,’ I say, following him into the kitchen.
‘Hmm, I could help you on your cases,’ he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. ‘We could hide in the bushes together.’
Mohinder’s beautiful, like a tiger, like a flame, like the edge of the cliff whispering “jump.” One look at him and my heart starts tangoing. I’m dying by inches, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Some nights I see him glowing in the darkness and all I can hear is my heart slamming against my ribs.
‘You could, but then I’d have no incentive to ever come out of the bushes,’ I say, putting my jacket on the table and kicking off my shoes.
‘Matthew Parkman,’ he purrs, stepping closing and playing with the buttons of my shirt. ‘Put your shoes and clothes away properly or I won’t have to spank you.’
‘Damn, harsh Doc!’
He points at the door. ‘Out! Put your things away you big baby.’
‘Waah waah!’
Until the fates pitched Mohinder into my lap, I never met a guy who wanted to chit-chat after making the beast with two backs*. Hell most of us don’t want to talk before sex. What the ladies call foreplay and the gentlemen procrastinating is much less common when it’s two men fornicating. Sex is a good meal, making love is like a good meal where you have to eat your vegetables, and who’s going to eat vegetables when chocolate pudding is on the menu?
*Hey, it’s Shakespeare, nobody said it was tasteful.
But Mohinder, though, he likes to chatter after sex. Since he’s all vulnerable and fuzzy after sex you’d think he’d keep his trap shut, but he’s got some weird urge to roll over and show his belly, rather than guard his flank.
‘I’m a little anxious about you getting involved in Primatech business,’ he says, slim fingers tugging at my chest hair.
‘Oh yeah?’ Hey, I just got an extremely thorough servicing from my younger lover, you’re lucky I can string two words together. Did I mention he’s younger? Eight years or so, one more karmic bomb ticking away. A schlub like me with someone smart, sexy, beautiful, and younger? Oh, I’m in so much shit once I get the bill for this. Karma is going to slam me but good when it all comes tumbling down.
‘Yes, Primatech’s business practices aren’t exactly going to win any awards for ethics,’ he says wryly.
‘Yeah? Neither would mine,’ I point out. Damn I’m sleepy. Tell me a bedtime story, Mohinder; tell me a story of knights, and dragons, and goblins. Sing me a lullaby about babies in treetops.
Instead, he snorts and shakes his head, lush curls catching the flickering lamp light. ‘That’s really not the same. I’m serious, Matt. You might find out things about me that you didn’t want to know.’ He licks his lips, pink tongue glistening like a virgin’s thighs.
Shut up, I’m tired.
‘Are you cheating on me?’
He rolls his eyes, and I know what I thought anyway, he’s not cheating. He’d dump me before he did something like that. He’s the honourable type. Me? I’ve got no pretentions to being honourable.
‘No, I’m not cheating on you.’
‘Then I don’t care,’ I admit. ‘Night Mohinder.’
He’s all business in the morning; crisp blue suit, shoes shining like sun on a lake, and slicked back hair. It doesn’t suit him. My tiger needs freedom to prowl, not be straitjacketed into a shirt and tie. He was designed for long, languid neutrals, not stark black or corporate blue.
‘You look smart,’ I say, not entirely true, but an acceptable lie. Acceptable lies are what keeps the world spinning, what keeps civilisation on track, what stops us from tearing each other apart like starving dogs. We can’t cope with complete honesty, we can’t cope with speaking it, and sure as eggs are eggs we can’t cope with hearing it. Complete honesty would have us damaged, destroyed, or dead before the sunset.
‘You’re a liar,’ he says, smiling at me.
‘Yeah but I’m honest about it,’ I say. ‘Do you want to know what your boss has got me doing at Primatech?’
He grins, and pulls me closer by the lapels of my jacket. ‘I do, but I’m sure you won’t tell me.’
‘Now why would you think that, Doc?’ I ask, kissing the side of his face. ‘You know you’ve got me leashed and tethered like a junkyard dog.’
‘Sweet, sweet lies,’ he purrs.
‘Your boss, he thinks someone’s selling secrets,’ I say.
‘Then you certainly shouldn’t be telling me about it,’ he says, twisting my tie around his fingers. ‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Well... theoretically, if a man had things he wanted to hide from an investigation, he’d have a couple of hours before I got there. Three, maybe, if I were to have some sort of car trouble on the way. I could see that happening.’
‘What?’ he asks blankly.
Damn, guess I misunderstood that whole “find out things about me that you didn’t want to know.”
‘Hide your porn, clear off the eBay auctions details from your internet history, that sort of thing.’
He takes a step back and frowns curiously at me. ‘Are you... do you think I’m selling secrets?’
‘Hey, you know, I’m just giving you a little advance info that’s all.’ Dig, dig, dig that hole, Parkman. Maybe you’ll hit Australia.
Mohinder straightens his tie and pushes back his hair, still pissed and uneasy. That shouldn’t be sexy but hell; Mohinder makes breathing in and out look like a slow slide down the lap-dancing pole.
‘I’ll see you around Primatech.’
‘Mmm,’ he agrees, kissing me softly. ‘You do that.’
I’m half expecting Elle the human Barbie doll to be the one providing “technical support,” but instead, it’s an older guy, solid and CIA slick, all blank smile, even voice, and condescending manner. He’s tall, taller than me even, and he’s got these horn-rimmed glasses; school principal meets secret agent.
He’s got a piece under his jacket and he carries it like it’s always been there, like it’s a part of his body. They tell me that he’s a paper salesmen and that’s twenty-five types of bullshit. He’s security, or something like it. Gun for hire, private soldier, hired killer. You can see it in his eyes.
When I agreed to take this case I figured Bob Bishop – an unlikely superhero but they’re the best kind – was up to something way worse that a little corporate theft, and that he wanted to throw a little mud around. Now I’ve got my faults, and plenty of them, but I don’t think insanely overestimating my capability is one of them. I’m sure as hell not fool enough to think that hiring me makes any kind of sense. Oh, I’m sure I’m plenty cheaper than the corporate crimebusters, all of them twenty year-old ex-hackers just out of jail, and looking so slick as they spool out that lingo. Me? I’m an alley and street man, not a boardroom and offices guy. My life is bad suits and fast food. I lurk outside motels and parked cars, watching the furtive fumbles of my social superiors as they throw away their marriages for a little lick of the forbidden lollipop. Sometimes, now and then, I do missing person cases, which mean turning over filthy hostels, huddling up to the homeless, and annoying nurses at the local hospitals. Near enough nobody wants to be found, just like near enough nobody really wants glossy 10 x 8s of hubby humping Harriet, or Henry, although wifey wriggling with Winona tends to take longer to get the same reaction.
I’m a cockroach. I’m scum. I’m the nasty, dirty oil greasing the wheels of civilisation and I’ve got no illusions about it. What I’m not is the guy anyone brings in for delicate security work. Not to mention, I’m shacked up with Mohinder. That should automatically disqualify me, yet here I am.
So, yeah, Bishop’s either stupid, which he doesn’t seem to be, or up to something; he’s probably planning to play me for a patsy, maybe with Mohinder as the final icing on the cake. Mind you, around here the only thing more suspicious than being up to something, is not being up to something.
Did that make sense? I’m not sure that made sense.
Anyway, my helper, Bennet, he’s definitely up to a whole host of “somethings,” although whether any of those have anything to do with these stolen formula’s... meh. I guess I’ll find out, not that I care. Primatech just pay me the check and I’ll be on my way. Look what happened the last time I strayed past the limit of my remit, I ended up with Heidi Petrelli shoving a gun in my face. I don’t like guns. Guns make me nervous, especially, especially, when they’re pointed at me.
‘I’ve arranged for you to interview everyone with access to the data,’ Bennet says. ‘That’s the formulators, the technicians, the review committee, and the first run production staff.’
‘Okay, and which of those are you?’
He gives me a blank smile. ‘Oh, I’m just a paper salesman.’
‘Uh huh, but you do have that access. Don’t kid a kidder Mr Bennet, I got a shiny silver dollar says you have access to all that data. Are you going to call my dollar a liar?’
Bennet seems actually almost human when he smiles this time. ‘I have access to the formula’s now,’ he says carefully. ‘However the last theft was six weeks ago, and I was on a leave of absence at the time.’
‘Huh, well I’m just the gumshoe your boss hired on the cheap, but since we’re talking about someone stealing... what do you call it, intellectual property? How can you be sure when they were stolen?’ I ask.
He pauses and tucks his hands in his pockets. ‘That’s when they were sold to a rival company,’ he says slowly.
‘That’s when your spy over there told you they were sold? You corporate boys and your games,’ I say. ‘You’re all as bad as each other.’
‘Do you have a point, Detective?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows.
‘Just that you don’t know when they were stolen, only when they were sold.’ It’s moments like these, when the smug and the smart realise they don’t know everything, which puts a little extra bounce in my step.
‘Well, I’m sure that... I’m sure that’s already been taken into consideration.’
‘Sure thing, sport. Take me to your torture chamber and we’ll put the first victim on the rack.’
It’s lunchtime and while everyone here is lying through their teeth about something they’re none of them apparently lying about selling secrets. Bennet ducks out to take a call from someone called Claire, tone of voice says kid but I’ve learnt not to jump to conclusions, I let myself out of the meeting room. It’s time to get a feel for the highways and byways of the building. On the stage of life, there’s a lot to be learned from the dressing rooms and props departments.
The secret to this kind of thing is look as though you have every right to be there. If you can, carry a clipboard. Fortunately, I have one in my briefcase. I get looks, lots of looks from office girls in tight, short skirts and low cut tops, but nobody is paying them to ask questions of someone who looks like he’s every right to be here.
I follow the signs over to the technical centre, which I figure, is a good bet to be Mohinder’s lair. Hell, if I’m playing with the suited sort I might as well get the benefit of seeing my tiger. I
I see him in a corner of otherwise empty lab all tight and friendly-like with Gabriel Grey. Huh. The technical centre is a series of labs with half glass walls, as if someone started making a regular complex and decided to go with “whacked out fun fair” as a theme instead. That’s how I can see them way down at the far end of the building, but only from the waist up. All close and chatty with Gabriel Grey, a guy he’s supposed to hate.
Someone opens a door and they spring apart, I don’t want to say “guiltily” but I’ll be lying if I don’t. It could be work, I guess, I never found out what Grey actually does, or it could be sex, which I don’t believe. Or hell, one of a million other things I haven’t even thought about. There’s no reason to flaky about it; I’m a grown up, Mohinder’s all kinds of grown up, there’s no reason to get all bent out of shape about it.
Sure. And if I had wings I’d be the fairy Tinkerbell.
‘Can I help you?’
Well I guess they can’t all be good little sheep. This one is bespectacled and has the short hair and little make-up look of a woman more interested in comfort than style. She’s also reading my ID badge as I weigh her up.
‘I’m performing a security investigation,’ I say.
‘Your badge is coded blue,’ she says folding her arms. ‘This is a gold area. That means you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Oh, did I take a wrong turn?’ I ask all sweet and innocent. Girl’s looking stern as she can but her eyes are bright. I may be a schlub in a nasty suit but now and then I can still get someone’s eyes all bright.
‘Uh huh,’ she smiles, shaking her head. ‘Look... Mr Parkman, you can flash me that sweet smile and crank up the charm to twelve, but you still shouldn’t be in here. So how about I walk you out of here?’
Someone taps sharply on the glass and Mohinder slinks into the room. ‘Have you come to take me to lunch, Matt?’
‘He told me he’d taken a wrong turn,’ she says, rolling her eyes and waving a hand. ‘And he tried playing all sweet and innocent.’ She taps my clipboard. ‘I thought he was the ethical auditor paying us a surprise visit.’
‘Oh Matt’s very sweet and innocent,’ Mohinder says, smirking and playing with my lapel.
Mohinder drags me to the canteen for lunch and there’s an odd mix of office workers, geeky types in lab coats, and factory workers at the tables.
‘You’re quiet,’ he says, playing with his fork. ‘I hope you’ve not been listening to gossip about me.’
‘Is it worth listening to?’
He smiles and shrugs, but he’s edgy and distracted. ‘Depends how you like listening to baseless fantasies.’
‘I’m just here to work out who’s stealing these formulas,’ I promise.
‘You were very interested in gossip at Angela’s,’ Mohinder says mildly. ‘Now you’re not?’
‘I wasn’t dating you then. I’m not going to trample all over your privacy for the sake of two hundred dollars an hour plus expenses,’ I say. ‘Have you finished with your fries?’
He pushes them over and folds his arms. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong?’
‘You’re tense,’ he says mildly, batting those big brown eyes. ‘Don’t say you’re working, you were working at Angela’s, and you weren’t this tense.’
‘Maybe you were fooled by my hard shell, and now you’ve seen my soft centre,’ I say with a wink.
He taps the tabletop and smiles slightly. ‘I’ll give you a massage tonight,’ he murmurs.
‘Mmm...’ Mohinder’s touch is anything but soothing, difficult as he finds to believe. For a smart guy he really has no idea of the effect he has on me. A massage from him is about as relaxing as being plugged up to a lightning conductor.
‘Uh oh,’ he laughs, looking over my shoulder. ‘You guard dog has tracked you down.’
It’s Bennet, marching across towards us with the fixed, faint smile of someone absolutely determined not to lose his temper.
‘Detective Parkman,’ he says, hands clenched. ‘Aren’t you a scamp? We’ve been looking for you.’
I point my spoon at him. ‘I have a question for you, when was the last time you were audited?’
‘For what?’ he asks cautiously. ‘Safety, Quality, financial...’
‘All of them,’ I ask, watching the wheels turning fruitlessly,
‘I’m not sure,’ he says finally. ‘But I’ll find out. Who do you want to talk to next?’
I’m not smart, hell I’m all kinds of dumb, but sometimes dumb plus luck and time beats smarts hands down.
‘I tell you what, you find out all the visitors that have been here in the past... two years, and when they were here, and I’ll go have a wander around the factory.’
Whistle while you work... some days it’s good to be the private dick. Bennet’s swimming in paperwork as I go back into the office with my pilfered booty.
‘You got that list of dates for the thefts?’
‘Somewhere,’ Bennet asks, paper spilling out of his arms like water from a burst pipe.
‘Are you going to pout or are you going to help? Because Mohinders looks so much prettier pouting than you do. So knuckle down, or leave. Actually, just leave. It’ll make the denouement so much more exciting.’
Bennet rolls his eyes. ‘Are unnecessary dramatics part of the job specification?’
‘Hell, yeah. Toodles Bennet, have fun. Oh, and would you tell Bob Bishop I’ll need to see him in... three hours?’
A couple of hours later the door opens, without a knock or nothing, and I hear the rattle of crockery.
‘Hello?’
‘Coffee break,’ Mohinder says, easing into the room carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups, saucers, biscuits, and all that stuff. The whole nine yards of little silver jugs and china cups.
‘What I do to deserve this? Is my birthday?’
He smiles as he sets out the coffee things. ‘When it’s your birthday I’ll serve you breakfast in bed off my naked body.’
Naked... a wah... aah
Mohinder snaps his fingers in front of me. ‘Close your mouth, you’re drooling.’ He finishes pouring the coffee and sits down. ‘I’m surprised you let me in the room. Here you are with all your evidence.’
‘In case any of it implicates you?’ Whoo, I got my voice back. So much more fun for later. ‘And me without a shredder.’
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he laughs.
‘If you were implicated? Sure I would,’ I say picking up the tiny cup. ‘Just say the word.’
He shakes his head and picks up his own cup. ‘I thought I could tell when you were kidding.’
‘Here’s a tip, handsome, I’m not,’ I say, winking at him.
Mohinder puts his cup down again. ‘Why do you... do you think I’m the thief?’
‘No,’ I promise, patting his hand. ‘But I wouldn’t care if you were.’
‘How can you say that!’
What we have here is a failure to communicate. I feel like I should be wearing mirrored glasses. Meanwhile my tiger is staring at me like he’s waiting for the holy word to come down from on high.
‘Mohinder relax, I know you didn’t,’ I say. ‘Is this why you didn’t want me taking this case, because you’d get all bent out of shape?’
He purses his lips and glances out of the door. ‘You think I’m... why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?’
‘I’m not pretending,’ I say. ‘You think I’m going to chuck away what I’ve got with you because you maybe put your hand in the corporate cookie jar?’
Mohinder picks up his coffee and finally takes a sip. ‘I expect you to... expect more of me.’
Okay, complex. ‘Mohinder, I’m not making any claims on you beyond being a good boyfriend. Whatever it is that you’re doing, whatever it is you’re so twitchy about me finding out, I don’t care.’
‘Why not?’ he asks quietly. ‘Why don’t you care what I’m doing?’
‘Mohinder, one of these days you’re going to wake up and realise you’re shacking up with someone ten rungs or so beneath you on the ladder. I don’t know when that’s going to be, but I’m not going to throw away what time I’ve got.’ I sit back. ‘You’ve got your hooks in me but good, and I’d be real grateful if you’d take them out with care when the time comes. I’ll be bleeding everywhere as it is without being shredded.’
His mouth opens and closes and his fingers scratch and scrabble at the table. ‘Is that what you think? I’m not...’ He trails off and looks at the door briefly. ‘This isn’t really the place to discuss it. But you’re wrong.’ He winds my tie around his hand and pulls me close. ‘You always misjudge me.’ Mohinder kisses me softly. ‘I don’t know why I put up with you.’
‘Me neither. Now take a hike, beautiful and let me work.’
I put the sheet of paper down on the desk and the colour drains from Bishop’s face like blood from a corpse. He snatches it up and folds it neatly into quarters.
‘This is our brand new formula,’ he says mildly. ‘May I ask where you got it?’
‘I told your QC lab I needed it for an investigation,’ I explain. ‘This is exactly what your thief did; asked for job sheets as part of her audit and then sold them on. As you can see, here, and here each sale came within six to eight weeks of a visit from your ethical auditor.’
In bed, in the dirtied warm sheets, Mohinder lies down beside me and walks his fingers over my stomach.
‘You saw me with Gabriel today, didn’t you? Amber said you’d been in the lab a few minutes before I walked over to you.’
‘I saw you chatting, yeah,’ I admit. ‘You want me to say it bothered me? Yeah, it bothered me a little.’
‘He’s moving to a rival company and he was making me an offer, a professional offer, to move,’ he says, kissing me softly.
‘That’s what you were worried about me finding out?’
He winces and shakes his head, and the light dances across his face. ‘No, I’m working on the elimination of certain genes. A type of eugenics. A lot of people are... uncomfortable about it.’
‘Don’t do it if you’re not comfortable,’ I say, resting my hands on his waist. ‘But don’t worry about me. Mohinder, you own me, you know that.’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘I do all the running, I always have, and that’s alright because I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere, now or in the future.’ He crosses his arms across my chest. ‘Now kiss me and tell me you love me. Or I’ll sulk all evening.’
‘I love you,’ I say, leaning up to kiss him.
The end
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Date: 2010-02-14 05:02 pm (UTC)You keep it in style all the time, it's fun, and at the same time Matt's thoughts are complex. His thoughts and feelings are such a mixture of bitterness and fear (he's certain that Mohinder is too good for him and will leave him, poor guy), desire, adoration... and love and vulnerability: "One look at him and my heart starts tangoing. I’m dying by inches, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Some nights I see him glowing in the darkness and all I can hear is my heart slamming against my ribs." Aww, he's sweet! And he's smarter than he thinks he is. :)
And seeing Mohinder through Matt's eyes almost makes me think he's irresistible too, ha ha! ;)
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Date: 2010-02-14 05:25 pm (UTC)Matt's got it bad for someone he doesn't think he deserves. Hopefully over time Mohinder can convince him :)
LOL! Well that's love for you, hehe :D
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Date: 2010-02-14 10:40 pm (UTC)I really love this and hope to get more of this 'verse later on, too. It's just to good to give up. :D
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Date: 2010-02-15 06:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-15 02:04 am (UTC)And I second the notion of another visit to the Hardboiled verse sometime in the future.
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Date: 2010-02-15 07:01 am (UTC)Thanks! I'm really glad you enjoyed it <333
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Date: 2010-02-15 03:46 am (UTC)‘You’ve got your hooks in me but good, and I’d be real grateful if you’d take them out with care when the time comes. I’ll be bleeding everywhere as it is without being shredded.’ Awww, to me that is so sweet and if I was Moho I’d of taken him right there. Mmmmmm, Matt.
Ooo oo oo! Thirding another visit to the Hardboiled verse :D
Oh and……Clark Kent doesn’t count :P *runs away*
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Date: 2010-02-15 07:05 am (UTC)LOL! Clark Kent is an aural alliterative, looks different but sounds the same, as opposed to say, my name which is a visual alliterative, looks the same but sounds different.