Cordite

[Guest]

"Shot out."

The murmur was almost cut short by the sound of a single 5.56mm round cracking through the air; moments later, the splintering of wood in satisfaction. Shards were thrown from the target tree every which way, as the January sun shone down upon the lush, wet, rolling grassy hills and knolls of the island's more... rural areas.

Its rays seemed to offer amnesty and release to none, unrelenting and vicious in the harsh winter breeze. Grey, overcast skies hung overhead, but the clouds had parted, allowing the burning mass of hydrogen to go about its mission. Reflected and refracted by the objects that surrounded a single figure wearing dark bottoms, combat boots, and a rough vest over a white, messy shirt, the sun appeared to never be satisfied, but continued to work its wonders - even in spite of what the man behind the gun thought, what questions and irritated, cynical statements were circulating through the depths of his mind now.

Slamming against hip-flask, scope, sunglasses, holstered pistols, and even the frame of the rifle itself, the sun's rays stayed very much true to their reputation. Truly relentless. The weapon he cradled gently between two hands had been set to a semi-automatic firing mode; with a scope and bipod in place of the regular underslung shotgun, the Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifle, Rafael, well-maintained and polished beyond measure. His pride and joy; its versatility knew no bounds. Now it resembled a marksman's rifle more than an assault weapon from a few moments of tinkering - and his accuracy with it was no less shabby than it had been before. It was almost as if he were made for the rifle, and the reverse was true, too. The pair were almost bonded; along with the other three Archangels that made up the man's arsenal.

And just who was this man? Why, none other than the Creig Chief of Police himself: unorthodox and cynical completely to a T, Alastair Carson. His reasons for practising his shooting were his own; unknown to even his best of friends - if they could be called that. Considering the man was defensive and deflective at the best of times, they could only take assumptions such as 'he's slowly going insane', 'it bears some sort of sentimentality', or 'he finds it to be a calming activity'.

In reality, what was the reasoning? The answer?

Firing guns woke you up. The recoil brought with it adrenaline and alertness; with the crack of the shot came a jarring, surprising noise and a feeling of supremacy as local fauna rushed into bushes and scurried off. Why, just why, did one of the most important people in the country need this?

The answer was so elementary and yet so stupid. He had a hangover.

No bolting or cocking necessary; he muttered those same two words again, marginally louder now, with more force and push behind them: "Shot out." With each willing himself further, each shot evoked a deadly tendril of motivation and passion, reasoning to do well, within his gut. It lashed out at him; and combined with the aftertaste and burning, scorching sensation of last night's beer, sitting, gently dissolving into his stomach acid... well... coupled, the pair didn't create the best of feelings.

The round spiralled through the air and parted it in two behind the flashing copper round; once more, a split-second later, it found its mark on the carved, age-old 'x' in the tree. Not quite in the centre yet, but it had pierced one of the marking's prongs; surprised, the man arched an eyebrow, and fumbled for his hipflask, letting a smug smirk and a similarly contended sigh escape onto and from his face, respectively.

A sip; the harsh, smoky taste of the whiskey, singing his mouth only barely. He sloshed it around, letting various enzymes break down the mouthful until only a fraction of the taste remained. A seasoned veteran when it came to the art of ingesting alcohol and slowly poisoning himself, finally, as the liquid, expensive and specialty, began to lose its flavour... he swallowed it in a single gulp, and released another sigh. Breath warm and stomach now too - still burning, the whiskey doing that aspect of his body's uncomfortable synchronicity no favours - he took a third and final shot. "Shot out."

In all fairness, it was calming. It was soothing. It allowed you to become alert, perceptive... ready. A backlog of adrenaline just lies, dormant, latent, in wait, in its respective gland, just ready to be released on the slightest of triggers for a fight-or-flight situation. No matter how bitter his cynicism, however, harsh stubbornness always overruled the latter of the two; fight-or-flight situations quickly turned into all-out brawls for a supposedly responsible member of Creig society.

He did his best to hide his disease, his condition. The alcoholism struck him with pangs of withdrawal, lethargy, when it was least appropriate - Murphy's Law for you - but he managed to retain his composure when it mattered. Gavin was perhaps the only one who knew of his vice, his one true weakness; but the man respected that he was only human, and even if he was ever-so-slightly on the incompetent side, he was fiercely loyal, and tried despite it all. A fair monarch by any other name; one who deserved all his praise. Tactical, logistical, strategic... and a figurehead, above all else. Inspiration and a representation of that Creig fighting spirit that the Cretans and Amestrians spoke so much about.

The third and final shot of this session delivered both a splintering final blow, closer to the centre of the 'x' than ever before, alongside an almost painful shock through him - painful in euphoria. It felt so much better; barely twenty minutes of shooting, and now he was ready to go, awakened and alert. Time to get back to work; it was still only around 12:30 - he'd escaped to get his own personal brand of solace for his lunch hour, and still had a little time left, but it would take a good few minutes to prep and ready his equipment.

Doubling back, he saw his car on one of the hills in the distance; a blacked-out Range Rover, it was versatile and tough, and had served him well during his years in the force. It had doubled as criminal transport and even party mobile from time to time... however, at the moment, it was simply valued for one thing and one thing alone: its ability to trudge with ease through the endless swamps of sludge and mud that these ditches and hills bore.

The clouds were coming back over, concealing the sun; grey and looming, it appeared as if they perhaps brought a less-than-bountiful gift with them. Snow, or rain, perhaps. Rain, most likely. Murphy's law again.

[Guest]

A sight he would see as he reached his car would be the black monster of a motorbike sat next to it. Its Fiery haired owner lent against him smiling. She had been stood watching him through her own scope of the beloved rifle that was slotted into one of it side storage panels. She waved lightly to him as he approached standing tall while crushing the imaginary dust off her clothing.

"Your shot is getting better Alan!" She chirped giving him a warm look. This was the start of her week off and her conciseness couldn't leave Gavin with either her or Fiachra to protect him. Not for a week so she was going to call in a favour. She could trust Alistair to make sure there precious king was to remain unharmed.

She had already spent the day doing important things. She had lunched with her sister and help Carver on his shot. The boy was improving with age and she was proud of him. Soon he was going to be guard to Sorcha or...if it ever happened the blood child of Gavin. She had done errands and also....gained a prescription. Lucky she got medicine for free.

She bit her lip. "Alfie...I need a favour..." She murmured softly. "Want to go get some coffee and talk this over?" She added.

[Guest]

He'd heard the familiar throttle of a motorcycle in the distance. He'd identified it - or at least, made a near-accurate guess - as it had gotten closer, and by the time the ignition had been flicked off and advances had begun towards him by foot, he could tell the owner's identity before she spoke. "Your shot is getting better Alan!" Artemis.

"Why, thank you, walking, talking pair of breasts," He grumbled, irritated. Now cradling the clip between two hands, thumbing in rounds as the cold, harsh winds picked up, his mind idly wondered why she was here. Questions and the like circulating through the deepest caverns of his mind.

He finished working with the clip, and slammed it back into Rafael. That simple, single, synchronised click as all mechanisms worked in unison to load the first, fresh, virgin, unspent round into the chamber... it was oh-so-satisfying. A breath of fresh air, a taste of release from this boring, dull life that he'd been condemned and had committed himself to.

Despite his harsh, deflective exterior, people like Artemis were... bearable. Even more so when she was drunk. Fiachra, too; Gavin was a figure to be respected and idolised, as both a superior and a monarch. The higher strata of Creig's military was an odd place to sit indeed; it would take months for an outsider simply sitting within to analyse and fully interpret even the slightest functionality of its system. Small, tight-knit, elite. Three words that best described Faolchu, Lon Dubh, Scath...

Setting the rifle aside gently, he groaned, and wrapped a hand around his hip-flask, drearily scrabbling to get as his feet. He was planning on leaving, anyway; this newfound 'companionship' was even more incentive for him to return to work. His stomach rumbled with the sounds of typhoons and maelstroms within; hunger struck him like a jackhammer, relentless and regular, constant, flushing, throbbing pangs of pain and emptiness, his stomach a ravenous void sitting beneath just inches of flesh.

Standing up straight, Alastair arched his back, spreading and pushing his entire body forwards as he stretched. Sustaining a single body position was something he was used to, even more so for hours on end; but the relief upon regaining full motor control was something he enjoyed immensely, for no real reason. The little things, eh?

In an instant, the chromed hipflask had been pressed to cold lips, tipped back, and lost a decent shot's worth of Jack Daniels; this morning, it had been filled to the brim - exactly, Alastair had taken care of any runoff - and now it was down to more or less half. As he screwed the cap back on, releasing a quiet, near-subsonic sigh, he savoured the feeling of the warmth swelling and multiplying, spreading across his stomach. Perhaps that would sate the pain, the hunger, and block out the ever-present haunting memories for a moment or two.

But enough dwelling on the past. "Alfie... I need a favour... want to go get some coffee and talk this over?" He groaned again, raising a hand to run it through coarse dark blonde hair, and vigorously shaking his head from side to side. And he'd thought that he was bad in the nickname department.

"Art, I know I'm going to sound like a hypocrite here, and promptly, I don't give a fuck," A sigh of exhaustion was released; the air smelt of Jack Daniels for a few moments before the breath dissipated into the atmosphere. "But I'll do whatever the hell you want, provided you never call me that again."

As for coffee, specifically? A pensive glance to the overcast sky, clouds rumbling faintly and readying to unleash that oncoming, impending barrage of raindrops the size of marbles. "Coffee's bad for you, y'know? Raises blood pressure and all that shit," A wayward glance to the hip-flask. Oh, how he was a hypocrite. A fleeting smirk struck his face and vanished almost as quickly. No satisfaction for Art. "Alright, Mistress Knockers, let's go grab a quick cup on the condition I get to slip some Jack into mine." He tucked the hipflask into his pocket, and returned back to the rifle to gather his belongings, shooting a scowl at the sky as if it would suddenly relent and clouds would part because of his simple displeasure.

Consequently, another fast, cold wind slammed into him, and only a growl was solicited from the alcoholic. It vanished a moment later, and the air became still again. Karma's a bitch. "Fuck this, let's split," He pulled the rifle's strap over his shoulder, and began to trudge over near-frozen contours and bumps of the hard dirt ground back towards the Range Rover. "It's about to rain and I'm damn hungry anyway. Don't think you win this round, El Boobzo."

[Guest]

She huffed mounting the bike. "It's Artemis!" She shouted at him pulling on her shades. Never wearing a helmet as always, much to Gavin's horror. She kicked the engine into life enjoying the roar it released then its rumbling growls under her. "Meet you at the usual spot!" She called before zooming ahead. No point waiting for him.

The drive was quick and uneventful and soon she stood outside the café waiting for Alastair to appear. Nerves brewing stronger now for a second reason. What if he said no? She felt unsure leaving Gavin without someone keeping a close eye on him. And she trusted Alastair to do the job correct. She sighed softly and pinched her nose. Though if he mocked her chest one more time she's going to suffocate him with them. Surely she could break his neck if she did it right. She was more then just breasts. She was one of the most skilled warriors in Carriag who had travelled the world to gain experience. But no people only saw the breasts!

[Guest]

"It's Artemis!"

"News to me!" Alastair shouted back, and with a series of almost perfectly sequenced clicks and clunks, the key had been jammed into the ignition, and the engine of the battered, muddy Range Rover spluttered into life once more. She shouted something indistinct and garbled at him before setting off on that infernal bike of hers; if one thing, those breasts would provide ample cushioning if she fell off that craft at the insane speeds she enjoyed travelling at. Their secondary function as a shock absorber was most likely the only reason that Artemis could fool around in the bedroom with Fiachra and not end up with a broken spine.

From there, Alastair could only extrapolate within the constraints of his own mind.

Approximately nine seconds went past before the Chief of Police had almost sickened himself with his own initial bout of thoughts. He had considered the likely possibility of Fiachra being the submissive one; he put the tough-guy exterior on, but Alastair reckoned, sure enough, that he had some deep-seated psychological problems and was really beta as all hell. Plus, Artemis looked like the type to carry a riding crop, handcuffs, and a cattle prod along if things got messy, in either sense of the term. He wasn't quite sure where she'd keep them, however. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to know where.

Maybe Fiachra was the pack mu-

OKAY STOP STOP STOP.

He spun the lumbering beast of a car around, and spun up an assortment of grit and dirt chunks whilst doing so; the majority of the ride's length was spent navigating these damnable frozen-over fields as Alastair tried his absolute best to get onto some form of flat terrain. He reached the gate after around five minutes of tomfoolery, cursing El Boobzo rather colourfully with his every breath.

The gearbox almost gave way a few times on the way over to the café, but the old girl held out. Trundling down the Carraig roads wasn't something a Range Rover, or, really, any car was built for. Whilst they weren't exactly shabby, and still more or less navigable, in lesser-known parts of town such as this - he presumed the pair of them were heading to the usual spot - the tracks could still do with a touch of work.

Predictably enough, as the dirt-caked car gently pulled into a gracious parking space behind that unholy mechanical behemoth that Artemis had the indignity to call her steed, Princess Boobsalot was standing there tapping her foot irritably, seemingly deep in thought. Grasping a few essentials - keys, pistols, hip-flask, wallet - and tucking them into the pockets of his jeans, or holstering them, in the case of the pistols, he quickly exited the cab of the Range Rover, and rudely brushed past Artemis, making a beeline straight for the cafe door. "I'd stop and chat for a moment out here in the blistering cold, but unfortunately, I have functional nervous receptors," A well-timed shiver, and he pushed the glass door open, and shuffled into the warmth, turning around and poking his tongue out rather childishly at Artemis.

Courteously enough, he did hold the door open... for a few moments as he shouted further insults down the road at her. "I don't see the attraction of wearing such a skimpy outfit in this weather. I'm surprised your limbs are all still functional," And, of course, ever the joker, Alastair uttered a conclusion quickly enough. "Although, I'm not sure the tatas exactly leave you pushed for extra insulation, if you're catching my drift." With that, he promptly turned around, let the door fall shut, beckoned for her to follow idly, and slumped back into the nearest seat to the door rather obviously.

[Guest]

"I don't see the attraction of wearing such a skimpy outfit in this weather. I'm surprised your limbs are all still functional, Although, I'm not sure the tatas exactly leave you pushed for extra insulation, if you're catching my drift." Her eye had been twitching the entire time but that was it. If he was so bloody fascinated by them then? How about a closer inspection. Reaching up in a fast move she grabbed his head and pulled it down pushing his face into the mound of breast before pushing them together effectively crushing and suffocating the poor man. After a few minuets she decided to let him go before she sat down on the seat opposite him fuming.

"When you decide to not be a massive twat Officer we can focus on the task at hand." She stopped as the waitress came over asking if they would like anything to drink. She ordered her usual strawberry milkshake with cream. Her stomach gave another unpleasant twist but she shook it off. Once Alastair had ordered and left she coughed before continuing irritation towards him quite evident.

"I have been given a week off...I must go back home to help Carver train." She wondered how to word this without being to obvious. "Coincidently Fiachra has taken a week leave for personal reason." She drummed her finger on the table slightly. "Which leaves no one I trust keeping an eye on Gavin." Of course there was Toss but the man was busy with flight testing and she knew Gavin would be irritated if she interrupted his work. "I was wondering if you could keep a close eye on him....Make sure he doesn’t stress himself out to much...or gets hurt..."

[Guest]

Alastair was confused for an instant. One moment, he was sitting, fairly chilly, across from Artemis in that humble little café. The next, his face was firmly planted in a rather warm, fleshy environment, one that he wasn't quite ever sure he'd experienced before. It triggered flashbacks to similar memories, and as time passed slowly and he spluttered contentedly for air between the Scáth member's humongous breasts, he convinced himself that no matter how many times he'd wished to get a 'closer inspection', he'd never quite experienced this before.

Then it clicked. Everything slid into place and his wet choking noises suddenly became a hell of a lot more hurried and extreme, the Creig Chief of Police flailing his arms madly, scratching and paddling at the air around him, clapping onto the woman's shoulder and tapping it vigorously, begging her for release, as comfortable as his current situation was.

"When you decide to not be a massive twat Officer we can focus on the task at hand." Alastair had emerged, blue-faced and almost in a state of deluded contention as he hummed subsonically, wiping a small string of drool from his bottom lip. It took him a few seconds to snap back to reality and regain the appropriate amount of oxygen to ensure he hadn't done his lungs any permanent damage, before scowling across at Artemis.

"If you do that again, at least give me warning, first," He sighed, his rapid pantings for breath having faded somewhat. "I mean, c'mon, Chesty. It's not exactly like that's going to stop me making these inane remarks," He flashed that despicable, stupid grin at her, and let one eyelid just flutter enough to pass it off as a wink. He was joking. Nobody else was finding it funny, and as he sat there giggling to himself, he radiated an aura of stupidity and possible mental retardation, but... he was joking.

Arching an eyebrow as Artemis ordered her insanely colourful and calorie-high milkshake, he turned to the waiter, finally back to his usual mannerism, and waved him off simply having ordered an espresso. It arrived pretty fast back, and, taking a quick raincheck from side to side, then remembering he was the policeman here, he unscrewed his hipflask and poured a more-than-liberal amount of Jack Daniels into the mug, pretty much filling it to the brim.

The silver container was gone in an instant, but, happy enough with his drink's new, improved alterations, he raised it to his mouth and took a sip. Warm, strong, bitter, burning his throat... ah, just the way he liked it. "A whisky a day... uh... kills your liver?" With that, he knocked a decent portion of the drink back, and set it down, finally letting El Boobzo talk.

"I have been given a week off... I must go back home to help Carver train." ...huh. That was- "Coincidently Fiachra has taken a week leave for personal reason." Oh, yeah, now it made sense. She was heading back 'home' with that fucking titan of hers to get a week of notorious bedroom antics in. And Gavin said that he was the one who took too many pointless sick days.

"Look, if things need spicing up in your bedroom life, I'm kind of honoured you'd ask me, but 'any hole's a goal' doesn't apply to Fiachra," He was holding back the grins here. "Or any seven-foot gladiator vaguely reminiscent of a rhinoceros, for that matter," Oh, he was going to get a wallop for this... but it would be so damn worth it. He pushed back pre-emptively, hoping to avoid the definite incoming barrage of slaps.

"Which leaves no one I trust keeping an eye on Gavin. I was wondering if you could keep a close eye on him... make sure he doesn’t stress himself out to much... or gets hurt..." It was obvious how much the King's 'Shield' cared for him. Artemis was genuinely a thoughtful, affectionate woman, who just wanted to ensure that as her leader and her friend, Gavin would be fine if she took a week of leave. And, thus, she was asking Alastair...

...so, yes, of course, he was going to crack jokes about it.

As loud as he could possibly muster without being asked to leave: "Maybe you should invite Gavin to the party, too? I'm sure he'd enjoy a weekend in the rural Creig countryside... 'training'," And... there was the line... "I mean, I'm sure the guy's pretty busy. He could always do with some time to unwind, and I can most definitely say, from personal experience, that if he was to do so around you and your... endowments, that all three of you would most likely have an excellent time. Probably get a spot of bonding in, too," So close, so close...

"That's bonding, not bondage." And he'd crossed it! Congratulations! Confetti shot up in various directions, and patriotic, traditional Creig music began to play in the background behind him. As Alastair prepared a speech, roaring and chanting along with the crowd, sweat dripping from his brow, about how he dedicated this win to his family, friends, and co-workers-

Oh, yeah. Back to reality. She still needed his confirmation.

Easing, moving in a little, Alastair planted a hand on Artemis' shoulder and gave her a warm, calm smile, camaraderie plainly evident. "Relax. I don't mind picking up a little extra slack whilst you and Fiachra are away for a week, or whatever," The corner of his mouth turned up just a little, the mischief clearly evident. "Just remember: if the river runs red, take the dirt track instead." Wise words from Officer Carson.

[Guest]

She pouted her fists clenched. Still he mocked her. "I mean, c'mon, Chesty. It's not exactly like that's going to stop me making these inane remarks," Nose crinkling she lent forward giving him a warning hiss. "How about I give you a kick in the balls instead." She lent back as the drinks arrived and she forgot her anger in favour to nibbled the cherry that sat on a bed of whipped cream.

"Look, if things need spicing up in your bedroom life, I'm kind of honoured you'd ask me, but 'any hole's a goal' doesn't apply to Fiachra, Or any seven-foot gladiator vaguely reminiscent of a rhinoceros, for that matter," She choked on the cherry causing everyone to look over. She coughed and banged her chest in an attempt to get her breath again. "I don't mean that!!! I'm going to train my nephew!!! My nephew!!" He face was a bright pink in embarrassment. This was a secret...how did he know? God they hadn't even gone that far...

"Maybe you should invite Gavin to the party, too? I'm sure he'd enjoy a weekend in the rural Creig countryside... 'training', I mean, I'm sure the guy's pretty busy. He could always do with some time to unwind, and I can most definitely say, from personal experience, that if he was to do so around you and your... endowments, that all three of you would most likely have an excellent time. Probably get a spot of bonding in, too, That's bonding, not bondage." She choked again face as red as her hair.

"IDEOT!!" She yelped standing up trying to reach over the table to shut him up but only proceeded in knocking over the milk pot and sugar. Giving up she slumped in her seat defeated. Hot embarrassment forming in her eyes.


"I don't know where you got this idea from.....but I want you to stop blabbing it out so loudly....people may believe this nonsense...and the outcomes would be bad if someone misinterpreted....Got it!" She hissed.

"Relax. I don't mind picking up a little extra slack whilst you and Fiachra are away for a week, or whatever, Just remember: if the river runs red, take the dirt track instead." She went bright red quickly gulping down her drink with a grip that could of cracked the glass. She aimed a swift kick under the table to hit the wooden panel between his legs as a swift warning.

[Guest]

As Artemis banged repeatedly on her chest as if she were a member of some indigenous tribe - cherry stuck in her gullet aside - he chuckled stupidly to himself, and quickly made a passing comment. As loud as he could, of course: "Yes, Artemis, I know you're proud of your breasts. You don't have to point them out all the time," Oh, god, he was hilarious!

"I don't mean that!!! I'm going to train my nephew!!! My nephew!!" Ah, it was so trivial. Denial in such an excitable, chaotic manner only meant one thing: exactly what she was trying to push away was, indeed, happening. With a grin, he gave her a fully obvious wink, putting as much emphasis into it as possible, and replied quickly.

"Yes, your 'nephew'," Another wink. "I'm sure he'll be 'pleased' to 'see you', and will want to know what you've got planned for the 'training'," A wink with every word, placed on each equal amounts of emphasis. Ah, Alastair. Such an asshole.

"IDIOT!!"

"Oop!" Was his immediate reply. Alastair flew backwards as his cohort leapt forth, pushing the chair back onto its two hind legs and rocking as far as he could go. As was the nature of Murphy's law - now in his favour, it seemed - he was barely an inch from the range of Artemis' reach, and the punch toppled a milk and sugar pot. In response, the atmosphere of the coffee shop hushed completely, and those behind the counter stopped static, freezing completely in action.

Every single set of eyes focused on the pair, Artemis bright pink in embarrassment, and Alastair standing to his feet, happy as could be, bringing his chair back to ground, and making a double-handed wave, smiling all the way. He managed to keep his mouth shut, curved finely upwards in a pleasant grin (somehow) thinking that proclaiming Artemis' projected dubious activities would maybe be a step too far. Beyond his usual steps too far.

After everything returned to normal, and Alastair jerking a thumb to the rather large iron badge on his chest stating 'Chief of Police', he seated himself again, and smiled pleasantly in his co-worker's direction. "You were saying?" Ah, feigned politeness. Manners cost nothing, after all - false or real!

"I don't know where you got this idea from.....but I want you to stop blabbing it out so loudly....people may believe this nonsense...and the outcomes would be bad if someone misinterpreted....Got it!" So now she was trying the 'hypothetical' route. 'If' he was right, then he should stop proclaiming every thought that came to mind because of it. Slowly, he rolled his eyes, and nodded.

"Jesus, I just can't get any fun with you," He continued for a moment. "Learn to take a jo-" The kick hit the chair's wooden panel and sent sharp vibrations through the entirety of the structure, and, consequently, Alastair. He yelped rather loudly and in a manner not too dissimilar from a frightened dog, both hands immediately going down to cup the crown jewels in a defensive reflex. Both eyebrows arched so far they could hit the ceiling, eyes wide open.

In an instant, he calmed down and hesitantly returned to a position at ease, scowling back at Artemis. "...buzzkill..." He muttered.

[Guest]

She sighed and looked to him. She knew he meant no harm in his teasing but.....one didn't need intent to cause harm. She sighed softly playing with the straw in the now empty glass. "Just please....be careful where you say such things...the walls sometimes talk after all Alan..." She murmured softly drawing shapes in the foam residue that had settled.

She smiled softly though. "Thank you....I felt uneasy leaving his protection up to the noobs...and princess too..." A soft breath passed rose petal coloured lips. "You can stay in my pad in the palace if you like and I get you that nice brandy you like as a thank you." Stand slowly she placed the money down to pay the bill. "Tip's all you Aaron." Leaning against her chair watching him with melted gold eyes and a light smirk. though it hide the churning sea of emotion under it's mascaraed.

(Sorry It's short....my muse is fickle today)

[Guest]

"You can stay in my pad in the palace if you like and I get you that nice brandy you like as a thank you." Finally, for the first time in their entire meeting, Alastair smiled. It was fleeting, and stayed on the man's face for but an instant; but it was there, and it was true. Somewhere beneath this complex labyrinth that the Creig Chief of Police called a body, beneath all the holes, beneath all the regrets and the problems, Alastair was kind. He was appreciative. And he knew that Artemis was a friend, banter and mocking chat aside.

It vanished in but an instant, and, quickly, he shot a shifty look from side to side, trying to keep himself from flushing, hoping desperately that she hadn't seen it. "Nope, I'm good," He said bluntly. Shit, he'd let his emotions shine through, finally, for once... dammit, this girl would be the death of him. Her and Fiachra. Real friends, eh? Well, he'd have to make up for it by being an asshole for just a little while more. "Excuse me a moment," With that, he kicked the chair back, rose to his feet, and briskly strode to the door, pushing it open haphazardly with one hand, and sidling up against the wall, stuffing his hands into bare trouser pockets and thinking.

He knew she wouldn't be able to see him from here... well, he thought he knew, at least. Looking up towards the pale January sun once more, he sighed and raised a hand to the back of his head, before... once more... smiling. He knew it was completely out of character for him to be so happy; running a single bare hand through that well-kept head of darkening blonde hair, he... for once... he laughed.

Full, complete, and almost as cheerful as it could ever be. Opposing completely his typical cynicisms; this was to be another typical dreary morning weekend, and... dammit, why was he so warm? Why did he feel so good? Why was he questioning it? Real life clamped back down on him too quickly, and he regained his 'composure', tugging at his white work shirt and coughing, turning back to the coffee shop's door and pushing it back open, that eternal frown set upon his face.

In truth, these were what he waited for. Those fleeting brushes with happiness and contentment, always otherwise out of reach. They came upon him at the most inappropriate times; dammit, it'd been weeks, possibly months since he'd laughed so fully and truly like that.

He hoped to high hell Artemis hadn't seen it. And even further that she didn't ask. Why? Because... it was painful just to think about it. Just to explain. These brushes with happiness were the only things that brought him back from the edge momentarily; the dreary lifestyle, the history, the regrets, the loneliness... oh, the loneliness. How he just wanted... wanted...

"Sorry about that," He spoke slowly, and rolled his eyes once more, trying to now make his expressions that were usually typical and second-nature far more exaggerated than were necessary. "Felt a little ill for a moment,"

He coughed once, and the taste of coffee came back into his mouth. And alcohol. And with the pair of them came that stormy maelstrom of discontent, seeping back into a heart that had let its guard down and just seen the glimmer of redemption in someone else for no reason. It was almost comparable to cramp, or any other sort of random pain; connected and related? Yes. Predictable? Hell no.

"So, we're done?" Bluntly enough, he stood up, and flashed a grin. No real truth in that one. Only cynicism and sarcasm. He got to his feet in that little awkward typical manner that he did, and sighed, shaking his head for seemingly no reason. He was back to normal. His pulse slowed, his brain's activity calmed, slowly, ever-so-slowly... and then, he wasn't happy. He wasn't sad.

He was just Alastair.

[Shula Brighton]

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