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07 October 2007 @ 06:35 pm
This...is just demented.

This is Simon Skinner and Tim Messenger in the midst of the NWA days, before Nicholas arrives. It also explains why Tim became editor, despite his deplorable writing and editing style.

This will be about 2 parts. About. Maybe 3, but about 2.

TITLE: Shattered Glass
PAIRING: Tim Messenger/Simon Skinner
RATING: R to NC-17
A/N: Begins in the present and jumps to the past, with accompanying/confusing tense change. Abuse, murder, blood, smex. More in the next part than this one, though!

Simon Skinner carefully refolded his copy of the Sandford Citizen, re creasing the flimsy spine twice to give it a crisp definition so it wouldn’t spill sloppily across his desk a moment later when he flicked it aside.

“Tina,” he called, his secretary inexplicably out of view. She popped her head around the corner of the open door, looking like an angry lemur with too much eyeliner. “Would you be a dear and fetch me Mr. Messenger?”

“An’ how’m I s’post t’do tha’, now, MI-ster Skinnerrrr?” she drawled, stepping into the office, putting her hands on her hips, snapping her gum, playing up her feminine petulance to the point where Simon was certain she’d become so indifferent to all manner of things that her heart would give up beating and her brain would implode.

He suspected the latter already.

“I imagine he’s around and about,” Simon assured, smiling cattily as he clasped his hands and leaned forward in his seat, arching his eyebrows; if she was going to play dumb, he was going to feed it right back to her. “The man has a job to do, and he does tend to do it, no matter how poorly…I expect he’ll be no trouble for you?”

Tina sighed and rolled her eyes, flipping a strand of hair out of her face with a shake of her head, before pivoting perfectly and heading out the door.

“Martin!” Tina yelled, her voice fading and echoing as she clipped down the stock corridor. One of the shelf-stackers, a young man with an unkempt mess of dark hair, nearly tackled her in his enthusiasm. “Getcher things; we’ve got t’track down Mister MESS-enger for th’boss.”

As soon as the far doors swung together and the sound of footsteps was overpowered by the distant drone of in-store, canned music, Simon collapsed into his chair, as if all his bones suddenly liquefied. He tried to still his shaking hands as he bent his head to meet them, pressing his temples and gritting his teeth.

He had a job to do, a promise to uphold, a town to maintain and protect. Tim would have to learn…

Three months ago, Tim Messenger was merely an underwriter at the Citizen, taking orders from Barty Holmes, a wonderful Chris Kringle figure if ever there was one. He was generous, outgoing, even-headed and civic-minded, and took to coddling his employees. He also volunteered time and money to pursuits he deemed worth-while; outreach programs, tutoring, building projects and restorations. His names was on the bottom of every commemorative plaque in Sandford from the last thirty years. It would have ranked higher, what with the sums he was known to put forth, but his modesty wouldn’t allow for such tributes.

The problem with Barty Holmes was his wife, Agatha. Or, more precisely, the fact that Barty technically was Agatha, now that his wife had passed on and bequeathed him all her clothing.

Barty was a bit batty, and that just would not jive with Sandford. Barty had to go.

The task was assigned to Simon and Simon alone. It would require one man, one friend, one compatriot to Barty’s entrepreneurial and renegade spirit, to enter the home and do what must be done. He was outfitted with a strong draught of chloroform, a contractor bag, and a length of black rope.

The standard spectral garb was unnecessary; Barty’s elimination had been deemed a merciful act, and would be carried out with as little fuss and trauma as possible. There was no need to make a contact or arrange a drop-point; Barty would be found in his favorite recliner in his antiquated sitting room, apparently dozing by a long-dead hearth. It would be deemed a natural death and no questions would be asked.

That was how it was supposed to go.

“Hullo, Simon!” Barty chuckles, pushing open the screen door and holding the fragile wood with as much delicacy as his great arms can manage, balancing on the doorstep as he allows Simon to squeak past with his sardonic smile, a nod of the head, a tapping of fingertips against his brow almost in salute. Barty was a military man, and he still maintains some respect and form from those days.

The screen’s hinges squeal angrily as their springs retract, the door slamming shut, and Barty turns to yank Skinner into a crushing bear hug.

“How are things, Barty?” Simon smiles, clapping the other man heartily on the back. If he has any thoughts of remorse or doubt, they’re crushed swiftly by his morals, which allows him to feel completely at ease. Barty expects and detects nothing.

“Oh, as well as can be expected!” Barty laughs again, stepping back and regarding Simon from a formal distance, perhaps looking for something…? His expression does not waver, and Simon’s momentary anxiety passes. Clapping his hands, Barty turns and heads for the nearest cupboard, whipping open a cabinet door, pulling out shot glasses, heading for the ancient refrigerator and balancing the cups carefully in the crook of his arm as he begins to dig. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a taste of liquor yet this evening? It’s not good for the pallet to be mixing brandy with anything less refined, not good in the least.”

Simon inches toward the sitting room, looking in to see the layout of the room; it hasn’t changed since his last visit two months ago, when he attended Agatha’s wake, and he’s momentarily surprised to see a heavy leather satchel resting by one of the other chairs.

“Do you have company, Barty?” Simon asks, cutting in to the old man’s ramblings.

Barty stands, his eyebrows reaching for his receding hairline as he bumps the fridge closed with his hip, flashing a winning smile at Simon.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you, old friend!” Barty chuckles, crossing the kitchen and heading back into the smaller room. “I do like to have company in my old age, you know. Something to keep my mind from wandering toward the Abyss. It can be a lonesome proposition, death…”

It was meant to be a lonesome proposition,’ Simon fumes mentally. If someone else is still in the house, he needs to find a crafty way of getting them out…

“But he’s gone along home by now, I imagine, and forgotten his things!” Barty exclaims, setting the glasses down on the mantle, keeping the bottle in-hand, as he kneels beside the weathered bag. He tutt’s and tsk’s for a moment, ruffling through the front pouch and then the second, before pulling out a reporter’s notebook and taking it back to his seat. “Could you-?” Barty begins, looking from Simon to the mantle, indicating the glasses.

“Ah! Of course,” Simon obliges, crossing the room and reaching for the glasses.

He feels the bottle connect with the base of his neck a moment before he feigns collapse, dropping to his knees, lashing backward with his right leg and taking Barty hard in the shins. The old man yelps and totters, stumbling a step before landing on his hip, the bottle hurtling through the air and shattering against a bookshelf in the far corner. Simon is on his feet, scrambling forward, reaching into his pocket as Barty flails at him, hitting him hard in the right hip and catching his chin with a right hook as Simon drops to his knees, handkerchief ready.

Barty fights hard, but the chloroform wins out; he relaxes, his eyes roll back, and he ceases to fight.

“Barty…” Simon sighs, shaking his head. He reaches into his back pocket, finding the sharp corner of the deeply-folded bag, pulling it loose and looking for the opening. It would be a good death, at least. An easy death. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

“…What are you doing?”

Simon leaps to his feet, fumbling his tools and letting them fall, his muscles half-taut and ready for action.

Tim stands in the doorway, arms hanging limply at his sides, his jaw working double-time but with less than the usual hair-brained results.

Simon lunges forward, slamming Tim against the far wall and trapping him with his left forearm, pressing it into Tim’s windpipe. Tim’s glasses shatter underfoot, his hands coming up to grab Simon’s sides, his chest, his arms, pushing and yanking and struggling to keep breathing.

“Please, pleasepleaseplease don’t kill me,” Tim begs, “I just want my bag, I left it, I just want it, I just-”

Simon lets up enough on his hold to attain enough distance that the subsequent back-handed blows he delivers to Tim’s face make the young man squeak in pain and shock. An instant later, he grabs the collar of Tim’s T-shirt and slams him into the wall again, shaking Tim until he looks blearily into the other man’s eyes.

“What did you see, Timothy?” Skinner growls, the sinister look in his eyes making Tim’s throat close, as if he were allergic to the man himself. His hesitance queues Skinner to strike him in the face again.

“You killed-” Tim says slowly, earning another smack that makes his head loll back against the wall, until Simon shakes him into clarity again.

“What did you see, Timothy?” Skinner repeats, stepping closer, their faces almost touching, glaring and snarling, the sheer size and power of his body making Tim tremble.

“I did…I didn’t…I saw-” Tim stammers, a tear running down his right cheek as he tries to pull himself together. Simon sees the weakness, leers at him, cocks his right arm back and lashes out at Tim again. Three, four, five blows to the face, and Tim chokes back a sob, his knees going weak, and Simon lets him slide to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in his lap.

Simon crouches beside him, running his hand through Tim’s hair, tracing the shell of Tim’s ear with his thumb.

What did you see, Tim?” he asks softly, sweetly, leaning close to speak the words directly into Tim’s ear, his breath warm against Tim’s cheek.

Tim looks up slowly, his face wet and red, and looks at Skinner in complete fear and submission.

“I d-didn’t see…anything?” Tim offers, letting out a sigh of relief as Simon gives him a winning smile.

“Very good,” Simon says, cupping Tim’s cheek in his hand. He studies the young man’s eyes for a moment, the feel of his warm, damp skin an appropriate backdrop to the power trip Simon’s coasting on. He’s got a good-as-dead man in the other room, and a terrified, submissive reporter in the hall, and it’s shaping up to be a very satisfying evening.

Getting to his feet, Simon dusts off his hands and turns back to his task in the sitting room. Barty has to be staged, and the clean-up will be difficult now with brandy on the bookcase and broken glass on the floor. Heart-attack victims don’t pitch fits while dying, after all. He goes into the kitchen for a cleaning rag and a dust bin, stepping tentatively over Barty’s large, prone form as he sets about picking up the room.

Getting on his knees, he reaches for the larger chunks of glass first, tossing them into the bin before surveying the floor for smaller fragments. There are hundreds of them, and he reasons that, for the sake of time and sanity, only the largest fragments need be tended to. He reaches for the first cluster and immediately cuts his index finger.

“Here,” Tim says, suddenly at Simon’s side, offering a handkerchief as he kneels beside the other man, making sure to avert his eyes. Simon watches in shock as Tim makes swift work of the small bits, his agile fingers flitting from one shard to the next without pause or incident. Simon shakes his head, gathers his thoughts, and grabs Tim roughly by the shoulder.

“What are you doing, Timothy?” Simon asks gently, giving the young man pause as Simon physically makes him turn to face him. Tim blinks, surveying Simon’s expressions, his tongue wetting his lips an anticipatory gesture as his head tries to make words that don’t sound absolutely stupid.

“M’helping you,” Tim murmurs, holding Simon’s gaze only a moment longer before he feels his face go red and yanks his shoulder free, returning with renewed fervor to his task.

“What about Bartholomew?” Simon tests. He’s watching Tim closely, testing the waters, feeling for clues as to what fate he may have to deliver upon the nosy reporter if he shows even the slightest inkling of weakness.

Tim stops, looking at his hands still, and sees for the first time the infrastructure of minuscule cuts and scratches forming a web of red across his fingers.

“He…he’s d-dead,” Tim manages, biting back a sob. He hadn’t mentioned it, not with Simon so outside himself, not with his life in such jeopardy, but Tim checked Barty before he came to help Simon, hoping for…something, anything. But the elderly chap’s heart couldn’t take the insult.

Simon’s eyes go wide in a look of total shock and disbelief, an expression that does not fit him well. He gets to his feet, his knees cracking, and steps around Tim to gain access to the body - to Barty. The man is quite dead. In the end, his heart really had given out. Shame. And yet, a blessing. Simon cocks his head, looking for even the smallest sign of life, but the man is completely still. Completely at rest.

“How do we move him?” Tim asks.

“Timothy,” Simon says pointedly, rounding on the other man and staring down at him in disbelief. He’s known Messenger since Tim was but a boy, he’s known his parents since his own boyhood, and now suddenly he sees this strange new aspect of Tim’s person, this devoted willingness that drives Tim to do all manner of things for Simon.

This isn’t the first time Simon has seen that forlorn, confused look on Tim’s face. It’s certainly not the first time he’s seen his face turn crimson and his tongue go numb. He’s known, God he’s known all along what’s wrong with Tim, why he does these things, why he’s such a willing accomplice now, and he hates himself for allowing it to continue, as much as he loathes Tim’s personal allowance to feel…that.

“I just want to help,” Tim says placatingly, taking a step back, that hurt, horrified look in his eyes mixing with that thing, that thing. Tim can feel it, the recognition burning between them, years of aggression and suppression blazing into an inferno in Simon’s eyes that would make the Devil himself run and hide. Tim has no words, no excuses. He can only raise his arms weakly in front of his head, shielding his face, as the world slows down and Simon’s hands find his shoulders, forcing him back, knocking him down. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, a knee to each side of his torso, a rigid, furious body trapping him against the floor with no shield but his already sore hands.

Just as Simon is about to let fly the first blow, he sees those raw hands, those tattered fingers, and realizes what they are. He cocks his head and studies them, ignoring the shaking breathing and tension of the man he has pinned, reaching out to gently trace a particularly deep gash in Tim’s left palm. Tim gasps in pain but doesn’t move, fighting back screams as Simon continues to abuse his hands without thought to how rough he is actually being.

Simon pulls Tim’s left hand toward him, destroying Tim’s barricade, and Tim watches in fascinated fear as Simon uses the hem of his jacket to blot up the blood, massaging the unharmed flesh and pale wrist. He meets Tim’s eyes for a moment, a silent warning passing between them: Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t ask. Don’t Tell.

Simon traces a finger along one of the red scars, watching Tim’s eyes snap shut and his mouth flash open and closed, gasping from the pain. His body arches involuntarily, pressing up into Simon, his right hand catching Simon’s hip. A synapse of anger bursts through Simon’s mind at the contact, but is swiftly swept away as Simon pursues another trail along Tim’s hand, this time earning an oral response, something like a snarl and a whimper at once, something seductively sweet.

Simon is entranced.

“Make that sound again,” he growls, suddenly leaning in close, bending low over Tim’s chest, his nose brushing the side of Tim’s turned face.

Tim’s face snaps back, staring straight up into Simon’s eyes, their lips nearly touching, so tantalizingly close that Tim moans low in his throat; he can’t help it. He wants it. He wants those firm lips, that hot mouth, against his and against his flesh, and the thought is too much for him to suppress.

“If you’ll kiss me,” Tim breathes, unable to believe his own audacity, “I’ll do…whatever you want, if you…if you’ll kiss me.”
mikes_grrl on October 9th, 2007 01:33 am (UTC)
Oh. Whoa. PERFECT!

Very bizarre, ya. Very. Nice and perverted, thankyouverymuch. Hot? Mmmm. Lovin' this!

Okay, coherently: This speaks volumes to the look that flashed between Skinner and Tim in the movie, and what perhaps Tim really wanted to tell Angel. Well staged with motivations and fears and desire.

stelluci: Ohstelluci on October 9th, 2007 02:27 am (UTC)

I was kinda thinking nobody would read this...It is an awkward pairing. I'm glad you approve!

PS-It will get kinkier in the second half...
Seiberwing: Munch and Tutuolaseiberwing on October 9th, 2007 02:35 am (UTC)
Definitely liking it, Skinner being the total perv that he is and Tim being all whimpering and not quite sure what to do. More!
(Deleted comment)
stelluci: Liam/Evanstelluci on October 9th, 2007 03:13 am (UTC)

*points to sig pic*
lacking in glitter: suckagetawg on October 9th, 2007 06:30 am (UTC)
Mmmm. So very creepy and seductive and in character. Skinner does so love abusing his power, doesn't he?
nomuh on October 9th, 2007 08:41 pm (UTC)
Oh Skinner you old perv XD It's kind of freaky to think about the corpse on the floor, while they're, eh, "petting".

More!!! Now!!!

Manics fan: Hot Fuzz - My bucket.manics_fan on November 27th, 2007 08:11 am (UTC)
Hmm, well I'm a bit late commenting on this as I've only just found it, but I think any good fic deserves a comment, no matter how late.

Great fic! I loved it. Twisted and creepy, but fantastic. I love Skinner's menacing yet dominant attitude, and Tim's scared, submissive and yet eagar to please attitude.

It was written very well, and the attitudes suited both characters perfectly. Just how I'd imagine each character would react to such a situation.

All in all a brilliant fic, and this pairing is definatley a win! Keep up the good work ^_^