FIC: Betty and Bess
Apr. 1st, 2012 08:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraFandom: UK Politics
Title: Betty and Bess
Ship(s): Chris Bryant/Tom Watson
Word Count: 266
Rating: PG
Summary: In a world ruled by Murdoch, two-man commando unit Bryant & Watson share a moment of downtime. (Can also be found here at the meme.)
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Betty and Bess
Tom can see the sweat pooling in the curve of Chris’s neck, the bob of Chris’s throat as he gulps water, the bottle making a disgruntled crumpling sound. It’s an unseasonably hot day for March, and Tom would escape to the balcony outside their hotel room if it wasn’t foolhardy.
You never know who might be lurking on the streets below.
Chris tosses his water bottle aside and reaches for Betty, checking her with the ease and practice of someone long accustomed to holding a gun. Tom watches Chris’s movements, the quick fluidity of the muscles in his hands, the caressing glide of his fingers, the restless jump of his eyelashes.
Behind Chris, the telly drivels on. Not the news – spineless and toothless, bought and paid for – but some soap, vapid blondes and fraudulent tans and empty prattle. Part of Tom longs for the days when such things seemed like the worst the media had to offer; days when he could spend a sick day in bed, beating a lazy one out to the surgically enhanced figure of one of the blondes, becoming strangely entranced by the tortuous inanities that passed for plots.
Sudden silence, and Tom looks up to see Chris, finger coming away from the power button, impatient energy already bunching up for movement. Betty is gone, concealed somewhere about Chris’s person; Tom knows better than to assume he knows where that somewhere is.
“Coming, Watson?” Chris says, and bounds for the door, long length deadly graceful. “Leave the sheets. They’re what the cleaner’s paid for.”
Tom sighs.
But he’s already reaching for Bess.
~//~
Title: Betty and Bess
Ship(s): Chris Bryant/Tom Watson
Word Count: 266
Rating: PG
Summary: In a world ruled by Murdoch, two-man commando unit Bryant & Watson share a moment of downtime. (Can also be found here at the meme.)
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Betty and Bess
Tom can see the sweat pooling in the curve of Chris’s neck, the bob of Chris’s throat as he gulps water, the bottle making a disgruntled crumpling sound. It’s an unseasonably hot day for March, and Tom would escape to the balcony outside their hotel room if it wasn’t foolhardy.
You never know who might be lurking on the streets below.
Chris tosses his water bottle aside and reaches for Betty, checking her with the ease and practice of someone long accustomed to holding a gun. Tom watches Chris’s movements, the quick fluidity of the muscles in his hands, the caressing glide of his fingers, the restless jump of his eyelashes.
Behind Chris, the telly drivels on. Not the news – spineless and toothless, bought and paid for – but some soap, vapid blondes and fraudulent tans and empty prattle. Part of Tom longs for the days when such things seemed like the worst the media had to offer; days when he could spend a sick day in bed, beating a lazy one out to the surgically enhanced figure of one of the blondes, becoming strangely entranced by the tortuous inanities that passed for plots.
Sudden silence, and Tom looks up to see Chris, finger coming away from the power button, impatient energy already bunching up for movement. Betty is gone, concealed somewhere about Chris’s person; Tom knows better than to assume he knows where that somewhere is.
“Coming, Watson?” Chris says, and bounds for the door, long length deadly graceful. “Leave the sheets. They’re what the cleaner’s paid for.”
Tom sighs.
But he’s already reaching for Bess.
~//~
