TOG fic: Strawberry Milkshake
Mar. 26th, 2023 09:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sealieMini The Old Guard fic.
Wee little warning: Boys being violent angels of justice aka Murder Husbands. Caveat lector
un-betaed
Strawberry Milkshake
sealie
Nicky sipped on his strawberry milkshake, studying the individual in the booth across the café.
Red in the face, the stout man had screamed at the waitress demanding that the young woman tend him. Not food, not drink, but to take a photograph of him and his embarrassed companion.
That indeed was not the young woman’s job, nor should she be treated in that manner.
Suit – some expensive fashion designer, Nicky identified from the bespoke fit – but ill-fitting for the kitschy café. A place to meet his much younger companion—daughter? There was no physical resemblance. She looked nowhere but the floor, as he clutched her against his bulk for the photograph. But if this was a secret assignation why demand a photograph? Albeit with his own phone.
Hmmmm.
Nicky rooted in Joe’s bag, extracted his Smart Phone, pretended to take a selfie with his drink, and snapped a picture of the Suit.
Copley: identify. He attached the photo to the WhatsApp thingy, and settled back to wait.
“Hayati.” Joe slid onto the bench seat beside him. He snuck a USB into Nicky’s pocket as he reached over for the menu. “Sorry, I’m late. What are you trying?”
“Oatmilkshake with crushed strawberry. It’s very nice.” Nicky pecked Joe’s lips, sharing the love.
Suit huffed loudly—disgusted.
Joe bristled like an alerted gopher.
“A moment, azizi.” Nicky picked up his phone as it vibrated.
Jeroen Benfield-Folks jnr, Acquisitions Del Play [Third Party business seller aka weapons buyer, arms supplier profiting on strife]. One murder charge to date/did not go to trial/witness died in an automobile accident in the US. Unsubstantiated links to Organised Crime, according to the FBI, and selling black market weapons, according to the ATF.
Reading over his shoulder, Joe hit 😶 then send.
A document popped up in the feed. CIA/INTERPOL-BlackFile. International crimes, including slavery.
“A bad man,” Nicky summarised.
“Indeed.”
His companion was Deborah—Debby—Caan, first year pharmacy post-grad student. Clean profile. Copley’s notes were brief because there was nothing to really say. Facebook—meh—picture of her with her mother and three younger siblings grinning at the camera with identical, large toothed smiles.
No relation. No obvious links to Jeroen Benfield-Folks.
Nicky slid impossibly closer to Joe and stared implacably at the Suit. He was flushed sweaty, sheen glistening on his pale skin. He licked his lips. Excited. Nicky let his eyes drop; it was too soon.
Joe was smiling at their waitress, asking her for recommendations in the retro-50s café. Hilariously, there was a dish called Joe’s Special. Nicky couldn’t resist, because his Love was so….
Copley was mining Debby Caan’s socials. She had recently started dipping her toe into dating apps. And straight into a predator’s web.
Hyper-aware of Jeroen watching out of the corner of his eye, Nicky enjoyed his scrambled egg and mixed peppers, sharing the choicest grilled vegetables with Joe.
“Shall we? Or will we?” Joe asked.
“Hmmm.” Nicky leaned back in the booth, patting his food-tummy.
Turning his head, he slid a loving smile at Joe. He was suitably rewarded by Joe kissing his forehead. Nicky let his love draw him out of the booth, their payment and a generous cash tip carefully tucked under the sugar jar.
Hands entangled, they sauntered out into the crisp, November sunlight. Who led who to the narrow side alley, Nicky didn’t know as he pushed Joe up against the brickwork, half-concealed by the fire escape, and dove in for a breakfast kiss. Love. Love. He nuzzled kisses over the edge of Joe’s beard. Joe eeled around, effortlessly manoeuvring Nicky so his back was to the wall. The brickwork was rough under Nicky’s shoulder blades. He slipped his hand into Joe’s front pocket.
“Fuckin’ perverts,” was the nicest thing that Jeroen Benfield-Folks the Third, said to them. It was also the last.
Debby hadn’t followed Jeroen, there was absolutely no one about, and sightlines were controlled in the narrow alley, so Nicky shot him in the face.
Crack, and splat—very satisfying.
“Hayati,” Joe chided.
“What?” Nicky asked. You’ve read Copley’s report, he didn’t say.
Joe released Nicky with a peck to the lips. He crouched next to the sprawled body, carefully avoiding the rapidly growing pool of blood. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he rifled through Jeroen’s pockets.
“Who brings cable ties to a date?” Joe asked, lips twisting in disgust. He pushed them back in the creep’s pocket.
“Someone you don’t want to be going onto a date with,” Nicky observed.
Jeroen had a concealed gun. Humming under his breath, Joe tucked it in Jeroen’s lax hand. Unlike, Nicky’s there was no suppressor so they couldn’t fire it and leave confounding gun residue.
Joe stole his wallet, because why not? The cash would end up in some homeless person’s hands. The cards would help Copley plunder his ill-gotten accounts.
“Time to leave, rouħi,” Nicky said, offering his hand.
Joe let Nicky pull him up into a kiss.
They left without a backwards glance.
Serendipity.
Fin
Wee little warning: Boys being violent angels of justice aka Murder Husbands. Caveat lector
un-betaed
Strawberry Milkshake
sealie
Nicky sipped on his strawberry milkshake, studying the individual in the booth across the café.
Red in the face, the stout man had screamed at the waitress demanding that the young woman tend him. Not food, not drink, but to take a photograph of him and his embarrassed companion.
That indeed was not the young woman’s job, nor should she be treated in that manner.
Suit – some expensive fashion designer, Nicky identified from the bespoke fit – but ill-fitting for the kitschy café. A place to meet his much younger companion—daughter? There was no physical resemblance. She looked nowhere but the floor, as he clutched her against his bulk for the photograph. But if this was a secret assignation why demand a photograph? Albeit with his own phone.
Hmmmm.
Nicky rooted in Joe’s bag, extracted his Smart Phone, pretended to take a selfie with his drink, and snapped a picture of the Suit.
Copley: identify. He attached the photo to the WhatsApp thingy, and settled back to wait.
“Hayati.” Joe slid onto the bench seat beside him. He snuck a USB into Nicky’s pocket as he reached over for the menu. “Sorry, I’m late. What are you trying?”
“Oatmilkshake with crushed strawberry. It’s very nice.” Nicky pecked Joe’s lips, sharing the love.
Suit huffed loudly—disgusted.
Joe bristled like an alerted gopher.
“A moment, azizi.” Nicky picked up his phone as it vibrated.
Jeroen Benfield-Folks jnr, Acquisitions Del Play [Third Party business seller aka weapons buyer, arms supplier profiting on strife]. One murder charge to date/did not go to trial/witness died in an automobile accident in the US. Unsubstantiated links to Organised Crime, according to the FBI, and selling black market weapons, according to the ATF.
Reading over his shoulder, Joe hit 😶 then send.
A document popped up in the feed. CIA/INTERPOL-BlackFile. International crimes, including slavery.
“A bad man,” Nicky summarised.
“Indeed.”
His companion was Deborah—Debby—Caan, first year pharmacy post-grad student. Clean profile. Copley’s notes were brief because there was nothing to really say. Facebook—meh—picture of her with her mother and three younger siblings grinning at the camera with identical, large toothed smiles.
No relation. No obvious links to Jeroen Benfield-Folks.
Nicky slid impossibly closer to Joe and stared implacably at the Suit. He was flushed sweaty, sheen glistening on his pale skin. He licked his lips. Excited. Nicky let his eyes drop; it was too soon.
Joe was smiling at their waitress, asking her for recommendations in the retro-50s café. Hilariously, there was a dish called Joe’s Special. Nicky couldn’t resist, because his Love was so….
Copley was mining Debby Caan’s socials. She had recently started dipping her toe into dating apps. And straight into a predator’s web.
Hyper-aware of Jeroen watching out of the corner of his eye, Nicky enjoyed his scrambled egg and mixed peppers, sharing the choicest grilled vegetables with Joe.
“Shall we? Or will we?” Joe asked.
“Hmmm.” Nicky leaned back in the booth, patting his food-tummy.
Turning his head, he slid a loving smile at Joe. He was suitably rewarded by Joe kissing his forehead. Nicky let his love draw him out of the booth, their payment and a generous cash tip carefully tucked under the sugar jar.
Hands entangled, they sauntered out into the crisp, November sunlight. Who led who to the narrow side alley, Nicky didn’t know as he pushed Joe up against the brickwork, half-concealed by the fire escape, and dove in for a breakfast kiss. Love. Love. He nuzzled kisses over the edge of Joe’s beard. Joe eeled around, effortlessly manoeuvring Nicky so his back was to the wall. The brickwork was rough under Nicky’s shoulder blades. He slipped his hand into Joe’s front pocket.
“Fuckin’ perverts,” was the nicest thing that Jeroen Benfield-Folks the Third, said to them. It was also the last.
Debby hadn’t followed Jeroen, there was absolutely no one about, and sightlines were controlled in the narrow alley, so Nicky shot him in the face.
Crack, and splat—very satisfying.
“Hayati,” Joe chided.
“What?” Nicky asked. You’ve read Copley’s report, he didn’t say.
Joe released Nicky with a peck to the lips. He crouched next to the sprawled body, carefully avoiding the rapidly growing pool of blood. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he rifled through Jeroen’s pockets.
“Who brings cable ties to a date?” Joe asked, lips twisting in disgust. He pushed them back in the creep’s pocket.
“Someone you don’t want to be going onto a date with,” Nicky observed.
Jeroen had a concealed gun. Humming under his breath, Joe tucked it in Jeroen’s lax hand. Unlike, Nicky’s there was no suppressor so they couldn’t fire it and leave confounding gun residue.
Joe stole his wallet, because why not? The cash would end up in some homeless person’s hands. The cards would help Copley plunder his ill-gotten accounts.
“Time to leave, rouħi,” Nicky said, offering his hand.
Joe let Nicky pull him up into a kiss.
They left without a backwards glance.
Serendipity.
Fin
