I had sex with my boss.
I had sex with Fletcher.
Can’t a man get some peace on the toilet to read his House & Garden magazine?
After being left out in the cold until four in the morning (Thanks to, you guessed it, Fletcher), and then awoken at some ungodly hour by the sound of gunfire, Riordan was exhausted. Exhausted. He’d been going nearly non-stop since seven, and it was now five and he was working with only a couple hours sleep. So when he collapsed on the couch in a heap and dozed off, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.
Unfortunately for Riordan, it seemed he couldn’t escape his demanding boss even in his sleep. In his snoozing, there the tall, firey haired man was, barking orders, offering scathing remarks, pushing him around, pushing him up against a wall… groping him as he was prone to doing… Only in his dream, Riordan wasn’t pushing Fletcher away and accusing him of being absolutely indecent. No, Riordan was actually enjoying himself, moaning, indulging, rutting like a horny teen against Fletcher. Good thing it was just a dream…
Fletcher was in a mood. Then again, when wasn’t he in a mood? He was always scuffling about the flat grumbling about something. Riordan had learned to tune him out for the most part. But occasionally he’d snap back into the conversation they weren’t really happening or catch Fletcher talking to himself. Today, while Riordan was cleaning up around the flat and Fletcher was pacing and muttering again, as if Riordan were merely a piece of furniture that couldn’t hear him.
“…all those fucking women… way too much fucking estrogen… soon I’ll be watching Princess Bride and painting my nails… ugh… I need to just…” He was gesturing with his hands and Riordan stopped to watch him mutter to himself. He tossed the rag he’d been using to wipe down the dining room table down onto the surface, folding his arms over his chest with his brows raised judgmentally.
“…need to wrestle a bear and take a bath in blood,” Fletcher stopped, his back to Riordan, gazing out the window with a disgruntled expression on his face, “Punch someone in the nuts. Preferably Riordan… If he has any.”
Now, usually, when Fletcher was insulting Riordan it was while facing him and with the full intent to. But the frustrated musings of the arms dealer were muttered and not entirely directed at him as if he were meant to hear. So when Riordan spoke up, Fletcher almost seemed surprised, almost.
The man straddled the chair behind him with a swing of his long legs, reaching behind him for the SVD he’d just been dismantling for spare parts before Riordan returned, thin fingers punching out the roll pin while he snorted.
“Plenty’f oxygen round here,” he muttered under his breath, leaning forward with the soles of his bare feet, dirty as ever from wandering around without shoes on wherever he pleased without a thought for safety or hygiene, firm against the floor.
“Fare? Fuck’re you supposed to be, some sort’f colonial peasant? I did what I had to. Sasha obviously’d work up my arse till my balls were numb. Didn’t bother cookin or any’f that shit, I ain’t no woman.”
"Why can’t you ever just say you—" Riordan stopped himself again and laughed a little, wiping a hand over his face. "You know I should just start spiking your food. A good dose of prescription strength estrogen would do you wonders."
He simply shook his head and continued working, getting everything in order for some traditional English food, noting that Fletcher might be due for a change up in flavors if he’d been eating takeaway and not cooking. If he even knew how to cook. Which…
"You know you seem like you’d know how to cook. You can make bombs but god forbid you should know how to make a sandwich or some eggs." he snorted and gave a slight challenging half smirk to the other man.
I was thinking about my life and how incredibly invisible I
was am was. My company lost track of me, no one came looking for me, and when I finally got back to London I realize I’d been declared missing, likely dead, and there was no one in the world who even cared. No one who would mourn me.
Sometimes I still feel very invisible. When I’m alone, it’s easy to think I’m being forgotten again. I hate being alone. I don’t think I’ll ever leave this place again. Even if a vacation was supposed to help, I was alone. And alone is… not good.
And then I think about that prison in Cuba… God I shouldn’t have even been there. Sometimes I still have dreams about that place. Or maybe they count as nightmares. I’m not sure. God I close my eyes and I can smell the death in the air. You know Fletcher can say what he likes about me but quite frankly not even he knows me. He knows the put-together PA he likes to ruffle up but I’ve my own demons.
Or maybe he has an idea and ignoring it is his way of being respectful?
Wow not even I can take that statement seriously. Stop giggling Rio stoppit.